Tuesday, 21 October 2014


I can think of no-one who could stand to be judged by  the worst thing they ever did,  I certainly could not.  I think it is, therefore,  usually incorrect to sentenece a young man to become an old man in jail, denied Remorse's clarification to him of his misbehaviour, condemned forever, his ongoing punishment a meaningless salve to Vengeance's inoperable cancer. 

 I feel that extensive sentences, say ten years upwards,  are merited only in the case of untreatable criminal insanity - in which case the offender should be treated as patient  - and in the cases of massive, cynical  human rights violations and war crimes such as those instigated and condoned by so many of a global elite, people like - but by no means exclusively - Tony Blair, Michael Howard, Jack Straw, David Miliband, Geoff Hoon, Des Browne and Bob Ainsworth;  Justice's victory in their cases would require extended incarceration, although sadly Justice, or even - as we see with the Chilcott farce and the Leon Brittan controversy - investigative scrutiny seldom trouble lawmakers. 

Oscar Pistorious does not, I feel, belong among Tony Blair's cadre of cruel wickedness. He is a deeply obnoxious young man but looking, just now,  at his pig of an uncle, 

We Pistoriouses have suffered dreadfully, as much as the Steemkamps,
 and we now want you all to shut up and fuck off.

Oscar's character is probably not of his  own devising. 
Aside from whatever momentary rage compelled his disgusting behaviour he shows little sign of being a repeat, sadistic killer but I do believe that he should have been convicted of murder, I don't know what else one would call his actions, firing four dum-dum bullets

into a confined space containing another human is murder;

This is not the  result of carelessness;
this can only be deliberate.

 there is no mitigatiion for his behaviour and his tongue-tied and apparently incoherent Judge danced for some hours on a pinhead to insist that such murderous behaviour can be deemed merely neglectful,  can happen without mens rea. 
 For all her bullshit about the complex business of sentencing, deterrence, retribution and rehabilitation and how the public is too stupid to understand it all, Her Leddeeship failed in her original conviction and anything which follows, therefore, is tainted. 

As for her contemptible nonsense about maintaining public confidence, the message she sends is that if you can afford a fancy lawyer, if you are celebrated  and if you are a meal ticket to countless hangers-on you can kill whoever you want and then argue it down to a few months in jail.  
The prosecution should appeal.

Saturday, 18 October 2014


I mentioned a while ago that an old friend had contacted me across forty years; he said he was dying, I didn't know what to do but I decided to enter a correspondence with him.  He's still here, by the way, after relatively novel cancer treatment, seems, in fact, remarkably more healthy than your correspondent, who doesn't have a terminal illness, at least not yet, although we shall all have one, sooner or later.  

The correspondence, anyway, in its second email, contained a photograph of he and his wife with an indication   - I've shown you mine, now you show me yours - that I reciprocate.  Pigs might fucking fly.

I explained to him that I shared the distrust of photographic image portraits evinced by the Native Americans, the idea that somehow the photograph stole the soul, that in a split-second it sought to capture the uncapturable - and corrupt it.  There wouldn't be any 'photos of his old pal, parseccing their way, formless, through cyberspace, reincorporating themselves on his laptop. Certainly not.  There would be no Oh, Ishmael hasn’t aged at all/very well; there would be nothing to be erroneously interpreted from a fragment, a stolen moment; he’d just have to fucking well read, like the rest of us do.

Doesn’t seem to have deterred him and he often acknowledges “some good words, there, Ishmael,” and maybe, at the nearly-last moment, I may upset, just a little, the conventional applecart which seems to have been his life, maybe that is the point of the correspondence, a rattling of the chains; life in the old dog, yet; many’s a good tune played on an old fiddle.
 How should I know;  people write to me and I write back as cordially and wholesomely as I may.

Coincidentally, though, I was looking in my Lapham’s Quarterly earlier on and found, side-by-side, two other expressions of my own  cautionary note on the value of the image;  one is from before-before, one from the present and I thought, on reading them,  that a lamentation, a regret, a warning are as likely to be framed as elegantly and as lovingly as anything else, be it high-falutin’ poetry or two-and-a-half minute, Rockabilly  love song. Here they are then, Words of Love. 

