Thursday, 30 July 2009

THE WAY IT IS, A CLIMATE OF INSULT.

A CLIMATE OF INSULT

Our right honourable friend, Jack Torture, MP, PC often claims, hissingly, self-regardingly, that he, more or less on his own, did away with Deference, as though being deferential was a crime against humanity, such as the many he, himself, has committed.

Straw, his remarks aimed at a generation he presumes knows nothing, refers to the so-called counter-culture movement of the sixties, in which he took no part whatsoever, and which, had he then been in power would have suppressed with Stalinist vigour and which has it's origin not in Straw’s rancid party politics but in Showbiz, in the work of the US beat poets, of Lenny Bruce, of Private Eye, Peter Cook's Establishment Club, Ned Sherrin's TW3, of the British blues and jazz players –Davy Graham, Chris Barber, Alexis Korner and so on – and then in the consumerist druggy doggerel of the Beatles and the dandified, junky chic of the Rolling Stones, the complete Otherness of Bob Dylan and in an Undergrund Press which, momentarily, permitted a different voice; Straw, a then pimply outcast, a nerd, a square, a straight, nevertheless claims authorhip of such rebellion as was briefly here mooted, before becoming, itself, a dedicated follower of fashion. Deference Straw hisses, sagaciously, needed to be done away with - aside, of course, when it is quite properly due to holders of great offices of state, such as he.

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Rather than an end to deference – to position, often inherited or to custom and practice unquestioned for centuries – which is fine and in a sense progressive, Straw actually allies himself facetiously to the mythical Summer of Love and with the stagey bad manners of John Lennon and not with an overdue reassessment of bourgeois protocols and hierarchies which was being carried out journalistically by Tariq Ali and Mick Farren, Felix Dennis and Richard Neville and in the Courts by John Mortimer and a clutch of literati.

In his remarks, last year, to Andrew Neil, about being the scourge of Deference, Straw claimed that such would be his chosen epitaph, his explanation, to the young, of his life and purpose, as though he had been, as his mentor Blair claimed, in his youth, a cute little rock ‘n’ roller.

You wouldn’t expect much else from a man who, as Foreign Secretary lied in his rotten, hissing teeth to the United Nations; WMD, swore Straw, a devout political Christian, are about to be launched against us by these Moslem devils, only not the ones in my constituency, of course; we must attack, slaughter, raze to the ground, he insisted, kow-towing to Uncle Tom Coh-lin Powell, himself a stupid stooge who now, too late, realises and admits that rather than being le premier nigger superieur he was easily manipulated by the Bush gangsters, his gross, stupefying, beribboned vanity conniving in the fiery deaths of myriad black and brown children, to the glory of Jim Crow’s white, corporate America, the KKK Internationale.

Bombing innocent people is perhaps the height of bad manners; and for all his simpering, faux-judicial sanctimony, his clumsy attempts at linguistic sophitication, his laughable magisterial air, Straw was and remains an uncouth thug, jumped-up, graceless, bowing and scraping backwards, selectively deferential, before monarchy, like some robber baron nouvelle, his hands stained, his breath reeking, his robes dripping blood, his face, to quote another cynic, looking like something Death brought with him in his suitcase, the epitome of NewLabour, his whey-faced, obnoxious son, groomed and sinister, behind him.


The freedoms, which Myth would have us believe were wrung, non-deferentially, from Power’s hands in the nineteen-sixties, are nowhere evident. We are photographed, morning, noon and night; thousands of new, imprisonable offences are manufactured in some Euro-punishment Hellhole; we can now be tried for the same thing twice or, presumably, as with the Irish referendum, however many times it takes until the right result is reached, the mouthy, unaccountable careerist chief constable satisfied; our correspondence is subject to surveillance and storage for future examination, perhaps in case something, quite legal now, may yet be criminalised and we can be retrospectively held to account; we can be hoisted off to the Land of the Free to be given nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-years, just for thinking. The police can and do shoot, beat, enclose and abuse us at will, without fear of penalty; nothing new there, really, just a question of degree. The Executive, its last criminal chief officer applauded to the skies by the legislature, seeks our ever longer detention without trial, empowers bands of jobsworths to invade our homes, our businesses, our vehicles; if you have nothing to hide you have nothing to fear, comrade citizen; wars on drugs, wars on terror, wars on crimes, wars on smoking, wars on drinking, wars on obesity; never was so cowardly a gang of reprobates and degenerates so studiously martial; a government of knaves, at war with its citizens, plundering our coffers, selling-off our landscapes, trampling on our civic and natural history, an orgy of haphazard planning decisions, spuriously green, vastly profitable to a vandalous handful, yet utterly meaningless in planetary terms, blights a land- and sky-scape unchanged since the Ice Age, nothing, neither the work of God or man, is safe from New Labour, all is now the servant of government, the land as well as the people; whence came such tyranny?

