Sunday, 28 June 2009



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Well, Jonathan, I must say (in deep brown voice) that Mark Thompson is doing a spledid job at the BBC and all this criticism of him is grossly unfair, when I used to fiddle, sorry, submit my expenses at the Telegraph, Lord BlackStockings, now, unfortunately, in the Florida penitentiary, would say to me, Maxie, Baby, we are both great historians, take what you need, it is only the money of poor little nobodies and I must say, Jonathan, that seems to me to be the entirely proper course of action and Mr Thompson is following it determinedly. And giving me lots of work, by George. Michael Jackson? Never heard of him. Probably a stout fellow, lotsa these nigger chappies make good soldiers with the right leadership. Stand at ease.


Well Jonathan, my boy, speaking as Liberal Democrat, Esther and Abi Ofarim's version of You're a Lady, You're the Lady, That I Love, is, for me, Rock 'n' Blues, as good as it gets, Rythm 'n' Roll for the anchovie-eating class, and this nasty little schwartzer goyim is just an anti-semitic terrorist, anybody buying his records is a holocaust-denier. The world is a better, more Orthodox place without the nigger, so good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say. My friend and fellow Zionist, Mr Guido ben Fawkesberg, of the BNP,
understands the problems we have with the untermenschen and has helped raise millions of pizzas to feed our bold troops as they drive their tanks over infants in the name of Jehovah and Wall Street. Oi vay and Have Nagilah, Hav-e Nagil-ah, Hav-e Nag-ilah, c'mon, studio audience, join in, now; what are you, Nazis? In my party we firmly believe in whatever it is and we will stick to that come hail, rain or shit, I mean shine, we are not all Mark Oatens, just some of us. I also agreee wth everybody else on the panel.


Well, first of all, Jonathan I would just like to say that when Lord Douglas Turd and I were each hoovering-up ten million pounds from the ruins of Yugoslavia as agents of the great but sadly not recession-proof NatWest Bank, we had no idea, not the foggiest, that Slobadan Milosowotsit was a war criminal; I mean, working as head of British Intelligence had kept me utterly in the dark about this and no, I will not be paying the money back, why should I ?

Anyway, we don't mention this sort of thing in polite Zombie company; it was dirty work and somebody had to do it and how else would I afford all these clothes and jewels which don't quite disguise my scrawny old cleavage and my sunken, Death's Head eyes? But the question was, Would I sleep Michael Jackson ? Well, he's dead, so he's in with a good chance. And I would just like to reassure listeners and readers that when Mr Cameron becomes Ruler, their security will be safe with me, I can walk through walls. Only not if they have garlic on them.

Thank you, Dame Zombie, and now the thoughts of Yasmin Alibhai Greasy-Chops, speaking, I presume on behalf of all Muslem wimmen, everywhere, even though most of them, indeed, I feel it is safe to say, all of them, have never heard of her. Yasmin. your view on the late nonce, as it were?

My son is a very successful lawyer and I hold dinner parties, mainly of a spicy lamb nature for some very important white people, you know, journalists and such and other worthies and speaking on behalf of Muslem women I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Burka, not unless I was in my own country, but here, anything goes, would you like me to get my tits out ? They are meaty, beefy, big and bouncy?

Thank you, Yasmin, but no thank you..




Well Jonafun, Jacko was not exactly a diamond geezer, wuzze nah ? An' his favoured treatment in the Sarf East did much to alienate the traditional yobboes who come to my concerts an' so I would have ter say, along with the distinguished Yid bint, Julia, that 'is passing won't be too greatly mourned an' it's a case of good riddance to black rubbish, even though, it 'as to be said, that the boy done 'is best to look like one a God's chosen. Apples and pears, trouble an' strife and do keep orf the bleedin' grass, wuncha? I paid me gardener a pony the uvver day to mow that bleedin' lot. I 'ave a new album of traditional material comin' out on Telegraph Records, it's called Racist Tunes and Xenophobic Airs. And Graces.