Susan Sontag, On Photography, 1977

When we are nostalgic, we take pictures.  It is a nostalgic time right now and photographs actively promote nostalgia.  Photography is an elegiac art, a twilight art. Most subjects being photographed are, just by virtue of being photographed, touched with pathos. An ugly or grotesque subject may be moving because it has been dignified by the attention of the photographer.  A beautiful subject can be the object of rueful feeling because it has aged or decayed or no longer exists.  All photographs are memento mori.  To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s or thing’s mortality, vulnerability, mutability.  Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.

Juana Ines De La Cruz, 1690
“She attempts to minimise the praise occasioned by a portrait of herself, inscribed by Truth which she calls Ardor.”

     This that you gaze on, colourful deceit, that so immodestly displays Art’s favors, with its fallacious arguments of colours is to the senses cunning counterfeit,

      this on which kindness practised to delete  from cruel years accumulated horrors, constraining time to mitigate its rigours and thus oblivion and age defeat,

    is but  an artefact, a sop to vanity, is but a flower by the breezes blowed, is but a ploy to counter destiny,

     is but a foolish labour, ill-employed, is but a fancy, and, as all may see, is but cadaver, ashes, shadow, void. 

Friday, 17 October 2014


There was a horrorshow on, a few weeks back, in the wee, small hours;  I Married The Waiter, it was called, about older British women going to the Med or the Aegean, falling in love with young natives, 

marrying them and it all going horribly wrong, just like you'd expect; it was grotesque, bizarre and revolting, one seventy-six-year old drooling and cackling about the great sex she had with young Stavros or Dimitri, 

whom she had briefly and disastrously married, when he was twenty-two. 

 It wasn't the aesthetic of it which troubled me, grannysex, or great-granny sex with a kid,  and I even tried to congratulate both parties for their, what, their enthusiasm, I suppose, but all the time one knew that this was all doomed to end in heartache and embarrassment,  all the time one knew that this was aberrant and symptomatic of  Ruin, of a Me generation, once new and stupid, now grown old and stupid, an octogenarian humping a boy barely our of his teens  can, I guess, be seen as an act of liberation from gender stereotyping; just not by me, it made me cringe and squirm.  

And anyway, all but one of these old biddies deeply regretted their actions, some even seeing them for what they were, exploitative sex tourism, with old women playing the role more usually associated with old men, visiting Bangkok, spending their pensions on child abuse.

I suspect, though, that my view is anachronistic and that, among many who should know better,  Do what thou wilt is now the whole of the law.  I say this because  of the most recent such outrageous behaviour.  A seventy-year old Brit, Ray Cole, 

 found instant love online with a twenty-two year old Moroccan boy, Jamal, and flew from Britain to be with him and plan their life together. 

Unfortunatley for Ray,  Morocco is not what it was, a degenerate's playground,   and when the local Filth spotted Jamal and Ray in their hotel, they pounced.  At first they didn't want to nick Ray but he screeched and hissed so much that eventually they did, threw him in the slammer and left him to stew for a while.  It was A Nightmare, he fumes, MyHellOnEarth.  They didn't beat him or torture him or anything, just left him locked-up with lots of unpleasant guards and unpleasant prisoners, could have been in Winson Green or   Wakefield, come to think about it, but for Ray it was just the horriblest thing. 

 They even scrutinised his i-thing, which contained what he calls a sex-picture of himself although his lovely, darling Jamal was not in the shot. You might wonder, as do I,


 just what exactly the fuck a seventy-year old man is doing, carrying a sex picture of himself around the world; you might think that what with the Wars on Terror and Drugs, with the dawning of a realisation that there is no such thing as Privacy that this intolerably stupid old fuck was begging for trouble, embarrassment,  incarceration and self-publicity.  

