CRY, BABY, CRY.

Hard to know how Roger Rolex 


would have fared against a fit Rafa Nadal, Andy Mutant or Novak Jabberwock, 

they might have given him a game, a bit of a contest, one to justify the ultimately rather shame-faced euphoria surrounding his eighth Wimbledon victory.  

This really was a poor game, one which made Federer look considerably more formidable than he is.  There is no question about Federer's abilities or his ancien regime sportsmanship; his talent, his application and his grace are  now legendary and I wish more were like him.  
If, as is said, he is worth a billion dollars - one hundred millions in prize money and ten times that in sponsorship, well, better him than the repulsive  John McSneer


the oldest baby in the world
 or the cock-waving Boris Becker; 

if there is anyone in modern sport who deserves these astronomical rewards it is Roger Federer,  

an athlete and an entertainer without equal; 
even so, Sunday's was a fucking awful Wimbledon final.

I don't think I had noticed Cilic before but then I watch very little tennis these days, especially since the rise of Andy Mutant, his creepy MummyDarling  and his ugly, neanderthal petulance but it should be safe to assume that anyone, familiar or not,  who reaches the Wimbledon Men's Singles Final is a player of some capability, not just in serve-and-volleying but in self-control;
 Cilic, though,  was a tosser who should have been weeded-out by the tournament itself. 
 Outplayed  by Federer in almost every game the Croatian, instead of counting his blessings at being in the Final, being beaten by the greatest player ever and being about to receive a cheque for over a million pounds cried like a baby,

 

 he cried for his inadequacy,

 

 he cried for his doctor, 

 

 for his sore foot;  



he strung-out two injury breaks quite shamelessly and even after all that hysterical hustling lacked the grace to congratulate the victor, it was  a regrettably familiar display of  inept, fuckwit, self-obsessed  celebrity bitching about its own thwarted ambition; 
 he should've been booed-off but instead we sat - well, I didn't - sat enthralled by his repulsive, whining  self-pity, with the permanent adolescent, Bozo Becker, wittering-on like an Agony Aunt about Centre Court being the loneliest place in the world,  

Look, it's like I alvays say,
 zis iss real life und death stuff at Cenner Cawt,
 ve are all true gladiators out zare,
 fighting for our life.

as though even Wimbledon, like everything else, had encamped itself in the Big Brother House.

It seemed that between every point the PBC's Wimbledon director distractingly chose to show us some grimy, oiled-up nobody - Oh, fuck me, look viewers, isn't this wonderful, so-and-so's come here to be seen at Wimbledon. What? Tennis? No, I shouldn't think he understands it at all, but being seen, that's what it's all about, there is no business like showbusiness, and it's what we're bringing you,  the tennis simply isn't enough, so we're bringing you pictures of absolutely everybody who's nobody.
 Look! Look!   
Here's Ruritanian Prince Gormless and his doxy 

Yah, free seats, Yah, 
free everything.
OK, Yah, but  y'know, I dowannit;
it's more about duty,
like my bro' says, 
all about duty,
having all this free stuff.


And here we can spot ghastly, overdressed  imbecile wannabe, 
Dave Simpers, a man who gas done so very, very much for himself, I mean, you only have to think of all hist tattooss, the stuipid inky cunt, and his beards and hairstyles, this is the stuff of sporting greatness
 
'Ey, Willie, Ya gorra Knighthood for me yet?
Only I do deserve one, 
fer all the fings worravdone,
the cloves, an' the cosmetics an' everyfing.
 
 Patient and punctilious in his seemingly endless round of post-match celebrity greeting 
it was telling that Roger Federer spent the absolute minimum amount of time with the Ruritanian parasites, hugging Princess Coke briefly and swiftly shaking hands with the grinning Prince Gormless, 
the oaf who would be king. 

 Even in snubbing the worthless,
 Federer was a lesson in grace and style.

A ruined final, a worthless opponent, a cliche-drenched commentariat, a gang of slimeballs basking in his moment  and yet,  by his presence, redeeming the whole grisly crew, he carries it all off like a Saint walking among sinners.
Worth every penny, Roger Federer.

EVENSONG "On Children" Temple University Women"s Chorus, directed by Christine C....

I knew these words long before I heard them set to music and they changed my life;   from Kahlil Gilbran's The Prophet,  they are part of a set of Sufi beatitudes, answers given to questions asked of the Prophet; Speak to us on Children, they said and this was his reply:

Your children are not your children, 

they are the sons and the daughters of Life's longing for itself.........

I think I first heard this setting - an extract - by Sweet Honey In The Rock, a 1980s, black, right-on, feminist, issues-driven a capella group;

 anything of Grievance or Lamentation, they'd run-up an arrangement, record it and tour it.

Ah, but we were all so much older then. 

 I don't know who these performers are and they are not terribly good but I find this non-showbiz version much more agreeable.

 

On Children by Kahlil Gibran   Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.   You may give them your love but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.   You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

NOT A DOCTOR'S DILEMMA.