The entire apparatus of Power, as never before, skews all before it, towards its own interests. A handful of malevolent freaks owns the national press; the national broadcaster run by effete totalitarianistes nouvelle, fronted by Establishment gabshites, ensures that political coverage stops far short of reporting - much less interviewing - Difference, broadcasters and Westminster politicians all joined in a gross daisy chain, each up the other’s arse, like some devilish, de Sadeian tableau from 120 Days of Sodom, de-coupling occasionally, to shit in our faces.

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The hereditary Dimblebys, arguably the most influential current affairs broadcasters - by dint of their father’s connections - studiously leaping on any voice of dissent which has not been, in advance, excluded from their dreary pretend shows and strangling it, maintaining, at all costs, a status quo of filthy, smirking, Hoonish rottenness. On next week’s Question Time the panel will consist of War, Plague, Famine, the broadcaster and writer Will Self and the Tories Security bint, Dame Pauline Neville Corpse, clap when you are told to by the floor manager. Or else.

We now have a twice-disgraced Gilbert and Sullivanesque baron, a First Secretary of Everything, a freaky blackmailer, a man brilliant enough to run Trade and Industry like none before –Oh, Peter is so wonderful - yet too fey to understand his mortgage application form, scolding and tut-tutting us for our impertinence in questioning him; his shabby, snot-eating, putative master skulking in dark places, shredding his nails, grinding his teeth in misery, yet unembarrassed that his former tormentor now keeps him in place and keeps him in line;
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this, the United Kingdom, is gay Ruritania, closet pansies bitching at one another over the national corpse; gay wives, gay husbands, a cottaging elite, gay admirals and field marshals posturing and twittering, this way and that, at the prime minister’s bidding; select committees flirting outrageously with this ghastly man, Mandelson, as though parliament was Danny le Rue’s nightclub, whilst chiding us that we should do better by them, tighten our belts, that they might slacken theirs. I would rather have had the Deference, myself.


The hard-won freedoms of the ‘sixties, then, recently colonised by Straw, are an advertising construct, beloved of Q Magazine and other industry organs; we are more shackled than ever before. What we do have, however, as was touched upon the other night, by Mr mongoose, is a freedom to be rude,

“…..(some) fucking eegit, who thinks that because he has an insult in his head that he is somehow as good as the next horrible little bastard.”

our deferential, formerly polite and considerate - No, after you – restrained and inhibited civic environment, has become, this last quarter-century of Blatcherism, a Climate of Insult.

This is what we do; this, the national sport; this, our bread and circuses; this, the cake we are let eat. We are free, now, as never before, to insult one another.

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Jeremy Kyle, Graham Norton, Jonathan Ross, Jimmy Carr, hideous grotesques all, paid millions of our taxpounds to be insulting, to be, inevitably, role models to our little consumers. No discernible talent distinguishes such as these, other than bad manners. The inescapable Steven Fry reads, sneeringly, insultingly, from an autocue as though it were a toilet wall and considers himself Wildean genius made smug, corpulent, farting flesh, his lame guests and his biddable studio audience an admiring coterie at a Savoy luncheon, gasping at his brilliance, as though this tuneless, repetitious, cack-handed bore was Noel Coward, rarely a minute passing without all hymning buggery, drooling at ejaculation.

Previous generations of otherwise worthless, narcissistic luvvies, Bruce Forsyth, for instance, were song-and–dance men, could do a turn, had some tradecraft, love it or loathe it, these were card-sharping journeymen, prestidigitators, jugglers, piano players, dancers and comics, soft-shoe shufflers, fire-eaters, sword swallowers, jongleurs moderne, troubadors; a trade as old as speech itself, older than whoring, is showbusiness.

