Sunday 17 March 2024

The Sunday Ishmael: 17/03/2024

 “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day!  Callooh! Callay!”  He chortled in his joy.
   Well, I haven't actually, Dad. Slain the Jabberwock. And please don't call me Beamish Boy. It's a museum in Northumberland. I've asked you, like, a thousand times. No, while I was standing by the Tum-Tum tree and having an uffish think, you know, it occurred to me that wanting to kill all jabberwocks is kind of racist. Or jihadist. Or  a genocide or something. I think it is essential to engage in respectful dialogue, considering the humanitarian impact and the complexities of regional dynamics. And, while we are having a sleeves-rolled-up heart-to-heart father/son soul-baring discussion, I know you won't mind if I point out that sending me out alone, away from home, to kill a flaming-eyed, whiffling, not to mention burbling, monster (sorry,  is that monsterist? I retract the monsterist slur unreservedly, and maybe I can make up for it by bunging £5mill to the charity of your choice, but not the Labour Party, obvs.) where was I? Yes, sending me out, alone, armed only with a vorpal sword, kind of breaches child protection safeguarding protocols. I'd need Abrams tanks, Leopard Tanks and Challenger tanks, not to mention some Storm Shadow missiles if you are seriously expecting me to conduct your poxy, sorry, proxy war, on the Jabberwock nation. If that was even a good idea in the first place, like. I mean, we don't even know the Jabberwock's preferred pronouns, let alone whether it was fed puberty-blocking drugs by evil doctor/scientist/ideologues when it was a wee small brute (sorry, no offence intended, again, can I assuage your pain with another bung of £2mill or so?), resulting in brittle bones, the inability to breathe effective flame and the lack of  winkie-development causing insufficient penile tissue to hollow-out like a sausage skin, turn inside out and ram up inside its downstairs parts and a complete inability to enjoy itself  with another Jabberwock in the sack, and not be able to have little Jabberers.

    Yes, I see your position, my son, and I completely respect it, but how are we to get  to the last verse if you won't fulfil your role?

Thank you for respecting my position, Dad, and for desisting in the whole Beamish Boy thing, but your question draws in the whole issue of free will. Do I have it, or not? Am I no more than an instrument of Western aggression, white supremacy, a coercive tool, a puppet? or do I have my own soul, my own spark of divine fire?

  I was also counting on you to do your bit against the JubJub Bird and the Frumious Bandersnatch, while you're at it. I'd go myself, but I'm too old for armed conflict. I have to confine myself to strategy, these days.

  Yes, Dad, I do appreciate that you are a senior now and that we may need to have a family conference soon to decide if we should approach Dr. Shipman for a touch of physician-assisted very end of life care, but if we prop you up and move you around you can still read the auto-cue very convincingly and win the people's votes. But could you tell me what the last verse is that you need my help in achieving? 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.

But that's the first verse!

Indeed, my son, Whatever has happened before will happen again. Whatever has been done before will be done again. And there is no new thing under the sun. Ecclesiastes 1.9
 

Watching Diane Abbott jump up and down like a fiddler's elbow on the 13th March during PMQs and being totally and completely ignored by Mr. Northern Speaker, whilst the white boys were talking about her and deciding between themselves just how bad remarks made about her 5 years ago were, several conclusions leapt forth: nobody likes her, nobody wants to hear her, this row was not actually about her, she  was just a handy peg to hang the usual PMQ badinage upon, racism remains great fodder for publicity and, primarily, there  has to be a better method for ordering Parliamentary business and deciding who gets to speak than this business of jumping up and trying to catch Mr. Speaker's Eye. I thought it was a disgraceful, opportunistic shambles.
Now, mr ishmael has had a great deal to say about Diane Abbott over the years. This is not because he was racist, nor were his posts racist. It was because, as a politician, and a rather dim and hypocritical one at that, she was fair game. There's a difference between being nasty about someone and being racist. Okay, it is not very nice to be rude, and it seems that being nasty is about to be reclassified as hate speech and to become a major offence - all part of the contraction and denial of free speech that is currently blighting our society, crippling debate and strangling satire.
Wiki tells us that Satire is a genre of the visual, literary, and performing arts in which vices, follies, abuses, and shortcomings are held up to ridicule, with the intent of exposing or shaming the perceived flaws of individuals, corporations, government, or society itself into improvement. Although satire is usually meant to be humorous, its greater purpose is often constructive social criticism, using wit to draw attention to both particular and wider issues in society.  A feature of satire is strong irony or sarcasm —"in satire, irony is militant", according to literary critic Northrop Frye, but parody, burlesque, exaggeration, juxtaposition, comparison, analogy, and double entendre are all frequently used in satirical speech and writing. This "militant" irony or sarcasm often professes to approve of (or at least accept as natural) the very things the satirist wishes to question.
That is what we do here - not racism. Judge for yourself: here's some pieces by mr ishmael for your consideration.

VOTE4ME, SAYS TELLY'S SOCIALIST STUNNA, DI, AND ALL YOUR CHILDREN CAN GO TO PRIVATE SCHOOLS, LIKE MINE DOES. (20/5/2010)
It is my commitment to socialist values - and to appearing on telly with comrades like the feminist, Peter Stringpenis - which makes me the outstanding candidate to lead this great party, this great nation, this great audience. People want to watch better late-night telly and I'm just the person not to give it to them. If people vote for me, I can guarantee that I will be on all channels, waving my arms around, tongue-tied and giggling, like a fucking ignoramus.
Twenty years I have run my constituency and it's now worse than ever - poorer, dirtier and more violent;  that's the sort of leadership I can offer the viewers.
Vote Lard for a Britain fair to clapped-out  career politicians and social climbers.

Now, the moral of this story, the moral of this song, is simply that one should never be where one does not belong.......

Not for nothing are journalists rightly despised,   scribbling rubbish in the London papers and spouting drivel on telly, Diane Lard has made a comfortable, private school living pretending to be one of them; in addition to her handsomely-paid public servant role Abbott has boosted her income, not due to her talent or merit - there is much better commentary in these cyber-pages than would ever spring from her leaden opinionising - but due to her position;  last night, she found that journalism is a little more brutal than she had imagined.