Well, he got what he wanted, an almost full-page spread in the unspeakable Guardian, screeching his silly old head off,  about his treatment, about his love for Jamal, how he wants to get him political asylum in the UK  and a degree course in economics and  for them to just live happily ever after; y'know, just have a normal life together.

The Guardianista commenters were outraged on his behalf, the govament must do something, this is an outrage, dreadful, poor man, discriminated against like this. And when one person finally just mentioned that maybe sex tourism was not altogether a thing we should support there came an avalanche of heterosexist abuse - how dare you, they spluttered, one after another, how dare you, you....you....homophobes, how very dare you?

There was a time when the Guardian would have reported old Ray's dodgy conduct with a little more realism.  Old gay crosses world to meet vulnerable young man, that sort of thing, because it was and is that sort of thing;  as with the old women,  it is the commodification of  poor peoples' youth and genitalia.  I wish the Moroccans had kept him a bit longer, Ray, given him a chance to prove the depth of his love for the boy he had known for oh,  all of a few days, and had hoped to purchase outright.      


Now look,  there's two lesbians and  the one lesbian said to the other lesbian, I'll be Frank with you and the other lesbians says, No, I'll be Frank with you........no, no, only joking, and let's face it, if you can't have a joke about lesbos then what can you laugh at, you have to admit, it is funny, two birds and one of them pretending to be a man, and not one pertion of meat'n'potatoes between them.  Not as funny as David Cameron pretending to be prime minister.  But even so. I'll be frank with you, my people.

I mean, make no bones about it, I blame Europe,
no sense of humour, none at all.  

But no, if we lived in a mature and free democracy
 like the one which we Poundlanders would impose on the country, only for it's own good, only for it's own good, make no bones about it, I speak as I find,  I would have been able to go into that place with Douglas Fruitcake-Turncoat, today 

 No, no, not Tory, that was last time.
 No, but yes, I mean no,  I sincerely meant it last time,
 about being a Tory. 
And I really mean it this time, 
about being a Fruitcake,
Fruitcakeism, it's the only thing for me.

 and, you know, hold his hand, as it were. 
Instead of being out here, like a cunt, in the fucking rain.
I mean, it's not every day that I get to lead a party which operates in a place I can't get into. 
Ridiculous and pathetic?
What, that the only way I could get an MP in Westminster was by stealing one from the Tories and using his existng popularity with the local electorate?
No, Absolutely not. 
That I wasn't brave enough to stand myself?
Dishonourable and inconclusive?
Not at all.

 But the  thing is, the thing is, I couldn't have contested that seat and got myself into parliament first.  

Why not, why couldn't I? 
Wel, because I might have lost, that's why, and I'm theFuhrer, I mean leader, leader, that.'s the word, it's my party,  so how would that look, me getting stuffed byu people who don't fall for me talking out of my arse?  Great bloke, actually, Hitler, for a German, don't agree with all his policies, mind, I'm no racist, but these trade unions, well, sometimes you do have to be cruel to be kind. And all this guff about the minimum wage, hasn't actually got us very far, has it? 

But I admit, it does seem a bit strange, the unelected politician being in charge of the elected one  but, hey, that's democracy, politicians've always done what their bosses tell them, otherwise what's the point?

But perhaps it would help 
if you all thought of me more as a monarch 
than a politician, 
Only not in Scotland, obviously.

even though, actually, d'youknowwhat,  I am the prime minister designate, what with all the 'papers predicting I will win a thousand parliamentary seats. Next time. Or the time after. Or the time after that.

No, it's wholly in the interest of the nation that Douglas Fruitcake fought the by-election, fought and won, I might add, fought and won. And even though he's in parliament and I'm not, I'm obviously in charge.  Of him, yes, in charge of him.  I mean, if it wasn't for me, he'd have been out on his arse at the next election.  Yes, just like all the defectors.  Yes, yes, men of great principle, all of them,  sacrifice every principle they ever pretended to have, just to stay on the gravy train, thieving and robbing and bullying people.

