Tuesday, 29 December 2009


One o clock in the morning here and there is no sign that our friends and bankers, the Chinks, are about to stay the killing of some poor nutter, tried for his life in a procedure lasting all of thirty minutes. Makes my blood run cold, that execution shit, always has, even if the condemned is guilty, as he sometimes is, but there is something especially horrid about how the Chinks go about it.

I never joined anything in my life and I can't bear those career abolitionists, apart from Clive Stanford, the dead man's brief, they are all over the radio, just now, gobby bints from Reprieve, or some such, but at execution times I'd light a candle, or something, anyway, some little ritual, just me, and for whomever the bell tolls. But we're steeped in it, now, blood, torture, whatever protects the wealth and positions of Power, that'll do. Oh, brave, new world.

Here, in New Presbyteria, the son of the fucking manse, Brown, is strangely silent on this one, usually so keen to dictate his demands to a world even more indifferent to his haunted wants than is his own cabinet, Brown has left it to some last-minute Bunkerite who no-one has ever heard of to go through the motions, telling China what is The Right Thing To Do. Not even BananaBoy, whose brief this is, has raised his inbred, babyface over the parapet, better employed nobbling the UK Courts on behalf of President Hillary Trousers.

We read and are told that, once, there was a time of gunboats, that once, Her Britannic Majesty's passport counted for something among the Savage; I don't know if it's true, doubt it, actually, seems to be plenty of historical atrocity perpetrated against memsahibs and Sisters of Mercy and tobacco planters and now there is no longer even a myth, the grandstanding Jihadimonster saws-off our heads on camera and ugly, angry, pushy chinks shoot us in the back of the neck, no doubt billing the relatives for the cartridge, like they do; ugly, angry, pushy chinks, tooled-up, shove us around on the streets of London, policing their Olympic Games procession and nobody says fuck all; Brown, outside Number Ten, spasticking himself to attention, mincing and gulping, like some furtive, retarded, ungainly Mandarin courtier, as Chink arranges the photo-opp. Ah, so; courage; courage, his counterfeit virtues ghost-written by the vile, the stooges, the horrible fucking bastard. We saw his courage, then, his dignity on behalf of the nation which didn't elect him, as he allowed the Chink to angrily gesture him into position.

His self-exculpatory prefix or suffix, grows longer - all this shit, which started in America; all this shit, which took the whole world by surprise and nobody could have predicted; all this ruinous shit, none of it is my fault, indeed, I am the only man who can fix it, all this shit; without me, all this shit would be even worse; all this weather shit, we have made a start, it's shit but it's a start and as I saved the world's economy I can save the environment, which isn't my fault; all this shit in Afghanistan, the more bodies come home in boxes or in wheelchairs, it just goes to show that we are winning, the enemy is doing so badly that they are reduced to killing us, well, not us, exactly, and we owe a great debt to Tommy Atkins, only not as much as we owe the Bank of China.

And there's the rub, as Doctor Who might say. NewLabour governs, if it governs at all, not from any national or regional or class base, or in accord with any values tradition; even the cock-waving man of the people, Prescott, applauded the abolition of Clause Four, but from whichever jargonised sophistry is in fashion, focused-on by imported or home-grown psephologist-retailers, members of the SpAd Army, an unprecedented horde of freeloaders and rentboys paid and pensioned by thee and me to spin the truth so dizzy it gave up and slunk away. Much of it was warmed-up Clintonalia and now they ape the dreadful Obama and his insufferable, platitudinous I-Know-Bestisms,as though Brown hisself was the first I Have A Dream Nigger Premier, instead of being an unelected, bullying, blackmailing cabalist, good for fuck all. So, in an entirely unprincipled gang of thieves and slags and pimps and charlatans it was unsurprising that the then Home Seckatry, Blind Boy Blunkett, voiced his delight at the apparent suicide of Doctor Harold Shipman; trashy, populist, tabloid and improbably, tragically priapic as well as being deeply dishonest and corrupt, Blunkett, like so many recent cabineteers, carnivalised the weighty business of government and imitating his beloved, fawned-upon masters, Tony and Imelda, whored the offices of state as they had never been whored whilst, fired-up by a forest of chips on his shoulder, he gleefully dismantled rights, customs and traditions which the Labour movement, among others, had fought hard to establish; on leaarning of Shipman's death Blind Blunkett famously said he wanted to call for a bottle of taxpayers' champagne, doubtless to drink in bed with someone else's bicycle wife, in celebration, as though such was conduct befitting the home secretary of the United Kingdom. Having a retarded, bent blind man shit in your face is a humiliation which would have seen other peoples on the streets, here, though, instead, grown-ups anxiously awaited the next Harry Potter book.