Bumptious, hypocritical gabshite beasted on mainstream Tee-Vee

Abbott and Costello debate the week's news
Under the guidance of Andrew Neill
If you missed this week's This Week, among the usual frothy rubbish, pantomime journalists in boats and numbskull, nobody celebrities, there was a dark moment or two of political reality as Andrew Neil effortlessly exposed the hypocrisy and self-interest, the utter poverty of intellect or principle at the  heart of Ms Abbott; she really is as stupid as she sounds, as venal, as precious, as astonishingly maladroit and incompetent as one has always suspected. Unable to explain, refute or even divert Neil's questions about her expenses, her own, stagey racism, her contradictory, greedy, self-centred parental decisions, she floundered, Oh-Andrewing, as though these straightforward - and long, long overdue - questions were beneath her.  So utterly banal and worthless was her performance, so embarrassing,  that one wondered, not for the first time,  why it was that Neil has for so long  pretended to value her opinion.
Had Abbott fanned a few flames of hope, that she might wrest a shadow front bench role from this pretend leadership bid, she will today be staring into their embers.

MINDLESS CRIMINALS RECALLED, NUMBER 1. 
DIANE "I HAVE WALKED THE STREETS OF HACKNEY" ABBOTT. (11/8/2011)
I would just like to say, Mr Tiny Speaker, that I have walked the streets of Hackney and I would simply say that these people should be like me, they should flog a load of intolerable old bilge to the newspapers - or columns  as I like to call my oeuvre -  for fifty grand  or so, get themselves on the BBC with that wearisome old poof, Portillo, and get paid about a grand an hour for dribbling and waving their arms around and then they should get get a job moonlighting in this place, along with six hundred-odd others who really know the meaning of the word looting.  Oh yes, Mr Tiny Speaker, and they should take several holidays a year in the Caribbean and of course send their sons to decent public schools.  Like I do.
Cheers, waving of order papers, singing: for she's a jolly good darky, for she's a jolly good darky, for she's a jolly good darky and so say all of us (apart from  the Old Etonians, former  Bullingdon Club members  and HM Govament, prop. skymadeupnewsandfilth)
 Mr Tiny Speaker: I call the Unelected Prime Minister. Mr David CallHimDave.

Mr CHD -Well, I thank the  honourable skanky 'ho and would just like to remind  members that this whole rioting thing is an ideal opportunity for the public to forget that we, the cops, the press and the bankers are all picking their pockets, closing down their services and  shitting in their faces. And is, therefore, a jolly good thing, for us at any rate. And that's what matters.

Cheers, hear-hear, singing: we're all going back on a Summer Holiday.

Revisited: Prompted by mr oldrightie I checked Abbott's entry in the Register of Members' Bungs;  the BBC only paid her approximately three hours @ £300 for her hourly appearances on This Week  probably an hour  in make up, an hour getting pissed  and an hour on the sofa, not quite a grand an hour, then.  ITV, by contrast, paid her the whole grand for her appearance on Cash In The Fucking Attic.  Got her finger right on the pulse of urban deprivation has Comrade Abbott. Fuckpig.
As well as a regular income for appearing on BBC1's This Week on Thursday nights, she received a £14,326 "pre-production fee" for the BBC's Play It Again programme in which she tries to learn the piano.

What happened to little master Abbott, for whom his mum sacrificed her socialist principles on the altar of her maternal ambition just so's he could have a private education?
Little James Abbott-Thompson is now 33, and after his private school education, his degree at Cambridge, his career in the Foreign Office and his diplomatic posting to Rome, he became addicted to crystal meth and chased his mum round her house, wielding scissors, claiming he had a gun in his dressing gown, bit a police officer who was attempting to detain him under the Mental Health Act with drug-induced psychosis, committed  eight further attacks, assaulting two nurses, a doctor, a therapist and four police officers. Three of his victims were female.  He later exposed himself at Homerton Hospital, racially abused a nurse, assaulted her and smashed her glasses. The next day he set upon another policeman, and a few days later assaulted two officers outside the Foreign Office, where he had been employed. He eventually pleaded guilty to carrying out 12 assaults as well as racially aggravated criminal damage, making threats and exposing himself.

Diane Abbott herself has a bit of a history of racism. In 1996, writing in her local paper, the Hackney Gazette, she criticised the appointment to posts at Homerton Hospital, Hackney, of  "blonde, blue-eyed girls from Finland, instead of nurses from the Caribbean who know the language and understand British culture and institutions''. Nursing unions and the hospital were furious, and Sir Patrick Cormack, Tory chairman of the all-party Finland group, said: ``Finland has the most excellent health service, and very fine nurses, and I'm sure an authority employing them won't be employing inadequate people.''
And, of course, Abbott is currently suspended from the Labour Party and under investigation by them following a letter she wrote to the Observer, in which she stated that only Proper Black People, really Black People, can experience racism. Any negative experiences by white people who aren't Proper White People, Really White People, like Jews, or redheads, are experiencing prejudice, not racism. This view is considered to be racist.
So, the remarks made by Tory tosser and donor, Frank Hester in 2019, should be considered within the context that everyone is racist. Including the Abbotts, mère et fils. Mr Hester said: "It's like trying not to be racist but you see Diane Abbott on the TV, and you're just like I hate, you just want to hate all black women because she's there, and I don't hate all black women at all, but I think she should be shot."
Gold to the Labour party, of course, who are demanding that Mr. Hester is given his money back and unpersoned. £10 million. No wonder Sunak is resisting. "He's said sorry, hasn't he? And we want to keep the money."
Parliamentarians are now falling over themselves to prove that British politics is not racist, calling in aid the following:
Unelected Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Rishi Sunak
Unelected First Minister of Scotland, Humza Usaf
Unelected Leader of the Welsh Assembly, Vaughan Gething
"No, I'm not giving back the £200,000 given me by my criminal chum, David Neal. It's a legitimate political donation, look you". David John Neal, twice convicted of environmental offences as head of two companies, Atlantic Recycling and Neal Soil Suppliers. Gething's ministerial colleague Lee Waters, described the donation as "completely unjustifiable and wrong".
"Want to make something of it, boyo? I yam the first Black person in my family for a thousand generations to attend university. Oh no, that was Kinnock. And he was a Ginger"
Are all Welsh politicians pompous windbags?

Labour leader in Scotland, Anas Sarwar
Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan

They must have run out of white, upper-class, middle-aged chaps. We'll see how racist the people of Britain are when all these unelected post holders go to the country and seek to be elected later this year. They are saying the Plotters are suggesting Penny Mordaunt, Sword Bearer, should wield her sword into Sunak's back and lead the Tory boys into another glorious Reich of unending glory.

"You are old," said the youth; one would hardly suppose
    That your eye was as steady as ever;
  Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose —
    What made you so awfully clever?"

  "I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
    Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
  Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

The four-volume Call Me Ishmael oeuvre, collected and curated by editor mr verge, is available on Lulu and Amazon.