Ishmaelites never got Michael Jackson, shivering in disgust at the sight of a five-year old fronting a lame rock ensemble, aping his elders and - like Woody Allen films - we banned him from our lives, knew nothing of Off the Wall, Thriller or any of it, despising those who did as freaks. Latterly, the marriages, the children, the civil and criminal cases were hard to avoid, distasteful but looking at the fucked-up five year old, more or less inevitable in some form, forewritten.

Aside from by his millions, maybe billions of braindead fans, Jackson was lionised, encouraged in his vacuity by the most outlandish of Showbusiness, Elizabeth fucking Taylor, the gobsmackingly hideous Minelli and Madonna, posturing freaks themselves, applauding his Nth degree weirdness, his anachronous treble warbling, his pointless, overblown productions, his clothes obsessions, his vile, self-destructive - and surely criminally irresponsible on the part of the practitioners - plastic surgery; each lonesome excess cheered by his fellow, lesser freaks; over-mighty record producers; drug-crazed guitar thrashers, doped-up, anorexic fuckwits, all the glitzy shitmerchants who so pollute our every waking moment, GlobaCorps Consumerist stormtroopers occupying our airwaves, colonising our culture; Jackson, at best a gifted disco dancer, probably helpless and friendless, in so many ways - trash as art, excess, thoughtless consumption, hyperbole, obsessive indulgence, addiction as gratification - personified Ruin.

But he didn't - and does not - do this alone. The twittering classes have much to answer for, then and now. To choose but two, Paul - the hundred best whatevers - Morley has a piece of puff in today's Observer, a reworking of his Newsnight spiel a coupla days back. Morley is ever up his own arse and in great demand by the BBC and the Heritage Media, he is harder to avoid, usually, than Jackson is currently. The vile symbiosis between artiste and critic is realised in all it's syphilitic horror in Paul Morley,
the curiously malfeatured Newsnight regular and national treasure.

"It was immediately clear that the nature and timing of this end had been coming for such a long time. ."

Right, Paul, funny how things become immediately clear after they've happened, innit? Morley has the I Told You So market cornered when it comes to popular so-called culture; if only he could have taken control of Jacko.

Professor Germaine Nausea
is the most repellent bully on the idiot box; unable to lead a life outside a camera lens, Germaine will do aything bar shut the fuck up for five minutes. When George Best died, Germaine rushed into print saying that back in the imaginary 'sixties Georgie was gagging for her but she wouldn't let him, dead footballers can't sue. In the Arsebridger Guardian, yesterday, she brought her pornographer's eye to the life and times of the Beautiful Boy Michael, none would believe that she had tantalised him as she claims to have tantalised poor, wee, Belfast George, the horrible old boot; given, however, the stupidity of the Guardian reader, she must have been tempted.

If only she had guided the Dead One in his career, Oh, by my sacred vulva, how different it all might have been. Yes, probably, with her connections, been able to get the Beautiful boy on Celebrity BigHead Brother. Like her.

Germaine has recently posted nude studies of herself at sixty online, narcissism is her own long suit, how dare some uppity degreeless nigger upstage her.

Germaine, like Jackson, is her own, tragic, lonely construct; fascinating to some but loathed; some achievement to her credit but nowhere near as much as she thinks; now,
like Jacko, casting around for reinvention opportunities, here, almost Jacksonesque,
is one of them.

"His sudden death is a strange kind of victory. He had managed to prevent his ageing and even his growing up. There was no beard upon his chin; his voice was a childish treble. Instead of entering middle age and letting himself be chained to earth, he has floated away like a wisp, annihilated on the brink of a 50-date concert tour that I for one was dreading.."

If only Germaine could be so delivered from herself. It is the " ...that I for one was dreading...." which is so toe-curlingly, flesh-eatingly revolting; poor, mad old cow.