The Big Brother House, though, isn’t show business but the first UK example of Cruelty Television, of insult made entertainment. Never seen but a fragment here and there, enough to avoid. Don’t know what the X-factor is but if it boasts Simon Cowell or Sharon FaceLift or Piers Moron among its presenters that’s bad enough, cruel enough, insulting enough for me to miss. These are individuals whose only talent is to be effortlessy cruel, in Moron’s case effortlessly unprincipled, too, not the worst tabloid editor in history but the most shameless, little Piers, waving his lawyers at any who question his probity.

It may be argued, of course, that contestants on these shows deserve everything they get – the bullying, the cheap shots, the roaring, cat-calling disapproval, Gladiator style, of the worthless studio audience - but fabulously well-paid programmers and controllers have a duty of care not to expose the slow-witted, the easily-led and the vain to cruelty of this sort, to ineraseable insult from the likes of Cowell.

But it is not just the low-brows who insult a capitve prey, listen to Mad Melanie Phillips or Claire Fox or, in his heyday, the nasty pinch-faced litlle faggot, Starkey, on the delightfully titled Moral Maze. There is cruelty and insult for you, a gang of useless, posturing “commentators” bullying and tormenting, an audio-crucifixion of some poor heterosexual, academic, vegetarian or Muslim, for the epicurean delectation of members of the Radio Four audience, listening at home, carefully and in a very balanced way, drinking FairTrade tea, in their cardigans and support hose, mouthing silently to themselves Go on David, Stick It To The Bitch, Go on My Son. Starkey’s delight in insult has led him to vast riches and splendour as a TeeVee historian, although he remains and obnoxious little prat

Regular readers here will contest that the People cry out for this shit, for this wickedness, they watch it, they deserve it and maybe they do - but I don’t deserve it and countless others should not have civic life polluted by insult, learned from greedy nonentities on the telly.

The celebration of the unworthy is everywhere. Screaming gay footballers having sex with one another, via some poor groupie in-between; toasting, is it called, roasting? I don’t know what kind of men these are, the premiership gang-rapists, other than the wrong kind, needing a very good, sudden, sharp, unexpected, ferocious punch in the face from a proper bloke, the force of Decency smashing their gleaming, sponsored teeth, stars in their eyes, the acrid taste of hot blood suddenly, shockingly in their throats; instead, these freaks strut the land, insulting all before them, immunised, indemnified by celebrity, hallowed.

To insult, deprave and corrupt, to be boorish and vile, one to another, these, under Straw, are our freedoms. Without even examining the insult added to injury inflicted by spiv bankers or scrutinising the cassus bellus for our squandering, abroad, Tommy’s life and limb as well as our good, fascist-kicking name, we can see from just the everyday, the mundane, the prosaic, how low we are sunk, Lily Savage, a repulsive, insulting drag queen, the New English Rose; East Enders, wretchedly violent, priapic, misanthropic, cruelly slandering an entire class, teaching our young amorality and hysteria, peddling instant gratification, lionising cruelty, refining Insult weekly; Insult, the new national treasure.

And as we do unto to others, so we are done unto, the large print giveth and the small taketh away. No more Boom and Bust, Ruin, instead, writ large and small, legitmate expectation dashed; retirements, long planned-for, husbanded frugally in advance, laid waste by those guaranteed luxurious longevity, garlanded in ermine, wafting from one QUANGO to another, Ashdown, Kinnock and soon Prescott, nobodies playing grandiose ambassadors, commissioners, plenipotentiaries. There is a tiny, tiny story, almost too trivial to tell but shockingly illustrative. In the taxpayer-funded constructors’ gold-rush which is the Olympic games, already three times over budget, compulsory purchase orders have thrown hundreds of allotmenteers off plots which they had spent a lifetime cultivating, their allotments, tiny scraps of rich dirt wheron they learned rest and renewal and Creation’s cyclicality, plots where they clung-on to sanity and peace, amid an ocean of urban alienation, bulldozed. Imagine. Now, they must buy their broad beans at Tesco’s, like good consumers; a tiny wee story, just another handful, their work made Insult, their lives made Sorrow.

Some freedoms are won, it is true; homosexuals may live largely unmolested, women are much less discriminated against; blacks and Asians, if not entirely integrated at least not firebombed, inventing, quaintly, their own niggers, coons, jungle bunnies and ragheads - the Albanians, the Poles; the nonce is still everywhere, low dives and high places, conspiring, trading but often, now, despite the best efforts of Pope Nazi and the noncing monsignors, children are believed; we live longer, better and healthier, enjoy freedom from illnesses which carried off our grandparents. Such advances, however, are not those to which Straw falsely alludes; they are not freedom of thought, much less freedom of assembly, freedom to organise, to dissent, to march, to travel, we have no freedom to chastise our employees, to picket the parliamentarians, who keep the matter of their regulation closely to themselves, playing, in the four-yearly festival of competetive promising, musical chairs, as though this meaningless ritual sufficiently policed their serial, collective criminality.

