Monday, 22 June 2015

JUST ONE OF THOSE THINGS.

My little warm, brown friend, Harris, was bred, or his ancestors, strictly speaking, were bred to kill things, other creatures, to root them out and shake'n'bite them to death. I buy him soft toys from the thrift shops, remove the eyes and buttons and he grrrr-woofs like a good 'un, ripping the dog or monkey or giraffe to pieces, the lock and the pull of his jaws is amazing but an adult would only need to shout at him or smack him and he would cease his killing exercises; a crying baby, however, would only inflame him, the crying and squeaking representing progress on the road to another's dusty death. There are stratagems to ensure baby's safety, brushing his crib with the dog 's own scent is supposed to work but I would be very hesitant about introducing a new-born baby to HarrisWorld. He is a goodboy, Harris, he barks like a mad person but I have never known him bite or nip anyone and he endures all manner of indignity at the hands of mrs ishmael's grandson, who is eight and correspondingly stupid; that is a relationship which  I am happy to police watchfully, a dog bite hurts at any age, however foolish the provocation. An infant, though, he needs better protection than Tony Blair and the parents of the child worried to death a few days ago by the family pet didn't know that, now, the kid is dead and the pet destroyed, funny how the filthsters always say destroyed or put down, put to sleep, none of them having the courage to say The dog was killed. Anyway, this is a horribly mundane and preventable tragedy, full of if-onlys, a mistake, an oversight, carelessness which will lead to a lifetime of aching regret. And what do we do? We arrest one of the victims. Can't arrest a rancid old peer for a lifetime of beasting but we can arrest a stupid and distraught father, former father. Sometimes, I feel like a motherless child, a long way from home.

Friday, 19 June 2015

THE ZEN WOODCUTTER.

I need a gentleman's saw. It's not that I'm a gentleman,  I guess that the name refers to someone who might make small, neat repairs to his backgammon board or Meerschaum pipe, and not a ruffian joiner, hacking at floorboards or door frames for a living. 

In any event, it is  a small backsaw,  having a brass support along its top edge and with very fine teeth,

 it is a lovely, delightful tool, just the job for neat cuts on small stock - dowels and mouldings. I have a couple but they need sharpening and I can't do that, sharpening planes, saws and chisels, may as well be quantum physics. I can sharpen knives better than  anyone who ever lived but I can't do tools. I have a wheeled and angled clamp for running blades over an oilstone, but more often than not I just buy a throwaway chisel from the UKIP shop -  pay a pound, use it for one job and then consign it to  the eventual task of all screwdrivers and chisels, opening paint tins. I have a couple of small block planes which I manage to sharpen, about once a year and an arsenal of electric planers. I really do want, crave, one of those old, really long planes, 



the deadweight and length of which just square boards by magic but I can never afford one and even  the modern equivalents

 
 cost over a hundred pounds;  I have saws, anyway,  that'll square boards and I'll get a planer-thicknesser one of these days so, other than for the aesthetic there's no need for a big hand plane.

I do, though, buy some decent hand tools  and I wanted a nice gentleman's saw.  Google took me to Workshop Heaven and  for a moment turned my life upside-down. Japanese saws and planes and chisels, I never knew they existed, well, I suppose I must have done, but just never thought about it, yet Workshop Heaven was littered with them, glittering, thin  and deadly, as you would expect from SamuraiSword blokes. These were Zen tools, inscrutable,  tools you had to think yourself into, you couldn't just pick 'em up and start sawing stuff.  Not for the first time, I wished I was thirty years younger, that I might have time to learn all this hand-crafting stuff, acquire these tools and live long enough for them to become my friends. Like my New Pincers.

 I have a pair of pincers which I bought when I first became interested in old furniture, over twenty-five years ago and although I have since acquired more pairs, these remain my New Pincers; pass me my New Pincers, dear. You mean these old, grey ones? Yeah, my New Pincers. They were my first considered tool purchase and I still love them. It came late in life, my reverence for tools and what they represent; doesn't matter if it's a spoke shave or a JCB, it is all clever monkey stuff, started with a rock for hammering and then a jawbone with some remaining teeth, for sawing, this pair,  found in a builders' pit, in the garden,


were used in the construction of my house, the stone with a
depression worn into it, from striking the iron, imagine the damage done to joints and cartilege; the technology is the religion, the spirituality of the opposable thumb, and any man says different, I'll hit him with a mallet.

I don't, though,  have enough life left now; not enough time to fill a workshop with Jap blades and ebony smoothing planes. 
C'est la vie, goes to show you never can tell.