What we see, now, is worse in a way than the Banquet of Grief following the death of the Princess of fucking Wales, which was at least connected to the spasms of the body politic; the Death-feasting around Jackson is absolutely nothing to do with anything; a showbusiness freak OD-ing, so what? But the timing is perfect, a lull afforded, a dam of media-orchestrated sentimentality flung temporarily across the torrent of cynicism flooding around Brown and Obama and Berlusconi and all. In death as in life, poor, mad Whacko Jacko, serving the press, the business, the stockholder, the system; serving his - and our- invisible Masters of Ruin.

Reagan knew it, Blair learned it, Obama is an adept, a superstar; Brown struggles but does his snot-eating, You-Tubing best - there is No Business Like Show Business.


Anonymous said...

Shamon Muthafukka!

All this love makes me feel so special!

Heee Heeee.

lilith said...

Calfy's dad asked me the other day "Couldn't we kill Germaine Greer and give your mother the job for a bit? Change being as good as a rest and all that."

lilith said...

As you know, I adore all kinds of music, I like the best of many traditions and fads, but Michael Jackson completely passed me by.

(Saw Fairie Queen/Purcell at Glyndebourne on the day Jacko ate his last meal of tablets, so starry eyed oblivious I was to all the drama)

call me ishmael said...

One Germaine Greer is enough, I feel, in a troubled universe such as this. Talking of Faerie Queens, Lilith, I was up at the the St Magnus Festival on Orkney and saw, inter alia, Maxwell-Davies's Birthday Card to the Prince of fucking Wales and John Rutter's Suite Antique for Harpsichord Flute and Strings; never realised modern English composers were so rock 'n' roll. I wonder if any other readers have any name-dropping experiences to share with us.

Daisy said...

I once nearly ran over John Taylor of Duran Duran infamy.

A fraction earlier on the accelerator and I'd have got the bastard.

The Dyer's Garden said...

One has to admire your optimism, Mr Smith. The record sales are eloquent enough: none of the millions who adored him were coerced to spend their cash on his records. The Masters of Ruin are the ruined themselves.

call me ishmael said...

"...none of the millions who adored him were coerced to spend their cash on his records."

Thanks and I know what you mean, Mr TDG, but it depends on how we understand coercion; the organs of mass media exist only to coerce us, don't they ? They only operate as a result of advertising revenues, advertising is coercion; isn't coercion at the heart of consumerism, Jackson a construct, like a Ford Focus ?

I like the idea of a shadowy set of the Powerful, the Masters of Ruin and I think it is our Ruin at which they conspire, not theirs. By ours I mean the almost accidentally free-thinking, relatively well-educated, confident, post-war generation which, despite it's affection for consumerism, still asks awkward questions and the younger, freer electronic nomads who foregather in Seattle and Vienna and London and Tehran.

"The Masters of Ruin are the ruined themselves" is the sort of thing Mr Tacitus used to say and is as sharp an observation as any he made; it is not, however, necessarily correct or entirely correct.

I may have misunderstood it; I think I would understand it completely if it read

"....; the Masters of Ruin are thus the ruined themselves."

as it stands it is inescapably ambiguous; presumably it refers to a self-ruination by the great unwashed, whom, peace and blessing be upon him, Mr Tacitus was wont to dismiss more or less out of hand. I hope for better. I always hope for better.

Cracatacus said...

I don't suppose you could hazzard a guess as to what percentage of the population would account for, 'the almost accidentally free-thinking, relatively well-educated, confident, post-war generation'?

I imagine it's actually quite small. In fact, I now feel part of a sub-species and refer to myself as 'old English' although I'm still in my 40's.

call me ishmael said...

A start, Mr Caractacus, would be to number all the lonesome obsessives and blowhards, such as ourselves, ranting on the global 'net, maybe double it by their spouses/partners and you wpould get one figure; you could then make a guess as to how many not-having-it younger, eco people communicate via but outside the various systems and devices - the electronic nomads - and then you could estimate how many of the millions who don't vote refrain from a sense of utter contemps and not what our rulers, shitting in our faces, impertinently describe as apathy. The number, I guess, would be more than we think, less than we would like.