I am old now and of a race which could read before it went to school and when I was young the cool thing was for kids to be reading books written for adults. Some teachers put me in detention for reading Salinger instead of J. Meade Faulkner, others didn't. But now midnight bookshops throng with wordy fuckwits, desperate for the latest episode, claiming they read this voodoo shit to encourage reading among their verminous little consumers. I never heard such rubbish as the various Potter apologias. And while they so indulge we lose habeas corpus and welcome double jeopardy.

No wonder then, after the depradation of such jurists as Blunkett and Schmidt and Shirtsleeves Reid, that the judicial murder of one of our own by a tyrannical foreign power excites so little governmental ire. And he's a wog, anyway, probably deserves it, most of them do. Preacher Brown has stuff to say about almost anything that might possibly hint at a connection to the preoccupations of normal people; like all politicians he feigns an interest in football and in the children which he has so catastrophically fathered with Sarah-George, his official wife - I'm a young parent, too, uh uh uh uh uh uh uh, so, vote for me - he claimed, once, to enjoy breakfasting to the Arctic Monkeys, whoever they may be and in his Man From C&A sports jacket and flannels he strolls the riverbank with Sarah-George just like any pair of long-term psychiatric patients being eased back into the community; clunking his nailbitten Claw of Doom on any nearby surface, squaring-up his papers twenty times a minute; dribbling, gulping, his DryWank Jawdrop portending major facial surgery, grinning his Domestos Grin like an imbecile at every camera, mad Gordon offers his sol-you-shuns and his precictions for every sporting fixture, every desperate, starstruck contest in the sewerworld of Cruelty TV, gibbering as though taking a break from a crazed, frenzied masturbation marathon, brave Gordon, a normal son, a normal husband and parent beguiles us with his interests in the mundane, the prosaic, here is not some deranged megalomaniacal, one-eyed, nail-biting, snot-eating, cowardly freak and bully who burnt all the money and turned everything to shit on the never-never; no, here is the man who ended the boom part of boom and bust, the man with no nails, the prime minister of sinister, a man who couldn't count the change in his pocket twice and come to the same figure but fuck me, he knows what the people like, EastEnders. And Strictly, whatever that is.

But on the matter of a UK citizen being murdered, well, we've been here before, haven't we, least said soonest mended. the vicious gerontocrats in Peking are valued allies in the war on the people, I mean Terror, and among our most important fellow tyrants, sorry, trading partners and it's not for me to interfere in their internal crimes against humanity. I have my own to get on with with, here.

Maybe Brown's cowardly, McCavity silence bespeaks a painful self awareness, better late than never, although much too late to remedy his crimes. Maybe the mad bastard, maelstroming his way through sol-you-shuns and stratagems and plotting the tripartite festival of competitive lying which will be the election knows, at last, that aside from a How Low Can He Stoop, clinical curiosity, nobody, least of all the Chinks, nobody on Earth gives a fuck about what he says.

It's four-fifteen now and skymadeupnewsandfilth has reported fifty-three year-old Mr Shaikh's execution. And that British pretend premier, Gordon Snot, has condemned it. In the strongest possible terms.

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Anonymous said...

Aparently, the Chinese are moving towards the more civilised practice of injecting poisonous chemicals in order to put people to death, as developed in the Land of the Free.

The Chinese government apologises for any inconvenience during the changeover period.

Elby The Beserk said...

Mr. Smith.

Good to have you back. You had us worried there for a while. Perhaps a little "Gone fishing" post in future?

As for the Chinese, well, we know how Brown is beholden to them. So much so that he was quite happy for their own goons to be allowed to assault British citizens whilst parading the Olympic torch through London.

Brown makes me fill physically sick.

lilith said...

Oh thank god you are still there.

The Foreign Office is pathetic. If you were a foreign minister would Miliband persuade you, with his loud condemnation of your internal politics, to change policy?

How many hostage deaths are the FO responsible for with their bungling? Are the Kent couple, held by Somali pirates, too posh to be worth helping? Our government wouldn't let our trained operatives in the field and on the scene intervene at the time of the kidnap and now won't let a ransom be paid. I don't hold out a lot of hope for them.

In Damascus the British "Embassy" is only staffed on Monday mornings, and you can only go by appointment, for which there is a three week waiting list. God help you if you lose your passport, let alone get kidnapped or arrested.

The only way you will get any help from the FO is if you call a teddy bear Mohammed.

Mothers Ruin said...