But the projects are always with me.  I need to build a shed to replace the one blown-down in January and I will make it from stout wooden boards, nailed and screwed,  pegged and bracketed, tight enough to withstand Armageddon.  I can't do one of those barn-raising projects, like the Amish people do in the Hollywood movies, where all the neighbours congregate, singing and hammering and drinking lemonade, before dozens of them push a huge wall up, at ninety degrees from the ground and then cheerfully clad it with boards sawn from trees felled in the local forest. I will just have to sink some posts in concrete and clad them and figure out how to make a roof, doors and windows; 
the youtube is my shepherd, 
I shall not want. 

With this project in mind, even though I have, in the byre,  a big, de Walt radial arm saw which would, as well as sawing and moulding wood, whip you up an omelette and iron your trousers, I bought a smaller, more portable site saw, a Makita sliding, compound-mitre saw.  I'm not rich or anything but I don't do foreign holidays or football matches or the 'pub or any of the things which lots of men do; mrs ishmael has a sewing-room filled with crazy machines and forests of fabric and I have tools and machines.  She has machines, too, robots which vacuum and wash the floors, beep-beeping their fatigue or irritation.  I barely do clothes, I have a hairtcut once every sixteen years and I can always, anyway,  justify the tools;  my table saw and my radial arm saw work perfectly, after more than  twenty years' service and have saved us a fortune, the price of machined timber is terrifying, so we bought this one,with one of those big, long tables to fix it to, for when we work outside.



 And then, fuck me, on  my birthday, the other day, there came these,
 a selection of Nip saws, with a how-to book



 They are made, people say, of the best steel in the world, wafer thin, terrifyingly sharp and you only have to look at them the wrong way and they shatter.  Unlike Western saws, they cut on the pull stroke, not the push and this one, above, has a cross-cutting edge on one side and a ripping edge on the other.

I have a couple of boards, so big, so nice that I will probably never use them, some stupid bastard'll come along and burn them, when I'm dead,  and I have a sneaking suspicion that these saws will find their way, not into the workshop but onto the wall, as a piece of art, too nice, too perfect to use.

The Samurai sword, for all the ritualised perfection  of its construction and use was no match for the Thompson .45 calibre sub-machine gun.
Similarly, the Makita saw, another Japanese product,  will do, in a split second, what would take the traditional Japanese saw minutes and it will also cut at angles and to depths which are impossible to achieve, for me, at any rate, by hand. It really would be a long, long labour of love, becoming adept in Nip joinery.

Before sandpaper became available in the West, in the  1830s, woodworkers,  as well as using metal scrapers, rubbed at wood, using their bare hands, with sand and grit and coral and pumice  and if you look at early furniture this obviously worked very well but I wouldn't exchange my Makita orbital sander for  a handful of powdered rock, no more than I'd ride a horse to town.

Such, though, is the devil, Pragmatism, talking,  and deep-down, I do wish I could hone blades, wield handtools like a master and even ride a horse to town. Once, many had these and other skills, many knew the names of birds and flowers, could read the weather, knock-up a box or a gate, lay a wall, catch a fish, tend an animal, tie a knot, brew a beer, bake a loaf; now we are utterly alienated from the means of survival and most of us are good for fuck all, save taking pictures of ourselves and gibbering in cyberspace, like fucking monkeys.

Week after next I will be in the hyperbaric chamber, nine-to-twelve, for a month or two, my six weeks' worth of mornings; maybe, as well as improving my healing process, the ten atmospheres will revive my energy and my autodidactism, maybe I will wrestle, after all,  with my inner Samurai. The saws, after use, can still go back on the wall, to be talked about, handled, proof that we are all the same, even though some of  us pull where others push and some have more teeth to the inch.

Monday, 15 June 2015

LA VACHE QUI RIT



Ooh-la-la, Bonjour an'  'ow likez-vous  my leather jack-ette, eet ees tres chic, n'est ce pas, especialment on ze old ag-ed pensioneur dessicee, comme moi-meme. Anyway, I yav not come here to talk about le couture, non, non, non, but while I yam ici, 


ma coiffure, 'ave you not-essed eet? 
Oui, d'accord, eet ees both severe and girlish an' emphasisez beaucoup mon high cheek bones an' personal hauteur, oui? Ooh-la-la, oui, d'accord, ees many a good tune, as you Eenglish  say, can be play-ed on ze accordion vieux. 

But I was not appointed banker to le monde  merely because I yam ze hotty ancien, non, eet was because mon predecessear, M'sieu Dominique Strauss Cock, 



'e was charg-ed avec le raping up ze merde-pipe of some nIg-nog servant bitch in New York, tres ooh-la-la, n'est ce pas? 