I have taken a few companion animals to the vetbastards' for euthanising, it has never been straightforward, nearly all of them have had more life left to live - before I have put them in the car they have mostly  been catting or dogging as before  - but I had been aware that they were also suffering pain; I suffer pain nearly all the time but I understand it and as far as I'm concerned it is infinitely preferable to being dead.

 My guess is that animals don't - can't - understand and compartmentalise pain but even so I have a lingering thought that it is not their suffering that I choose to end, just my sight of it;  

the suffering of others is - what? -  not harder to bear than our own but more disagreeable.  

There's that phrase, I couldn't bear to see him suffering, it is the I that counts. 
 I like to think that most of are uncomfortable with the suffering of others although I remember reading of the Shogun who composed a haiku to the screams of a man he was having boiled in oil.  

That's the Japs and the Germans, for you, they occupy a unique place on Cruelty's glistening spectrum, you might even say thay've fallen over the edge.

It is only good fortune but it has never been the case that I couldn't afford the ongoing medication for sick animals, these were quality of life decisions which I was making because they couldn't.

 Sounds so pompous, doesn't it? I have always been a bit uneasy about that, I wouldn't want anyone making a quality of life decision about me, I'd fucking kill them  but there it is, it isn't the animals' world, hasn't been since we arrived  and invented our tools and weapons  and as I have said previously,  if all the animals in the world got together and formed a religion we would be its Devil;
  for fun, sport, for cosmetics and medicines and for dinner, they are ours to torture and  kill, even benevolently.

We know a couple who  are just  perfectly ethical. 

Well, they portray themselves as ethical, their judgements as considered and  themselves as informed-into-Virtue in everything they do;  they are Which magazine personified;

 po-faced wankers, you'd call them, we-know-besters. 

They had a lovely little dog, anyway, as bright as a button -  friendly, funny, intelligent - he knew the names of all of his toys - he'd make you lol-out-loud; spirited, playful, loving, the perfect companion, he would brighten the greyest of days. 

But one day, despite them, in every waking second, taking punctilious care over every single thing they did - they made you participate in a tea ceremony every time you had a cuppa round there,  all  consumeriste discernant et superieur; yes, ishmael, it's about so much more than just drinking,   we strive to savour and appreciate the fragrance; 

with a clean palate you can detect the blossom, things are so much better when you take a little care, aren't they? 

Now, I like tea, I drink loads of fancy stuff, even, sometimes,  in warmed cups, from a warmed pot, with the hot water just-so,  and with real tea leaves, and with no milk and no sugar;  

this shit, however,  always tasted like  floor-sweepings from the Ty-Phoo tea factory, down Birmingham way. 

This couple's game wasn't about discernment and certainly not about sharing an experience with others, fuck no, 

wasn't even just plain old-fashioned snobbery, it was something darker than  that, a kind of feverish and  remoresless,  psychopathic and countereit didacticism, even though they had nothing to teach anyone, 

they should shut the fuck up and listen quietly to their betters,

 like I do.  

I remember once delivering some furniture to a lovely country house in Kinver or Clent,  one of those nice, wee Worcestershire hamlets, anyway,  from which Birmingham and the Black Country are easily commutable; popular with lawyers, senior health professionals  and the ghastly TeeVee people but this guy was a Black Country engineer, had prospered in a small business making widgets and washers, he and his wife were really, really pleasant and they became repeat  customers.  And I remember looking at his new BMW and his lovely home and thinking You don't know a line of Shakespeare nor a bar of Beethoven  yet you live here and I don't, how's that happen? 

I learned in that instant that enjoying the sound of my own voice was a mug's game, that I had more to learn from others than they from me; everybody's story is better than mine, 

if they are permited to tell it.

Back with Mr'n'Ms Perfect there was also  the BMW 1100 escapade.

  Although naturally they drove an eco-friendly car they also bought  a superbike, for the thrill of the open road, and, you know, just to get away from it all, in the fresh air.  

Piled it up,  they did, getting away from it all in Caithness. 
There followed weeks in hospital, months off-sick, in recuperation.  Wrecked the bike but didn't dent their sense of superiority, not a bit of it. 

Oil on  the road, or some such, absolutely freak conditions which would compromise the skills of even the most seasoned and considerate riders, such as they. 

But one day, anyway,  and given the intense purity of their life choices and the great care they took of domestic minutae, it came as a shock to them when the wee dog was injured by a car outside the front door. 

The constant vigilance required to ensure the safety of small animals was a heading absent from their otherwise comprehesive, balanced and ethical Rule Book of Life.

But they were still prepared to make the right choice.

Explaining things to me later, he said, Well, ishmael, I thought long and hard about it and decided that in the Wild, which, let's face it, is where he's from, he wouldn't survive an injury like that and so the ethical thing to do was not to have him mistakenly treated by the 'vet but to let him die...

You  had him destroyed? 

Yes, on balance, it was the right thing to do, it wasn't about his survivability, it was about the higher ethics of the matter, we were- as you know, we always are -  determined to be ethical, and that was what would happened in the Wild. He would never survive such injury in the Wild.
And we must never forget that however much we love them at the end of the day the bottom line is that  these are Wild animals we're talking about here, we simply  must never forget that.