Mad, what's mad about it?  Well, take Douglas,  he may say that he's accountable to the voters of wherever it was, Angry-Old-Folks-on-Sea, wasn't it, Poor-Old-Folks-On-Sea, then, woddever, but he's actually responsible to me; y'know, how the LibDems are responsible to my fellow public schoolboy, old Cleggy and the Tories are responsible to my fellow public schoolboy, Cameron and the communists are responsible to that bloke with the funny voice and the bad memory, well,  that's the way politics is, I mean, where would we leaders be if elected representatives started putting their constituents first?  Instead of their careers? 

No, you'll find none of that democracy nonsense in my party, thank you very much; the elected members have to do as I say. And the ordinary members, too,  otherwise what's the point? No, no, it's a very vibrant party, with members democratically engaging with each other about which policies I should tell them to adopt.  For the time being.

What's that? TeeVee  debates? Well, let's face it, I am a media creation so it's obvious I should be in the debates; what, the Greens, no, they only have one MP; the Taffies, no, you see the thing is, with the Taffies, is that they don't field candidates all across the country so you see it follows, quite rightly in my view, quite rightly, that they shouldn't be in the debate;  no, no, no, them having seats in parliament doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all that people have MPs elected to parliament; the SNP, well, I think you'll find there's not much of an appetite for that sort of thing among decent English people, not that I'm racist or anything, some of my best friends and donors are Jewish bankers, can't say fairer than that. 

So let's be honest, let's be fair, let's be straight with the people; one of the first questions I shall be putting, a question too long ignored  is, when will we, as a sovereign nation,

 restore the right of people to poison themselves in public places, yes, and poison others, too; I mean it is central to our democracy that people can smoke in 'pubs, schools and hospitals.

Just look at this prick, what's he like?
I betcha he minces around his bedroom, 
dressed up in women's clothing;
 he's half-way there in this shot.

It's just another example of European Health and Safety gone mad, if you ask me.  I'm a bit of a historian, me, and I can tell you it's in the Magna Carta, actually, the Right to Poison. What?  French nobles? I think you'll find that there were no Frogs involved with that great doument, and certainly no van Rumpies or von Junkers.  The Magna Carta is the greatest of all British documents.  Whaddayamean, English, whaddayamean there was no Britain in  whenever it was, 1066. No? Not 1066? 1215? Alright then, 1215, we were all English in 1215? Apart from the French? Well, proves my point, really.

Hanging? Yes, hanging, too, been pushed into the long grass, hanging, for far too long, I think you'll find that the overwhelming majority of people'd love to see a good public hanging, especially of a paedo, a European one, all the better, and that's what politics should be about, promising to give people what they think they want.

And as for this nig-nog disease, although I am sure, quite sure, actually, that it originated in Brussels, well, there's only really one answer and I am working on it as we drink, I mean smoke, I mean speak.

Yes, even as we speak, Poundland is recruiting millions of plucky yeoman archers, yes, yes, mature gentlemen,  backbone of the country,

The Farage Home Guard.
aka The Old Incontinents.

and my plan, which is, by the  way, fully costed, is to place one of these doughty fellows, armed with a trusty longbow, fashioned from English yew, strung with an English hempen cord and with a quiver full of goose-feathered arrows, to place one of these patriots on every yard of English coastline and to skewer any diseased Johnny Foreigner who seeks to gain illicit entry, it worked at Agincourt, worked at Crecy.  Say no more, no names, no pack drill.  Wossat, not enough men in the country? What?  22 million longbowmen? And that's just for one shift? Probably need 66 million? And that's without people going sick? Well, this is just the sort of criticism we've come to expect from the LibLabCon press.  Impractical, what's impractical about it?  My liegemen - nobleman and sturdy beggar alike - flocking to my banner.....once more onto the beach, dear friends.....cry God for Nigel, England,   a coupla swift pints and a packet of Bensons.  That's the stuff to give the troops. (Sings)  

Poundland, Poundland, uber alles.

What ? Who says the voters won't like it.  And to be perfectly frank, once they've voted for me,  who gives a fuck what they think they like, this is a political party I'm running here, after all. Yes, just like the rest of them.

