Wednesday, 25 November 2009

CHRONICLES OF RUIN, WHAT THE PAPERS SAY

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The Filth-o-graph presents itself as stern protector of traditional values, applause in church, for instance, would be de trop, were it not happening at the funeral of Bill Deedes’ twilight years' sweetheart, Diana, Princess of Wales or, to-day, at the funeral of Staff Sergeant Olaf Shmid, following the oration from his widow, Mrs Shmid, then the unspeakable gaffe, applause in God’s house, becomes the New Tradition. This is the thing with the Filth-o-graph, Tradition is whatever you can get away with. It is a tradition at the Filth-o-graph that nieces and mistresses and mistresses’ nieces are given columns in which to write fucking drivel; it is tradition at the Filth-o-graph that gobby, idle layabouts like Simon Heffer work themselves up to near-heart attack apoplexy over vague nuances in taxation of the poor in favour of the rich among braying Tory arseholes, as if it mattered. It could be a rider, below the gothic mast head, The Daily Telegraph, as if it mattered.

But it does matter in that a once fiecely patriotic, love-it-or-hate-it, principled, right-wing journal now panders to the mawkish cognoscenti of Ruin; that a macabre spectacle in Truro Cathedral, redolent of East Enders, is reported by the Filth-o-graph as evidence of national character.

Sgt Shmid’s widow addressed the nation, largely about herself, from the cathedral lectern thus.

”I have chosen to speak because to look on us as husband and wife was an understatement. He said we were a unit.

”In my eyes my husband, my son’s father, was a warrior. Warrior are unique; our protectors, not destroyers.

"Oz and troops like him join to serve traditional warrior values; to passionately protect the country they love, its ideals, and especially their families, communities and each other.

“In past conflicts, where there was an immediate threat to our shores and our existence, soldiers were never plagued with self doubt about the value of their role in society, and a people and their soldiers were once close to unity.

“We might disagree with a war, however I hope through Oz’s death and my public appreciation and our community’s display of respect here today can serve to bridge that gap and unite us once more with our troops.

“I would personally like to thank you all for coming here today and showing your support

“All the families of lost or injured servicemen should expect our peacemakers to show they are working as hard as Oz did to preserve life.

“For the present, too many die, too many veterans exist in silence and too many are left with horrific disabilities while the rest of the community proceed as if it is business as usual.

“My husband’s death means it can never be business as usual again for our son and I. There is just too much that time cannot erase.
“Most of you will know Oz the joker, always up for a giggle. However, I lived with a very different man, particularly in the past 18 months when I have stood by him through what he described as his toughest, darkest challenge ever.

“When he felt compromised, overwhelmed or threatened, I’ve wiped his tears, pulled him up, and fought his fears for him.

“Becoming his widow has been the hardest thing I have ever done with him. I am fiercely loyal to serve him in death as I did when he was alive, however much it is breaking me.

“Hopefully he is watching and knows he is the only man who will have all of me.

“Oz lived and stood for something he believed in. In the end he paid the ultimate sacrifice for those beliefs.

“We now have a duty to not just honour what he stood for, but to live lives which honour the sacrifice he made. Please do not allow him to die in vain.”

“Becoming his widow is the hardest thing I have ever done with him,” is a line of bewildering, contradictory self-indulgence which betrays the shallow, trivial mawkishmess of her utterances almost as much as does the subsequent. “I am fiercely loyal to serve him in death as I did when he was alive, however much it is breaking me.” No business like show-business, eh?

Becoming a widow or a widower is hard for all who experience it, harnessing the event to some specious, catch-all endorsement of some airy-fairy warrior code and suborning the respect of those attending, claiming it represented “support” for her, rather than a separate, formal, obligatory respect for her late husband’s sacrifice, degraded the whole business further; the service and the public presence wasn’t about her and her betrayed marital secrets, it was about him, her function was mourner-in- chief, fortified by family, friends and regiment; hers, not to reason why.

If, in order to appreciate him, we need to be told of his private fears and tears then the bomb disposal cxpert - surely the coolest, boldest, steeliest, most self-negating of soldiers - is in the wrong game. If we cannot automatically and immediately value the duties undertaken by Olaf Shmid and give thanks for him and those like him then clapping like savages in church will not help us.