The galling thing is that so many, so blessed by the post-war settlement have so sold-out to careerism and a little holiday place in France and obsess, now, dribbling and narcissistic, about their grandchildren; fascism, unemployment, hunger and rickets defeated in order that the Guardian-reading totalitarianistes nouvelle might manage the poor on behalf of the rich, pensioning and ennobling one another as they go.

Caractacus said...

Many of your comments, such as this one should, should be recorded for posterity. When those beneficiaries of Brown's great legacy ask the question why, here will lie the answer.

The Dyer's Garden said...

Apologies for the negligent style. The distinction I had in mind is between coercion and subversion: the former goes against the subject's will, the latter makes it his will. No-one is forced to buy a song against his will, like the soviets had to buy marx's texts against their will. So Jackson's popularity either tells us something about the millions who adore him, or about the power of the ruling minority to subvert them. Which is it more likely to be? Since the only criterion of success these days is popularity, and the field is more open than at any time in human history, it seems to me there is more of the former than of the latter. Were it snatches of Tristan that one heard sibilating through the headphones of the darling thugs and thugettes packing the Peckham omnibus, it would be much harder to disagree with you. But it is not.

To say all that is not to be nihilistic. Why say it at all if we didn't care about the "great unwashed": you, on your blessed isle, and I, in my ivory tower? The real question is the remedy - do we, as you urge, line up a few people against the wall - or do we reconsider what it is about *us* that allows such people to come into prominence in the first place? I am all for optimism, except when the actions it encourages favour the outcome the pessimist predicts.

Anonymous said...

There was no beard upon his chin; and according to leaks from the freaks autopsy none on his head either weighing at 51 kg, scars on his face from 13 cosmetic operations and numerous needle marks on the body. Of course I would let my child stay overnight unsupervised, why ever not?

call me ishmael said...

I dunno, Mr anonymous, that he was any worse than all the luvvies, that's what they do and most of them don't get caught; no-one, for instance, was murdered at any of his concerts as a result of a malevolent, Satanic atmosphere cranked-up by his act; no-one was encouraged, by his material, to take heroin that they, unlike the stars, could never afford, poor junkies go to jail, rich junkies to Buckingham Palace and Downing Street; his entourage were not infamous for passing teenage girls - and boys - around like peanuts; by the standards of Rock 'n' Roll - Stones, Led Zeppelin, Lady Sir Elton John, Queen, Guns 'n' Roses - Jacko was the Clean Cut Kid. Sure, the kiddy stopover thing was at best weird and at worst revolting but done with the connivance of the parents who, as you say, seemed recklessly neglectful and are the more blameworthy but with groupies like Liz Taylor and Lisa Minelli he was hardly a threat to public decency, poor fucked-up bastard. I wonder, in passing, how many cosmetic scars would be revealed by an autopsy on our own Peter Pan, Lady Sir Cliff Richard.

Mr The Dyers Garden's observations on the Jacko phenomenon, its microcosmic illustration of our plight, are more epicurean, unchallengeable by a Fool, such as I.

But, anyway, anyone with teenage children in the 'eighties would have felt as compelled to buy expensive trainers for their spawn as was any Muscovite to buy the Marxist tracts, any Chink The Thoughts Of Chairman Mao. The pressures of late Capitalism more subtle, maybe, but no less compelling than those of the Politburo and the KGB.

"No-one is forced to buy a song against his will..." may be logically correct but tell it to an emotional child otherwise excluded from the tribe.

I remain optimistic because since we came crawling from the seas things have got better for us, despite the best efforts of those who rule to make them otherwise.

Maybe now we are too many, too noisy, too hot, too hungry for the planet to allow us longer here and all our rhetoric and sophistry pointless; maybe we really are blogging a dead horse.