Sunday, 12 October 2014




Mah fellow motherfuckers. 

Me and yo' future Mrs President, mah beloved Hillary Trousers, here, we'd  jes' love fer y'all to join us as we offer up this prayer on the occasion of the birth of our first liddle gran'chile, liddle cutesie wootsie, ain't she purty, 

purty as her granma, Hillary;

purty as her momma, Chelsea

An' so Ah ask that y'all just join me in a prayer. 
To our Heavenly Southern White Father.

Dear Lord, our Father in Heaven, 
you have made Merka special. 
And different from thine other shitholes, 
and the creatures who dwelleth therein
 in Darkness,
 and who we must, as is Thy will, 
 bomb the fuckin' beJaysus out of.

Sometimes, Dear Lord, 
we all jest haveta
blow some foreign children
even unto fuckin' pieces, 
blessed be the name of the AirCorp

But they're  foreign cocksuckin' sonsafuckinbitches 
and probably deserve it, 
and so we implore Thee, Oh Lord, 
that none a this shit ever happens
 unto our little Miss Perfect.
Praise be to God.

  And Heavenly Father, 
Thou havest made us special among nations, 
 inasmuch as we must haveth more stuff
 than any other sonsafuckinbitches.  

Oh Lord, we beseecheth  Thou
that even though we be but an twentieth, 
 of Thine humanly host, 
we must need to have
 unto our sweet holy motherfuckin ' selves
an quarter of Thy bounty, 
of what Thy Goodness  hath bestowed upon Thy Creation, 
Merka must have the Lion's share. 
Otherwise, Heavenly Father, we gotta kick some nigger ass.  
Blessed be the name of the Lord.

And on the vexed question, Oh Heavenly Father, 
of our personal shortcomin's,

we beseech Thee to forgive us our sins, 
even though we damn well ain't never
 gonna forgive them as offends
 against Uncle Sam or His President.

Why, dear  Lord,
there's many as speak untruths about us;  
scarlet women, Lord, 
as have told lies about thine faithful  servant, 
William Jefferson,
 havin' been  screwin' their asses off of 'em.
Yea, even for fuckin' years, Lord, 
while he was wedded unto thy servant,
 Hillary Rodham Trousers

 Bitches like this, Oh Lord,
 got no place livin' amongst thy dutiful servants
 and spreading truths about 'em, 
Ah mean untruths, 
and we pray that You will,
 in Thy infinite mercy, 
roast their fat asses for 'em. 
Before we must require it, Lord,
 of the Secret Service,
that they be terminated with extreme prejudice.
Blessed be the name of the CIA

And Thy Servant,  Lord, 
soon to be Thy president, 

Hillary known as Trousers, 
it may well be true, Lord,
that she dwelleth in the land of the carpet eaters.

and is an abomination in Thy sight


and that she hath lain in unnatural union 
with many's an ballbustin' dyke bitch 
but Dear Lord and Father of Merka, 
she felt that she had good reason to
drink even from the furry cup
on account of some other
 lyin' cocksuckin' whorebag Jezebel
with whom, as Thou art my witness
Ah never had sex with,
so help me You, 
even though Ah did.
Ah feel yo' tits, babe, I mean pain.

tellin' lies about me,  

my bodily fluids

and my tobacco products. 
Grown, in thine infinite Mercy,
In the Republic of Cuba.

Let this not, Oh Lord, 
Thy servant Hillary's insane jealousy, 
and her wish for vengeance,
let it not

deny Thy faithful Servant, Mrs Trousers, 
the office of President,
for we are, Lord, 
down to our last hundred million dollars
 an' if I don't get to be the First Gennulman,
 living in the White House again,
I am fucked
if I know,  Lord,  how I will manage to steal any more money. 
I need to be able to offer public contracts to the highest briber.
And I can't do that, Lord, 
fucking about on charitable trusts.
Bill and Hillary Clinton at the Clinton Global Initiative event, New York
The Lord And Lady Macbeth Foundation.