Je comprends, nous sommes toutes les men of le monde, an zese things, zey 'appen, but M'sieu Cock, 'e was growing too large for ees breeches an' even 'ad plans to be le president of la Belle France. What could 'appen but that 'e get frame-ed up by les flics Americaine, oo dohwant le Presidente Socialiste in France, fuck me, non, ees ze very last thing on le mind de Uncle Sam, ees bad enough to 'ave ze nignog in ze White House wizout 'avin' le filthy bastarde communiste in ze Elysee Palace, aussi, an' so, pauvre Dominique, 'e charg-ed was avec le sodomie  involantaire. An' so zey gimme ees job.

An' apres he was acquittez-voused of the New York buggerment  unnaturelle, raciste et tres cruel, 'e was then  charged with multiple counts de sodomie publique et outrageuse en gangbang avec les femmes du noir, here, in la Belle France, tres, tres,  beaucoup de ooh-la-la;  Dominique et his amis, apparently, was  un fraternite serieuse de l'arsehole, which was malheureus when eet was not hanging out of le rectum d'une  femme jolie and taking les turns, one avec l'autre. But now it seems zat zis was all above le board and les femmes involvee were tres 'appy to 'ave Dominic and his amis roger their derrieres when an' 'owever they wanted.  Everybody, all les buggereurs et buggerees, including my predecesseur, Dominique, was found not guilty of 'avin' done le fuck all wrong.
Ze question now arisez-vous  of should Je m'standez-down an' let eem 'ave ees job back, since 'e never did nothink to lose it in le  premier place, eet was all, 'ow you say, a fucking stitchez-vous-up.  Well, I yav thought long an' 'ard about zis, for all of two or maybe three second an' I can tell le monde that my answer, eet  ees non, not fucking likely,     

  .
The Yoko Ono of the International Monetary Fund.
 
I yav my new al-bum coming out an' I expect eet to go platinum but in ze meantime I shall continue to do to ze peoples of le monde and especially to les Greeks, exactly what eet was that Dominique was said to 'ave done to that schwarzer chambermaid in New York.
 Le sodomie involuntaire. 
 Ees what le IMF is all about, ooh-la-la. 

Ambrose Evans-Pritchard, a generally sober Filth-O-Graph Euro- analyst,  recently wrote that Christine laVache's handling of the Greek crisis was a public scandal of the first order, demanding that she and her cronies be sacked, immediately,  for their failure to act with probity.

I wonder if anyone will look into the strange case of Dominic Strauss Cock, falsely arraigned in New York, simultaneously harried and charged in his homeland, removed from both the IMF and the contest for the French presidency and now acquitted of all charges but ruined.

Rich old men gangbanging younger women  is distasteful, certainly, well, it is to me, anyway,  but as with the ghastly Max Mosley's antics, it is not illegal and France, anyway, generally takes a much more relaxed view of these things.   One wonders how differently from laVache, would Strauss Kahn have acted in the current crisis, either in the IMF or as President of the Republic;  we will never know.

Sunday, 14 June 2015

NORTH COUNTRY BLUES

NORTH COUNTRY BLUES.



I only ever did one manual job, in the Ibstock Brick Yard. 
Dunno what I was doing there, filling-in, maybe, doesn't matter.
The yard was a major employer in the Norman villages of that part of Leicestershire, fathers and sons, nephews and uncles, m'duck, a community, like. 

 Christ, it was fucking murder. I worked as a chuckerpicking-up three freshly-baked bricks between my two bare hands and throwing them to a setter, who caught them deftly  and arranged them in a pile, to be wire-bound, fork-lifted onto a lorry and delivered to building sites and builders' merchants all over the land. 

That was the job, all day, every day.  Some wore bits of inner tube on their hands, fashioned into fingerless gloves, to protect from the impact of ten-thousand bricks a day but most didn't. People did this one job all of their lives.  It was filthy work,  there were no showers and trying to get clean in the bath at home was very difficult, thick layers of red brick dust clinging to the bath, the taps, the floor, my body and my hair. Ibstock Brick and Tile Company, must've built half the country and shortened the lives of tens of thousands of its labourers in the process.

The miners strike of 1984 festers still and when I think of the miners I always remember the chucking of bricks and setting of them; compared to hefting a pick undergound, the brickyard  was a walk in the park, at least we were in the fresh air, didn't have a million tons of shit over our heads, a rotten timber away from being crushed  to death, in the dark; we weren't coughing our lungs out with pneumoconiosis and so, after working in the brickyard, I always wondered why people would be determined to continue with that filthy, mining way of life, scratching coal, underground; I  always was prepared to give the pit closures a fair wind, anything must be better than working down there.