Anonymous said...

rich junkies to Buckingham Palace and Downing Street;" Oh really? I thought they went to the Priory."Sir Elton John, Queen" why the comma? As for Sir Lady Harry Webb did all those monkys die in vain? Looks like it. Perhaps someone wiser than me can explain why people gatherd outside the hospital where Jackson was lying dead as a dodo carrying photos of the man and shouting his name? Same reason as when the Queen of Tarts got bumped off hundreds of thousands of idiots made a lot of florists very happy buying flowers and mourning for a person they didn't know and when she was alive certainly didn't want to know them.36 years old when she popped her clogs, was working in a kids nursery when she married with nothing in the bank. Did a lot for charity but left her (our) £31 million entire fortune to millionaires, one born every minute and two to take 'em.

call me ishmael said...

Dear Mr Anonymous

Yes they do go to the Priory, but they got to Downing St and the Palace to get their honours, is what I meant.

I think you don't properly understand the charity thing. The more people steal from us the more charities they have to have. And of course the career CEOs of these charities love to hob the knobs of the knobs, get their teeth around the foreskins of Power.

The whole shebang of cocksucking charity bandits is utterly revolting, Children in Need or Oxfam, Live Aid, poisonous, self-regarding arseholes, totally complicit in and underpinning of the wrongs they claim to right.

The Nazarene anarchist said Do not charity out in the open, hoping to impress men and God, for God will piss on your head, rather do it in private, modestly; when giving to the poor, said Jesus, let not, motherfuckers, your right hand know what your left hand is doing.

Anonymous said...

Well as I live in northern Thailand I see the results of "charity" everyday can't move for Christians saving the Buddhists from eternal damnation. Morons on bikes with shirts and ties and my personal favourite missionaries these fuckers are everywhere. Mostly yanks but the UK has a good showing with fat cows from Orpington with red feet,bad complexions and fake smiles uder the head scarf.I met one a while ago at the vets she works with hill tribes,plenty of them here anyway she may well work with them but sure as eggs are eggs she doesn't live with them. Oh no she and the rest of these parasites live in the best condominiums with maid service and 24 security sadly missing from the villages she works in. I don't know if you have ever had anydealings with these clowns if you have you will wonder the same as me how anyone can be so fucking stupid with just the one head. I had just bought a new Toyota Land Cruiser and she asked hat I thought? As someone who has been on the recieving end of the British car industry when we had one I told her it was great.This woman had a Toyota pick up 4 wheel drive 4 doors nice bit of kit. She said she would get in touch with her "support" group in Tonbridge Wells so they could have a whipround to buy her one same as mine.
This cow also plays golf here you get 3 caddys per person 1 to cart the clubs around, 1 to hold the umbrella and a spare to go and get the G&T's but not her. She flies most weekends to Huey Hin 1,000 plus km from here to play golf with her friends. So may I respecfully suggest the next time some charity collector shoves a tin in your face you shove it up their arse where it would do more good

Anonymous said...

This from Tipi Hedren who is looking after the dead freaks fucking tigers. We are doomed I tell you, fucking doomed.

"I went up and sat with them for a while and let them know that Michael was gone," she explained. "You don't know what mental telepathy exists from the human to the animal. But I hope they understood."

Hedren has called upon grieving members of the public to donate money to her organisation and help her call for a law that bans the keeping of big cats as pets.

lilith said...

I have great difficulty resisting the chuggers. Handsome young men have got direct debits out of me in moments.

You want name dropping? Calfy once sat on Philip Treacy's lap and demanded he make her a hat.

My mother once barracked Tony Benn for an entire train journey. (She thought she was flirting with him.)

I have shaken Bob Weir's hand.

call me ishmael said...

"So may I respecfully suggest the next time some charity collector shoves a tin in your face you shove it up their arse where it would do more good"

Yes, them and the Jehovahs witnesses, they don't come here anymore, I hope it was something I said. It is good to know that Mother Nature mourns Michael as deeply as do we.

As for name-dropping, Ms Lilith, I know young Mr stanislav, the plumber, so there.

Suprised that bucolic folk such as yourself and Mr Elby have nothing to say about the Snotman hijacking Grey's Elegy to his grim, manic purpose; no doubt your mother knew him, too, Grey, not Brown, if you will forgive the colourful collision.