Ah mean, Lord,
havin' foundations and initiatives,
that's one thing,
 but verily I say unto you,
it is fucking peanuts
and the taxman's all over you.
 I know, Lord,
that we should render unto Caesar and all that  
but me and Hills, 
we think to ourselves, 
we lied, we cheated, we killed 
for all that money 
and it don't seem fittin' 
for us to be giving any of it to the govament, 
which, as Thou knowest, Lord,
will only give it to poor folks and niggers.
So, please, Lord,
 for us to get the really big bribes and bungs, 
ya gotta get us back in the White House.

And we beseech You, finally, Heavenly Father,
that our new grandchild, 
be not forced to live in cardboard shelters
 nor in sub-standard housing, 
that she be not forced unto the place of the FoodBank;
that she be not beaten or shot
by marauding, out-of-control, militarised lawnforcement;
be not incarcerated in cruel and unusual 
mediaeval-style high security prisons
run only for the profit
 of people who bribed me handsomely;  
that she be not slowly DeathPenalty tortured to death
 in a gas chamber;  
that she be not gunned-down
 by a fellow student, 
 that she be not spied upon, 
lied about, lied to
and framed by her National Security Agency,
nor be disappeared or killed 
on the orders of her own President; 
may she not, Oh Lord, enlist,
be sent abroad to kill 
and return home to cruelty, 
to bullying and to neglect
as, dear Lord and Father of mankind,
 are so many of her fellow citizens.

As if, Lord,  she fuckin' would.




 We were talking, recently, about Art and craft and trade and I suppose hobbies,  about what distinguishes Art from the others  and last night BBC4 was devoted to a fragmented study of the so-called art and artistry of the late Jimi Hendrix; some of it was produced by old garlic breath, himself, one of our shameless license-fee-created millionaires, 

StarFucker Al.

Alan Yentob, is pure groupie hyperbole, 
he's good at that, Al, tosser.

What happened to guitarist, Hendrix, was that he went, in a short time,  from being a US paratrooper
 A black and white photograph of five men wearing Army uniforms and standing together as a group
 to being a global superstar and sex symbol, 

worse than that, for a young man, he was hailed and  quickly hailed himself not as an entertainer, which is all he ever was but as an artist.

There can be no argument, his recordings with the Jimi Hendrix Experience, a  trio comprising


Brits Noel Redding, Mitch Mitchell and himself, were revolutionary - if you can have a revolution in showbusiness, that is - but they were only revolutionary pop songs. Hendrix was among the first to play the electric guitar as something other than a loud acoustic guitar;  the scorching, reverberating  menace of  Hey Joe; his own, spasming Purple Haze, the raunchy Foxy Lady,  the dreamily lyrical Wind Cries Mary, his urgent re-working of Bob Dylan's All Along The Watchtower were totally unlike anything else of their time and poor Jimi was, accordingly,  in their own fearful interests,  embraced and colonised  by other so-called superstars,  such as Mr Pete Nose of the Who,
 a man obsessed with writing songs about boys - Pictures of Lily, My Generation, Substitute, I'm A Boy, I Can't Explain, The Kids're Alright, Squeezebox  and the dreadful, unspeakable so-called rock opera, Tommy, about an abused deaf-dumb-an-blind kid.   Hendrix, on the other hand,  wrote pile-driving yet ethereal songs about paranoia, about lust, about  Heavenly fucking. Where the Who were fuelled by Black Bombers and Purple Hearts, Hendrix's creative toolbox was expanded by Lysergic Acid Diethylemide; technicolour to Townsend's melodramatic monochrome; Hendrix's tidal waves of part chords, lead runs, overdriving, buzzing and humming, echoing his voice note-for-note belittled Townsend's  jerky suspended fourths.

 Frightened of being outshone, Eric Clapton, who until the appearance of Jimi Hendrix was the unchallenged God of the guitar, also championed Hendrix, 
Come with me, we will be Gods together, 
equal Gods. You gotta wife, Jimi? Only my friend George Harison shares his with me, his wife; we're all artists, you see.

basking in reflected glory, loving him with the kiss of JunkyDeath.  