The next time, then, that men and women of a certain age pontificate about How Freedom was Won, Deference O’erthrown in the 'sixties, look ye around at Insult rampant. And punch them in the face.

29 comments:

Elby the Beserk said...

And so says all of I.

A colleague with whom I worked for nigh on twenty years, was a student politico at Oxford. Early 70s, just after I was there. Nice guy. Very mild-mannered.

He said of Straw, who he encountered at various gabfests that student politicos used to frequent. Said of him, "He was a prick back then, and he's a prick right now".

That would be correct.

Anonymous said...

another superb piece, sir. i hate windmills too. they desecrate the landscape and are a symbol of folly. why windmills in the nuclear age? they are a badge of oppression and a blasphemy erected by soulless men. inefficient foolish toys and nothing but the new crucifix of the carbon-is-bad-so-give-us-your-money religion.
i am old enough to remember the Tripods mini-series, and think back to it every time i see those dreadful metal bastards. they are the same looming alien presence, stuck there at the EUs orders, and a reminder that we are not the masters in our own country. fuck the landscape, fuck the birds, fuck the bats. we'll have to build more power stations because it isn't always windy, but we'll ruin the view and kill off wildlife anyway. i have a somewhat greater sympathy for the residents of south Armagh, and their opinion of British Army watchtowers in their green and pleasant landscape.

PT Barnum said...

The allotments referred to were the very first of their kind, given to local people 'in perpetuity' over a century ago. The LDA graciously permitted the holders to harvest their 2007 crops, before sending them in to a 7 year exile, and then building a 'landscaped' footpath to the stadium across land cultivated for generations. Appropriate, for a symbolic trampling over of something so distinctive to this island, that it be replaced by some generic 'designed' 'feature', a century of working the land in miniature, erased for three weeks of nationalistic narcotic combat, short-termism on overdrive.

This is small beer compared to China's brutal demolition of temporary (all but permanent) housing where impoverished economic migrants sheltered. Or Brazil's disappearing and sometimes slaughter of thousands of street children before some international jamboree (don't upset the foreigners). But what they share is the manufacture of homogeneity, shaping the world to match a wholly artificial vision of a smooth, clean world, a macro version of any advert for a cleaning product.

Edgar said...

Straw is the epitome of deference. He has always deferred to dishonour.

Daisy said...

That was a delight to read, Mr Ishmael, and longer than usual. Raining in best part of England, is it?

It’s been one of those strange days where things of great import seem to have occurred without, apparently, having attracted much attention.

From the hand of the very same Mr Straw we have the end of the Law Lords; a system honed over centuries and without obvious fault, which cost £2 million a year to operate, discarded and sacrificed on the altar of rationalisation and modernisation in favour of a US style Supreme Court, complete with a £60 million building and £40 million a year admin costs. Competition with the legislature and politicisation of judicial appointments seems inevitable; the advantages escape me.

The last of the British Armed Forces leave Iraq, not proudly, with our ambitions achieved and the thanks of the Iraqi people for our sacrifice, but on the quiet, slyly, slinking away with our tail between our legs, unwanted, thrown out, the disgrace of the Basra retreat engraved on the Army’s soul and a lasting stain on our national reputation. Brown, again, the man directly responsible; so keen, in his early days as PM to announce a withdrawal, as he had promised his party, he again refused to even consider giving the military the troops and equipment necessary to do the job they were responsible for.

The scores of Iraqi women found lining the ditches outside Basra, their throats cut for the crime of shopping without permission and the like, who foolishly believed that we meant what we said when we promised to protect them, owe their deaths directly to Brown. I pray he sees their faces, every single night, in his fucking nightmares.

joe bonanno said...

Very overwritten.

Nowhere near as 'literary', as interesting, or as clever as you think it is.

Daisy said...

Dear Mr Banana,

Feel free to show us how it should be done; as literary, interesting and clever as you like, in your own time.

Agatha Raisin said...

Hi, bonanno,
"very overwritten" hmm... like, too many notes, Herr Mozart.... so, which words will we leave out?

