Wednesday, 24 November 2010


Sarah, yes, you, woman!  It's war. Get me the White House on the telephone.  No more hiding in the toilet for me.  I must tell President Darky what to do about Korea. He'll be lost without my input. After all,  it was me saved the world from the wanking crisis, did I say wanking, I meant banking. And like all good blackfellows he'll be looking for advice from his preacher (sings, in doleful, tuneless, brown voice," Oh, the only one who could ever reach me, was the sweet-talkin' son of a preacher man") Geddit, Sarah? Son of a preacher man?  That's me, that is.  You know how I'm the son of the fucking manse, well, that makes me the son of a preacher man, just like in the song,  by the late  Miss Busty Springfield, one of your lesbian friends, no, no, no only joking. Well, yes, I know I prefer the Arctic Spunkies - or is it Monkeys? Have you got him yet. No? Did you ring the special, Esteemed Prime Minister's number he gave me? He'll be glad to get my orders, he knows I'm a friend of President Kennedy's. Got him? Yes? Whaddayamean, recorded message? Whatsitsay? Your call is not important to us. Fuck off, you  snot-eating Limey lunatic sonofafuckinbitch. Ain't you caused enough  trouble, motherfucker ?  Are you sure that's what it says?

OK, then, Putin, he's the man to deal with, least he's white, and a socialist, like I'm not, even if he is a gangster. Although he does look very fit.   What?  The children? No, no idea, don't we have people to look after them? Here's the hotline number to the Kremlin. Yes, I kept it, when we left Downing Street. Temporarily. You do know, Sarah, don't you, that the British people will very soon be pleading with me to go back to Downing Street, asking my forgiveness?  Good girl. You know, you're not half bad, for a split-arse.  You'll soon have Naomi Campbell round for dinner again. One thing we can be proud of, our door is always open to darkies.

Is that the Kremlin?  Good, lemme have the phone. Yes. Comrade General, Field Marshal Brown here,  from the People's Republic of Fife, now listen, you must do exactly as I say, exactly. Mobilise ten divisions...... What? You're not Comrade General Putin?  Well, who the holy fuckin' Jesus are ye then? National Office of Nuisance Call Deflection. And what the fuck is that and why am I talking to you? Oh. Yes.  I see. Well fuck you, too, you Godless heathen communist bastard.

There's some misunderstanding, Sarah, it's the language thing. Better try the UN, yes, Banki Moon, that's him, obliging little yellow bastard, I believe, Tibetan or something. Like those fucking Ghurka bastards.  Hello?  Hello?  United Nations? Get me the Seckatry General, right away, yes, the little nigger bloke, alright then, Chinkie  bastard, slope, whatever, little wog, with too many teeth.  Who am I? I'm Gordon Snot, Life Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, well, England and Wales, England anyway.  No, not Tony Blair's brooding, bad-tempered  bumchum, Prime Minister. I am the Prime Minister. You know. Let The Work Of Change, Only The Same, Begin, you remember?  I demand you put me through to Banki-Wotsisname so that I can order a peace-keeping mission to Korea. Already in hand? Whaddayamean, already in hand. How dare you? Without consulting me? You're going to hang-up now?

OK, Sarah, I'll have to save the world myself, won't be the first time. Get me Bob Ainsworth at Defence and Alastair Darling, the Chancellor, and get me Jacqui Schmidt at the Home Office and if I'm going to persuade everyone that ThisIsTheRightThingForTheCountry, I'll need to make a broadcast  on the BBC, get me Peter Mandelson. And Alastair Campbell. And the Joint Chiefs Of Staff.  I'll have to take over the Scottish Parliament, as my HQ, no, just execute that bloke, Salmond, I'll declare  a  state of national emergency. Oh, the phone's ringing, can you get that? Probably the White House, 'phoning back, asking if I have a Sol-You-Shun. No? Not the White House? The Kircaldy Oxfam Shop? Telling  me  I can work this morning, after all,  as long as I don't shout at everybody?

It's in times of potential global crisis that we miss him; times like these, when he would come mincing out from number ten, drugged out of his mind, gnashing at his nails,  all gray and fat and jowly, stuttering and doing that dah-dah-dah drywank jawdrop, Sol-you-shunning, right-for-the-countrying, telling the world what he expected of it, the horrible fucking bastard, mad as a fucking hatter, bent as a nine-bob note, grunting and growling like a rabid neanderthal, motormouthing, telling us all how he would never mention his children for political advantage even though he was  doing it, how burning all the money and giving away all the gold to Mr Singh from the cash'n'carry truly was a stroke of genius which only he would have thought of and how the more squaddies came home in boxes or in bits,  the more - obviously - we were beating the Talimen.

Still, never mind,  our loss is Oxfam's gain.


Caratacus said...

Had something of a 'challenging' day at work; home to lots of paperwork and number-crunching and suchlike bollocks... then I thought I'd have a read at Ishmaels first....

Pissed myself laughing, reminded myself just how much worse things could be, made coffee and - still sniggering - am about to do me VAT.

Cheers mate!

jgm2 said...

Top drawer Mr Ishmael. Yes, he would too wouldn't he.

Acting all statesmanlike. Looking at the big picture and not the mere trivia of his fucked up economy.

God, I don't miss him one fucking iota apart from as an object of pure derision.

mrs narcolept said...

He only went in May and already it seems like years.

Dick the Prick said...

Poor fucking Oxfam. He was advertising for a constituency worker t'other day at £30k. for fuck all.

P T Barnum said...

Mr I, you have a new fan - my 82 year old father laughed himself silly over this post. Which, in the context of a difficult day for him, was a joy for me, at least.

Sclerotic said...

It was so true to form that it took me quite a while to realise it was only a jest.

black hole sunset said...

Me too, Mr/Mrs Sclerotic. As Mrs Narcolept says, it seems like years, aeons, even, since the mad, raving lunatic was pried from his imaginary leavers of control.

He recedes, now, at such velocity as to be visibly red-shifted. Just another iron hard, soot-ice clinker, lost in the void of interstellar space - Fife, apparently.

call me ishmael said...

That's nice, mr ptb, remember me to your good father. One of the axioms of Ishmaelia, of course, is that we laugh to keep from crying, sometimes - but sometimes, and now is one of them, things aren't funny.

Everyone knows that sinister means left-handed and I really do think that Southpaw Cameron is at the Devil's work, his path deceitful, traitorous and narrowly self-interested, was ever Narcissuss so sanctimonious, so hypocritical, so transparently cheap and vulgar; it is for this current, what would you call it, wretchedness legitimised, that Brown should be eventually judged, the undoing of everything which, throughout his worthless, posturing life, he claimed to hold sacred; pursuing stature, disabled by monstrous ego, cowardly, rotten and worthless, his life's work was in delivering the Money Shot, his sole achievement is not a better place, it is, in the Coalition, Ruin's ejaculate.