That was just me, though, and what do I know, about trawlermen, scaffolders, coalminers, about those with whom Mr Death's sergeants share the tea-break. Somehow, for the miners, danger had become them and no matter how many tragedies befell the industry its labour force demanded the right to endure even more

There were, there used to be such communities, all over the place, joined-together by hard, dirty, dangerous, badly-paid work and the sensible thought would be - Let us, for fucks sake, get them up in the light, out from the foundry and into newer, cleaner, better, brighter jobs, jobs they might survive into their eighties, as do the rich.  No more  of this pouring of steel, no more of this  welding and riveting  of ships; burn the blue collars, all shall dress in white, all shall  own their homes and top-up their pensions from the wise investments they make on the stock market. 
It is for everyone, after all, gambling.
All shall share in the brave, new world.
  Even if we have to set the police on them. 

In my way,  I sometimes shared mr jgm2's view that these - miners, car-workers, shipwrights - were unruly, troublesome saboteurs, delaying the decent march of Progress,
but only sometimes.

Othertimes, I saw them as noble, more noble, certainly, than he or I, grammarschool boys, like all grammarschool boys since Shakespeare, on the make.   
   
 Even so, I always tried to be a bit realistic, about this Dignity of Labour thing. 
 It is the sort of enconium that Lord Mike Biscuits would confer on people less ruthlessly and contemptibly  spivvish than himself. 

Oh, a fine specimen, the British working man, 
salt of the Earth, he is, when he's not being confused with all this talk of rights and equality and what have you.
 And unrealistic wages. 
I blame the unions.
Always have.
 

I say, do you happen to have a  couple of Garibaldi biscuits, 
with my tea?

And I still do think that the dignity, the comradeship of hard, filthy, dangerous, menial work is exagerrated, not least by people like this,
Sir Billy Bragg, workers' champion, professional folk-singer and unspeakable arsehole.
 

He's an honorary miner, isn't he, Sir Billy, done more for working men, he has, than anyone.  I mean, just imagine how much worse things would have been without Billy the Buffoon and his GodAwful two-chord fucking racket. 
It's OK, in your twenties, singing protest songs but making a career of it is well, just making a career out of other people's shitty lives and scurrying off back to your mansion. Cunt.

Not just Billy Arse, though, he has lots of friends, the working man; today it's Mr McCluskey, the man who, just recently, handed the country to CallHimDave and JunkyGeorge Osborne, and over which we now expect them to give full-rein to their YahBoo Bullingdonism.  Quite how or why Laughing Len was able to install the clown, Miliband - either of them, actually, but Ed, in this case - as political leader of the Labour movement, then - and still, now -  set my eyes to watering.  He must be a Tory, McCluskey, it's the only explanation.

Back then,  the People's Tribune was another Tory, 
                 
  

socialist firebrand, 
Baron Scargill, seen here with and his common-law Mrs.
They fought tooth and nail, Arthur and Nell, like proper Tories, like Neil and Christine Hamilton,  to retain a grace and favour apartment in London, paid for by the now-tiny NUM, in addition to the large cottage they bought for him in Barnsley and in addition to a princely pension. With all the vulgar cheek of his fellow Tories, Jack Straw and Sir Malcolm Shouty, Arthur insisted that the apartment in the Barbican be paid for, for the rest of his life, by the 1,200-strong miners union which he led to disaster.
Isn't it great, how so-called socialists do so well, while their own  rank and file get shat upon ?
 

Doesn't matter which brand of socialist leader we refer to.
The Kneecapper and the Nonce.
These two fuckers, for instance, 
grow richer and more pompous by the day.    

Whilst those who died, starving, for the cause,
 well, they're dead, so th'are; fuck 'em. Aye, fuck 'em, 'sme and Marty's left here,  to continue the revolution. And them boys as starved 'emselves to death....
Well, more fools them.

Bobby Sands, MP, starving in his shit-splattered cell in the H-Blocks or some nameless miner crippled by a baton charge;  what are we to make of them? Are they martyrs or fools?
I would like to think the former but the evidence indicates the latter.