Olaf Shmid was rather more valuable than one half of a latterday John and Yoko. Rather than falling victim to self-indulgent specatacle and sentimentality, citizens theatrically mourning the dead might profit from asking themselves if they are among those who, not once, not twice but thrice voted for the jackanapes Blair and the ghastly Imelda, licensing them thus to squander, for personal glory and wealth, the lives of Olaf Shmid and Oh, so many others.

74 comments:

Mother's Ruin said...

Andy Warhol in a little black number.

call me ishmael said...

That's what I thought, MR, very little. Fifteen minutes of fame or a lifetime of dignity. No contest.

Thanks for your intervention.

mongoose said...

Charity, Mr Ishmael. Who has not seen indignity under stress, impropriety in grief, error under duress. We see it and we edit it quietly out because we understand. Give the lady a break.

But what a man!

Rasmus said...

So she expected him to be a mercenery, go out to wherever, and shoot people dead without them shooting back and trying to kill him??????

I suppose it just shows how bloody stupid and brainwashed our world has become.

Hypnotised sheep. Even those sheep who praise the achievements of those other sheep who do not get shot down, and come back having "done their bit for queen and country".

PT Barnum said...

Mr mongoose, I am in accord with your sentiments. I feel that much of what she said would have been spoken in the absence of the cameras, a private discourse thrust into the public domain. No doubt she could have refused the coverage (although I imagine the heavy hand of the army's PR branch was there pulling a string or two) and therein lies the faux pas, the yawning gap between the private person and the public persona. If she were to go on to become a meejawhore, then obviously it is all change in the judgement, but I have not heard a pipsqueak from her since the funeral oration. Her one and only public utterance? All credit if it was.

mongoose said...

I think that that is it, Mr PTB. One makes allowances for them when they are hurt but the limits become tighter as time goes by. Lest we end up with those eegits we discussed a while back.

As for clapping in church, Mr Ishmael, I think that you will find that those are heathen Proddy savages. A Good Catholic would never befoul the Lord's House in that way.

richard said...

A Good Catholic would never befoul the Lord's House in that way.

on the other hand......

When Fr McKenna spoke candidly of his decision to quit after embarking on a “loving” and “beautiful” relationship with a local woman, the congregation rose as one to give a standing ovation to their priest for a quarter of a century.

Bob Doney said...

"a standing ovation to their priest for a quarter of a century."

That must be one for the Guinness book.

richard said...

Fr. McKenna must have been quite a popular fellow. heh!
back to the widow of the late Staff Sgt, i would not be too critical of the utterances of the bereaved.
most of us have to work hard to get through the social conditioning that allows us to see things as they really are. we can't expect clarity from everyone. wilful stupidity is inexcusable, but until fairly recently i was in the same unquestioning frame of mind. i can't be too judgemental on folk when it's taken me 40+ years before i started to look around me and attempt to think about what i see.
it's a difficult thing to do for those of us not used to it, and i have been assisted by Mr.Ishmael among others, many thanks, plus Mr Stefan Molyneaux, another fine gent who attempts to knock people's atrophied critical faculties out of hibernation.
"wisdom is the ability to call things by their proper name".
Mr Ishmael has that knack, but in this instance with little compassion for the lady concerned.
she's hardly likely to admit to herself and her friends that her man was a paid killer who pushed his luck once too often because she can't see it.

woman on a raft said...

Ruin? This ain't ruin. I'll tell you what's ruin.

Derek Draper has retained the membership of the media whores' club who flatter themselves that they are a professional organization, but who have not a scrap of decency else they'd have politely sent back his cheque and told him that no theraputic relationship can possibly start with one person kinda pretending that they went to Berkeley but then saying 'yeah but, no but' when called out on it.

This morning I hear that it is confirmed that millions of pounds are definitely going to be diverted from real medical needs to 'talking cures' (which rarely cure anything in my observation) i.e. Derek is in line to be massaged with my money for his capering crappery as he's very likely to be recognized as a supplier by the NHS.

What ever reservations one might have about the public conduct of private mourning, none of them are offering to take Mr Raft's tax money (so far as I know) and convert it to 70% proof bollocks. However, they ought to because I'd still rather they had the money than a single penny of it go to Draper. Or Phillip Hodson. It is all of a piece really.

And now the radio us up the end of the garden. Again.

I've had to censor the rest of this comment to save Mr Ishmael the trouble.

mongoose said...

Mrs Raft,

I have to say that the notion of the Draper being a therapist of any kind is worthy of Spike Milligan at his maddest. You can imagine the sketch on the telly, can you not? A more snivelling, deceitful, ghastly little bastard it is impossible to imagine. Fuck me. It is beyond parody.

The Dyer's Garden said...

It is an interesting species of sentimentality, this. Indulgence not in one's own grief, but indulgence in one's stoicism in the face of grief. Still sentimental - look at the skirt and heels - but more sophisticatedly so.

Of course, as Conrad remarked somewhere, there is a kind of vanity that can take on the aspect of any virtue. Had she got the dress and verbal style right (and who is there to guide her, poor thing?), she might have pulled it off.

richard said...

perhaps it's a good idea to beware of indulgence in one's own cynicism?

The Dyer's Garden said...

Yes, though somewhat rarer than indulgence in facile commentary.

Indeed, it is almost impossible, these days, to criticise sentimentality - which is the enemy of true sentiment - without being accused of cynicism, just as it is impossible to insist on intellectual standards without being branded elitist; even the word discrimination is now only used pejoratively.

Looks good, this new humanity: a smooth, amorphous, tepid mass of self-digesting gluttony; circles would be too varied for this hell, eternal drowning in a vat of plankton.

mongoose said...

Can we not just indulge in a bit of kindness?

Mushrooms beat cancer (apparently) said...

Mr Mongoose has enough kindness to indulge us all,while Mr The Dyer's Garden indulges us in the uncompassionate justness of natural selection.
C'est la vie.

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woman on a raft said...

The telly pundits are saying that Blair lost the presidency because of the Iraq war.

It's not much - it certainly doesn't amount to evidence for free-form justice flowing in the universe - but maybe there is a pennyweight's worth on the other end of the seesaw.

Agatha said...

It is St. Andrew's Day and our local caff is offering a special menu;
"To celebrate St Andrews day we have decided to have a number of Scottish Items on our Menu.
Lorne Sausage & a Fried Egg in a roll, A Tunnocks Wafer Biscuit & and a Can of Irn Bru all for £2.50.
Mince Beef & Clapshot £4.50
Cockie Leekie Soup with a buttered roll £2.20"

No, it's not a joke, and I wondered if Mr. Stanislav would like to comment on the culinary delights on offer as above, because he must be getting ready for preparing his Christmas Dinner - I fondly remember his tussles with the turkey-bastard of a previous year.And this blog is getting too gloomy by half.

Anonymous said...

Agatha is quite right. In these days of ruin, we need good, basic meals made of mud, weeds, Clapshot (whatever the fjuck that is)and Scottish Cockie soup. If Mr Ishmael is still friends with Mr Stanislav, (unless he's gone back to Poland) perhaps he could mention that we're all out here waiting for Mr. Stan's Christmas Special recipe book.

Gone but not forgotten said...

Ah, Tunnock's Wafer Biscuits. Somewhere in the world there are still Tunnock's Wafer Biscuits. And Tunnock's Teacakes?

Tam said...

Mr. Anonymous said: Clapshot (whatever the fjuck that is)
It may sound like something that is expelled at great speed with great force from the rear end of a cow, and evben look like it sometines, but it is by way of being the Scottish national dish. Poor wee fjuckers. It sticks to the ribs. And the pot. It is boiled up potatoes, or tatties, as the Scotch say, mixed up with boiled up turnips, or neeps, all mashed up with butter and splattered onto the side of the plate. With mince.

PT Barnum said...

Tunnocks wafers and teacakes (rarer than the former) are widely available in the Midlands and North of England, including the splendid although rather nouveau plain chocolate wafers. Don't know if Southerners are deprived of them. I become wildly confused these days if I venture to London, where the accents of white youths reside somewhere between Detroit and Essex.

Is it the splattering that differentiates clapshot from that classic dish neeps and tatties? Perhaps its sticking qualities are the decider....

woman on a raft said...

There is no problem with the world supply of Tunnock's caramel wafers or teacakes. They are supplied by Megalomart for the groundlings or Waitrose for the middle clarses, but they both tend to stack them on the bottom shelves.

Send a child to find them - they truffle them out with their twitchy noses.

Gone but not forgotten said...

Dear Mrs. Woman on a Raft,
Thank you so very much for your link to the Tunnock's website- it has the air of more distant times, with its reassuringly grey-haired and white-coated patriarch, still in control of his family business. Alas, dear lady, I can no longer root around on the lower shelves of supermarketsn and, were I to approach a child to do this office on my behalf, it may be viewed askance.Our conversation has reminded my of other treats of my bare-kneed and wellington'd days. Do you recall Invalid Butter Toffee? It was dispensed from huge glass bottles, one amongst many such arrayed on shelves behind the counter, each containing boiled sugar in different configurations - humbugs, mint imperials, soor plums and licorice sticks - the latter being a twig that one chewed until it was a fibrous pulp - really, quite horrid. Not so Invalid Butter Toffee. No doubt it was so named because it was a little less of a daunting chew than plot toffee, but still not something an invalid could be expected to masticate to a successful conclusion. Were I to attempt it now, it would undoubtedly draw all the fillings from my teeth - no doubt fillings required in consequence of my addiction to Invalid Butter Toffee. There was nothing more splendid than reading of the adventures of Black Bob or Roy of the Rovers, with a large mouthful of Invalid Butter Toffee and caramel drool.
By the way, has anyone else noticed the absence of our leader, Mr.Ishmael? The blog has become as a class of schoolchildren, awaiting their teacher. First, we applied ourselves to our lessons in the absence of our teacher. Then we fell silent, pencils dropped, before the inconsequential chatter began.I hold Miss Agatha responsible, with her tales of Tunnck wafers, but I, also, am culpable. Soon, Teacher will return and bring us back to our lessons on economics, politics, media whores and the like. I trust his departure has not been precipitated by his having succumbed to a malady and look forward to his speedy return and, no doubt, his censure of the topics which have lately cluttered his blog.

Anonymous said...

The 25th November was the last date Mr. Ismael spoke. Where is he? As for Mr. Gone but Not Forgotten, I'm not surprised he has fillings and can't bend down to get his Tunnock's after a childhood of the most disgusting sweeties I've heard of for years. What's wrong with chocolate?

PT Barnum said...

We have yet to begin throwing spit balls or chairs at each other, while teacher is out of the room, so all is not entirely lost. This must be a very nice school, good Ofsted report....

Invalid toffee? While wondering where the emphases fall in the first word, I'm remembering Bluebird Toffee as a comparable non-tetanuesque chew. But my Lethal-to-Fillings childhood sweet #1 is Peanut Brittle (with the emphasis on the brittle).

richard said...

mr TDG, i agree with you that rational skepticism and constructive criticism is hated and discouraged. fear of excellence seems preferable to meritocracy, the dullard must have equal rights, who cares if the intellect of the top percentage is wasted in crappy education? nobody is "discriminated against" so it must be good.
however, cynicism as a useful tool in pursuit of truth can become callousness, which is a different thing entirely. in the above example, i would have some compassion for the lady in her days of mourning; we as a public are not generally alert to the reality behind the facade, but grief is grief.

Tam said...

Mr. PT Barnum and Mr.Gone but not forgotten don't know a nelly puff. Sherbet fountains.

The Stupid Boy by the Blackboard said...

Mr. PTBarnum said "I'm remembering Bluebird Toffee as a comparable non-tetanuesque chew"
What does non-tetanuesque mean? Google couldn't find it.

PT Barnum said...

@ Mr TSBBTB

Non-tetanusesque - a neologism meaning not inclined to simulate the symptoms of tetanus, otherwise known as lockjaw.

@ Mr Tam

Sherbert fountains do not draw fillings. Unless you are doing something seriously strange.

mongoose said...

Tunnocks wafers are everywhere. We feed the children little else.

From time to time, I go to lincoln to misbehave. On Steep Hill there is a proper sweet shop with sweets in those jars mentioned above - sherbet lemons, rhubarb and custards, American hard gums... Those last are excellent at ripping out fillings.

Gone But Not Forgotten said...

Mr. Anonymous, dear boy, a little harsh, perhaps? If Teacher was here, I do believe a short spell in detention may have been in order. We cannot judge by physical appearances, here, in cyber space, knowing, in our intellectual discourse, only that which the contributors choose to reveal of themselves. But still the playground jackals descend, snapping at any slight indication of departure from the sacred norm.
I, also, was fond of a sherbet fountain, and most of the contents of the farthing tray at the sweet shop. I have not, however, previously enjoyed the aquaintance of a nelly puff.

Elby The Beserk said...

1. Sherbert fountains do not usually draw fillings. They dissolve them

2. Tunnocks wafers are one of the culinary delights of the modern. As a kid I could easily eat four or five at once. That hey have no constituents that actually qualify as "food" is another matter altogether.

And yes, Sainsburys in this small Somerset market town has them. As they should.

Anonymous anonymous said...

***Sigh***

richard said...

the liquorice tube always clogged up. you had to open the top, and the sherbet would then fall on you as you tried to pour it into your mouth.

PT Barnum said...

Am I alone in becoming increasingly concerned about Mr Ishmael's silence? I have been missing my regular dose of blitzkreig rhetoric and sage analysis, but this is now a cause of worry.

Speak, Mr I, or Anonymous anonymous will wear themselves out sighing.

Elby The Beserk said...

Mr. Barnum,

No, indeed. Rather too long.

woman on a raft said...

Dear Gone but not forgotten

I've never been keen on toffee but I annoyed the dentist tremendously with sherbet lemons - the sort which are a yellow chew rolled in a thick coat of loose even-more sherbet. The other kind which are a dab of sherbet encased in a bubble of lemon boiled-sugar are a tongue-tearing abomination. I am sure of that, having eaten dozens of then in comparison tests. I don't know how they entomb the sherbet in to the bubble, not having researched the Secret Methods of the Confectioner.

The museum of Beamish has the Jubilee sweetshop which demonstrates the making of sweets in the period confectioners workshop. I'd like to tell you I learned all about it there, but unfortunately it was crammed with children so that I could see nothing at all, couldn't even squeeze in - but I could stand in the yard sniff the cloud of sugar and juice which is so exotic in the English air. Rhubarb and custard, my assistant with sharp elbows informed me, is delightful when slightly warm off the confectioner's table.

What I learned from the way the museum is interpreted as existing in 1913, is that most of the creations we are familar with came out of that period and the brands - the intellectual property which is worth even more than the product - were done by then.

Beamish has been criticised for being overly-nostalgic, to which it says 'sure' but argues people have a profound need to understand themselves in time. The recreations allow them to feel something of what it was to be there. I recommend it as it allows you to feel how the world was going before the First World War. That world was far from perfect but it was getting some things right - one only has to look at the Board School in the mining village. In many ways it looks more inviting than some modern primary classrooms I've been in.

I can't help but wonder what it is like in the parallel universe where WWI and II did not happen.

For reasons which I cannot explain, liquorice sticks are available in health-food shops. I still don't understand why anyone would want to gnaw one in any universe.

I trust Mr Ishmael is well and is having a well-deserved rest. Blogging can be hard on the eyes.

Anonymous said...

Mistah Ishmael: he dead.

PT Barnum said...

Yes, Mr Beserk, and getting longer by the day. I hope he's preparing some glorious tirade on ruination or on a trip with Mr Stanislav (I do believe they are still friends).

@ Anonymous

Hush your mouth! With a toffee bonbon if necessary.

mrs narcolept said...

Missing you, Mr Ishmael.

mongoose said...

Mrs WOAR,

Weren't the ones with the toffee middles called Sherbet Bonbons? Not to mention Fruit Salads - 4 for 1d, 8 for 1p.

Perhaps mr Ishmael has gone fishing. Let us hope so.

Ron Manager said...

Blackjacks,toffee in a tray with a cast iron hammer,jubbly,milk at morning playtime,small boys in the park,jumpers for goalposts,Eh?Umm?

woman on a raft said...

That will be the problem Mr Mongoose - I got the categories mixed up. No wonder I kept getting the wrong thing back when someone went down the sweetshop.

In those days we had the internet in an ormolu cabinet in the corner and there were only three websites which only came on at tea-time, and even they were text-only files sent on demand, rather than server-based searching.

I used to rush back from school and log in to my "telex" account. The messages were ALL IN CAPS. My mother, who stuck to semaphore, would be down the end of the garden with her flags. I used to laugh at her, the way she couldn't tx or rx when it was raining hard, although she always tried and risked getting struck by lightning as the flag-poles were metal.

Gone but not Forgotten said...

Mr. Ron Manager mentioned Jubblies. I had forgotten them - but now they hover in my mind's eye - glaringly yellow. I was particularly taken, one summer, by frozen Jubblies. They were a pyramid of frozen orange ice. Persistant, determined sucking at a corner, all the time holding the sticky, dripping, freezing block, yielded the satisfaction of extracting all the yellow juice and leaving a block of white ice. In the winter, the milkman would deliver, early, from his horse and cart, bottles of milk to sit on the step, amid the snow. When I went out to bring in the milk, with afore-mentioned bare knees knocking in the cold, I would find a column of yellow frozen milk standing proud of the milk bottle top. This I would carefully convey to my mother, who would slice off the yellow ice cream, mix it with sugar and tell me there was nothing finer as I spooned it in. And she was right.
MR. ISHMAEL COME BACK! HOW LONG CAN WE KEEP UP THIS MEANINGLESS NOSTALGIC BURBLING ABOUT SWEETIES OF OUR YOUTH!

PT Barnum said...

Ah, frozen milk towers, I remember them well. And milk bottles on the doorstep whose tops the sparrows had pecked through...and the milk was used regardless. Never get that through health and safety these days, would you?

Perhaps if we really go on a nostalgia wank Mr Ish will detect it through the ether and came back to bring us back to the here and now.

His Masters Voice said...

http://bastardoldholborn.blogspot.com/2009/02/saga-of-gordon-ruiner-by-stanislav.html

Gone But Not Forgotten said...

And in the later days of ruin, the handful remaining of the tribe clustered around the virtual flames of the virtual fire, turning their backs to the cold and bitter dark, where the flickering of the television screen doled out another 15 minutes of worthless fame to some one of the multitude whose life had been briefly shadowed by a violence or death which had been entirely predictable, indeed, courted, by the victim. For the television company's edict is: do not waste time recollecting emotion in tranquillity - just get on the box and spill. And the remaining few of the tribe, their poor thin hands worn to the bone by keyboarding, muttered of happy past childhood days, before television, before computers, when the milk stood proud of the bottles in frozen towers, when the sweeties were many-coloured and tetanuesque, when the knees were bare and cold and chilblains lurked inside the wellingtons. And some said, I wish we'd been nicer to Mr. Ishmael, because he was usually nice to us and very witty and clever and saw the truth behind the posturing. And now he's gone. And we miss him.

richard said...

come back, Mr Ishmael, unless you're dead. in which case, thanks for some great writing, and RIP.

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Choose a subject equal to your abilities; think carefully what your shoulders may refuse, and what they are capable of bearing.
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Stupid Boy By the Blackboard said...

Does anyone know what Mr. Anonymous is talking about? What is this with acne and skincare and codeine and hairloss and mortgage loans?

PT Barnum said...

S'obvious. The correct skincare regime for acne is large quantities of codeine and mortgages cause hair loss so don't get one or get a wig.

Mr Gone But (Cameroid version), that was really quite poetic, sir, but let us hope it was not a eulogy.

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With God on our side said...

Mr Gone But Not Forgotten's lyrical grace vs Mr Richard's sledgehammer synopsis. Such is the variety in the class. If teacher were here, we would have a lesson in language as a tool in the hands of a craftsman. As it is, we can only flick back through our textbooks, and relive the classes we attended.
Where ever you are, our love and admiration accompanies you, Mr Ishmael.

Dick the Prick said...

Bit worrying really...hmmm....Hope you're alright Mr Ishmael.

Anonymous said...

Me too, Mr Ishmael we actually miss you. There might be a bit of the consumer impatience as well: I want more Mr Ishmael posts and I want them NOW! Mostly slight disappointment and concern... Do come back...

black hole sunset said...

Hope you're well, Mr Ishmael, Buster, and happy.

If this is the end, it's a huge loss but not one, I'll wager, that your audience resents in any way. You've made an irreplaceable gift of your thoughts and energy. More could not, and should not, be expected.

A dream to some, a nightmare to others; if you'll pardon the sentiment.

lilith said...

Mr Smith? x

Anonymous said...

友情像一棵樹木,要慢慢的栽培,才能成長真的友誼,要經過困難考驗,才可友誼永固..................................................

Rasmus said...

Your comments are most enlightening Anonymous....but why the Chinese?Most of us can also read English.

Anonymous said...

Those of us who witnessed these times, know that we were in the presence of of a fierce and perceptive wit. A voice that unites us all in humanity and humilty has been quiet, and we are saddened by the silence, but joyous in having heard the song.
Much love, Mr Ishmael.

Dick the Prick said...

Dear Mr Ishamel

Happy Chrimbo Mr Ish to you & yours and a lovely new year also from me & mine.

DtP

Edgar said...

Last words " ... and Oh, so many others."

Indeed.

TDG said...


Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white
surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great
shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.

lilith said...

Oh Mr Ishmael, I hope it's not your heart. Or Buster.

Verge said...

What Lilith said.

Will be re-reading Stanislav's "Feast of Jamie" in your honour tomorrow.

The End said...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QHFK1yKfiGo

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