Friday, 19 September 2014



Alec Salmond dismisses result as scaremongering.

Nicola Moustache talks so much her head falls off.

Tearful Tommy Sheridan "heartbroken" and in serious need of socialist coke and hookers.

 Queen arrested, drunk and disorderly.

 A lone member of the Yestapo Pipe Band plays the traditional lament: See you, Jimmy?

Wednesday, 17 September 2014


This, today,  was the best speech, by miles, that I have ever heard from Snotty - passionate, sincere, factual and all the more eloquent for the occasional slip; by comparison Salmond really is just an oily bastard, playing to a crowd of retarded mutants.  One has to ask,why didn't Brown make this speech months ago?

We can set aside his bollocks about more powers, he has no power to deliver anything from MediaMinster;  we can set aside his history of stuttering, bullyboy incompetence as unelected prime minister, his cowardice, his blackmailing, his great clunking nailbitten fist of Doom thumping on the despatch box;  his serial hypocrisies, his graft, his backdoor money from David Abrahams and others;  his dodgily funded think tanks, his intolerable nepotism;  all of these are chronicled in glorious Technicolour by my young friend,  stanislav, who,incidentally, was saying these things whilst all in MediaMinster, absolutely all, were praising Prudence and her Iron Chancellor;  we can ignore all that because the Jock Terror is commencing already - togetherist farms, here, in Orkney of all places, last night the scene of criminal damage by NatNutters - and these nasty wee men will never be happy, happiness has been bred out of them and will grow violent perhaps murderous, regardless of the outcome, tomorrow.

Brown is naturally more popular here than down there and his plea was to perhaps more sympathetic undecided voters as well as being an encouragement to the sensible togetherists.  Stealing, comprehensively, Salmond and Sturgeon's bogus patriotism, we caught a glimpse of what he might have been had he not joined the Mandestein-Blair-Campbell Betrayal of the Labour movement. A pox  on him for that but may his current passion prevail, for all our sakes.

Tuesday, 16 September 2014


Quite sickening, this head-chopping jamboree, the act, its broadcasting, its dreadful, protracted arrival but also the victims, themselves; just who the fuck do they think they are, Bruce Willis?

This bloke, Haines, he had young children, what was he thinking about? His gruesome murder will define their lives. Yeah, that's my Dad, having his head hacked-off by some nutterbastard, want my autograph?  

Never mind all his showy good works, somebody who claimed to care about him - and there's a plague of them -  should have given him a sobering slap round the ear, told him, get a job down LIDL or whatever they have in fucking Croatia, where he lived, just don't make me have to watch you getting your head cut off, eh? Prick.

Terry Waite started it, another posturing egomaniac, whose great ambition was to be Man of the Year on the front cover of Time magazine; Archbishop of Canterbury's Special Envoy to the Middle East, he was styled, like some mediaeval Papal legate, a bigmouthed beardy gabshite, world's full of them. 

Anyway, he was kidnapped and Ahmed, not giving a fuck  about the Archbishop of Canterbury, kept Big Tel for years.

Simpering, right-on, boyish journalist John McCarthy  was another one whose fate was supposed to concern me for years, as though I had personally begged him to go into that shithole and send me despatches. 

John had a pretty bint back at home whom the media loved, as she devised new ways, fresh anniversaries of capture and so on to keep his name in our faces, keep their love alive. Only trouble was that when JohnBoy was released it turned out he didn't love Jill Morrel any more, bless. The nation was denied a happy ending;  still, him and Big Tel got out with their balls still attached and their heads on.

And there was another gobby captive, Brian Keenan, 
an absolutely unendurable little Irishman.
Hailed, in the way of these things, as conquering heroes, this trio of nitwits was  awarded some gong or other,

Order of Stupidity, I hope. 
Today, there's always some daft civilian fucker in captivity, journalist  or aid worker;  it's a brainless taxi driver, just now, went-out-there-to-help-people, he did, great bloke and everything, just got shit for brains; probably thought,  Wow,  he's so fucking good, himself, that nothing bad could happen to him,  that Ahmed would see the very real and meaningful difference between him and some RAF bod bombing his kids' playground, between him and some vicious Lancashire BovverBoys, togged-up in Her Majesty's best and beating civilians to death.  And now, all who knew him are honour-bound to participate, to join the walk down  Decapitation's broadcast aisle. Who, for fucks sake, would want to be helped by somebody as unpardonably, selfishly  stupid as David Haines or Alan Wotsisname?   Not me, anyway, keep the fuck away from me, do-gooders.