After the miners' doomed strike, Scargill and Thatcher lived-on in relative luxury, bloated hypocrites to their dying day, both as  guilty and as wicked as Sin.  Although driven by monstrous vanity, Scargill, economically speaking,  was probably right; a handful of corporate energy oligarchs now extort as much from us as they can and millions live in fuel poverty, me, strictly-speaking, among them.  We live with the unnecessary threat of lights-out, radiators-off unless we pay more and more to grubby carpetbaggers. Centuries' worth of energy lies below our feet and all it needed to be viable was an efficient carbon capture process. Instead, spivs like Tebbit and Lord Biscuits gleefully poured concrete down the mines.  With any luck I'll see them both dead and, if I get the chance, piss on their graves.

  I heard,  on Radio Four, the other day, the news of the report or inquiry by some cover-up artistes into the policing of the Orgreave NUM picketing, thirty years ago.  Too long ago, now, insisted some rotten, gabshite harpie, all the police're retired, nothing to be gained, things're different, now; lessons were learned at the time. 

She was one of those ghastly shrews who are appointed to bodies such as the laughable Independent Police Complaints Cover-Up Service and who have several degrees in NothingTo See Here, Move Along Studies. She was not interested in persuasion or emollience, this crow, it was just a matter of This is what I'm telling you, it doesn't matter what you think, fuck off and shut up.  I guess that many, like her, a nation's impudent bureaucrats, lost their heads to Madame Guillotine, and quite right too.
 "I have therefore concluded that there should not be an IPCC led investigation into police behaviour at Orgreave."
Ms Tubby  Greene, IPCC second-in-command.

And then we  heard from the miners, still aching from their encounter with the nation's finest, that thin blue line which is the only thing protecting us from Complete Decency.


Theirs was a howl of pain, Quite what they, of all people, expected from the IPCC I don't know but its denial clearly wrought very genuine outrage. At least I think it did.

I don't know about you but I am of the unwavering opinion that any official body  with the words Police and Complaints in its title will be as much  use as a hatful of melted snow.  I don't know how long one must live in order to be made aware that the police are beyond the law but in my case it wasn't very long  and I would have thought that any veteran of the miners strike would expect, from govament, only what Ms Tubby Greene 


so charmlessly delivered. She is paid to cover things up and that's what she did. Safe pair of hands is what they call it. The Independent  Police Complaints Commission exists purely to protect the police from scrutiny, discipline and correction.  The idea that the IPCC would open the door to criticism of government's historical, overt politicising of the cops in pursuit of class warfare is risible   
What did the Orgeave complainers expect?

But aggrieved they were; from within and without,these last thirty years,  they had been  battered,  betrayed  and sold down the river,  their expectations - aspirations we would now obediently call them - denied,  their working lives consigned to the scrapheap of vicious, ministerial whim, no glittering prizes, theirs. Gosh, we even paid Chris Huhne £17,500 for having to leave his job and go to jail. None such for some dirty troglodyte.  We were promised, raged one man, now in his sixties, re-training and re-employment and there was nothing.  The police assaulted me, said another, and I got the criminal record and I haven't worked since. Bless him, this is Britain, he should know that when the police attack you, that's what happens, you get charged with attacking them and I grew a bit impatient at this sustained naivety ancien. Another man complained that where once son followed father down t'pit,  his own grandson now spent the days waiting for a call from a firm which had him on a zero-hours contract, a call which rarely came.   Your grandson and many others' grandsons, too, oh, noble, formerly mining savage.


They wanted an enquiry, the former miners,  to match the one grudgingly given to  those bereaved at the Hillsborough football ground massacree, an event shamelessly rehistoried by Chief Constable Slag and his Merry Men and now being unpicked.

It's been bugging me for days, now, the fact that I don't support the miners' demands  but I have been beaten by the police, more than once, and never demanded a public  enquiry, sought public support. And I was on my own, whereas there were hundreds of miners.  The cops are brutal crooks, that's the way it is. 
Get over it.

I don't know if the miners had any solidarity with the Ulster Civil Rights Movement, when the B Special Constabulary was beating people half-to-death but I don't remember any;  I don't think they took to the streets over the death of Blair Peach or countless others, not cracked on the head but actually killed by PC Filth and I am fairly sure that few miners went to the wall in defence of homosexuals bullied and bashed  by officialdom in all its guises.  Why, then,  should I give a fuck about a bunch of miners run-down by horses and smacked around by the Filth?

No, I won't support them, not because I approve of the police smacking people around nor because I approve of their shabby treatment and not because I agree with the closure of the pits because I don't and I certainly do not dispute that savage economic policies such as these, at incalculable cost,  destroy marriages,  fracture families and devastate communities, fostering crime, alienations,  drug and alcohol dependance, vandalism, decay and ruin.

  I won't support them because they want to own her, they want to hug her vileness all to themselves and  Whisky Maggie, you see,  her wickedness and her ruinous works,  they belong  to us all.