Clapton's own bizarre deification rested on shambolic, noisy performances in his  warring trio, Cream - three junkies playing at cross-purposes; 


 bassist Jack Bruce overplaying everything; Clapton furiously and endlessly doodling  at what sounds to me like an eleven-bar blues and drummer, Ginger Baker, thrashing and flailing away, marooned on his own, lonely Planet Heroin, his drum figures doubtless making musical sense to him but to no-one else alive. Fucked-up Brits trashing black music. By contrast Hendrix's trio had invented an entirely new form , neither black nor white,  the blues coloured electric.

And it  was only on hearing The Band's Music From Big Pink that Clapton found a musical direction which enabled him to play with some taste; Americans, again, showing this tedious, over-rated  Limey the way home.

No wonder this pair, Slowhand Clapton and Pete Nose, 

 Hendrix with some Mod brats.

ploughing cliche's furrow, latched-on to Hendrix, a true original, and called him artist.

Left-handed,  Hendrix played a conventional Fender Stratocaster  upside-down



and some musicologists argue that his inverted access to tone controls and especially the tremelo arm shaped his unique sound; makes sense to me, I never thought him an extra-terrestrial.  Hendrix  also employed a Home Counties electrical engineer to  develop and refine his amplifiers and effects, y'know, tradesman stuff, valves, frequencies. It's not Beethoven or Rembrandt, fuzz-wah-swell pedal, overdrive  and distortion, that's just being a tradesman.

Having been a   member of various New York R&B ensembles, Jimi Hendrix hit lucky; he was spotted by Geordie, Chas Chandler, former bassist with the Animals,  brought to England and teamed with Redding and Mitchell; the Jimi Hendrix Experience recorded all that is memorable and valuable in his short musical life.  Delusions of artistry and the esteem of the artily worthless killed him.  

At the end he  spoke of himself only as an artist, with a higher purpose and so - artistically -  he took loads of drugs; artistically, he disbanded the Experience, forming a succession of rubbishy groups with old buddies and new show-offs, all of them discordant, atonal, arythmic; artistically, he bought his own studio in New York and recorded what seems like years' worth of intolerable garbage.

His Woodstock concert performance reveals the depths to which he had, so artistically, sunk - too many players, too much percussion, artistry's license enabling him to play out of time and out of tune. But  then so much of Woodstock is grossly over-valued, most of it was shit, shit that only Uncle Sam can produce and digest, convinced of his  own appetising exceptionalism.  Only the Star Spangled Banner redeems Hendrix's sprawling, self-indulgent performance, and even that runs-down and collapses on itself, a black hole of circuitous jamming;   the studio version is infinitely better. 

As a pop entertainer, Jimi Hendrix, in the nineteen-sixties, produced some of the most interesting and original material of that  facetious and culturally over-stated period; as an artist, however, he never got off the ground, drowning, instead, both figuratively and literally, in his own artistic shit. Having been out, jamming, man, and drinking, he took too many sleepers and didn't wake up that morning.  He was twenty-seven
Clapton, now in his late-sixties

and Townsend, similarly,

 still, in their dotage, play their old hits to gullible crowds.  They still speak of his tragedy,  heedless, maybe, of the fact that their noisy, Me-Too, arty patronage of Hendrix is what blew him fatally off course. 

Anybody tells you that you are an artist, punch 'em hard in the gob.

And if you meet the Buddha on the road, 
kill him. 



All my life people have been refining washing powder. You'd think it  the very stuff of Life, so vigorous is its promotion, its ubiquity in our viewing, our commercial viewing, anyway. 

The term soap opera originated in 1930's US radio broadcasting, cliff-hanger radio series being sponsored by washing powder manufacturers;  even then the white, tinted or speckled flakes and powders were deemed, by those who calibrate our consumption,   indispensible to people  craving a fulfilled and hygienic life.