The obvious do-gooding for do-gooders to do is to scream and fucking yell at government and military on all sides, shout and bawl at intolerable fucking Imam beardy bastards and Sheiks and fucking Rabbis, chaplains; military chaplains. was there ever such fucked-up and contradictory a profession, sprinkling holy water on the cruise missiles?  But no, they all, followers of Death's caravan, they all probably describe themselves as partners, tooled-up warriors and gormless tent-erectors like Haines, water-carriers like Wotsisname,  all working together, knee-deep in blood and fucking sanctimony.

It would be in everyone's interests if Haines et al just restrained their egos for a while and realised that thay are actually making matters worse, holding, as they do,  Villainy's coat for him, tempering. minutely, his excesses, fooling themselves and seeking to fool us that Good, actually, you know what, is Triumphant. Fucking idiots,  the more they meddle, the more they save a handful of thirsting lives here and there, the more empowered grow Mr Death and his Sergeants; they should just, in the  parlance of the Newpeople, not go there. Let Justice hear her own voice and raise it.

This, if it is anybody's work, this poxy sanitising of Carnage, this is soldiers' work, not taxi drivers'. This is the work of the United Nations, the work of heavily-armed men in body armour and APCs.  To recognise that, of course, would be to - at the very least - increase the costs of the Death Industry and - at worst - to  illuminate the Stone Age imbecility of statespersons, clergypersons and  Brigadier Generals Rupert Golightly Jockstrap, the world over.

This repulsive creature, Jihad John and his cameraman, they only wield the blade, the true conspirators reside in the White House
 and  in the palaces of Saudi Arabia

- both of whom permit and encourage similar atrocities to be perpetrated on their own citizens 

- is in their unsung, unprotected, unpaid and unpensioned  service that these foolish men died;  it is for the useless strutting of David Cameron and the buffoonery of COBRA that Haines lost his life.

And although we might legitimately enquire why it is that in light of recent revelations of national, industrial-scale beasting in every strata of society the NSPCC didn't just quietly and decently disband itself, if we seek a darker, more farcical interpretation of the new nature of Charity we need look no further than the world's current leading philanthro-bandits, Tony'n'Imelda Blair.
Oh, the Sisters of Mercy, 
they are not departed or gone.

Saturday, 13 September 2014

EVENSONG. TRIAL AND RETRIBUTION. The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll (Live 1965) - Bob Dylan

Mr Mongoose reminded me of this other example, from fifty years back, of Justice bending over backwards to fellate Celebrity. Actually more inspired and expressive than the studio cut on Times They Are A-Changing, this version reveals how skillfully the young Dylan applied what are fairly rudimentary instrumental skills in augmentation of an idiosyncratic but faultless vocal delivery. The events of the song are broadly accurate, although some have quibbled over the years about details. There are a few judge-songs in the Dylan canon, Percy's Song, Drifter's Escape, Seven Curses, Hattie Carroll and many, many references to judges; I guess they are, by definition, characters of utility to the song-storyteller. The Pistorious judge, wotsername, Thokozile Matilda Masipa, is as deserving of a sung memorial as any, her waltzing deftly around the truth, should figure, somewhere.

 For those, anyway, curious about the legendary Bob Dylan, this performance conveys his power to mesmerise, transfix and move to tears any room. large or small, in which he plied his trade, once upon a time.


There were cheers from a dangerous nutter's fan club, gathered outside a South African court, today, as Judge Hecuba Goodfellow ruled that the object of their affection, Mr Oscar Testosterone, did know that in shooting four bullets into a toilet he might kill someone but on the other hand he didn't know; Mr Oscar was screaming like a loony after he'd done it so it was all right, really.  He was also, said Judge Goodfellow, 
a fucking lying bastard who couldn't answer a straight question, who instead of telling the truth would just vomit into a fucking bucket.
 End jest because the State prosecuter, Mr Herry Knob,
revealed the eccused es a right fecking, lying arsehole 
C'mon, admit it, you snivelling fecking wenker, you shot her didden you?

et doesn't mean thet he es not telling the truth end even if he is - or do I mean isn't - I em not persuaded thet this matters

 Praying to fecking God, he was, M'leddee,  to save the slepper he'd jest killed, his counsel had told the court, he wes crying his fecking eyes out, M'leddee, said Berry Roux, 

for the accused,
 hed a face like a slepped arse, he hed, all fucking red it wes, and tearful, after he'd shot the fecking bitch a few times. Upset him greatly, it did. Praying, he wes praying too, to God, and shitting himself. Puking, puking, too, puking hes fecking guts up he wes, proves M'leddee, does it not,
 that he can't be a fecking murderer, like some Kaffir bastard from the townships?
Oh, feck me, responded the Judge in her sentencing remarks, ef he wes crying efterwards, he couldn't have fecking known thet he might kill some poor bestard by firing four shots into a tiny fecking space, jest as it says here, in Ashanti versus van der Blumfeld, 1968, volume  2 open brackets South Effrica close breckets chapter four, sub-section 12 open breckets emended 1969 close breckets open breckets paragraph seven close breckets capita S capital A capital C, the Court should not ellow the accused to make a cunt of himself even if he is es guilty es fucking Sin the court should not ellow his guilt to be a contributory factor in determining his guilt.  A reasonable person might heff known not to go shooting fecking bullets all over the fecking shop but Mr Oscar meks a fecking hebit of driving around South Effrica end firing fecking guns off like he was Beffalo fecking Bell, 
so, all in all, the State hes not convinced me thet the accused is a dangerous fecking lunatic who should be benged-up for some time, at least. 

 Es for him heving a fecking arsenal in his gaff which he wasen entitled to have subject to the Firearms Act of 1999 open breckets amended 2002 close breckets and so on, well, the State has not persuaded me thet he hed these fecking bullets unlawfully, subject to section seven of the Firearms Act, even if he hed the fecking things unlawfully without a permit, a license, a dealers' certificate, an import license an export license or any other permission lawfully granted, even if he held them illegally the Court should not conclude that he held them illegally. 
End jest because he has a habit of firing guns illegally in public end is clearly raving med, it does not follow thet when he was firing into his shithouse doors with the intention of killing someone who was in thet tiny space, he must have fecking known thet he's gonna kill some cunt, not to me et doesn't enyway, and I'm the fecking judge.

The sentencing of this fucking headcase 

 has been postponed  to allow Judge Goodfellow time to consult her Obeah Man in order  to find some way of  sentencing Mr Oscar to a medal and half a million rand from public funds.

Betcha a tenner that if he doesn't get a double figure jail term the State will appeal. As so it should.

Friday, 12 September 2014



This is the news of a ten-billion souls deal, struck by the Beelezebub Energy Corporation (reg. office Down Below)   with the French Government  to acquire a billion-kiloton nuclear reactor.

We have a new guest arriving any moment, said CEO of HellCorp, Mr Satan, 

and we would not wish him to feel cold, cool or even comfortable, not for a moment of Eternity.  Yes, yes, I know it is a long time, you don't need to tell me, sonny, I sometimes feel as though I've been here forever. But that's the business I'm in, eternal torment;  that's what it says on the tin, that's my mission statement;  if I say Eternal Roasting, then that's what I deliver. What, Clergypersons?  Yes, my best  customers;  roasting in the beginning, roasting now and roasting for evermore. Amen, so be it.

 M-sieu Hollande, the diminutive, cock-waving philanderer and socialiste turncoat president of France is due to join us in the not very distant future and in exchange for a place some distance from the heating system has agreed to give us the furnace on favourable terms, ie freely, or for free as you folks so inelegantly say, up there.

We shall very soon, in my terms, anyway, very soon be receiving the Reverend Doctor (Univ. of eBay) Ian Paisley's pall bearers and anticipate that they might put a strain on the heating, nothing, though, considering our expertise in the field, that we cannot handle.

Wednesday, 10 September 2014


We have one new reader. It says so at the top.  I don't know what any of that means, I'm afraid, as can be seen from the sparseness of the blog page - no stats, no campaigns, no adverts - writing, pasting 'photos and music from the you-thing,  that's more than enough for me to understand. 

mr ryan, though, - and welcome to him - has joined others at the top right-hand side of the page.  This represents a per centage increase similar to that which has caused MediaMinster meltdown over Scotland.  It is thirteen people of a thousand changing their opinion which sees Mr Winston Wisteria profaning himself and his works for all the world to see;  it is thirteen people who have caused the pound to slump, inward investment to take flight, have caused  the Sun to turn black and the sky to fall, thirteen people who have led Mr Salmoind to fresh fields of graceless, hyperbolic butchness, although he has some distance to travel in that respect before o'ertaking Ms Nicola Moustache.

If the moodswings of around one-in-a-hundred can trigger psephological Armageddon then what is heralded by mr ryan's discernment?  Should we quit Blogger and go it alone, the People's Cyber Republic of Ishmaelia? I think the very least we should do  is annex the Huffington Post and declare us all Independent, even though, of course, like Scotland, independent is the last thing we would be.


I was reading my current Lapham's  Quarterly, Fall 2014, devoted to writings, paintings, photographs and artefacts associated with Time. One of the selections was headed, Not Fade Away, the title of an early, almost Doo-Wop, Buddy Holly song; another was headed Reelin' In The Years, a tune by one of those frightful American anthem-churning bands, Steely Dan, more corporation than musical ensemble; Time after Time, both a jazz standard, originally by Mafia-Frankie Sinatra and a pop classic by Cindy Lauper, headed a chapter; The Best Is Yet To Come, another Sinatra tune, opened another selection.

 Finding pop ditty titles rubbing shoulders with Francis Bacon, John Ruskin, Thucydides, de Tocqueville, Chaucer, Einstein and fuck knows who else is a curiosity becoming less incongruous as cultures and sub-cultures merge and blend, as, strapped into mr tdg's ghost train of Progress, we enter homogeneity's endless tunnel; the cult of individuality perversely degrading and blurring everything it perceives, conflating retrievability with wisdom. Ah, Chaucer, gorra Chaucer App, me, off Apple. 

As the satellite navigation system is no such thing - no-one uses it to navigate, but  merely to follow instructions - so the Googleability of all human knowledge without any of the hitherto requisite brainmuscle power which impelled and guided research, sorry Ree-Surch, in the first place is little more than access to a vast, virtually infinite pool of melted InfoStuff, in which nascent, curious Purpose must drown. Google and its smug, know-all brothers will take us not to the stars but back to the swamps. 

 I don't know if Lapham's Quarterly is edited on an AppleMac, cross-referencing topics with song titles and book titles, cliches and headlines, but such is it's vastness and erudition that I fear it must be; clever stuff but as much cyber confection as scholarship, literary love's labours lost. 

But at least it's a book, you can pick it up and carry it around, bookmark it with real bookmarks, or, pagecornering, really make it your own; you can flick through it, touch it, grasp it's refined timber organicness, it is made of the same stuff as ourselves; you don't need Beefheart's E-e-e-eleck-tri-iciteee to fire it up, no server, no router to fail you; no typographic error will impede your progress, no security system demand that you update it. LQ is a gift for the autodidact and even for the less-disciplined, even for  a Fool such as I, known to mrs ishmael as Autolycus, son of Mercury, a clever thief, a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles, Lapham's Quarterly burnishes my woeful ignorance, entertains, diverts and extends me in a manner which would outshine a hundred years spent a-Googling.

 It is an example, this book versus electronic appliance conundrum, of McLuhanism, of the medium being the message, of the infinite cyber-encyclopaedia distracting the watchdog of the mind, the book taking him for a long walk, exercising him, giving him an appetite.

 Chaucer wrote that, that bit at the top, life is so short....and it reminded me that we all tick to our own time bomb's assembly; that to observe Ruin is only to see Time throwing dust on our passage and that before we know it we become, ourselves, that dust. 

 mr bungalow bill, the other day, was bemoaning his observation of the fatuity of popular music performers, how so many, in asinine decrepitude, conspire in their own ridiucule, devalue by endless repetition their early good luck, maybe even in some cases their early talent. Not all, though, are like that and I recalled that I had posted this at least twice, previously, an older song by an older performer. 

 Lyrically, this song, written by Richard Thompson's former bandmate, the late Sandy Denny, says as much in its way as does the entire current edition of Lapham's Quarterly on Time; musically it has sailed not always so sure and steadfast, Thompson's own, devoted renditions too manly, too growly and accusatory; others, such as Eva Cassidy's and Judy Collins's too stickily lachrymose, mawkishly melancholy, over-stringed, over-sung. Dr Simone's version, here, however, gives the lie to age wearying all in showbusiness, their years condemning. A classically-trained pianist, capable of glorious, jazzy, improvised excess, Nina Simone's spare rendition of our collective brevity is paradoxically timeless, the question framed being its own answer, the Void made Harmony. 


"Don't vote Yes just to give the effin' Tories a kicking."