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are available from Lulu and Amazon. If you buy from Amazon, it would be nice if you could give a review on their website.
Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps :
please register an account first, at lulu.com. This is advisable because otherwise paypal seems to think it's ok to charge in dollars, and they then apply their own conversion rate, which might put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links below (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Ishmael’s Blues" into the Lulu Bookstore search box. Click on the “show explicit content” tab, give the age verification box a date of birth such as 1 January 1960, and proceed.
Link for Hardcover : https://tinyurl.com/je7nddfr
Link for Paperback : https://tinyurl.com/3jurrzux
https://www.lulu.com/shop/ishmael-smith/flush-test/paperback/product-9yjvn7.html?q=Flush+Test&page=1&pageSize=4

At checkout, try WELCOME15 in the coupon box, which (for the moment) takes 15% off the price before postage. If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up.
With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £16.84; HB £27.04.


Friday 15 March 2024

Evensong

 Chanson de Nuit - Edward Elgar

played by the Northern Sinfonia of England, conducted by Richard Hickox.



Sunday 10 March 2024

The Sunday Ishmael: 10/03/2024

 And, as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,  came whiffling through the tulgey wood, and burbled as it came
Too much uffish thought, Chancellor Chunt. Two percent off National Insurance? Why, only people under the age of 66 pay it, and, as we know from the demographic crisis that disproportionately affects the Conservative Party constituency, this will Not Help You. On one phone-in show, a public-spirited (but dim) citizen enquired - if I'm paying less National Insurance, does this mean that I'll get less pension? Don't give them ideas. National Insurance was never an insurance scheme and never was ring-fenced to pay pensions - just an extra tax to contribute towards government revenue. 
Anyway, to pay for this 2% cut,  Chancellor CHunt extended the windfall tax (35% surcharge on profits) on North Sea oil and gas companies by a year, raising an expected £1.5bn. It was introduced in May 2022 and was due to end in March 2028, but will now conclude in 2029. You might think this was a Good Thing, as the Office for National Statistics has reported that 41% of British adults are  finding it very or somewhat difficult to afford energy bills, possibly because British Gas profits increased 943% from 2022 to 2023. However, this has upset the Scottish Conservatives, who had been hoping for electoral success in the North East by opposing heavy taxation on the oil and gas industry, which is a significant employer in the region. Wee Douglas Ross, dubbed man-child by Angus Robertson, SNP, 
Ooh you are awful
let it be known that he had lobbied Hunt to drop the proposal, to no avail, even scheduling his own debate at Holyrood on the motion that warned of the economic harms of extending the windfall tax. This, of course, opened a mockery window for First Minister Humza Useless: He said:
"We have a UK Government that is taking £500m out of our budget in real terms over the last two years. Douglas Ross really needs to take whatever influence he has - and we know he doesn't have much influence - to make sure the Conservatives fund public services, not slash them to the bone."
Offshore Energies UK (OEUK) said the extension risked investment, jobs and growth. 
OEUK chief executive David Whitehouse said: "The industry is being taxed on windfall profits which no longer exist and facing a fourth round of fiscal change and turmoil in less than two years, making it impossible to plan investment for the energy transition and the path to net zero." 
Chancellor Cunt told the BBC's Good Morning Scotland programme that he accepted the extension "was a difficult decision" for his Scottish colleagues, but he didn't care because there's more votes in extending the windfall tax and he's happy to throw the Scottish oil and gas industry under a bus because the Tories are never going to get into power in Scotland, and he needed the money to be fiscally responsible on account of not daring to make an unfunded National Insurance tax cut, so there. Or words to that effect.
What with rows at First Minister's and Prime Minister's Questions and general feeding-time-at-the-zoo noises during the budget speech, it's all getting a bit Parliament in the Maldives.


Happy Mother Day, as my local Indian takeaway announced, saying if I didn't fancy chicken tikka, I could have chicken nuggets and chips. Makes a change from chocolates, flowers and pink prosecco. But here's a Mother's Day story about one who once thought she was Mother of the Nation. Margaret Thatcher, born 13/10/25, Conservative Prime Minister from 1979 to 1990, died of a stroke on  8/4/2013 whilst living at the Ritz hotel in London, where she had set up home 4 months previously, to convalesce after bladder surgery. Her death certificate listed dementia as a secondary cause of death. Her daughter, Carol, revealed in her 2008 memoir that her mother had shown the first signs of dementia in 2000. Cool* Kenny Clarke's  theory has the dementia dating from her final year in office - which would put onset at age 65. mr ishmael's theory was that she was always bat shit crazy. 
The Telegraph has recently run with new details about the involvement of  Margaret Thatcher's disreputable son, Mark, in a failed coup attempt in Equatorial Guinea, in 2004.   A team of British mercenaries led by former SAS officer, Simon Mann, were arrested at Harare airport, Zimbabwe for plotting the coup, which was part-financed by Mark Thatcher. He was sentenced to four years imprisonment, suspended, after pleading guilty to being an investor in the plot, but in a minor way.
Simon Mann has now revealed, twenty years on, that not only had Mark negotiated a profit-sharing arrangement, but planned to live in Malabo, capital of Equatorial Guinea, after deposing the president, Teodoro Obiang, and, moreover, that he had discussed the coup with his dear old demented mum. 
Simon Mann served 4 years in prison in Zimbabwe, and a further year in Equatorial Guinea, and he now seems intent on getting his own back on his fellow conspirators. In December 2003, Mark promised to invest $300,000 in the planned coup, but told Mann that his personal wealth was tied up in a trust fund administered by his mum - so, allegedly, he took Mann to meet her, to explain the proposed venture and gain her co-operation. “Jolly good,” said Lady Thatcher. “I am sure it’s going to work”. She then asked how “our money” would be handled. Mann reassured her that the $300,000 would be channelled through a fake air ambulance joint venture – separately from the other investors. Mrs Thatcher then reminisced about the Docklands redevelopment in London in the 1980s. “Everything had to be razed to the ground first”, she said. “It’s the same in Equatorial Guinea. What is needed is a fresh start”.

As Mann was leaving, Lady Thatcher asked: “Have you met Sancho yet?” Sancho was the London link man for a group of wealthy Venezuelan businessmen opposed to the corrupt president, Hugo Chavez. Mann had agreed to help them once the coup in Africa had been taken care of. “Good, well I hope that goes well too”, said Lady Thatcher. “We must always look after our friends, Simon, as I’m sure you know."
At Christmas in Cape Town, Mark allegedly invited Mann to a breakfast meeting, with Mrs Thatcher, who told him:  “I know what is going on and you SAS chaps need to get a move on, don’t you.”