Agatha Raisin said...

Hi, bonanno,
"very overwritten" hmm... like, too many notes, Herr Mozart.... so, which words will we leave out?

black hole sunset said...

A pleasure to read, Mr Ismael. Many thanks.

No limit to Ruin's ambition, or reach, to judge by the ferocity of the blaze; a firestorm of progressive modernisation - all new, shiny, shit and empty.

Straw, experienced Parliamentarian that he is, bears, demands, perhaps, comparison with a guinea worm; another sickening, malignant parasite.

call me ishmael said...

Who is it, Mr banana, here, who says that this piece of cyber street entertainment is either literary or clever and how do you know what they think? I think you must be over-reading. It's just busking, the blues, some pieces are extended, some brief, some a pastiche.

If you want literature you should go back to the Pizza Parlour, you'll know it, it's the one with the tree in the front window. Or maybe, as mr daisy suggests,you'll treat us to a piece of your own. I think that would be only fair.

call me ishmael said...

Not raining, Mr Daisy, just a dead of night thing. I was prompted by Mr mongoose's quiet outrage at the currency of insult and just trying to work it out for myself, me being one of those who would merit the suggested valedictory punch in the face, talkin' bout my generation.

I am no admirer of the Law Lords - Denning, Lane, Judge - and given some integrity in Westminster I would support a Supreme Court, Bill of Rights and Constitution and ideally citizens' access to same without needing the learned friends to take their cut but it will be as you say it will and worse and these things should not happen when such wan scrutiny as parliament provides is on holiday, for three months, working with its constituencies.

I never knew what our ambition in Iraq was. What I do know for sure is that sixty years ago we were the good guys, now, in many parts of the world and not just Muslim parts, we are the bad guys, for the reasons you cite and more. As you say

".....slinking away with our tail between our legs, unwanted, thrown out, the disgrace of the Basra retreat engraved on the Army’s soul and a lasting stain on our national reputation."

My own view is that without Blair's collusion that invasion never would have happened, I think the UN would have prevailed on the matter of the spurious WMD. We never should have been there and the Saddam necktie party is poor justification for all the attendant horrors.

"...all new, shiny, shit and empty." That about does it, mr bhs.

In the way of these things, faced with Ruin's enormity, it is the allotments which resonate strongest. If that was me I'd kill some fucker. Why do we put up with all this shit?

Post a link please, Mr PTB, if you have one.

The Dyer's Garden said...

Of course, an insulting manner is wholly alien to those who comment here, even the ladies.

It is a pity, Mr Smith, that when the mood takes you, all this will be gone in a blink.

You seem to have plenty of leisure and few distractions - gales, seals, & meals - so why not give some architecture to all of this? I don't mean the mode of delivery (Conrad's Nostromo, remember, was written as a serial) - but the thematic organisation. Or is it that you are busy with another kind of public writing different enough in style for us to miss the connection?

Daisy said...

Dear Mr TDG,

Not all that editor shit again, I thought we'd dealt with that, elsewhere.

Daisy said...

Dear Mr Ishmael,

“What we have actually done is make land secure for about 100,000 people. What we’ve done is push back the Taliban - and what we’ve done also is to start to break that chain of terror that links the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan to the streets of Britain.”

These were the words of Gordon Brown last Monday, announcing the end of Operation Panthers Claw.

Something that I think has been lost in the media storm over troop numbers and helicopters, and which has not, as far I have seen, been recognised or raised anywhere, is the very limited scope and ambition of this operation.

Some will have seen the BBC announcing that we have taken control of an area the size of the Isle of Wight, which may sound, on the face of it, impressive; but I would suspect many will not have much of a grasp as to the geographical size of the Isle of Wight, and most will have even less idea how that relates to Helmand Province. I have spoken to a number of people who were under the clear impression, based on what they have seen in the media, that we have just driven the Taliban out of the whole of central Helmand.

A useful map is at:http://www.operations.mod.uk/mapping/5865_ed6_helmand_province.jpg
Click to zoom in. Operation Panthers Claw has, broadly speaking, been conducted along an axis stretching from just south of our base at Lashkar Gar to the joint Anglo-Dutch base at Camp Price near Gereshk to the north-east. We’re talking about an area approximately 35 miles long by a few miles wide. Helmand Province is some 23,000 square miles in size, we have just “taken control” of about 300 square miles of it.

