Tuesday, 2 June 2009


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Hello, Joanna Lumley here, off the Privilege advert on the telly. Can we please buy them another home? The tragedy of the Krankie-Badgers is that for over twenty years they have become addicted to other people paying for everything and now that Mr Badger has been ordered to give himself the sack they simply cannot cope. All these years, snuffled a disconsolate Mr Badger, whenever me or Mrs Krankie has wanted anything other people have paid for it. It's not my fault and I haven't done anything wrong and I apologise most insincerely for it even though I didn't do it and that's why I'm paying back a drop in the ocean of twenty years unexamined expenses claims. Which I never made. Or if I did make, did so in good faith. And if it wasn't exactly in good faith it was an administrative error. And a complete cock-up. Which you would expect from the pretend Chancellor of the Exchequer.

So, come on all you jolly British hockey players, join Esther Rantzen and I and probably a fucking regiment of grim and ghastly publicity-seeking old-age celebrities and let's all help save the Badger-Krankies. Rah-rah-rah. Large, toothy, scrawny, wrinkly smile for photographers (Men of a certain age swoon and reach for their heart attack medications.)

Interviewed on Newsnight by Jeremy Phony, The Second Secretary, Harriet Soursister said, Fuck me, Jerry - not with Gavin Essler's, sweetheart - no, let me finish, everyday I feel like I got me tits in the mangle, knowaddamean, Jerry, I mean, I come on here, all prim and proper, like a giant, frowning acid drop, and prepared to defend the record of the government - I simply asked you if the Chancellor is a toasted cunt ? - and every day one of these bastards has done something even more indefensible than whichever of them was in the frame yesterday - praising him with faint damns, the prime minister was, looks like he's for walking the plank into the Firth of Forth or is it the Forth of Fifth, fucked if I know, Scotland, who needs it, drunken ginger inbred child molesters and Pres-be-fucking-terians fisting each other round the back of the Kirk - Jerry, it's not for me to say who's a cunt and who isn't - well, you must have an opinion - but the main thing is that we put it behind us and get back to dealing with the economic fuck-up which started in America and which we have nearly fixed apart from a few million unemployed, no, Jerry, let me finish, a few million unemployed and the furnaces working full out burning all the money. And Hoon ? And Badger, are they toast or aren’t they toast ? Well Jerry, let me just say that Where right honourable members have stolen money, some of it will be repaid and those members won't stand in the election which they would certainly have lost anyway and as a mark of public disapproval will get a severance deal, instead, worth about a hundred grand, and the book deals and the directorships and some of them, Mrs Kirkbride Mackay, may even get their old jobs back, at the Daily Suicide-O-Graph. And that, if I may remind viewers is what reform is all about. Harriet Soursister, thank you; Are you and Jack at ours for lunch this Sunday, or are we coming to you?

Mr Jerry Paxman is a fully-paid-up member of the Establishment and apologises for any embarrassment he may have caused it. There's no business like show business.


Daisy said...

I used to read the Ex Apprentice blog and he used to do the same kind of "Newsnight Revisited". The best bits though were the comments between the two of you. What happened to him? Has he moved somewhere else?

Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, "toasted cunt" is a damn fine coinage. Yummy, even. Just a wee pinch of salt on mine, thanks.

call me ishmael said...

Dear Mr Ms Daisy

Many of our anarchists have, predictably, axiomatically even, fallen out of step. Mr an ex apprentice had a gentleness of touch which is missed, I don't know what caused his self-removal, there was the mildest of contretemps at the Daily Politics which I doubt was responsible for his absence. He did mention a while ago that he would soon be closing his blog as he felt most of it was re-cycled rubbish, it doesn't stop others and he at least was as open about his disquiet as he was about his sources.

My own view is that he enjoyed things too much to stay away indefinitely but that may be a huge impertinence on my part. That's all I know.

Yes, Mr Verge, toasted cunt made me howl, too; although in the sense of toast meaning dead, rather than edible.

Dick the Prick said...

Funny how things happen. Looking like there's gonna be some other cunts being patronisingly cuntish soon. Whey hey urrgghh.

WATSONTELLY - did you see the flock (probably wrong noun - 'chime' of Wrens - marvellous) od Red Kites on Springwatch - awesome, truly awesome.

Luckily, just caught my sunflowers before they got too thirsty - dashed hot weather but fingers crossed - repotting this weekend probably.

Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, "dead, rather than edible". As the great blind bluesman, Eyes-Wide McTrench put it: "she was layin there dead, and I gave her some head, and goddam if she didn't start jumpin."

At a slight tangent, according to Debra DeSalvo's "Language of the Blues", turn-of-the-century bluesman slang for pussy was cock -she reports a young white Chicago guitarist getting a fright when Muddy Waters held forth about how much he loved to suck cock.

The Dyer's Garden said...

Praising with faint damns? They will be fainting with damned praise at that.

But I don't get this Mr so and so shit: why deny Daisy her XXs? Is it a headnod towards your apprentice's fastidious, bowler-hatted, button-upedness?

call me ishmael said...

Dear Mr Dyers Garden

I have no apprentice to flatter. It is a convention all my own. I used to rebuke the horde at the Pizza Parlour for their indecorous forms of mutual address -Oi! Cunt and You Fucking Wanker - and suggested that we might adopt the style of the House of Commons and call out to one another as raucousy as fuck, so to speak, as long as our recriminiations were prefaced by an honorific of sorts - Mr.

Given the ambiguity of many noms de cyberspace, the gender unknowability or respondents, I prefer to retain the Mr in all cases, adding a Ms or Mrs or Miss where it appears appropriate. It's quite simple, really.

Ms Lilith is exempt from this as she is clearly Ms Lilith and habiting with Mr Elby and mother to a young delinquent, called,improbably, Calfy. Mrs Woman On A Raft, refers often, similarly, to a Mr Raft.

Like Cookery Teacher Schmidt and Jack Torture and Toilets Maguire and the now sadly invisible Sir Michael Kneepads and Bob The Cunt Ainsworth and Geoff The Cunt Hoon and Tony and Imelda and much else of our invention, the Mr prefix seems to have struck a chord beyond Ishmaelia and we retain an affection for it here.

If there is something you would like to be called in addition to Mr The Dyer's Garde, please advise us.

Never see Springwatch Mr DTP but am struggling with irrigation ishhoes, myself, even in bonny Scotland.

Mr C Sore said...

Fucking hell fire! Is that his wife? No wonder he drinks so much.

The Dyer's Garden said...

"The fall and rise of the bustard": I can well see the appeal.

Dick the Prick said...

Dear Mr Ishmael

I fully support such adherence to convention. It is not, as mentioned, the motherfucker of all Parliaments that needs to change, but the cunts within it.

As always

Anonymous said...

Paxman is a shonker!