The only moment I have  warmed, even a little, to Winston.

Monday, 8 September 2014


I mentioned earlier that  I had contacted lawyers whom I had read were considering the legality of the Scottish Referendum  in European law.

I have now received a gracious and comprehensive reply, below, from Matrix Chambers.

".......... I can confirm the legal position is presently as follows:

(1)   Because of legal uncertainty as to whether the Scottish Government/Scottish Parliament could legally (i.e. within the confines of the powers conferred under the Scotland Act 1998) the UK Government found it politically expedient to agree with the Scottish Government to amend the Scotland Act to put the matter beyond doubt and expressly give the Scottish Parliament a time limited power (until 31 December 2014) to organise a referendum on independence.

(2)   This Edinburgh agreement left it to the Scottish Government/Scottish Parliament to pass legislation determining the franchise for this referendum.

(3)   The Scottish Parliament has power to legislate only in and for Scotland.  In passing the franchise issue to the Scottish Parliament in effect the UK government made a decision that only Scottish voters, rather than any voters in the rest of the UK could have any say in the independence referendum.

(4)  There are in effect two established voting registers for elections in Scotland: general elections to the UK Parliament; and local government elections for local authorities and elections to the devolved legislature.

(4) For general elections to the UK Parliament, there is an entitlement to vote given to all British, Commonwealth and Irish citizens residing in the UK at the time of the election.   Additionally however UK citizens who were formerly resident in the UK but have moved aboard retain the right to vote in general elections for period of 15 years after they ceased to be resident in the UK.

(5)   For local government elections, there is an entitlement to vote given to all British, Commonwealth and Irish citizens and all other EU citizens residing in the UK at the time of the local election.   This right of EU citizens to vote in UK local elections derives from the Maastricht Treaty and is enshrined now in Article 20(2) of the Treaty on the Functioning of the European Union.   Crucially however there is no retention of any voting rights in local elections for UK citizens who were formerly resident in the UK.

(6)   The Scottish Government decided that the franchise for the independence referendum would follow the local government franchise.  The result is that all British, Commonwealth and Irish citizens and all other EU citizens residing in Scotland at the time of the referendum get to vote on Scottish independence.  No UK national who is not resident in Scotland will get a vote in the referendum.

(7)   Had the Scottish Government chosen instead to follow the model for UK general elections, then they would have referendum from which other EU nationals were excluded from the vote, but in which in principle UK nationals who had been resident in Scotland up to 15 years before the referendum would have a vote in it.

(8)   It should be noted that it was within the power of the Scottish Parliament to vary the existing models for the franchise as they thought fit.  Indeed they did so by reducing the voting age for this referendum from the usual 18 down to 16.

(9)   The use of whether Scottish born expats - whether living elsewhere in the UK or aboard should get the right to vote was barely discussed in the Parliament when the franchise was being decided upon.  This has now become an issue however because the Scottish Government now proposes (which was not known at the time the franchise was fixed) the following in its proposed post-independence interim constitution, a new status of Scottish citizenship which will be afforded automatically and unilaterally by an independent Scotland on "all those who, immediately before Independence Day, hold British citizenship and either— (i) are habitually resident in Scotland at that time, or (ii) are not habitually resident in Scotland at that time but were born in Scotland"

(10)   So Scottish born expats are going to be directly affected by the result of the referendum as regards their citizenship status but are being given no say in whether or not there should be an independent Scotland of which they will automatically become citizens.

(11)   In terms of the legal issues this might raise that could be enforceable before the courts, the only argument Mr O’Neill could come up with is one based on EU law.   The principles of EU law are that no individual should be discouraged from exercising their free movement rights within the EU to travel and take up work in other Member States.  If an individual who leaves to take up residence in another Member State is by that very move immediately and automatically deprived of his rights to vote in crucial issues within his home member State, he may be deterred from exercising his free movement options.   The deprivation of the right to vote in the independence referendum for all those who would or have exercised their free movement rights would seem therefore to be a penalty of disenfranchisement which is consequent upon the exercise of free movement rights and so is contrary to EU law.

(12)   Despite public interest in this issue, there was no-one willing to fund an action before the national courts based on this EU law argument.  Accordingly all that has happened is that a formal complaint has been made to the European Commission on the issue.  A formal complaint was sent to the European Commission about this, but Mr O’Neill doubts, however, if any decision will be forthcoming from the Commission on the issue before the referendum takes place on 18 September."