Once, the stuff simply washed whiter but that was in my mother's time of drudgery. As television enslaved us, to itself and to the products of its sponsors, washing powders - Ajax, Rinso, Omo, Daz, Tide, Persil, Breeze, Oxydol, Surf and countless, now vanished others,  grew ever more complex and sophisticated, their additives - blue whiteners, no, seriously, blue stuff to make your white stuff whiter, bleaches and pre-soaking enzymes - and ingredients became more and more modern, scientific-sounding;   the Space Age was entering the twin-tub washing machine.  

A party political broacast on behalf of the Persil Party

But no matter the earnestness of the adverts,  it was all just fucking soap, no more than that, washing your clothes down by the river, in the communal wash-house or in the new Hotpoint or Bendix, you need some soap, that's all, never going to be Paradise, doing the laundry. Soap is just soap.

And so it is with this gang of ponces and slags and thieves and impostors. Shit is just shit.

Eternally renewing, rewording, repeating their  bogus credentials, their miracle ingredients, their clever formulae,  their latest additives, eternally competing one with another, for the right to shit in our faces.
 And now there is a new product,

 different, brighter, better;  
what a pity it is made from the same old shitheads.
 No, honestly, they are differently different,

dimmer, duller, more impertinent.
 But largely the same.
Give 'em five minutes in Westminster and you'd never tell them apart, LibLabConFruit.

It is a matter of incredulity to me, that I see so many of my fellows arguing the toss between this shower, parliamentarians and would-be parliamentarians, when  they are all, every last one of them,  just shit,  walking and talking.  

I'm quite entitled to my expenses.
 And my mistresses. 
I went to public school, for God's sake.
Douglas Fruitcake-Turnover, MP.
Why does he always remind me of a man who has just awakened from that dream - the one where you're walking down a crowded street and suddenly realise that you're naked from the waist down?

Oh, it is rich to see Miliband more crestfallen than usual, 

wringing out his  party dishcloth of condescending phrases, mentally wetting himself;  Clegg is beyond embarrassment, he can already claim to have achieved more than any Liberal in the last century, even though last time around he cinsisted that his was a new party albeit that it is actually twice as old as the Labour party;  Clegg, congenitally, I should think, inhabits a world where  the Truth is an extra-terrestrial alien, nothing will trouble him, for there is nothing there to be troubled, in that part of the brain which houses conscience and doubt and discomfort and ethics and morality Clegg must just have a big, empty space. Like  the Tory, Blair, leading the Labour party, Clegg is a Tory leading the Liberals, pretending that he's a Liberal restraining the Tories and Cameron, well, he's whoever he thinks he is when he wakes up - field marshal, statesman, diplomat,  historian, philosopher and charismatic leader of a fractious and foolish  people, when  he is thrown out, either by party or electorate it will because they are mistaken, blind to his qualities, stupid.  Miliband may lose what he thinks is his Destiny,  but the rise of the FruitCakes will only slightly discomfort the leaders of the unelected government for they are FruitCakes, themselves,  there is only one party, it is the party of party politics, a hang-over from the 'sixties and 'seventies, long past its time, struggling for breath and  kept  alive only because MediaMinster is too stupid, too lazy and too frightened to imagine  a different form of public administration, one servant to Decency and Duty, rather than to greed and conspiracy, knowing whispers and secret handshakes, beasting and blackmail.

Already, prominent Fruitcakers are bragging about being 
simultaneously  MEP and MP, with simultaneous salaries, pensions and exes. Already Fruitcakers are turning their policies, such as they are,  inside-out, inventing principles according to the prevailing winds. Didn't they ditch their existing Clacton PPC, in favour of a sitting Tory?  How does that work, then, in terms of honesty and loyalty and solidarity and principle. Ah, yes, of course, same soap powder in a different box, washes whiter.

If anyone thinks that Nigel Fruitcake, Diana Fruitcake, Paul Fruitcake or Douglas Fruitcake  differs in any way from those currently on the green benches they need their fucking heads looking at.