The Lashkar Gar district, incidentally, is considered to be only under Taliban “influence”. Four other Helmand districts, Nad Ali to the west and Naw Zad, Sangin and Bughran to the north are considered to be under total Taliban control and Panther’s Claw leaves them untouched.

To describe this achievement as being in any way significant, whether within the restricted context of Helmand, the wider Afghanistan, or the alleged relationship between Afghanistan and terrorism on the streets of Britain, is to stretch credulity beyond breaking point.

Additionally, by Brown’s own admission we lack the troop numbers even to hold the ground taken without the support of tens of thousands of additional Afghan troops and police. He has said that Karzai should provide these but is currently unable to say whether they will be provided, when this might happen or how much use they may actually prove to be.

I am at a complete loss to understand what, of any lasting or even temporary value at all, has been achieved. But then that has also been true of almost every other “offensive” we have conducted in Helmand over the last few years.

Was it worth 22 lives and over 100 more seriously maimed and crippled? Gordon Brown should be made to answer that question, personally, individually and face-to-face with every single widow, fatherless child and grieving parent.

call me ishmael said...

Jesus fucking wept, Mr The Dyers Garden, that is the point, read the last fucking line, can you not see the culpability, mine, at any rate - I would not include the regulars here most of whom, most of the time, are uncommonly gracious.

I had a wee wager with myself that this would be your first observation, I must now transfer money from one pocket to another.

You would not believe the extent or duration of my industry, no, you really wouldn't, I live on a tranquil shore but I do not idle here. Check the posting times of much of this stuff and you will see it is often written when most are abed, sleeping.

Death's grim sergeants may take me more swiftly and with more finality than may a mood, we all of us may disappear and you know as well as I, better, the perils of Ambition and Vanity. I never tire of saying: that some people read this and enjoy it, that some people weep with laughter at other bits is why I do it and for no other reason.

I will think, however, on what you say, I always do, and as we are now taught to say, come back to you.


post script.

I wrote extensively about this at the Pizza Parlour, maybe a couple of years ago. I distinguish between those who insult and debase for a living, tabloid journalists, unfunny comics, bully presenters, TV cooks and so on and those who insult to some purpose, in retaliation or archly, the hapless citizen calling Geoff Hoon a cunt is insult of a different order to Gordon Ramsay screaming abuse at some commis chef, nobody here does that sort of thing.

Ordinary people have always cussed politicians and monarchs and quite rightly so but the 'net permits a tumult of what was once confined to the public bar, the tea-break, what we now call talk around the watercooler. It is to von Fawkes's credit that he permitted that tumult and that it was read by politicians; that he failed to orchestrate, to stop it's slide into misogyny, racism and infanticide is a matter for him, Pope Nazi and Our Father Who Aren't In Heaven.

call me ishmael said...

I tried to post something similar though less specific at The Daily Politics, although it disappeared before arriving.

My refrain was that unless we build a mile high wall around Afghanistan overnight and kill every bastard inside of it then it doesn't matter how many Talimen we kill, the rest of them will just disappear into another 'Stan, or down some caves. The main point, of course, is that many of them are in France or Belgium or Bradford, killing a few hundred or a few thousand in Afghanistan will only make those already here even angrier than they are. This is fucking lunacy, all of it, and Major General Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap needs his face punching-in for colluding in it.

Let him form a regiment of brasshats and let them go and die for some load of old bollocks like this, keeping Britain safe by chasing a few wogs round a tiny bit of that miserable shithole, see how they like it.

On another note, one of the things that really pisses me about Rupert is his use of colleague, when he means comrade, our people, when he means our troops. As Mr TDG would say, this is the death of ideas, here, ruining stuff.

It's all fucked, all of it, ruined.

Dick the Prick said...

Dear Mr Ishmael & other peeps

There is no abstraction or deviation from that which is manifest, namely, in some meaasure I am culpable in sociocide - I have become a mass murderer but once removed and completely by inability to not only punch in the head but then, with trusty 7 iron - finish the job off, invert the cranium and see if the nose can be sliced round my sunflowers and drop neatly in the bucket not but 20 yards off - bit of wind left to right, want to avoid the wheelie bin natch. Fuck me. Will pack up pute and pop in bag as guilt and shame may not be held in such context by my employer in the afternoon.

Many thanks. On allotments, well, the cherry on the cake.

DtP

Swiss Bob said...