On the 2nd January 2004, Steyl emailed Mark to say: “We are standing by the profit-sharing agreement,” and on Jan 12  Mark emailed Steyl back, saying: “I will be doing the revenue-sharing agreement as soon as I have a minute.”
By February, Mann had the mercenaries, weapons and air transport in place for the coup. He told Mark: “If it goes wrong, I want you to rescue those of us still uncaptured”,  and provided the coordinates, pre-agreed radio frequencies, locations, times and dates. “You are a pilot, a sailor and have the political connections”, he added. “I expect you to rescue us”. Mark noted down the data and the codes and, according to Mann, said: “I will be there for you, no matter what, Simon.” They shook hands.
 Mann alleges that Spain, the UK, South Africa and other countries were aware of the plot and were happy for it to play out, but  Robert Mugabe, then-president of Zimbabwe, was not. Mann was arrested at Harare airport while waiting for his private soldiers to arrive, Zimbabwe intelligence officers inspected the crates and the weapons were discovered. The aircraft was impounded and the men arrested and  jailed. On March 21 2004, Mann wrote to his wife: “Our situation is not good....his lawyers get no reply from‘Scratcher’ (Thatcher) who asked them to ring back after the Grand Prix was over. What we need is maximum effort – whatever it takes. It may be that getting us out comes down to a large splodge of wonga. Of course, the investors did not think this would happen. Do they think they could be part of something like this with only upside potential – no hardship or risk of this going wrong?”

When the contents of the letter became public, the fiasco was dubbed the “wonga coup” by the media.

Mark Thatcher was arrested  on August 25 2004 for funding an illegal coup in breach of the Foreign Military Assistance Act. 
He accepted a plea bargain, admitting lesser charges and paying a fine. He pleaded guilty to “wrongfully and unlawfully attempting to finance mercenary activity” and was fined 3 million rand (then worth £265,000). Which dropped Mann in it.
Mark Thatcher is now 70. In response to Mann's allegations, he said: 
 “Simon can say what he wants. I’m really not going to comment on any of that.”

Of course, mr ishmael has covered all this: 

Mummy's Boy Gangster demands Money: 15 November 2011

SIR MARK THATCHER OUTSIDE COURT IN SOUTH AFRICA.
GIMME MONEY, THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
  The distinguished entrepreneur - or infamous racketeer, shithead and failed coupster - Sir Mark Mumsy, has expressed his disappointment that a film has been made about his criminal family without him having been paid any money.  I have friends who can be very persuasive, said Sir Mumsy, referring to former Field Marshal Sir Simon Mann Golightly-Jockstrap, thicko mercenary, author  and  ex-con, who was Mumsy's co-accused in their abortive attempt to take over an African banana republic and  who did the time in a jungle jailhouse whilst Boy Wonder Mark, pimping, as ever, on his mother's name, got off with a bollocking.

The disgraced hereditary viscount, also famous for milking his mother's contacts with the headchopping elite of Oman, has his arse in his hands over the current portrayal of his mother by ageing Hollywood strumpet, Mrs Meryl Teeth, below.
Meryl Teeth stars in Thatcher vs Thatcher,
a study in greed and dementia.

My mother not only served the country with distinction but was also on the board of many other  distinguished  criminal families, such as that of Lord Conrad Black-Embezzler, the famous newspaper-owning-and-robbing convict and that of General Sir Jorge Pinochet, the acclaimed human rights activist and exterminator sans pareil.  My mother unfailingly signed-off Lord Black's accounts, whether they were accurate or not, which they never once were,  that's how great a lady she was. And she did all of this for a mere few hundred thousand pounds of shareholders' money.

If Ms Teeth doesn't do the decent thing  and pay me my cut I can arrange for Mr Mann to go around to her gaff and bore the arse off her with tales of his jungular derring-do. Or maybe my sister, wotsername.

A spokesperson for Meryl Teeth said, Meryl has wrung herself out, gone right to the very edge, in this performance which she feels captures the true essence of Baroness Williams.  It takes a great deal of courage to go where great actresses go (up producers' arses? ed.) and she is now recharging her batteries and considering other scripts suitable for a young actress of her age.
Lord Bell-End.
Sir Tim Bell-End, Thatcherite PR guru said that to trade on the Thatcher legend was despicable. 
These people are just making money  for the sake of it. (honest, not invent.)

Lord Norman Tebbit, of the Filth-O-Graph and late of Al-Fayed Enterprises, although he didn't know about the freebies until he was found out and then he stopped  taking them, like a good Tory.

Well, far be it from me to mention to the prime minister that I won three general elections whilst he hasn't won any.  Far be it from me, a former pilot and working journalist (rabble-rousing fuckpig? ed.) to tell this effete public schoolboy what to do.  I mean whaddooIknow, I only won three elections.  Margaret Thatcher. Yes, a great lady, she helped me win three elections. And now here I am, writing tosh for expatriot redneck wankers.  Well said, Lord Norman, they say, couldn't have put it better myself.  And they're right,   they couldn't.
...............................................................................................................
* And what is Cool Kenny up to, saying the Iron Lady was bonkers in the nut (technical term) back in 1990? Before her involvement with her disreputable son in financing a plot to assassinate an African Head of State? He must be retrospectively laundering her reputation. If she was demented, she didn't really mean that she wanted to raze Equatorial Wherever to the ground and murder a Head of State, in order to make wonga. 
While we're at it, here's mr ishmael on Cool Kenny:

You have to wonder what he's up to, Cool Kenny, jazzman and bildberger.   Surely, he doesn't need the grand of our money which the BBC gives him for performing like an elderly seal on Any Questions, a bloated, smokey, piss-sodden old fart like him, in his worn-out, shiny  suits and his Hush fucking Puppies, traipsing around from community shithole to community shithole,  one week a cathedral, the next a university, the next some phantasmagoricaly well-run school,  the audience packed with smug teachers and smugger parents and intolerably smug sixth-form shitheads, spouting their go-ahead parents' dire scripts, drummed, all their lives,  into their ghastly, malformed, ambitious little minds; surely, Kenny  has better things to do than this shit.  What's he doing,  as he does today in the Barclay Zombie Twins' Filth-O-Graph, characterising, those  U-kippers as nasty, fucked-up, neo-fascist , white supremacist headbangers ? Everybody knows that. Doesn't need a Minister Without Portfolio banging on about it. The U-kippers are a political party - thieves, liars, ponces, backmailers, money launderers, extortionists, bullies and slags; enough said, job done, up against the wall, motherfuckers. Worthless fucking bastards every last one of them, doesn't matter  a fuck what they say about Europe or wogs , black wogs, brown wogs or white wogs, as far as the kippers are concerned, everybody who doesn't agree with them is some kind of wog.  No point old Ken Clarke accusing them of wog-bashing; it's like saying that the richer the Torybastard is; the more he hates  the poor, everybody knows that.
A new political party, finding its trotters, I mean feet.