There was no point in me saying;

 But he wasn't a wild animal, he was bred to order, just for you two and by your own admission he was  the central -  sleeping in bed - part of your family, now that your formerly lesbian daughter has - unsurprisingly - freaked-out, run-off and married a man twenty years older than you, her father.  

Never ceases to amaze me, the number of ethical ways people find to avoid spending money. 

If he'd just said that they couldn't afford it or something that would've been fine, and even though they are not skint a lie wouild've been prefereable to all that ethicsa horseshit. 

Probably the real ethical dilemma was that they didn't want a damaged dog, limping around their OCD-clean little Palace of Madness; who wants an injured dog? I mean, what sort of ethical consumer choice would that be, having and injured dog, limping and dribbling? 

The daughter once told me, that if even one book was out of the bookcase her mother thought the place a terrible mess, had an attack of the vapours.  
A recuperating dog, pissing on the floor? 
 Christ, she'd have had heart failure.

Very, very soon after this happened they acquired another dog,

 a shiny new one,  not from the Wild, where dogs come from,
 but from another expensive breeder.

 Infinitely elastic, consumerist ethics, 

have to be, though, considering:

“The capitalist and consumerist ethics are two sides of the same coin, a merger of two commandments. The supreme commandment of the rich is ‘Invest!’ The supreme commandment of the rest of us is ‘Buy!’ The capitalist–consumerist ethic is revolutionary in another respect. Most previous ethical systems presented people with a pretty tough deal. They were promised paradise, but only if they cultivated compassion and tolerance, overcame craving and anger, and restrained their selfish interests. This was too tough for most. The history of ethics is a sad tale of wonderful ideals that nobody can live up to. Most Christians did not imitate Christ, most Buddhists failed to follow Buddha, and most Confucians would have caused Confucius a temper tantrum. In contrast, most people today successfully live up to the capitalist–consumerist ideal. The new ethic promises paradise on condition that the rich remain greedy and spend their time making more money and that the masses give free reign to their cravings and passions and buy more and more. This is the first religion in history whose followers actually do what they are asked to do. How though do we know that we'll really get paradise in return? We've seen it on television.”― Yuval Noah Harari,

I'm no better, though, just because I spend that extra bit of money on companion animals.

 I make the best of it, the final trip to the vetbastard's. 

Yeah, I love you so much I'm gonna  pay somebody to kill you, and I'm gonna just gonna have to make the best of it. 

Just be grateful  that I don't consider you a wild dog, really, cos then I'd have to get me a gun and shoot you, like a real man does.

I don't know what I would do in the position of Charlie Gard's parents. I like to think that I wouldn't do as they did but I am older and stronger than they are.. 
Maybe, if I was their age, in this time,  I, too, would take my sad story to market
Colin Parry, after losing his young teenage son to one of the late Marty Kneecaps' peace initiatives, really took his tale to market,, interviews, trips, columns, a phone-in radio show of his own, the Today Programme. 
His mrs left him though and who could blame her? 
 
Nobody teaches Acceptance, nobody teaches that Shit Happens so it is unsurprising that the Gards are as they are, screeching and breast-beating, ululating like Arab women after a peace-making visit from the US Air Force.

 It is not as though their betters don't encourage commercial public soul-bearing; it is not as though Celebrity has Grace. Just Look at Prince Hooligan, the ginger drunk to see where the commoners are taking their cue. A trouble shared is a trouble earned-from.
  I saw a few minutes of that slippery cancer, Piers Morgan, the other night, the fearless but compassionate investigative journalist. He has a show about women in the States who have killed.  

Not BigTime Murder Floozies, like Hillary Rodham Clinton 

- didya see her do that Gaddafi rap she does, in that awful Arkansas whine: We Came, We Saw, He Died,

  eek-eek-eek, eek-eek-eek, 

I'm so funny I could jes plumb eat ma own shit;

 Christ, makes me shudder to remember it, makes me fall down and thank God for the larcenous, gibbering, cock-waving  half-wit, Donald Trump. 

Having proven  himself too fucking hideous even for US TeeVee prime time, maladroit even at celeberity blow-jobbing, the Moron's current outing is just a cheap,  miserable series about poor dumb bitches who have murdered someone and are never going to see a cock again, never mind the light of day. 

PiersBoy goes into the jail looking all perplexed and asks them some searching questions, as only a journalist on top of his game can do. All Bob Dylan's Like A Rolling Stone redux, Piers asks How Does It Feel, over and over again, to be hated, to be in here, to have killed that boy?
It really is fucking disgusting; voyeuristic, parasitic, tittillating and trite, it's enough to make you believe in the Death Penalty, better your blood boiling and your organs jerking, better to bleed and rupture  from badly administered poison than be interviewed by Piers Morgan.

It's not as if the worthless crook didn't already deserve a good beating, is it? 
Here he is with Kelvin McFilth,

 And we wonder why the country's ruined by filth,  lust, greed, hatred  and stupidity. I'd hang these two in a heartbeat.

How does it fe-e-e-e-el?
 
But this show, even by Piers Morgan's reptilian, infamously low standards, is the baddest in bad taste; please, can't he be arrested for Indecency, the horrible cunt?

The Gards' child was born cruelly disabled and with no prospect of survival, he can do nothing unaided, he can't breath and is severely brain damaged,  he is senseless and his apparent destiny is to die  in pain, perhaps horribly so and his doctors argued that his life support; if you can call it that, should be switched-off.  
The parents disagreed, promulgating some unproven treatment option in the United States and - funded by the new breed of Internet well-wishers - took the matter to three British courts, where they lost and finally to the European Court, where they have also recently lost. 
Watching that hearing was the first time I had ever thought seriously about the European Court's jurisdiction; this matter had been thoroughly and painfully aired in three tiers  of our own courts and yet the Gards asked for and were allowed the final adjudication of an alien, supra-national, bureaucratic jurisprudence.  
I closed my eyes and tried to find worth in this procedure and in these arrangements and - much as I love the idea of Law - I couldn't. 
 If, as the anti-democracy Remaining minority say, we cannot protect our own human rights, our own working terms and conditions, if we need, instead, the oversight of judges drawn from nations recently fascistic, totalitarian and holocaustal then the war fought against these forces was lost.  
Imagine me walking the ghosted shore of Scapa Flow and telling those lads, No, you're alright, we can't trust ourselves to look after our own rights, see, so we need the Krauts and the Frogs and the Eyeties, to keep an eye on us, keep us right, lads, they will.  I mean, they have better judges'n ours, better laws, we'd be proper fucked without Jerry judges, watching uz human rights laws.  OK lads, simmer down, now, course you didn't die for nothing. It's just that doing what Germany says is the only true way to lasting peace. Well, you lads may call it cuntish, but your betters, well, they know better'n you, obviously, that's why they're your betters. Quiet,  there, less'avesome quiet in those ghostly ranks.

This Internet Camaraderie of Grief - everybody feeling for everybody else - it's quite odious, I think, distorting and devaluing.  This was a straightforward matter, one of solemnity, modesty and forebearance. No fucking chance, not among the New People.  Unto Them A Child Was Born but it was not to flourish and survive, these things happen.  But no, it was unfair and these parents would move mountains to make a Sad thing Happy, probably because they're worth it.

I do believe that the first British outbreak of IT Community Grieving  came with the wretched McCanns, 


who very swiftly not only amassed a small fortune - from which they paid-off their mortgage - but through which they also persuaded the gullible Internet fuckwit that every parent was as neglectful and duplicitous as they;  that the Portuguese police were the villains of the piece and instead of advising them to answer legitimate police questions the dodgy govament of Gordon Snot sent the flatfoot, stuttering  dimwits of the Metropilitan police over on holiday to Portugal, almost as if to arrest the Portugueezers for their policing failures. 
Even though Gerry and Cilla McCann trashed the crime scene, delayed reporting the child's absence until they had engaged a PR firm and rehearsed a series of stories, all of which collapsed under scrutiny and refused to answer any questions about the matter  they were popular Internet sensation. 
Not with me they weren't but with the New People. 

The Internet's  Highway of Vicarious Sorrow was Gerry and Cilla's best - and most generous - friend. I don't suggest that Charlie Gard's parents  are remotely as loathsome as Gerry and Cilla but they, too, have invited rank strangers to help them thwart Propriety, and to pay for the privilege. 
Their Child of Sorrow has become their platform and their cashcow.

I happened to watch the case at the British Supreme Court, a week or ten days ago.  Counsel for the Hospital - Great Ormond Street - argued that, well, basically she argued that the parents didn't own the child and that while broadly speaking  parents' wishes should be taken into account, where possible,  in this case they were so unreasonable that they should be discounted.  
There was simply no hope for this child and the claims of the US doctor were misinformed and  misleading.  
The parents were acting unreasonably, firstly  inasmuch as shipping the baby to the States would  make matters worse;  he was in pain, his tolerance to painkillers was likely to increase and the condition of his brain and major organs was such as to be unimprovable by any means.

The parents countered, firstly, that  the matter was not even justiceable and that it was no business of the Court what they did with their child. They knew what was best for their child.
 The Court-appointed Guardian and all the doctors concerned disagreed and two lower courts and now the UK Supreme Court dashed their unrealistic and selfish hopes, a decision, as mentioned above, endorsed by the European Court

This notion that parents always know best is just ludicrous, Daily Mail rabble-rousing.
Mick Philpott was and is a parent, should we support his fateful arson, because he said he knew what was best for his kids?

And even if parents think and believe that  they know best events can reach a pitch where the Court must do what it thinks best;  Every working day of the year Judges in Family Courts make decisions which upset one or both parents, and all around the clock  every day of the year, social workers and child protection committees remove children to a place of safety, temporarily or permanently.
Parents, Mr and Mrs Gard,  neither own nor know what is best for   their children, nor should they, 
this isn't Pakistan or India or  China, is it?  