Daisy, I guess you're not a visitor to The Daily Politics but I have the map you refer to and others along with detail of the British area of operations for Panther's claw, all relevant posts are labelled 'Afghanistan'.

I left a question on http://frontlinebloggers.blogspot.com/ asking whether the area cleared would now be patrolled and whether bases would be established, they never published my comment let alone an answer. I take that as a no.

The Dyer's Garden said...

It was not any inconsistency in your views I was pointing to, Mr Smith - the distinction you make is clear enough - but the needless belligerence of cyberspace commentators, even at this site, and what this tells us about the world we are all hoping to change. People like Miss Daisy, who would not in ordinary life say boo to a goose, are driven to cunting about the place like there is no tomorrow. I can see that both the desire to wound and the desire to console might be disinhibited by the disconnection from personal responsibility the internet gives us, but there is nothing in the disconnection itself that ought to promote one over the other. And yet viciousness reigns. Note we are not talking about criticism here, which is the currency of friends (why tell your enemy how to make himself stronger?), but about simple, artless abuse.

It is good to hear you are busy, I hope it is writing, and I hope some of us might see it one day in some form. I am sure I am not alone in wishing you'd structure your writing into a book: it is not a criticism, just a wish.

call me ishmael said...

Thank you, Mr TDG, that is very gracious. I rebuke myself for my haste.

Daisy said...

May I also, Mr TDG, take this opportunity to apologise most profusely and sincerely to both you and Mr Ishmael for my disgraceful and shameful behaviour.

I should have guessed that a man of your laser-like perceptive qualities would see right through me, but the masquerade is now obviously over, and I am exposed to all the world as the timid, introverted, helpless and inadequate wee creature I really am, exorcising my inhibited frustrations by scribbling simple, artless abuse as though this were nothing but a cyber toilet wall.

I know you meant this as a kindness, and no deliberate cruelty was intended, but I have to tell you, Mr TDG, in confidence, I'm not sure I can recover from this.

With God on our Side said...

At the risk of sounding sycophantic,i have to say that the power,passion and clinical dissection in your pieces leaves me "Gobsmacked".
Thanks for sharing a part of your soul.

stand and deliver said...

dear mr ishmael,

regretfully, i feel sorely misrepresented and misunderstood in this elegantly composed tribute to mr blair's new social army - the 'sergeant pepper-spray' image, in particular, is most innappropriate, nay distasteful, as i have always considered myself more a new romantic born 20 years ahead of my time.

yours sincerely


jack outlaw

secretary of state for extra-judicial highway activities

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AimTrust incorporates an offshore structure with advanced asset management technologies in production and delivery of pipes for oil and gas.

It is based in Panama with offices around the world.
Do you want to become really rich in short time?
That`s your choice That`s what you desire!

I feel good, I started to take up income with the help of this company,
and I invite you to do the same. If it gets down to select a correct partner utilizes your money in a right way - that`s AimTrust!.
I earn US$2,000 per day, and my first investment was 500 dollars only!
It`s easy to join , just click this link http://ecopyjog.freehostyou.com/ladoraji.html
and lucky you`re! Let`s take this option together to become rich

Anonymous said...

Hi!
You may probably be very curious to know how one can make real money on investments.
There is no need to invest much at first.
You may commense earning with a sum that usually goes
on daily food, that's 20-100 dollars.
I have been participating in one company's work for several years,
and I'm ready to let you know my secrets at my blog.

Please visit my pages and send me private message to get the info.

P.S. I earn 1000-2000 per daily now.

[url=http://theblogmoney.com] Online investment blog[/url]

call me ishmael said...

Dear Mr anonymous

Thanks so much but I have more money than I need.. Col von Fawkes, just down the road, seems to be fixated on money, perhaps you should visit him.

Anonymous said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Anonymous said...

Hi there!
I would like to burn a theme at this forum. There is such a thing, called HYIP, or High Yield Investment Program. It reminds of financial piramyde, but in rare cases one may happen to meet a company that really pays up to 2% daily not on invested money, but from real profits.

For quite a long time, I earn money with the help of these programs.
I don't have problems with money now, but there are heights that must be conquered . I make 2G daily, and my first investment was 500 dollars only.
Right now, I managed to catch a guaranteed variant to make a sharp rise . Visit my web site to get additional info.

http://theinvestblog.com [url=http://theinvestblog.com]Online Investment Blog[/url]