 The kippers, they're just like all the rest of them; just like Kenny himself, the rotten old hypocrite -
HM Seckatry of State for Health,
Kenny Cool.

The four-volume Call Me Ishmael oeuvre, collected and curated by editor mr verge, is available on Lulu and Amazon.

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are available from Lulu and Amazon. If you buy from Amazon, it would be nice if you could give a review on their website.
Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps :
please register an account first, at lulu.com. This is advisable because otherwise paypal seems to think it's ok to charge in dollars, and they then apply their own conversion rate, which might put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links below (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Ishmael’s Blues" into the Lulu Bookstore search box. Click on the “show explicit content” tab, give the age verification box a date of birth such as 1 January 1960, and proceed.
Link for Hardcover : https://tinyurl.com/je7nddfr
Link for Paperback : https://tinyurl.com/3jurrzux
https://www.lulu.com/shop/ishmael-smith/flush-test/paperback/product-9yjvn7.html?q=Flush+Test&page=1&pageSize=4

At checkout, try WELCOME15 in the coupon box, which (for the moment) takes 15% off the price before postage. If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up.
With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £16.84; HB £27.04.



Sunday 3 March 2024

The Sunday Ishmael: 03/03/2024

 He took his vorpal sword in hand; long time the manxome foe he sought - so rested he by the Tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought.


Learn Economics 101 with mrs ishmael
Would you prefer a steak and onion pie or a rhubarb pie? It matters not, it is only a metaphor. The pie can be cut into four slices, and sold to four people who can fill their tum tums quite comfortably. If there are six people, each can have a smaller slice. If there are five people and one 
greedy bastard, then four people get a slice each and mr greedy bastard, or King, gets two. Pretty straight forward - so far, so common sense. This is why poor people, existing on half a slice, or no slices at all, hate rich people, because they nicked all the pies. And why rich people need armed guards to stop poor people demanding that their slice of pie is returned. 
But then, after millennia of static pies and societies, humans invented growth. Growing pies meant that there was more pie, although humans being human, mr greedy bastard, or King, would still commandeer more pie and virgins on their bridal night, because of his Divine Right. (which is another made-up idea which we might cover in Learn Religion 101 with mrs ishmael).
To grow your pie, you need more flour, butter, sugar, rhubarb and oven space. But you don't have the cash to buy these things. So you go to mr greedy bastard and sell him the idea that if he lends you some money, you can grow more pies,  sell them and pay him back his loan, with a little bit extra for his trouble, whilst keeping  some profit for yourself. Profit being the difference between what it cost you to make the pie and what you sold it for. Without taking a profit, you wouldn't bother with pie making in the first place. All this requires trust in the future, a nebulous place, inhabited by pie eaters and pie bakers who pay back the greedy bastards, or bankers, their start-up loans, with interest. A lot can go wrong - even if people don't go off rhubarb pie - in which case you can diversify into apple pie; people may not have the money to buy pie at all, because mr greedy bastard, or Government of the Day, has taken all the pie eaters' money in taxes, or the pie baker decides he can make even more profit by saying to greedy bastard banker, fuck this for a game of soldiers, I'm not paying you back and you need to lend me some more money so I can open another pie bakery. 
Moving away from Rhubarb Pie, economic growth refers to an increase in production in an economy, which is generally manifested in a rise in national income and productivity, allowing an increase in individual income, which is spent on buying more goods and services, which stimulates the production of more of these things. A good thing for everyone, dependant upon increasing the quantity or quality of the working age population, the technology, raw materials and capital to fund it all.
As in the pie model, growth is not straight forward nor is it guaranteed. Economists describe four phases: 
  • Expansion – employment, income, industrial production, and sales all increase.
  • Peak – The economic expansion hits its ceiling. 
  • Contraction – The expansion stalls, then decreases. It becomes a recession when a significant decline in economic activity spreads across the economy.
  • Trough – What it says. As bad as it gets.
Fortunately, Jeremy Richard Streynsham Cunt, MP for South West Surrey, is our Chancellor of the Exchequer,  having replaced Kwasi Kwarteng, whom nobody believed in, despite gaining his PhD in political history from Cambridge with a thesis on the recoinage crisis of 1695-9. Chancellor Cunt studied Philosophy, Politics and Economics at Magdalen College Oxford. I do hope he was paying attention and not letting his Presidency of the Oxford University Conservative Association distract him from his studies, because, as you'll have learned from our exposition of the rhubarb pie growth theory, economics is neither plain nor simple.
Truss and Kwarteng's Big Idea was to cut taxes and let the Brits spend their way into growth. That didn't end well. So, although Chancellor Cunt hints that he may lower taxes on Wednesday, when he gets to wave his red box at us,
he won't, really. Britain is in a recession and the next phase of the economic cycle is Trough. 
There isn't much any Chancellor can do about it - one of the levers - the ability to set interest rates- was given away by Gordon Brown to the Bank of England, who are stubbornly not reducing interest rates, because they have a duty to keep inflation under control, and growth, inflation and recession are, as WellDoneGeorge might say, three cheeks of the same arse that he would like to spank. The other lever - cutting taxes, was kind of broken off by Trussonomics. 
Increasing Government spending on make-work projects to get people back to work at a decent wage, so that they can buy more stuff, to stimulate the production of stuff, that would work, if he had any money left over from funding proxy wars - but that's ok, lets print some more - whoops, inflation.
So you see, fucked.
Of course, he has to pretend that first, he knows what he's doing, second, he has any power to influence what's going on, and third, he's not really trying to further fuck things up so as to give Rachel Reeves an even more impossible job when she walks into 11, Downing Street. Reeves, sweet girl, has A levels in Politics, Economics, Mathematics and Further Mathematics, has an MA in  PPE from New College, Oxford and a further  degree, an MSc in Economics from the London School of Economics. Probably over-qualified for the job.
Unlike Jeremy Cunt, who squirmed and writhed in the interviewee's chair on the Laura Kuenssberg show this morning, giving us a little bit of this and a little bit of that, all referencing the economic tools that I carefully described above. The British Government has to create trust in the people it has borrowed money from, women have to be freed up from child care to re-enter the work force, taxes will go down, but immigrants will be taxed. He is going to be Prudent. He confirmed that the financial forecasts setting out how much “headroom” he has in order to meet his fiscal rules had “gone against us”. Apparently the Office for Budget Responsibility told Chancellor Hunt on Wednesday that he has only £12.8 billion of headroom, £2 billion less than he'd hoped for. Headroom? Ah, yes - a self-imposed fiscal rule to increase spending or cut taxes, intended to keep public finances under control and maintain the confidence of the market and the public. 
For example, if the government has a rule that the deficit should not exceed 3% of GDP, and the current deficit is projected to be 2%, there is a 1% fiscal headroom. This means the government can potentially increase its deficit by up to 1% of GDP – either by increasing spending or cutting taxes – without breaking its own rule. 
Yes, I know, it's all made up. On Laura's panel, listening to the Chancellor's attempts to sound Plausible and Prudent was Andy Haldane, former Chief Economist at the Bank of England and a member of the Government's Economic Advisory Council. He recommended that the Chancellor take up sprinkling fairy dust and dealing with his mojo deficit. These are serious economic terms, if not theories.
And Laura herself introduced the spectre of Gordon Brown's great clunking claw of doom. Let's remind ourselves of the masterly economist,  Gordon the Ruiner.
 
WHITHER HIS FEVERED BOMBAST, NOW? mr. ishmael 23/6/2010

Where is his fusillade of tractor statistics, his towering intellect, his metronoming Claw of Doom punctuating each flight of bumptious, bullyboy doggerel;  where is his incisive, hot-housed mind, his grasp of detail, his complete mastery, as they call it - the reptiles at skymadeupnewsandfilth - of his brief; where is his Prudence, now;  where is his promised fighting for his party, for the poor and the sick, where is his snotty, raging tumult of I-Know-Bestisms?
Something made Gordon Brown Bad, and not in a good sense.  He was a parliamentarty bully, needlessly bombastic, eternally over-egging his statistical pudding, shouting the odds so much that we called his blowhard despatch box musings tractor-production statistics, mocked his Great Clunking Fist of Doom, his shredded fingernails, his DryWank JawDrop, his infantile snot-eating and his dreadful bullying of subordinates.

Alongside his unattractive idiosyncracies,  his running of the Treasury and then the government was unwholesome.  We do not have Uncle Sam's system of presidential appointments to cabinet posts, most are filled, in the UK,  by elected politicians.  Brown, however, elevated unelected special advisor Balls to a position of huge influence, eventually parachuting him into a safe Labour seat, party-bigwigs-for-the-use-of;  Mrs Balls, too, surprise-surprise, came from nowhere into cabinet, as did the Milibands, the Eagles and wee motormouth Douglas Alexander; by the time of Tony'n'Imelda's departure to GlobaCrook the cabinet was effectively Snotty's  fiefdom, anti-democratic, non-meritocratic.  

Ah well. We'll see what Wednesday's Budget will bring.

If anyone is feeling the economic pinch, can I recommend making your own butter? You can use it to make pastry for your rhubarb pie. It is very easy, although it helps to have one of these:

You will need 600 ml of double cream, which costs £2.30 from Mr. Tesco, although I daresay you can get it cheaper if you have access to other supermarkets. When mr ishmael and I first came to Orkney, there was a high street grocery store, which, at first sight, carried a wide range of goods. But not cream. On enquiry, I was told, "thoo'll git naa cream onna Whensdie. There's naa caull ferrit. Thoo'll be a ferry-louper theesael?" That store no longer exists. Strange. But we  have Mr Tesco now, although his shelves are often empty in the winter when the ferry can't cross - but when they do, you can get cream on a Wednesday.
Tip the cream into your stand mixer or other beating device, and whizz it for around five minutes. It will first thicken then solidify into a yellow lump, swimming in buttermilk. Squeeze all the milk out of your butter, then put it into a sieve and rinse it under the cold tap until the water runs clear, then add salt if you like and shape it, before wrapping it up tight in greaseproof paper. It tastes like the very best butter. You could add herbs or garlic if wanted - parsley and garlic butter melted onto steak would be just the thing. Mr mike would add ground chillies, I'm sure.
It yields 300 grams of butter, with a good quantity of buttermilk, which can be used in the usual way of milk. As a block of butter weighs 250 grams, costs anything from £1.80 upwards, and is not as good, then it is, as they say, a no-brainer.
....................................................

The four-volume Call Me Ishmael oeuvre, collected and curated by editor mr verge, is available on Lulu and Amazon.

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are available from Lulu and Amazon. If you buy from Amazon, it would be nice if you could give a review on their website.
Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps :
please register an account first, at lulu.com. This is advisable because otherwise paypal seems to think it's ok to charge in dollars, and they then apply their own conversion rate, which might put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links below (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Ishmael’s Blues" into the Lulu Bookstore search box. Click on the “show explicit content” tab, give the age verification box a date of birth such as 1 January 1960, and proceed.
Link for Hardcover : https://tinyurl.com/je7nddfr
Link for Paperback : https://tinyurl.com/3jurrzux
https://www.lulu.com/shop/ishmael-smith/flush-test/paperback/product-9yjvn7.html?q=Flush+Test&page=1&pageSize=4

At checkout, try WELCOME15 in the coupon box, which (for the moment) takes 15% off the price before postage. If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up.
With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £16.84; HB £27.04.
It's all rhubarb





Friday 1 March 2024

Well Done, George

mr ishmael would not have been acclaiming  George Galloway's win in the Rochdale by-election with a majority of 5,697 - a win only made possible by the Labour Party having withdrawn their anti-semitic candidate, Azhar Ali, after his social media remarks placed him beyond the pale, even for Labour. Galloway graciously marked his victory by stating:  “Keir Starmer and Rishi Sunak are two cheeks of the same backside and they both got well and truly spanked tonight.” So the people of Rochdale are now represented in Parliament by a narcissistic opportunist, described by  The Board of Deputies of British Jews as: "a demagogue and conspiracy theorist, who has brought the politics of division and hate to every place he has ever stood for Parliament. His election is a dark day for the Jewish community in this country, and for British politics in general. We believe he should be shunned as a pariah by all Parliamentarians.”  Sounds about right.  
mr ishmael wrote extensively about Gorgeous George, now known as Gaza George. Here's a couple of his pieces:

Juden Raus* 10/08/2014
* Juden Raus! (lit. "Jews Out!") is a board game published in Germany by Günther & Co. in 1936.The game was advertised as "entertaining, instructive and solidly constructed". The game's equipment included a pair of dice, a game board, and several game piece figurines with large pointed hats meant to represent JewsPlayers took turns rolling the dice and moving their "Jews" across the map toward "collection points" outside the city walls for deportation to Mandatory Palestine. Written on the game board, it says "If you manage to send off six Jews, you’ve won a clear victory!"

"We don't want any Israeli goods, we don't want any Israeli services, we don't want any Israeli academics coming to the university or the college, we don't even want any Israeli tourists to come to Bradford, even if any of them had thought of doing so." 
 The not so gorgeous, angry old man, reported in the Guardian.

Been hoping for someone to speak-out against Zion-uber-alles, just wish it hadn't been Galloway. 
I never knew which was the dumber electorate, Blunkett's Sheffield or Mandelstein's Hartlepool, both could usefully be drowned in the North Sea,  they wouldn't know the difference between being wet or dry,  dead or alive. Now, there is a similarly backward and gullible electorate in Bradford West and to demonstrate that stupidity is a multi-cultural affliction this one consists mainly of the religionists of peace and of daily renewed grievance who now have their very own rabble-rousing,  jive-talking poltroon, theologian, political scientist, teevee personality, the multi-talented, multi-married and multi-salaried, dictator-worshipping old fart, ladeezangennulmen, 

one of Marxism's richest men,  George SeeYouJimmy Galloway.

Galloway, with breathtaking conceit, has recently played his own No Jews card, although he spells it No Israelis for, let's face it, there is but one God, whichever one Georgie claims to believe in at any time in his lucrative career as a paid gabshite, raconteur, didact, poseur and Big Brother housemate;
his constituency, he thunders in his best panto-prophet-voice, is now Israeli Free, 

No Jews here.
Juden Raus.

no-one is permitted to eat anchovies or pomegranates, so there, or grapefruits, see, Tony Blair, God damn you, God damn you, Tony Blair, beat that for statesmanship. 

No grapefruit. See that? No grapefruit? 

  Jews will be turned  back at the Galloway Line - Bradford West's border with sanity; Morecambe and Wise will be banned from Bradford TeeVee and Saturday will be removed from the Bradford West week.

Bradford, indeed, the whole of Yorkshire,
is now twinned with Gaza
and I now declare the holy Republic of Georgistan

Peace and blessings be upon my name.

A profound and hard-hitting package of measures to wotsaname the Jews, sort 'em out, that's it, teach them a few Islamo-socialist-Glasgow-OldLabour-NewMotherRussia home truths.  Whatever it takes, people can pay me to do it for them. I am the way, the truth and the light. So help me God. Whoops, wrong book, wrong religion. Never mind, 'sall bollocks, really; you don't think I believe in this mumbo-fucking-jumbo, do you? Nah, girl's gotta make a living, don't she?


Idiot, shitbrained fuckwit, who elected this cunt, dressed up like one of Ali Babi's forty thieves? 

Don't they see how racist this all this? Some belligerent, snuffler-bearded Weegie, acting-out a Lawrence of Arabia fantasy, don't they see they are all just extras, spear-carriers in The Revolutionary Life of George, don't they see that he and his coke-sniffing mate, 

Aye, hoosabootye, big man?
Ach, cannae grumble, George, cannae grumble.
A few whoors, some coke, could be worse. 
Hoosabootyerself?
Och, 'sno sae bad, them nignogs, y'see them, they fair luv me, so they do. D'ye want fer me t'see if  some a they other Muslim places'd stand yous, fer their MP, like, d'ye ken?

  Tearful Tommy Sheridan has destroyed the Left in Scotland and has nowhere to go but amongst those whom he can still dazzle and bamboozle with bogus, shitty oratory.  Christ, he can't even make a marriage last, never mind make a constituency flourish. All he can sing is the Discord Blues, it's the only song he knows.

Galloway, anyway, is, on the face of it, an entirely unsuitable representative of his largely Muslim constituency;  another bloated cockwaver, a preposterous, greedy  egomaniac as vain and shallow and untrustworty an infidel as one might find anywhere and although he has participated in three apparently  muslim marriages, two of which have failed,  George coyly declines to confirm or deny his conversion to Islam.  Why is that? At a time when anti-Muslim rhetoric has never been so well-nourished, why does he not make this simple clarification, it is a reasonable enough question, like asking, is Blair a Christian?

Like Boris Johnson, most of Galloway's earnings will come from outside parliament, two cheeks of the same gabshiteing, money-grubbing arse, as he might say himself, were he not head and shoulders up his own scabby arse - newspaper columns, his contemptible and risible appearances on the lewd and vulgar Big Brother Show, nothing very Islamic in that cesspit and recently as a Kremlin stooge on Russia Today.  Nothing wrong with Russia Today, per se, I watch some of it with interest, some of it is great, but it is a Putin mouthpiece, yes, that Putin, slayer of Muslim separatists, foe of Islam, generally.  I don't know that there's much to choose between Putin and Obama, save that Putin has a foreign secretary who can speak fluent English and Obama hasn't.  But both are happy to torture and murder adherents of Islam, at the drop of a hat; why is it not only OK but also seemingly part of a wider Dialectic of Muslim Liberation for  Galloway to work for the ace wogbasher, Putin?  Maybe because there's money in it, more than the average Respect voter could dream of. 

 I don't see much of him but every time I do he's dressed in ever more eccentric and expensive threads, 

elaborate permutations of beard and whiskers, resembling something half-man, half-tart, half-pasha, half money-lender;  all this old man image-burnishing must cost a fortune 

It's him, from the Galloway Spring collection.
Silly old cunt.

and if he can't wring it out of his parliamentary expenses then maybe RT will stump up for some of it, top class entertainers like Galloway don't come cheap, after all, and as a last resort, Georgie can always send some of his minders around the mosques, very charitable people, Muslims. Meantime, though, he sits in the RT studio like some bloated, farting old sultan, accompanied by a young exotic-looking lady,  underlinging, subordinately doing  his masterly bidding. Man's an utter cunt, his politics in the ditch, a flyblown mess of corruption, he reinvents his mission as often as he re-trims his beard, you wouldn't buy a fish supper from him, would you, much less a political agenda?  He reminds me, always, of that other Labour traitor-turned-hack, His Socialist Grace the Lord Roy Hatterjee, Baron of Sparkbrook. 

Of course, he slobbered, of course, I am only going to the House of Lords for the truly scrumptious free  dinners and the fine free wine list and the three hundred pounds a day pocket money and of course, I almost forgot, to abolish the place.  