I had some sympathy for these wretyched and woebegone  parents, caught-up, as they were,  in Celebrity's thoughtless maelstrom, until I saw them, that is, and then I realised what - whom- the hospital had been up against;  they were an open sore of Want and Grievance.  They wanted the child flown overseas, experimented upon, they wanted the child to die at home, they wanted to bathe him, this desperately ill infant, and have him sleep with them in their bed, they wanted to do normal parent and family things, they wanted this and they wanted that, they were being treated unfairly, no-one was listening to what they wanted.

Theirs is a sad situation, alreadydrowning  in an overdose of misplaced  Sympathy, they don't need mine.

And I read the vox-pops:

 Oh, fuck me, this is terrible; the parents' rights count for nothing; it's just typical; Oh, this is so sad, there simply is no right and wrong in this.

There were thousands upon thousands of comments from the Obvious Imbecile Believers, tapping-away, enraged.. 
Their opinions, of course, are no less valid than those of MediaMinster's emotional retard, Jon Sox, at Channel Four News, nearly in tears the other night,

"Good evening. I know nothing, we, the media, the pundits, we know nothing." 
 Jon Snow, on Jeremy Corbyn, Channel Four News, 8th June 2017


 because he was interviewing a doctor, a real doctor, and clearly a very caring doctor, Sarah Wotsaname, the Tory MP, she seemed to hypnotise Soxy, a very calm,  reassuring voice and delivery, repeating and re-emphasising her very calm and reassuring solutions to all the ills of parliament, indeed of the world, of Life and the Human Condition; focussing, Jon, on what is Right but Practical and Affordable, Right but Practical and Affordable, Jon; 

proper tranced-out was Jonny.  

mrs ishmael used to deploy these techniques with clients, not NLP but just mild hypnotic trance, it is very effective and Sarah Wollaston. MP,

Focus on your breathing, Jon, that's right, just focus on your breathing.

played the silly old duffer, Sox, like a trout. 

He'll probably move to Doctor Sarah's constituency, just so's he can vote for her. He was always a fool, Jon Sox but as they say, there is no fool like an old fool.

With dimwits like Jon Sox orchestrating the national tune, no wonder it is so discordant, its chorus ready to leap on a case like baby Charlie's and emote itself into a dissonant frenzy.
  But this no-right-and-wrong thing, this phony dilemma-facing-the-parents, this is so stupid, so corrosive.  
There is no dilemma.

World Wide Words drily says this:

The original dilemma in rhetoric was a device by which you presented your opponent with two alternatives; it didn’t matter which one he chose to respond to — either way he lost the argument. When you did this to your opponent you were said to present two horns to him, as of a bull, on either of which he might be impaled. As the scholar Nicholas Udall said in a translation of a work by Erasmus in 1548, it didn’t matter to which of the two points a person made a direct answer, either way he would run on to the sharp point of the horn.

More mischievously, Robert Pirsig, in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, An Enquiry Into Values,  posits a couple  of dilemma-busters:

Pirsig says you have one hand on each horn of a bull, restraining it; if you release the left horn, you will be gored by the right and vice versa, you can only hang-on.
But, says the philosopher-mechanic, you can sing the bull to sleep, bore him, by asking endless questions about his competence. - or as in the case of the Gards endless court questions about about the justiceability of the case, should we all really be here in the first place, since we as parents own the child and his future?

And then, from Pirsig, my own favourite, you can throw sand in the bull's eyes, sharpish, though, before he realises you have released a horn.

And now we have the Gards' solution, which is a combination of these: to invite everyone else to grapple with the two dilemmic horns, ihrough a huge vicarious, angry misery and make a lot of noise.

It is all counterfeit because there is no dilemma. 
Idiot columnists may have conjured one but it is not a dilemma at all, the lonesome death of Charlie Gard, at least it is not to me.

This situation rebukes us all, this gabshite debate is not a choice between finely balanced alternatives, this is a living horror, requiring Mercy, nor rhetoric, doctors, not lawyers.
This is not a vote on Brexit, this is a running tap of Sadness, the lights of Grief, left-on, burning bright and harsh;
 even if this child could breath it will never think or  see or hear or smell or touch,  there is nothing there of life, save the pain.

 There is only one proper course of action, not two or more; just the one, to which  the parents and their followers, including some ghastly celebrity "funders," investing, Geldof-like,  in their own caring images, cannot reconcile themselves;  that course excludes alternatives;  there is no dilemma, there are only right and wrong.

Another bovine metaphor is not about procrastination and immature philosphising;

taking the bull by the horns means that we do the only right, the least wrong thing 

and kill the child. 

And then make the best of it.

...SAY CHEESE!

Smile, dear, we're on  Facebook

mr mongoose was lamenting the insufferability of the political discourse, bridling at how the ignorant commentariat would control our thoughts if they could. 
News reporting has metamorphosed into undiluted, full-on, hard-core Opinion, the more self-exalted the channel the more crudely  it proselytizes for a minority LiberalRight and events, when they are reported at all, are shoe-horned into the WorldView According to Jon or Kirsty orNick or Eddie or Adam, although, at least with skymadeupnewsandfilth, as with proper Tories, you know where you are, they don't fuck about, skymadeupnewsandfilth, it's all about the preservation, at all costs,  of le consumerisme noiuvelle et totalitairienne and the advertising revenues which it generates. 

Facelift Kay.

Stay tuned.
Or I'll bite your fucking face off.

Today, in the world of MalThought, there is a new ThoughtVillain afoot for it is now, in Scotland  a criminal act to publish, whatever that means, something called Revenge Porn, whatever that is;  I suspect it is the dissemination of relatively harmless domestic imagery which made the fortunes, firstly, of the Polaroid  camera manufacturer,  
 

 then for the owners of the publishing phenomenon known as the Readers Wives pages 


and subsequently of the entire home video/digital camera industry - people taking naughty pictures of each other, what we used to call erotica, and then one party publishing them without the other party's consent. Found guilty, under the  Abusive Behaviour and Sexual Harm Act an offender can receive a sentence of up to five years imprisonment.  
This is heavy shit and makes a mockery of what is or should be policeable.

The Orkney police - of Police Scotland to give them their new, national socialist title - were recently warning shocked parents that their Luv'Em 2Bits, Me, Do Anyfin4'Em children were all busy using their portable  telephones not to let Mum'n'Dad know that they were safely on the way home from swimming but were actually taking pictures of each others genitals and broadcasting them, the dirty little bastards. Well, not for the first time I said to myself, what the fuck did you think they would do with a personal digital camera, eh? 

The Police warned that these behaviours could adversely effect the vulnerable;  dirty pictures of children should only be viewed by responsible people, such as Liberal Democrat MPs, teachers and clergypersons. I do believe that the making of sexualised images of children is illegal and so shouldn't all these pervy little bastards be arrested and put on the Sex Offenders' Register, at the very least shouldn't their Luv'Em 2Bits, Me, Do Anyfin4'Em parents be hauled before the social workers and the Sheriff and have all their children placed in  care, the dirty little pornographing shits? Won't they all grow up to be the dirty digicam brigade?  Your fucking little horror has been taking photos of little girls tits and showing them to the whole world! Every bastard and his brother can see wee Mary's arsehole! You're a disgrace! You're not fit to be a parent, are you? All you're doing is breeding pornographers!
You should both be sterilised

If anyone had ever asked me what pubescent teenagers - biys and girls - would do with 'phone cameras this is exactly what I would have predicted.  Because that's exactly what I would've done.
Born too late, me.

There is a social awareness advertising campaign  on BBC Gnasher, telling boys that it is not cool to want to take pictures of girls' bits. Aye, right, see those hormones Jimmy, ragin' away, in your ballsack and your imagination, see them, Jimmy, them're pure bad. Och, dinnae worry aboot them bad wee bastard hormones havin' got us here, from awa' doon in the sea, among all the shite, dinnae worry  aboot them we hormonin' shites being the drivin' force a humanity, nae, fuck that, wee man, what y'havetae do, Jimmy, is suppress them, and only use yer wee Smart phone fer tellin' yer Mammy where y'are or where y'say ye are, anyway. An', see this, wee man, no matter how much them wee hormones are tryin' tae persuade y'otherwise, yon camera phone isnae fer yo tae take pictures a wee Maggie suckin' on yer cock. 
 It just pure isnae.

Aye, right, mammy, that's me told. I'll never do that again, honest I won't.

Somehow what we now call pornography - the making and viewing of it - has made cardinal sin of one of our oldest habits. 

 
  The Theft Libraries - or museums, as we call them - of the world are stuffed full of statues, friezes, paintings, prints, books and photographs, depicting people fucking other people,
groups of other people



and indeed other animals: 


the Vatican, acting no doubt as the font and spiritual home of pederasty, 

The Biggest Dirty Books Shop In The World. 

is believed to have catacombs bursting with dirty books and pictures, which only the holiest of holy noncing fathers is allowed to see and the more Classic the period, the dodgier the iconography, the whole of Greek mythology - if mr tdg will permit - seems a hymn to bestiality while the Brown Indians, I believe, those Indians who are permitted to touch one another at all, that is, - may Vishnu bless that great civilisation which makes sub-human and unTouchable so many - have regiments of deities pushing what we would call the envelope of sexual flexibility, all of them equipped with multiple arms and phalluses, all of them in an endlessly, inventive multi-sexual daisy chain 

Yeah, man, Hare Krishna.

I expect it was censored out of the Sermon on the Mount but the Saviour must have said:
Never mind the PeaceMakers,
Blessed are the Pornographers. 



 Wherever two or three - or even just two, or maybe, on reflection, even just one -  are gathered together in My name they will find a means - on the walls, on parchment, Yea, even unto an digital storage and retrieval system - to represent  themselves fucking, even for My own name's sake.  
Blessed are the Pornographers, for iconised Lust is Ejaculate's handmaiden. 
Ye may speak unto one another of Love but an Erection seeketh unto itself only Destruction which  Dirty Images and thoughts oft times Stimulate and Hasten. 
Verily, I say unto Ye, forsaking the Dirty Picture we mayst all have died-out, 
well, you mayst, 
My Heavenly Father and Myself enjoy Life Eternal but wouldst, even so, should our flock lose interest in fucking, due to an faminbe of Filth,
find Ourselves up Shit Creek, 
without even an paddle.

We don't like it, we of the LiberalRight, don't like the idea of Dirty Pictures, because they are exploitative.  The LiberalRight say this with pious finality even though sex is exploitative, how could it be anything else;  lessfaceit, even Sodomy, which as we now know is the highest and purest form of Love, involves the bodily penetration of one person by another - my old friend Tasty McFadden used to say:  If it needs lubing, mate, you're putting it in the wrong place but that is just so Old People - and that the disgusting practices of heteronormalcy climax in an urgent frenzy of internal organ battering.  Of course it's fucking exploitative, although it is, generally,  a pleasurably contradictory coincidence of Wants.
 No matter, that won't stop Kirsty Wark cawing and barking-out  an I-Know-Best opinion on it.

The Dirty Pictures have been around forever, 
there is nothing new about the practice of making them, it is just that the digicam and the Smartphone, not requiring their images to be developed and printed by a third party,  have made it the sport of Everyman. 
 Jolly good thing, too, I should think.  
Trying to police the product is pissing in the wind, just what you would expect from MediaMinster.

Is it OK to draw a picture of Chardonnay's arse, and show that to the lads down the 'pub, or to write a vivid description? Because by the standards of this legislation it shouldn't be. 
 Look, your honour, that pencil mark, there, that clearly indicates a mole on my client's left buttock, clearly identifying her to the entire world, causing her great personal devastation.
 Revenge Porn, may it please the Court, requires nothin gless than a Revenge Sentence. 
Yes,  well, my Lord, the court might argue that she should never have let the defendant see her arse, memorise its contours and at a later stage draw them in this, I must say compellingly accurate sketch; 
that she should, in fact be a little more careful about whom she allows to see her arse in the first place. Much less create from it a digitised image which, by its very nature is already but a click away from global dostribution.
But, my Lord, we are where we are.  
My client fell for a dirty rotter and now wants the Court to make things better for her, yes, wants the Court to Officially Pretend Retrospectively  that she didn't. 
 Even though she did.
 And even though no-one forced her interact photographically with Mr Gary Knob, the defendant. 

And talking about hurt feelings, is it alright to deliberately poison the mind of a child - and of the Family Court -  against its father, causing life-long separation and hurt, something which happens every day of the week, without let or hindrance, much less five years' jail?

There is no other area of  behaviour in which the mere prompting of hurt feelings in another can result in a five-year jail sentence.

Maybe the cops and the Courts are under-used and need to be more fully utilised by Cameron or Meadow or Jade complaining that she is being revenged upon - pictures of her titties and her arse, which she was once happy to have had taken, have now escaped her control, must be tracked-down and destroyed, lest the dimensions of  her previous relationship become public knowledge, lest anyone find her carnal; 
anyone disseminating snaps of Meadow's pubis must, at public expense, be arrested, arraigned and jailed, money should be no object . 
 Kurt, too, may wish us to prevent Zachary from exposing his or their conjoined penis and anus to public acclaim or ridicule and as for those photographed on the surgical journey along the gender spectrum, well, the possibilities for State-sanctioned  Outrage and Retribution are almost infinite.

Cruel  images of sadistic brutality and the abuse of minors abut a clear, criminal  line separating  them from images of domestic, consensual sex. 

It is none of our business what happens to sexual imagery voluntarily generated, it doesn't matter who sees it. 
What's gonna happen, if someone sees someone else doing sex for the camera?

 The brown children still can't get a drink of water or an aspirin, yet Mr Justice Slag is expected to adjudicate on the broadcasting of Chardonnay's blow-job. 
I mean, who gives a fuck?  
In an age when the NewPeople instantaneously broadcast every feature of their empty, knuckle-headed lives - so that advertisers may use them as sandwich boards -  it seems doubly perverse that the Court intervene merely because people had no clothes on, whilst self-publicising.

The state is not the NannyKnowsBest Gatekeeper of personal relationships and should not grant Jade a Universal Super Injunction. 

Even fully-clothed, my avoidance of  the camera is an article of  faith; if Cameron would have us post-facto correct her flawed partner-judgement and if Jeremy would have us airbrush-away his narcissism on the grounds that their publication is vengeful then he and she should exercise better judgement in the first place, keep their legs and their mouths closed. 
If consenting adults consentingly take images of each other engaging in consensual sex then they should beware that when they fall-out, Life being what it is, Vengeance may rear its hurt, unreasoning  head.

The State, that is to say you and I, cannot and certainly should not protect people from their own horny Vanity biting them in the arse.

LABOUR'S STARS ASCEND

Jack Dromey, Jeremy Corbyn's Business Seckaterry, welcome to All Out Bollocks, with me, Adam Lard, here on skymadeupnewsandfilth.

Thanks, Adam, good to be here. 
And we're kinda family, you and me.

Oh, how's that?

Well, you're married to Anji Hunter 

 

who was Tony Blair's right-hand woman 
and I'm married to Harriet Soursister, 

 

who wasn't.

Is that why you were parachuted into a safe Labour seat, Erdington,  which was supposed be an all-women candidates list?
 Because you were married-into Labour aristocracy?

I think you'll find, Adam, that it was my credentials as a trade union worker - well,  not exactly worker -  that got me the seat.

 
Well, I am sure there are female trade unionists and the policy was clearly All-Women Shortlists, was it not?

 

 I think you'll find, Adam,  that certain constituencies could be exempted if it was deemed to be in the interests of the Party.

 But it was supposed to be in the interests of the Party and indeed of half of the population for there to be All Women Shortlists, wasn't it? 
  I mean, can you answer the fucking question or not

Why was Harriet Harman's husband forced into a constituency which was supposed to have an All Women Shortlist?

It stinks, doesn't it?

 
Well, not at all, Adam, the Party decided that it was in its interests to have me in parliament, rather than  some foul-mouthed, hairy-arsed  lesbian in a boiler suit, which, let's be frank, most of them then were.  No, I have great respect for people of the LGBTQ persuasion even supporting them myself, online.  Even though I didn't.


From the Beggars' Guardian

Motto: Comment is Free but please send us some money as we have given all ours to Alan Arsebridger and Polly Toynbee

 

By Hayley Dixon

7:47AM GMT 21 Nov 2013

Follow

A front bench Labour MP is under pressure to explain how he has "favourited" gay porn websites on his Twitter account.

Jack Dromey, the husband of Harriet Harman, the Labour Party deputy leader, has blamed the messages on a "technological mix-up".

In September, the shadow policing minister favourited a message about black porn stars having sex.

When he was challenged Mr Dromey, 65, claimed he had accidentally clicked on the message, which included the name “Paris”, while researching a romantic holiday with his wife, it was reported on political gossip website Guido Fawkes.

However, he was left facing further questions when he favourited a second explicit message last week, which showed a picture of two men engaged in a sex act.

No, I would definitely never peruse gay porn sites, Not, as I say, that there's anythuing wrong with gay porn. AS far as I know, never having seen any.
But to come to Brexit, which is specifically in my brief as Business seckaterry. I was a trade union negotiator for thirty years.....

 Before, in an act of monstrous New Labour hypocrisy. you were parachuted into a safe seat by your Mrs......

 
Before I commenced this part of my career in public service.


Well, let's turn to your skills a a negotiator.



Yes, happy to, 'swhere my strengths lie...

 you were only ever negotiating on  behalf of the NewLabour party,  cunts like Mandelstein and Byers and blind Boy Blunkett, people who were more anti-union than Thatcher and Tebbitt and all those spivs, weren't you, not on behalf of your members, you just kept telling them that the main thing was not to upset the fortunes of NewLabour, who, lets face it, couldn't give a  monkey's fuck for the Transport and General Workers Union.  That's what the Warwick Agreement was about, wasn't it, let's all get Tony Blair elected again, so's he can fuck the Labour movement up the arse.


Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, Adam... 

And since you've been in parliament you have voted consistently for cuts in wages, cuts in public services and massive bonuses for bankers, haven't you?

And now you come on here talking shit about Brexit, talking as though you have a plan, to benefit working people, as if you give a fuck about working people or wimmen, or any other bastard, when all you've done all your worthless life is  betray your class, haven't you?

HAVEN'T YOU?

You've lied and cheated and ponced your way into comfort, security, expense account hedonism, bribes, bungs, pensions and honours whilst the Transport and General Workers Union like that cunt, Johnson's, Post Office Workers Union has been trashed by NewLabour and Tory govaments alike, you' ve used the labour movement to feather your own nest, haven't you?
 

Well, you could at least focus on my administrative skills, Adam, to be fair.


Your what? Your fucking what? 
You were  fucking Treasurer of the Labour Party, another job your Mrs got you, under  Gordon Snot, when he was taking pro-Israeli bribes  from David Abrahams and you claimed to know nothing about it. 
 Fuck all to do with me, you said, and yet you were the fucking Treasurer and your wife was the Deputy fucking Leader.
You're even worse than that fucking jumped-up postman, Alan Johnson,  the famous cuckold, at least when that fuckwit Miliband made him chancellor he admitted he hadn't got a fucking clue, couldn't do his two times fucking table and went out and bought himself a dummies guide to arithmentic.  
 All you could do was say I dunno nuffink about hundreds of thousands of pounds in bribes sloshing around in the funds that you were in charge of.



So, as a union boss you shafted your members on behalf of your wife's boss, Blair; you shit all over the advancement of women in the parliamenmtary Labour party, you voted consistently for cuts in public services, wages and conditions, whilst taking massive salary increases yourself,
you took bungs from lobbyists whilst an MP
 
 and now, full of weasel words and I-Know-Bestism. you wanna shit on the democratic decision of the Euro Referendum.

Well, Adam, I think you'll find.....


Oh, do fuck off, Dromey.
I have to talk to some vermin on this show but you are something else. 
We're going to a short break now, viewers, probably some fucking ghouls talking about cancer and then some adverts for funerals and probably that vile cunt, Parkinson, on how poor people should make provisions for when they die. 
On the bright side  when we come back we'll have had security escort this piece of shit Dromey from the building.
Stay tuned.