After a break in transmission, normal service of ruthless wit and biting criticism has been resumed.
Those of a blind faith in the future should retune to BBC 1 where the joint winners in the celebrity roaster of the year awards will be announced soon.

Your return sir, "In a dark cold winter warmed the cockles of the British heart"

Verge said...

Good to have you back, Mr Ish.

Always loved that "strongest possible terms" schtick - the s.p.t. being, in the mouths of those doing the condemning, just that, the phrase "strongest possible terms" and nothing else, not "act on our objections pronto or we'll fuck you up", just the diplomatic ritual equivalent of discretely slamming a door or (prettily, no doubt) stamping one's foot.

Wonder if they harvested Mr Shaikh's organs. Maybe they offset the cost of topping the poor bastard against the going rate for his liver & kidneys.

In effect I suspect this was China saying "that's you told, you cunts." And next time they want to spit-roast a Brit, we better offer them a choice of condiments, and tip the chef.

call me ishmael said...

They usually have the organs, don't they ? Probably be bad form, though, for skymadeupnewsandfilth - business relations being paramount - to mention it.

Specifically it was "that's you told, Brown, you cunt" the mighty snot warrior having pissed-off the murdering slope-eyed bastards while grandstanding at Copenfuckinghagen.

Against the fiery slaughter in the Middle East and against the soap opera noire of Wootton Bassett, Mr Shaik's murder hardly matters, does it. It is just that the implacable ruthlessness of it, as well as the injustice seems to axiomatise our place in the world, seems to illustrate how utterly worthless and bombastic are the claims to greatness of Gordon Snot and unfortunately how the tenure of this batch of career shysters on all sides but especially among NewLabour has so rubbished our nation that we can be murdered to feed Oriental spite; that the greatest living diplomat, financier, prime minister and militarty strategist cannot, either by threat or flattery, wrest from a cruel and unnecessary death even one lowly, confused, put-upon British citizen should shame us all, even if Brown remains, mad and ruinous, ranting in his bunker, the horrible fucking bastard.

Dick the Prick said...

Whoo hoo hoo. Glad you're well. Hope you have a lovely next decade young fella me lad.

TDG said...

You are right about Brown, of course, but there is an objection to meddling in another country's legal process.

You might imagine some mexican complaining that his mate has been jailed abroad for the - in mexico - perfectly legitimate activity of sex with a twelve year old.

The distinction between medical and rational accounts of criminal behaviour is by its very nature fuzzy. I bet if you were to scan the prison population of england a substantial proportion would have orbitofrontal cortex damage (very common in head injury) that could perfectly well explain their conduct. So if you take *visible* structural damage as the criterion, what about developmental, etc, etc. The question reduces to whether convicts should be treated as patients or agents generally.

mongoose said...

There is also, Mr Ishmael, the nasty thought that there was just a touch of the Islamo-raghead about the poor bastard. Jeremy Smythe from Huntingdon would have been home long ago doing his bird in Ford Open Prison.

And tough bastards are the Chinese, Mr I, and as with the Rooskies, individual life is very cheap.

Good to see you back, Sir. I was beginning to think that that fish had got you.

mrs narcolept said...

I don't think anything said by any politician could have saved Mr Shaikh. It is a cruel world, Mr Ishmael, and getting more horrible daily.

But it is good to hear from you again.

Rear Admiral Arthur Batchelor RN said...

Of course, in great great Grandad's day, we would have despatched a Gunboat up the Yangzte to teach the slitty eyed little fuckers that British drugs were the mother of all drugs.
But as my ipod requires upgrading, we shall speak softly and carry a big shtick.

Sambuco said...

It was probably due to the long gone gun boat up the Yangzte, and our forcing opium on them, that the Chinese have said "NO" to drugs,,,and meant it.

banned said...

The Filth-o-graph tells me that the Chinese regard telling the accused of the verdict is inhumane and prefer to allow the victim to linger in hope before shooting him in the back of the head by surprise.
I sympathise with this view and would rather that than waiting 24-48 hours knowing for certain that I was going to be chemicled to death in an uncertain procedure.

China not only said fuck you to Britain but also to the EU (not that Cafe Ashtray seemed to open her gob) and the Moslems. As the Chinese say, We live in interesting times.

call me ishmael said...

That cruelty is commonplace does not or should not procure for it exemption from comment; the medical, social and educational disadvantage suffered by our own imprisonable classes have been chronicled widely, albeit that they remain hidden from the likes of Mr Heffer and his ilk, the posturing commentariat, most of whom would happily pull the lever, trigger or wield the axe, or so they say; that Mr TDG's point is not made here, often, is both a matter of regret, as it is an interest of mine and bespeaks an assumption that we all know that the stinking jails are filled to bursting with people who are, as Mr TDG infers, more sinned against than sinning, but of that more later.