Well, yes, it may well be the case that my Sparkhill constituency was, as one judge said, electorally the sort of place which would disgrace a banana republic but I was only the elected MP for twenty years, what's all that got to do with me?   What's that?  Yes, I will take more foie gras, just a small second helping, no, no, man, not that small.  Don't you know who I am?  I used to be half of the Dream Ticket. Yes, me and Neil Kinnock.  Yes, that's him, useless Welsh git and thieving bastard. Yes, him and his Mrs. Europe? Yes, made a fortune, they did. No, no, was never asked......damn shame, really, understand they have some rather fine restaurants.

Georgie would have you believe that, given the chance he'd be like Samson, heaving at the pillars of MediaMinster, in order to bring it crashing down,  that's the only reason he's there.  Never fails, that one.

  It's not funny, though, this arse, prancing about, gabshiteing, like he was personally related to Mohamed, peace and blessings be upon his name.  It's the easiest thing in the world to denigrate Tony Blair, probably just as easy to bamboozle big-hair, white-teeth bought-and-paid for Senators but Galloway's bizarre position as an MP for Muslims stinks a bit of racism, doesn't it?  Me your white brother, me can speak whiteman language in house of big white chiefs.  If his is a Muslim constituency why doesn't it have a Muslim MP,  why doesn't he work towards that end? Because  there's no fucking Georgemoney in it,  that's why. And it's the same as that old Tory argument about women, No, no, no old chap, you have it entirely wrong, we select purely on merit and not on any airy-fairy notions of a representative legislature.  George Galloway, the most meritorious Muslim-or-not in   West Bradford, eh, God fucking help us all.

Of course Georgieboy will argue that Bradford is seventy per cent white British  and that he therefore has a multicultural mandate but the psephological truth  is far from that. Of the fifty per cent who voted, the majority were young muslims.  All are agreed that he swung his massive by-election swing after targeting young Muslims,  rightly fed-up with the corrupt practices of their Labour-voting fathers and uncles - Gosh, if only Glasgow could see that particular light - and by  denigrating British foreign policy, well, the anti Muslim part of it.

Galloway  is four times married, bless,  these women, what are they like, eh, wedded to the best thing since Allah and they still won't do as they're told. Galloway is a career politician, having switched constituencies several times, been thrown out of NewLabour, formed his own one-man party, a la Mr Farage, and has been on the public purse and at the public trough since 1987.  Where, once, in true JockLabour style,  he told his voters that their continued poverty and ill health could only be remedied by voting Labour for another hundred years, he now tells Muslims that he, uniquely, will recalibrate the measure of the Middle East, of South Asia, of MediaMinster and of Washington DC, when, in fact, as the dogs in the street know, Galloway is MediaMinster; blowhard, emotional traincrash, bully, hypocrite, TeeVee slag and parasite, this rotten, shouty old  ponce  could be its mascot. He did nothing for Glasgow but plenty for himself, he did nothing for Tower Hamlets but plenty for himself, he will do nothing for Bradford West, claiming, like the revolting Gordon Snot, that his invisibility in parliament is actually a demonstration of great principle, his absence due to him writing literally thousands of letters on behalf of his constituents; even though he always claims the maximum in office and admin. expenses, I suppose that George, hommes des lettres, author, commentator, wit, philosopher and cultural historian - he really, really values John Lennon's odious, hypocritical dirge, Imagine, considers it part of his credo - George just has to be there, to make sure the right postage is paid on all the letters to dustbin departments, street lighting executives and passenger transport operatives and that, Whoops, genuine mistake, some entranced, junior Georgite doesn't submit an expenses claim for her master's Christmas cards, not that he's a Christian, or anything, and that's why he can't appear in Parliament, got far more important things to do, licking envelopes - although it is remarkable that his epic  of correspondence doesn't keep him from the RT studios, where, unlike the situation within his real employment - as a member of the legislature - he actually does have to turn up in order to be paid. 

I suppose that ultimately Galloway is Blair's creature. Unlike many of the left-leaning - me, for instance -  Galloway, in voting for himself, voted for Blair to form that government which he now decries, upon which he bases his whole act.  If Blair had given him a ministry, made him a right honourable - and don't forget they stay right honourables, it is a mealticket for life - things would have been very different.  Let's face it, Blair gave Tony Banks a ministry and he was far more disloyal and naughty than George had ever been.  He could have given George Overseas Aid or Fishing, something that not even he could have fucked up.  And George  would've swiftly become accustomed to being limousined and Yes, Ministered, like the scabby phoney he is; he'd have loved all that bowing and scraping, people kissing his arse; he'd have loved the salary,  the pension, when it came and the directorships.  Just look at John Reid, fellow Glaswegian Marxist-Trotskyist-Leninist, fellow personal fuck-up, fellow thug, bully and gabshite, blatantly unsuited for ministerial responsibility and yet he did them all - only for about a fortnight, granted, staggeringly incompetent but now wee Lord John is coining millions in retirement.  If only Blair had appointed Galloway,  the nation would have been spared his noisy hysterics-for-money and perhaps the people of Bradford West might - just might - have a member representing their interests instead of his own.

At least, though, unlike the rest of MediaMinster, George remains uncontaminated by recent disclosures.

Showbiz celebrities embrace, bless.


 Who Owns the Street? 30th August 2014
A punch in the face is no laughing matter. Showbusiness, of course, depicts people being drop-kicked and pistol-whipped, smashed full in the face with a nailed boot, yet laughing and grinning ruefully, just  a few moments later. The older I grow the more these enactments frustrate me;  the human body is, no other word for it, a miracle, its powers of reconstitution and repair beyond the wildest imaginings of technology;  to kick it about and wound it deliberately seems wanton and stupid; 
 to invite violence on oneself is not the conduct of a wise man, for it begets itself, time and again and hurts others; it is the soft words, rather than the vain, gabshite grandstanding, which turn away Wrath.
That the disgusting old whore, Galloway, should be struck, while posing for pictures is a bitter-sweet irony which will be lost on him;  that there is at least one person in the UK unenthralled by his shouty, undiscerning celebrity he can probably live with but even that fact will chafe a little  at our great people's champion and poseur.  It will be interesting to see if, as it should, this episode knocks Georgie off the plinth of his own vanity or if it becomes embellished the more  with the facetious mythology of his unending struggle for the creation of a (now) Islamo-Socialist Republic On Earth.
A spiritual Native American, I never permit my photograph to be taken, believing, like them, that it amounts to theft of the soul.  That Galloway cannot live without his image being endlessly cosmeticised,  tailored and widely reproduced, this alone bespeaks his unworthiness.