There's nothing special about them, the former miners, they   can just fuck off and join the queue of national grievance, it starts somewhere round Glasgow way.


----------------------------------------------------------

 Mining, though, here, in South Africa or South America is a Fool's Game; if you are not killed the odds are that you will be crippled or diseased; and whichever grim fate ensues, your employer will treat you like shit.


Here was the wunderkind, Bob Dylan,  in 1963, narrating in the first person female, the old tale of capitalism's contempt for its labour. The melody is Irish, the observations and the added images probably as old and as universal as mining and money, themselves. 




Come gather 'round friends and I'll tell you a tale
 Of when the red iron pits ran a-plenty 
But the cardboard-filled windows and old men on the benches
 Tell you now that the whole town is empty.

 In the north end of town my own children are grown
 But I was raised on the other
 In the wee hours of youth my mother took sick
 And I was brought up by my brother

 The iron ore poured as the years passed the door.
 The drag lines an' the shovels they was a-humming
 'Till one day my brother failed to come home
 The same as my father before him

 Well, a long winter's wait from the window I watched 
My friends they couldn't have been kinder
 And my schooling was cut as I quit in the spring
 To marry John Thomas, a miner

 Oh, the years passed again, and the giving was good
 With the lunch bucket filled every season 
What with three babies born, the work was cut down
 To a half a day's shift with no reason 

Then the shaft was soon shut, and more work was cut 
And the fire in the air, it felt frozen 
'Till a man come to speak, and he said in one week
 That number eleven was closing.

 They complained in the East, they are paying too high
 They say that your ore ain't worth digging
That it's much cheaper down in the South American towns
 Where the miners work almost for nothing

 So the mining gates locked, and the red iron rotted
 And the room smelled heavy from drinking
 Where the sad, silent song made the hour twice as long
 As I waited for the sun to go sinking

 I lived by the window as he talked to himself
 This silence of tongues it was building
 'Till one morning's wake, the bed it was bare
 And I was left alone with three children

 The summer is gone, the ground's turning cold 
The stores one by one they're all folding 
My children will go as soon as they grow 
Well, there ain't nothing here now to hold them.

Wednesday, 3 June 2015

THE THINGS THEY SAY.




Campbell, the pornograpers' pornographer;  
real live snuff movies to order.
 
Pontificating on the fallen Dead Kennedy, Oh, sure, we disagreed, said the pig, Campbell, dismissively, about the Iraq thing. But we were the best of pisshead friends. The Iraq thing. And only now that it will never win another does FilthyLabour wonder why it lost the election.

If there is a God of democratic socialism, He will cause a bomb to fall on Campbell's home and roast his children alive; a squad of marines to gangrape his wife, sorry, partner and deliver the pig, himself,  to decades of torture in a foreign land; then  we can all mutter, contemptuously, Oh, that Campbell thing, yeah, water under the bridge.


Tuesday, 2 June 2015

A HIGHLANDS EVENSONG.

I first heard this - psalmody, they call it - during what they call the kirking of Inverness Council; the new council assembles in the town church, these strange unaccompanied psalms and anthems are sung, prayers are said and the Council marches to the Council House. Somehow, for no reason, we found ourselves invited to the official lunch and a tour of the building; we saw the room where wartime Churchill had convened his only extra-London War Cabinet and ate and drank like lords. But that shivery psalm singing, well, if you ever get the chance. Along with a Captain Beefheart concert at Warwick University; an Easter Sunday Mass more wailed than sung by ancient sopranos in Brittany and being suddenly surrounded, on an Orkney islet, by a Georgian choir, singing the sacred sites of the world, this Highlands psalmody was one of my life's magical musical moments. They will do some such for Kennedy, more than he deserves, less than he needs.


THINGS YOU SELDOM SEE.


 


 Well, said Chardonnay Singh, a survivor of the Alton Towers disaster,     Oi feel loike I bin on an emotional rollercoaster. knowharramean?  

To be honest you dunt expect this sorta thing, not when you'm bringing' the babbies on an obviously dangerous ride, loike what this one is, you expect 'em to be safe, even though it int.  Wotchamean, I 'ave been on a rollercoaster ride?  Is that what one a them is?  D'you know what,  I fawt  an emotional rollercoaster only 'appened to people on  the telly, loike, on Jeremy Kyle.  Can't believe it's happened to me.   
 




I

DIPSO CHARLIE'S GONE AWA'.


God knows there's no shame in being a drunk;  when you think about it,  why we are not all drunk is a curiosity. Kennedy, however,  was no ordinary drunk, like all career politicans he held the rest of us in contempt, pretending that he stepped-down as Chief ShitEater  voluntarily,  to deal with his addiction, when, in fact, it was only his imminent exposure by a former close aide which prompted his crass, Doing The Right Thing  resignation speech.  Without the threat of exposure, Kennedy would have stumbled along, deluded and deluding, if he could have, right into Downing Street and the nation's defence, pissed as a rat. That is one of the many shameful episodes of the now defunct LibDem episode, that an entire political party lied to the nation abiout the fitness for office of its leader. Even Big Al remarked to me, at the time, that it was all hilarious.

Kennedy's toilet-stalker colleagues, as they did with ShitGobbler, Mark Oaten, with DogShooter, Jeremy Thorpe, with perverter of justice, Chris Huhne  and notably with  David Steel and child sexual abuser Fat Cyril Smith, all rallied around, Them against Us-ing, lying, dissembling, distorting and lying some more. More than any other filthsters, the LibDems, on the doorstep, the hustings and in the House are a pack of filthy liars, opportunists and bullies; Straight Simon Hughes or  Predator Mick Hancock, take your pick, it is a party of degenerate monsters and I suppose Kennedy's being a gobby, show-off dipsomaniac was pretty small beer by comparison with most of his mates.

It is true that he opposed the Iraq war, so did most people, it is not a matter for eulogy, one right thing, in a career of wrong things.  There will be no crocodile tears in my patch  of the Highlands and Islands.

I was in FortWilliam just a couple of weeks ago, Kennedy's home town, a grim, poor, tatty-looking place, only the mountain walkers keeping it afloat;  that might be due to the Tribesmen's perpetual freezing of council tax and slashing of jobs - most of their warriors dinnae do work; see me, benefits is m'right, cuz  a yon oil, we dinna have tae work, fuck that Tory shite, eh? ... so that aspect of Tribal rule doesn't  bother them - but an MPs duty is to fight for his constituency, that's what all these loathsome maiden speechers are saying at the moment,  and not for a thousand-pounds-a-gig  seat on the dismal Have I Got Stale News For You Show, among all the other preening sataristes faux.



 FortWilliam was no testament to a hard-working local MP.  Still, now they have a Tribesman at the helm, the fucking place'll collapse entirely, like everywher else they get hold of. All England's fault, ye ken.

Kennedy was a confirmed bachelor, until, just like fellow-bachelor, Mr Gordon snot, he thought  he might find himself in Downing Street and so promptly married and bred, like normal people do.  Soon, though, the marriage,  along with the dreams of power, withered and died. Funny, how love can be.

Maybe the recent loss of his seat, his father and the sourness of his marriage, conspired against his mind.  Doesn't matter.  People die miserably every day, nothing special anout this gilded gabshite. MediaMinster, however, will force feed us like Strasbourg Geese with his oily merits and starchy achievements - youngest this, greatest that, unique contribution to the nation. We must gird our loins against an onslaught of Field Marshal Pantsdownisms, all our hopes that he'd fuck off into a hatless wilderness dashed. A second breath to Paddy's great statesmanship-of-stupidity, le morte-de Charlie.
God fucking help us, he'll never shut-up.


Well, you know, Charles was my second-in-command  before I was promoted Field Marshal i/c, the Balkans and when he took over he did a damn fine job, a damn fine job. In due course I shall be writing a book or two about what a fine subordinate he was, perhaps writing some articles but for now I have a full schedule of interviews to do for our colleagues in the Media part of MediaMinster, not that there's any difference between us, eh? Stand easy, there.
Cyril Smith?


 Never heard of him, 
watch out or I'll have you on a charge

Best of all, Nutter-Gnasher is doing Charlie-mourning, too,

 although yesterday she would have called him anti-Scottish, an unpatriotic Tory, a fearmonger, the whole lexicon of SNP horseshit. Maybe she'll take a day off from crucifying Alastair Carmichael's family but it is most unlikely, a one-party state, that's the new bonny Scotland she insists we need, horrid, arse-faced  little mutant.

 Unlike Gnasher, Kennedy was returned, to Westminster, what, six or seven times, so he obviously did something to please people. There will be gurning in the Great Glen for some time. Friends of Danny Alexander, if he has any, just down the road, may put him on suicide watch and there may be a national sympathy for the ghastly LibDems, Kennedy's  death might actually do them some service;  it  can't, let's face it, do them much harm.

Monday, 1 June 2015

LADY SINGS THE BLUES

Didden wake up dis mornin', oh yeah,
Got me dem  Dead Man Blues
I'm on my way up there to Hebben,
Gwine tell my Saviour the news,
Ain't gonna make no more blues records,
Got me dem Dead Man Blues 
Doodley-doodley-doodley-doo
Ba-bomp-bom

 Good evening, I'm Emily Stringbean,
 
 here on KiddiesNewsnight,
 with the very sad news of the untimely death of  blue musican, Mr AB King at the untimely age of a hundred and fifty.  King was known as the Father of the Blue and most of us  clever people will be steeped in his music,  believing that he personified the Blue.  Hits such as One Man's Ceiling Is Another Man's Blue  and some other ones made sure that AB King was rarely in the chartsWe are joined now from Los Angeles  by Mr Gene Psycho, formerly of the great rock band,  Piss, I mean Kiss

Mr Psycho, 
you've sold billions of records, what's your take on Blue legend AB King, who passed away today untimelyly, at a hundred and fifty? Was he the greatest guitar player in the history of music?



 Well, Kirsty,
 
 King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones, no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.

 Just imagine that.  


No, King was a pioneer and a trailblazer.
How, specifically, did he influence your own art?


Well, Kirsty, 
King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones,

 no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.  
Just imagine that.  
No, King was a pioneer and a trailblazer.


I get the sense that you're saying Dr King was a black man in a white man's world which was once a black man's world,  given back to him, so to speak,  by the likes of Mr Eric Wifeswapper of Cream. And heroin. And brandy. 

And Rolex. 
I mean, I understand that his collection of watches is limited to the number which Rolex give him. To underscore his Bluesness, so to speak.  He only has diamond ones, and gold ones, and ones with emeralds and rubies. That's what you call the blues.


And Ferrari. 
I read that he once had to wait six months for his latest Ferrari  to come. And it give him the blues wa-a-ay down inside, only having a half an acre of other Ferraris to play with.

Do you think, Gene Simmons, that Eric clapton will go back on heroin, now that Dr King is dead. And cocaine? And wife-swapping?

King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones, no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.

And finally, Mr Psycho, how will President Obama be taking this news, tonight, of the death of one of his house niggers?
..
Well, Kirsty, 
 King was a pioneer,  a trailblazer, without King there woodena been no Rolling Stones, no Eric Clapton and without King I woodena married Cher.  Just imagine that.  No, King was a pioneer and a trailblazer. A pioneer and a trailblazer.

I suppose we should be grateful that Newsnight couldn't, for this eulogy, contact the diminutive humanitarian, Mr Bono  and settled for Mr Simmons, who really is as tongue-tied and addle-pated as I portray him

When you see one of the Kirstys completely wrong-footed, as in this case, talking out of her arse abour something of which she knows less than does my little warm brown friend, Harris, it makes you wonder if the entire PBC News operation is run on a similar wing and a prayer, hoping nobody'll notice.

My own opinion is that BB King was a vastly over-rated blubber mountain, a monotonal singer,  peddling a tedious vibrato long past its shelf life and that his longevity stemmed not from any great talent or reinvention but because he was happy to play house nigger and eminence noir to all the filthy trash of rock'n'roll, even its honorary member, DroneKiller Obama. 

 I could start now and off  the top of my head, still be, next week,  naming blues players far more influential, far more talented than this bloated old fart and I think that, far moreso than Robert Johnson is rumoured to have done, all these fuckers who wind-up crooning in the White House, really have  gone down to the crossroads and sold their souls to the Devil. 


HERE COMES THE SUN

.
Isn't this heartening, Icarus revisited, almost.

I have already mentioned that when I burn old wood, not often, I generally intone the phrase, Look at all that stored-up sunshine and I have been amazed by how many people do not understand what I'm saying, one MBA believing that coal was made in a Tesco factory. Oh, really, compressed organic matter, like from millions of years ago? That's why it's called fossil fuel? Well,  I get that but what's the Sun got to do with it?

The primitives had a better understanding of Creation than do the NewPeople, with apps4brains. There is something delightfully re-connective about this adventure in flight which may make people wonder about other things than cheap flights;  it ought to be the case that the Sun provides all our energy requirements, directly, and not through the convoluted media of oil and coal and gas and trees, why doesn't it?

This real adventure which might alter the world unimaginably -  the first heavier-than-air craft, flown just a century ago, eventually led to massive jet airline travel and to Sputnik, to the Moon, to Voyager and to Hubble - is wondrous to behold.  The size of Solar Impulse compared to its payload is obviously problematic but one hopes not beyond resolution.  We must wish them well, 


if for no other reason than that they show this grinning oaf for what he is.  

Bon chance et bon aventure.