We cannot know if a more adept human being than Brown might have altered Mr Shaik's sad outcome, just that the evidence is overwhelming that everything he touches turns to shit; if he or his band were sermonising, as usual, to the Chink then that outcome was certain.

Colonel von Fawkes has for some time described Brown as Jonah, a pungent, if lightweight and overused jibe, ok applied to football matches and the like, sadly, in this case, all too apposite.

Given what we must call globalisation, the frequency of travel, the distances gobbled up and the various cultures mutually interpenetrating I think that the shibboleth about not interfering in others' justice systems is difficult to maintain; for all their faults some homogenised variant of the European systems is infinitely preferable to those of the rest of the world; to that extent, roll on the New World Order, either that or keep your children close, at home.

Thanks, all, for their good wishes - the absence will be axplained in due course - and mine in return for the Mid-Winter festivals and the coming year.

PT Barnum said...

May I add my heartfelt phew! that you are still with us, Mr Ishmael, and still full of piss and vinegar. A purgation of the filth we are continually fed in the name of truth and progress was badly required by this person.

woman on a raft said...

You are back. At least that is one in the nuts for Ruin. I can face the rest of it now.

black hole sunset said...

All hail and a hearty welcome to you, Mr Ishmael, and all fellow commenters.

It is, As Mrs Raft says, that much easier face the horrors or Ruin, when armoured by a Chronicler's words

Anonymous said...

"A man who couldn't count the change in his pocket twice and come to the same figure"

Forgive me for reposting the following which I first posted in reply to a comment on Guido's: “who the fuck keeps (bounced) cheques from 1972?”

Strangely enough, it was the recent reporting of this now seemingly insignificant act which, at last, really helped me understand why I had disliked the man so intensely.

"It appears that a certain cheque for £3 was returned unpaid, for lack of funds, in 1972:

1) In those days, it was relatively rare for personal cheques to be returned (‘bounced’) and most people would have regarded it as a shameful act by the Drawer of such a cheque. Indeed the Payee could have threatened to report the matter to the Police citing the Theft Act if he could have proved that the Drawer had written out the cheque in the knowledge that there were insufficient funds to meet it.

2) The Bank Manager was responsible for returning cheques, and even if that process had been deputed to another senior person such as the Chief Clerk, the Bank Manager would still have signed off the documentation. Returning cheques was a serious matter.

3) It is remarkable that such a cheque was returned with the answer “Refer to Drawer”, as this is a clear indication that it was deemed very unlikely that there would have shortly been funds to meet it. Otherwise it would have been marked “Refer to Drawer, Please represent”.

4) It would have been indicative of such a cheque that this was not an isolated incident, because, generally, if it was later shown that the Customer had funds in course which had been applied incorrectly or not noticed, returning a cheque for lack of funds always ran the risk of defaming the Customer.

5) In this case, the idea floated that there might have been sufficient funds on another account and that it was ‘all a mistake’ is laughable; no, the Bank Manager would almost certainly have written to, or phoned his Customer asking him to transfer funds, rather than ‘bouncing’ his cheque.

6) In those days, ‘bouncing’ a cheque was not considered a revenue earner, but rather a procedure to control a nuisance committed by a handful of irresponsible customers.

So, “Que says?” December 17 at 2.59pm (on Guido's), perhaps that will help you to understand why "who the fuck keeps (bounced) cheques from 1972?” – it was probably to demonstrate to their heirs and assigns that most people, as I observed every day, manage their own finances in their own way perfectly properly, but that a small handful doesn’t.

And this handful should never, ever, be let loose with large amounts of money."

So I now weep with frustration, and curse the well meaning fool who sat on an unpaid cheque for so long before displaying it for all the world to see; and while many of us were dozing in the sunny rays of the boom, our country's finances were being allowed to be nonchalantly and comprehensively dishonoured and debased.

A bit like that cheque.

call me ishmael said...

I am sorry but I don't quite follow this; I must have missed something - who was it, who wrote the cheque?

Even in my ignorance of the wider picture it is a small joy to read " a small handful doesn't" rather than, as one would see in The Filth-O-Times or in any government document, "a small handful don't."

Firstly, they made sentences of subordinate clauses, then they merged singular and plural and having made verbs of nouns they had shat in the face of the people and their language, alike, clearly, in a very real sense.

Anonymous said...

Apologies for not placing "a certain cheque" in context, Mr Ishmael. It probably didn't help that I was also wandering slightly off topic.

Anyway, hope this helps to clarify: