Sunday, 18 March 2012

THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL. ONLY FIFTY PEE. NEWS, GOSSIP AND FOOD.

LOVE MINUS ZERO - NO LIMIT.   DO WHAT THOU WILT SHALL BE THE WHOLE OF THE LAW.

GAYCHURCH NEWS

THOSE WHOM GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHER,
LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER.
YOU MAY NOW KISS THE DOGBRIDE.

On Newsnight,  last night, an angry dog lover insisted that he had the absolute right to marry his partner, Rover.
Why should a filthy old pervert  like Archbishop Nonce  tell me who I can and can't marry?  Rover and I are perfectly happy, we live together as man and wife, just like any other man and wife, or husband and husband or wife and wife or whatever floats your boat and all we want is to have our union solemnised  in the way that uptight, straight people do.  You know, vicars and bells and confetti and  a disco afterwards. And then a fight.

 Shrieking gay activist, Rhona McDick, shrieked that it was absolutely intolerable the way that some people weren't gay.  I mean, she howled, where would the world, where would humanity be  if everybody was straight, Shut up! Shut up!  Listen to me, I demand that you listen to me. I'm a comedian.

Gorgeous, pouting Rhona McDick, alternative comedian, 
the alternative bit relates to her not being funny.
Like most of them.

Interviewed by the BBC's in-house grunting, hunchback transsexual,

 Kirsty Wark, Professor Dame Germaine Greer,  wretched old bully and famous star of early 'sixties magazine,  Legs Wide Open, 

Life down under.
 
Germaine explores feminist issues
 back in the nineteen-sixties.



and today, aged 74


said Well, cobber, I'll fuck anybody, man, woman or child, and I have, long as they're a bit famous  or rich or somethin' but I must say I draw the line at fucking a  dog.  Unless  it was Art.  And I was really well paid. But no,  as a sociologist and a sex therapist and an author, broadcaster, journalist, pornstar and gardener,  I do believe we are staring into a bit of a cultural abyss, here, mates, or a fairy dell, if you like, all the old certainties not so certain anymore, the underpinnings being undermined,  the lunatics taking over the bleedin' asylum.  Society's all over the place, like a mad woman's breakfast.

 It's like that bloke, Ishmael, says,  there's all the difference in the world between procreation and loving, meaningful,  monogamous  and profound arse-banditry.  Doesn't matter how you dress it up, sport,  fishing from the other bank's fine but it ain't fucking natural.  I mean, Fair Dinkum, mates, but if God hadda meant for blokes to charver each other up the shitpipe, there wouldn't be no need for KY Jelly now, would there?  Know whaddamean?  Your Sheila, now, she comes equipped with her own internal lubetube.  And I know, cos  even at seventy-four I can't turn the bastard off, wet and stinking like a four-day old mackerel I am, down there, some days. But yer bloke's arsehole, it's not, how shall we say, naturally lubricated, in fact it's whachamightcall, if you was of a religious persuasion,  dry as a nun's nasty, and that means it's not designed to accommodate  another bloke's donger.  But that's poofters for you.   And anyway, they only wanna get hitched, a) so's they can get divorced in a big fucking drama and b) to draw fresh  attention to themselves because nobody any longer gives a rat's ass  about their filthy practices,  's a busted flush, now that it's virtually on the school curriculum. Proper queers don't wanna get married.  These gobby bastards are just like normal people, apart from  all the endless whining and sticking their fists profoundly and meaningfully up each others' arses, that is.  There isn't a Christopher Isherwood or a WH Auden amongst them.  I mean, who the fuck do they think they're kidding?   Do I look like Shirley fucking Bassey? And the reason that so many straights are supporting this shit is because they all want life to be just like some continual twenty-four/three-hundred-and-sixty-five orgy, and if they let the poofs pretend to be normal why then it'll be ok for them to go gangbanging the local teenagers right in front of their parents or dragging their wives around municipal carparks on the end of a leash with their tits hanging out.  This is what the liberal consensus is all about, mates. Ain't nothing to do with nice, and everything to do with ugly.  Nothing to do with Freedom, this is all about the tyranny of the phallus; mark my words. Wasn't it that evil old bastard, Crowley, who said that headline of  mr ishmael's ?  Do what thou wilt shall be the whole fo the law? Satanist, wasn't he? 

Members of the house of commons at their daily prayers.


He'd be well pleased with all this stuff. Cheers, Kirsty, mine's a case of strong lager  and a packet of Bensons  

I'm the Urban Titman, baby.

Germaine poses with wacky, zany, irreverent and utterly pointless 'sixties icon, the late Mr Vivian Bonzo-Dog.

That was Kirsty with Germaine Greer.
We are joined now in  the studio by Archbishop Beard of Canterbury.


Dr Rowan Atkinson, Archbishop of Canterbury.

You're jacking it in, then?

Well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways, Jeremy, but I'm fucked if I know what He's up to this time.  I mean, clearly, there are challenges in this modern world. And clearly they face anyone doing God's work. But fuck me, Jesus,  I have had ten fucking years of warfare between on the one hand an army of angry, hissing gay vicars and vicaresses who just wanna be able   to bumfuck and carpetmunch  each other all around the high altar and on the other  hand the Anglican cannibal bishops out in BongoBongo land who wanna burn gay clergy at the fucking stake. Or boil them up in the Headman's cauldron.  I mean, Jeremy, what the fuck would you do?  The Anglican church in the States is just a branch of Stonewall and now I'm expected to turn a blind eye to poofmarriage, here, in Britain,  just as though the word of God was a fucking rap single, capable of endless re-mixing, or a fucking LibDem manifesto promise. For six days God laboured and on the Seventh he changed His fucking mind.  All these bumbandits, all wanting to be normalised by Holy Sacrament, it's like God saying,  Oh, no, My children, all that Ten Commandments shit, I didn't actually mean that, what I meant was Thou SHALT steal, thou shalt murder, thou shalt bear false witness, and thou most definitely shall covet thy neighbor's ass.  I meant what I said yesterday but today I am wrestling with an unholy mess given unto me by the heathen bastard Brown, woe unto him, but quiet thanks, too, for he maketh even the abominable seem just and necessary, as long as he be spunneth as the Anti-Christ.

Now hold on. Are you saying, Archbishop, that this is all Gordon Snot's fault?

Well, he's one of them, isn't he? Woulda married a man if he could.

The last unelected prime minister,
Gordon Snot.

I am very busy, here in Fifeshire,
playing with myself.
It is the sol-you-shun. And the right thing for the country.



So, Archbishop, are you saying you haven't the stomach for the fight?

It's not a question of stomach;  it's just that what with the Internet and skymadeupnewsandfilth and now the brownhatters demanding to be married, well, It's Sodom and fucking Gomorrah we're talking about here. Clearly, Jeremy, the last ten years have been trying  for the  worldwide Anglican community.  So much so that I betcha my celestial homecoming that our brother in Christ, Pope Nazi, the Nonce-Protector-General, is creaming himself over there in the Vatican,  rubbing his shriveled old nonceballs in glee.

Arbeit macht frei.

Zey vill not be married in mein church, ze dirty fuckers. Not in eine hunderd tousand  ov years.  God's army ov men in black haff all learned to sublimate ze nancyboy side ov zemselves into ze proper abuse of der kinder and haff no need to play hussband und frau mit one another, like zat  Steven fucking Fry und his bumboy partner, mit whom he iss living in mortal fucking sin. 


Bless.
Popular TeeVee personality  and heterophobe
Stephen Fag, of Direct Line.
Before he turned into an elephant.

 Und any bastard say different und I just snap my finger und Whoosh! is excommunicated bastard  und going straight into Hell, along mit all ze childen vot makes ze false allegations against mein Holy Up-Ze-Arse Stormtroopers.  Same sex marriage? Ze very idea, is fucking abomination.

And so it is.

-----------------------------------------------------------
THE FOOD SECTION

MY HAUTE CUISINE SECRET.
THE LIQUID OXO CUBE
BY
MARCO PIERRE GOB.
RUIN'S KITCHEN PORTER
It's the nearest I can get to my own telly series

The Michelin Guide to restaurants has been around since 1920.  Before that, it was a geneal motorists' guide for les Frogs - routes and maps, the locations of garages and breakdown services,  handy maintenance tips, like the old AA handbook used to be.....


When I worked in a five-star hotel you made stock, in a big higher-than-a-man, freestanding, double-skinned, steam-heated stockpot;  huge, it was.  Monday mornings you'd throw in a sack of halved onions, browned on the range-top, a sack of carrots, a box of celery, a big tray of eggs,  a big tin of tomato puree and the burnt bones of a couple of cows.  And anything else beefy or lamby or chickeny that  you had hanging around.  Waste not, want  not, when all else fails throw it in the stockpot and wring out whatever goodness lies in this old bone.

 After a day or so, via the tap at the bottom, you could fill a jug or a pan with the most potent and beautifully clear  stock imaginable,  some of it would go in the walk-in fridge to set as consomme gelee, some of it would make soups, some of it would make a basic brown sauce to sit in a bain marie and form the basis of all subsequent brown sauces, bolognese, chasseur, Rossini and so on; some of it would be added to thickened roasting-pan juices for gravy. 

The stockpot was never turned off, we just kept it topped-up with water and fed it more beef bones as they    appeared; wherever, these days, we use a stock cube, we, then, drew-off a pint of beef stock from the stockpot.  Sunday nights the kitchen porter would  climb up a side ladder and  into   the stockpot - the liquor all having been drawn-off and the steam shut off - and empty the mother with a shovel.

There was a pair, actually, of these monsterpots and the other one was for a vegetable stock - celery, leeks, carrots, onions, turnips, parsley and all the trimmings from the legumier's table - stalks, leaves, pods,  skins.  This was ready in an hour or so and was used mainly for vegetable soups.  Sometimes the secondary stock pot would be brought to the boil with nothing but water and a dozen or two prime brown  lobsters flung-in, to scream and turn pink. Fish stock was made more or less to order, skins and bones, onion and bayleaf, a dash of white wine.  The idea of using a stock cube never entered anyone's head.

And then Harold Wilson's govament, friend to the working class, brought in the Selective Employment Tax,  which taxed employment in service industries and hotel and catering staff numbers were slashed -  not, as we now so stupidly say, decimated, hoping that we mean nearly wiped out but actually meaning cut by only ten per cent  -  and kitchen brigades were more than halved, dining room staff, too, were sent down the road, muttering. 

 Before SET commis chefs and commis waiters would spend the first part of their (split) shifts  fine-chopping parlsey into green dust or with wickedly sharp knives,  slicing toast through the centre and toasting the exposed surfaces to make that wafer-thin, curly Melba toast which adorned every table and in curling pounds and pounds of butter into neat,  corrugated,little rolls which would  sit in gleaming,  stainless steel buckets of iced water before being placed on the dining tables.  In the kitchen proper,  on the fish table,  determined and competitive  young improvers would carve  boxes of lemons into fantastical shapes to adorn grilled salmons and halibuts, cucumbers would be cleverly scored lengthwise with  a neat little canal knife, tomatoes  cut in alternating short diaganols around their centre, all, then, as now, was adornment.  In the larder, wielding saws and cleavers and boning knives, chefs would bone and roll and shape legs and  crowns of lamb, fillet chicken breasts for a score of chicken dishes, skin and prepare Dover Soles for poaching or grilling or deep-frying; saw and chop and slice beef sirloins into T-bone and fillet and entrecote steaks;  in various side-pantries and in the Still-room - so-called because Stills manufactured the gleaming stainless steel boilers and steamers and espresso machines which fed the silver tea and coffee pots - waiters would daily finely chop capers and hard-boiled eggs and call on the kitchen  staff for mayonnaise with which to combine eggy-bitterness into Tartare Sauce; Sauce Marie Rose was made daily for the newly popular Prawn Cocktail - or Crevettes Marie Rose, as it was known then. Cutlery and crockery and glass were all hand burnished and the hotel housekeepers had starched and ironed the linen table cloths and napkins. The grand hotel was like the country house, labour was plentiful, cheap and by today's standards very highly skilled.  Overnight, Wilson's taxation policy changed all that.

Overnight, standards fell through the floor,  the hotel trade, like so much else, was ruined, the Grand Central became Heartbreak Hotel, the proper people simply weren't there to do the jobs properly,  so they stopped being done properly;  this heralded the arrival and the colonisation of cuisine by multi-national food bandits like Knorr.  It's wrong to call them food bandits, really, because they don't make food, they package chemicals; Knorr food products all consist of  salt, emulsifiers, monosodium glutomate and the dehydrated sweepings-up from the slaughterhouse floor;  their soups, stocks, sauces and flavourings are shit. But hotel managers had to do what they had to do,  the stockpots were turned off because there wasn't the power to man them and powders took their place, neat little wrapped butter portions replaced the hand-curled dishfuls; frozen and dried  vegetables replaced those bought daily by the head chef himself in the Belfast market just around the corner, frozen fish poured in  from Youngs and other maritime vandals, Duck a l'Orange from  boil-in-the-fucking-bag manufacturers, Alveston Kitchens of, I think, Stratford upon Avon; you simply drop our product, still in its plastic bag into boiling water for fifteen minutes and Voila! shite a la mode.

After the SET blitz I worked in a seaside hotel in Ballycastle under  a once-famous, European master chef, Henri de Tour;  he was past his best, in his late sixties and like every senior chef I ever knew he was a pisshead.  One of my tasks was to slip out up the road to an offy and buy him his daily half-bottle of vodka,  the management having instructed the bar staff not to serve him.  Anyway, my abiding memory of Henri is wonderful.  He was a small man and he wore this great big chef's hat, starched to stand upright on his head, about eighteen inches high, I think he glued it on, for it never fell off, despite his uncertain deportment and I can picture him now, stood over a large bustbin and with deft strokes of his filleting knife slicing open doxens of bags of the then-novel Surprise! Freeze-Dried Green Beans and philosophically - for he knew he would be dismissed, - watchung them cascade drily into the bin.  They were part of  a management-ordered consignment of labour-free foods which also included Maggi and Knorr dried soups and stocks,  Henri wouldn't use them and nor, ever after, have I.  The soups and the stocks were, with equal solemnity, consigned to the bin and soon Henri - and I - were gone.

Belfast's Grand Central Hotel declined and became a barracks for those troops set wastefully against Marty Kneecaps  and his Torturing Freedom Fighters,  the site is now a shopping experience of some sort, although hard-faced, goon taxi drivers congregate, still, around Royal Avenue, longing for their recent glory days as racketeers and extortionists.  An establishment, renowned for over seventy years for the excellence of its service became, like British ships and engineering and steel,  a notch on the cost-cutters' gun.

But Marco White and the Michelin men,  thereby hangs a tale.  White was one of the early celebrity chef-restuarateurs employing, in his day, many of teevee's most repulsive, including the fuckwit Blumenthal, of bacon and egg flavoured ice cream fame.  Marky was one of the first and one of the youngest to  win two or was it three  Michelin stars and so up-his-own-arse did he grow that anyone daring to complain about his food was confronted by the angry, sweating chef himself, raging at them and throwing them out of his gaff;  how fucking dare they criticise his raw lambs kidneys on a bed of quick sauteed dandelion leaves?  Man was and remains an utter cunt.  Just the sort of character beloved of  the Michelin men.  And  he was the sort of cunt beloved also by that most irrelevant of creatures, the gossipy restaurant critic and with the imprimatur of some worthless piece of shit like AA Gill, White's pretentious greasy spoons were all fully booked; rich foodies wetting themselves as they stood in line at his door, some hoping, maybe, like some deranged, overweight self-flaggelant, for a good public bollocking from the young maestro himself.  No business like Showbusiness

The Michelin business is a bit like the Baftas and the Oscars, it shouldn't mean anything but it does and every braying, illiterate celebrity cook yearns to have a Michelin star. Like the grizzly Meryl Streep with her Oscars, some cooks are just always going to win and retain a Michelin star and the gullible will flock to eat beneath it, as they flock to see Streep playing Whisky Maggie - because the industry tells them to.  White  is far too dirty and unwholesome-looking for your correspondent, who is funny about such things as hand washing and cross contamination.  I share Christopher Walken's incredulity at the fact that otherwise sensible people will let complete strangers, whom they cannot even see, handle their food and White's contempt for his customers is so ingrained and bloated that it is probably de rigeur in his kitchens for him to shove his manky fingers - as well as his head - up his arse. I am sure that the explosion in ItchyBums, the epidemic of Irritable Bowel Syndrome which started in the eighties is due to filthy conceited bastards like Marco Pierre White and his imitators as they peddled eating-out as a form of rough sex.

A former inspecteur from  Michelin spilled the beans a few years back, revealing that the firm only employs a handful of inspectors to cover the whole of Europe and, like the British Health and Safety Standards board, is laughably incapable  of monitoring even the establisments to which it has awarded stars, much less the establishments which - in not recognising - it has sent to foody-purdah

I don't know if any of the Arabian-owned grand hotels  cling, still, to freshly-made Tartare Sauce, to double-skinned, steam-powered stockpots but I doubt it.  And hotels, anyway, are no longer the foodies Mecca.  It is the celebrity cook who makes the running, festooned now, not just with Michelin stars but  for anyone who is anyone - just not poor, grimy, bad tempered  Marco - a teevee series, too. Mee-shell or Al-bair , one of those fucking intolerable  Roux brothers was on recently, ohh-la-la-ing all over the place about Alsatian Apple Pie or Roast Pork or some such. And, as though he was Margaret Thatcheur, 'e was banging-on, about 'OwYouSay, le threeft an' le 'ard work, and, and I'm not making this up, about  'Ow very sad eet all ess, Ooh-la-fucking-la, zat we are employing so many eemigrant in ze Breetish kitchen,  the cheeky, fucking  Frog bastard. Since when have we given a fuck about what some jumpoed-up Frog cook thinks about anything? tick to your snails, m'sieu, and your bouilla-fucking-basse.

But it's not just him.  Look at the whining little fascist and seedy shoplifing poltroon, Wobble-Thompson, look at the utterly, incurably self-worshipping Jamie Wotsit;  the two, beardy gay bikers; the list is endless and constantly updated as another  braindead celebrity cook or baker explodes onto the screen of  public consciousness.

Once, in Britain,  if we celebrated  people at all, we celebrated worthies, unassuming non-millionaire sportspersons like Roger Bannister and Duncan Edwards, inventors, like Whittle, designers like Issigonis; proper musicians and proper actors, Julian Bream, Lauence Olivier.  Now, here in Ruin, on page and screen, we sanctify and mimic dirty, greasy cooks.

Marco Pierre White's typically bombastic advertisements for the Knorr semi-liquid Stock  Cube are a milestone on Ruin's Highway.  like himself, they are fucking rubbish;  salty, dark and overwhelming of any native goodness.  Don't bother with them.  I tried one recently,  the rest are going in the special Ruinbin.
---------------------------------------
FROM THE SUNS ARCHIVE.
A YOUNG POLISH PLUMBER'S CHRISTMAS. 


A FEAST OF JAMIE

Try and have right good fucking English Christmas round here.  Watch Jamie Bloke on telly and copy everything just right.  For soup is surprise a la Jamie.  Go in garden pull up handful of weeds from ground,  is ok leave some dirt on weeds, is organic soup,  innit,  go back in house and kick oven for good luck and get half kilo of garlic and smash up  with dirty old brick.  Have a break and pick nose for a minute,  tell cockney joke about My Old Mum.  

 Mmmm,  smell all that lovely garlic.  And then get some red hot chilli and smash with brick,  not too much,  just enough.  And then get ten pounds per litre olive oil off Sainsbury shop and pour some in jug.  Assemble all ingredients and season all up with half pound of cayenne pepper and half pound of vindaloo curry powder off Sainsburys.  Take weeds and oil and garlic and chilli and anything else you got lying about and throw in machine and give good fucking blitzing for minute or two till is right sloppy -  everything, weeds, garlic, oil and curry powder is one delicious and appetising grey-green mixture.  Wipe finger on arse of jeans and stick in soup.     Mmmm, is fucking miasma of friendly flavour  and texture,  'Strewth, fair leaps up from bowl and tickle under fucking chin, eh.? Pour in bowls and serve cold with handful of weed ripped up and thrown on top.  Mmmm,  is delicious and  is guarantee family will go mad for it.  Can make six month in advance and store in garage with coal.  Season to taste.
Next up is turkey.   Jamie Bloke says go down local turkey farm and kill bastard with own hands.  Is right organic.  Meaningful, like in fucking Guardian.  First chase after turkey in mud and shit and grab bastard by legs.  Mrs get one end and stan  get other end and twist like fuck, pulling like tug of war,  knack is to twist and pull just right and snap turkey neck.  Often bastard break free and bite and fucking squawk and shit and run around  and is back to square peg one.  Stanislav make rugby tackle on fucking turkey and bastard still won’t stop still and get killed.  Go back in van and get biggest in set of Stilson wrench and chase turkey bastard all around,  land blow on bird now and again but often is just fall on arse in mud and turkey shit.  Go back in van and start up engine.
Not much damage in the end, is just bumper and headlight and radiator all smash up but turkey is good and fucking dead, crush between van and wall;  not bite no other bastard.  Pay farmer hundred quid for turkey and hundred quid for wall and hundred quid for field all ploughed-up and hundred quid for not phone cops and hundred quid for  RSPCA.   Fuck me, thought plumbers was bad.  But five hundred quid for smelly old turkey about ten years old and made from leather and  most is all fucking claws and  feathers and shit. And have to pay cousin small fortune to fix up van with iffy parts  off eBay.  Still, organic make better citizen, like Mr Blunkett wants.  Only not  take turn with Mr Hoggart off Guardian and fuck other bloke Mrs and get kid. Too fucking organic for most folk.
Anyway,  get turkey up on table and splash liberally with white spirit off Sainsbury or petrol  from Sainsbury garage will do if not got any spirit  and set on fire until feathers is all burn off. Is best open windows.  If no spirit and no gas is best  cover with grated firelighter and light from other room . No need for too fussy.  Is Christmas and feather,  like run out of money,   is   Xmas  custom. Rub both hand vigourously down jeans and slap dead turkey on breast and stroke,  going,  mmmm just look  at that,  mmmm, just look at that.  Only  lightly season  - put few handful  of black pepper and couple of kilo of rock salt up turkey jacksie and pound or two of  ripped up weeds from garden,  hedge clippings from summer will do,   and few tube of squeeze garlic paste off Sainsburys.  Not bother with pull insides out.  All adds to great organic flavour.

Now is best part.  Go in garden with wheelbarrow.  If poor and not  got garden,  never mind, go down park, is open at Christmas,  full of wino and incognito crack prostitute from Cabinet and children shoot and stab  each other but never mind, is Christmas,  eh,  in prosperous,  cautious,  prudent Britain.  Anyway,  make plenty shovel of dirt in barrow and mix in smooth paste with couple of gallon of water from pond  and season with several kilo of garlic smash with brick and few jar of strawberry jam from Sainsburys.  Is good friends, garlic and strawberry, reassures  Jamie.  Make delicious mix of flavour on top of  dead turkey.
Go back in house and prepare turkey for oven  by putting in big fuck off dish and pour over tasty and flavoursome mud crust .  Get brother-in-law, Waldemar,  away from Christmas with Clarkson Video - Oh, this car go so fast my hair catch fucking fire,  Oh, this car so slow get overtake by fucking glacier;  Oh,  Birmingham is shithole;  Oh, you might think I am fat useless repetitive overpaid BBC cunt. But you’d be wrong.  And so on - to help shove in oven,  kick door with foot  and weld-up tight with gear fron van and roast at  five hundred Celsius, Gas Mark 20, for several days. Maybe a week. Maybe fortnight.  Remove when cooked.
Unfortunately, family say not eating that shit, Stan. You can be organic as fuck,  we is off down McDonald,  get decent,  honest fucking mechanically reclaim turkey burger made of eyeball, foreskin,  arsehole,  beak and fucking feather and come with salty,  powdered chip with large Coke and apple pie to incinerate fucking gob,  complete with have nice day greeting off poor fucking miserable pimply bastard wish he was fucking dead, roasting in Hell,  rather than togged-up in stripey shirt and cap on head.  Even with howling smelly regiment of spoiled little bastards all having birthday party and poor old cripple mopping fucking floor McDonald is better.  Fuck this organic shit.  Is not fit for decent person.  Only for  cockney ponce on fucking TV
Must admit Turkey en croute with dock leaf and Bisto sorbet not best ever family Christmas dinner.  Maybe next year take advice from  fish and chip bloke in Cornwall.  Dig big fucking hole in garden, throw in firelighter and stick and coal and roast alive some poor fucking crab and lobster and eat with fingers. Dance about singing I do like to be beside the seaside
Always assume of course that there is fucking Christmas next year and not all in  fucking NewLabour workhouse, nation of fucking homeless, vagrant dossers, line up for free soup off Salvation Army U Like.  Economic miracle, Phase 2.



je touch le chapeau a M le Suisse Bob

 ----------------------------------------------------

 THE ARTS PAGE

EINE KLEINE MONGOOSE MUSIC.




19 comments:

Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, there may be rare exceptions to the rule about axle-grease for unnatural acts, viz Mr Delany's "Hogg" in which one rapist cop remarks to another (up the other end at the time, as I recall) "You gotta try this, Mac, he got one of them assholes gets wet by itself like a pussy." Some kinda holy grail for them as likes that kind of thing, no doubt. (Lube would be neither here nor there for GG in her verdant prime - secateurs, machete or blow-torch. The mind boggles. Actually it looks like she was giving sanctuary to Archbishop Makarios.)

Small point of order (seem to remember we've been here before) but Crowley wasn't really a satanist, more like a proto-situationist in some ways. And "do what thou wilt" didn't mean do whatcha want, whatcha really-really want...though I agree it may as well have done.

I was a kid in the 70's so don't know, but sometimes wonder - which came first, in terms of widespread heterosexual sodomy, rock-stars or porn-flicks? I suspect Page, Plant, Morrison & co may have more entries on the charge-sheet, but it's just a hunch.

(Bog-standard stock-pot in this house, but we do make our own.)

call me ishmael said...

Speed-reading, eh, mr verge, haveta put some longer words in, like that fucker, wotsisname, Self.

I only know Mr Delany's MadMan which concerns itself with what I believe is termed urophilia, or drinkimg piss from the tube, as he puts it but I am sure he could imagine a self-lubricating anus. I. myself have no experience on the subject of wet or dry man-love and must be advised, therefore, like Germaine, by what I take to be incontovertible anatomical jurisprudence.

It may be my now-institutionalised lack of quotation marks but it was Germaine and not me saying that Do what thou wilt- Satanist stuff, You have, as you say, corrected me previously on that score. Even so, I do believe that the current gripe about sexual-orientation differentials is driven more by hedonism than reason, maybe dogging IS the new romatic love and not the first flaming arrows of barbarism.

I don't know, either, when or where these practices crossed-over, if indeed they did cross over and were not always widespread but it is widely held that the beat or rock group phenomenon both here and in the States was a less elegant re-run of A Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom.

A sure sign of stability and sense, the stockpot. And you a Transgressor at heart, tush!

Oldrightie said...

"It's like that bloke, Ishmael, says, there's all the difference in the world between procreation and loving, meaningful, monogamous and profound arse-banditry. "

Loved it. Must have taken a bloody long time to write!

call me ishmael said...

Glad to see you're still around mr or.

Like most people, I don't care what others do in private, it's none of my business. It is the insistence that what is clearly abnormal and non-productive, parallels and is, in fact, the same as what is productive and normal, it's that which pisses me off, that and some boring, dull, unimaginative chintzy poof, with no knowledge of my own piquant convolutedness, calling me straight. Cheeky fucking bastards.

Dick the Prick said...

It's got to be standard operating procedure to say 'so this is your wife'? Sir David Furnish? Err....Hmm...I guess it's back to libraries again, where Google has created drawers it hasn't created index. This Google piracy thing that they'll store all our passwords and data and stuff was kinda taken for granted anyway. Didn't imagine it just evaporated like a cow in an onionny broth.

It might not be a bad idea because it draws antagonists together in opposition and points at an illusives thing. Marriage? Ha ha, good luck with that. Let's see the clerics squeel and know where the beans are. It's inevitability should just act as a signpost upon Ruin's trail. Fox hunting, Iraq and gays; 25 years of British politics - yippee!

mongoose said...

Jesus, Mr I, that is awful. I only managed the first line before clicking the bugger dead. Do have a care.

call me ishmael said...

No need to be terse. ItThought you liked those earnest, breathy young femaies, mr m. All those daughters of Joni Mitchell, strumming away,screeching in a split secind from octave to octave. And she's Irish, that one, or at least she has an Irish name. But then Mr O'Bono, the miniature hunanitarian in the hat and the high heels is Irish, too; perhaps we should have some U2 tunes, eh, Greatest band in the world, I understand, Mr The Edge and Mr O'Bono and the other two dorks.

To Ramona would be my seventeenth or eighhteenth greatest-ever Bob Dylan song and just nobody can give it that plaintive diminuendo he does at the end of the verse. This is a stonking version which, in my childhood, I saw him perform.

mongoose said...

There is a Joni track somewhere of her covering a Bob song. I cannot bring it to mind but that was truly dire too. In fact, I cannot think of too many covers of The Bob that one can listen to a second time. (Knockin' on whatever being the honourable exception.)

yardarm said...

I think it was Sir Francis Dashwood of the Hellfire Club who said " Do what thou will ".

Dashwood was rich, leisured, self indulgent and led orgies and (possibly) Satanism. In his spare time he dabbled in politics. He and his mates were a sort of Georgian Bullingdon Club although probably more intellectually gifted.

He was briefly Chancellor of the Exchequer, presented one budget, realised he was shit at it and resigned. Obviously resignation due to incompetence was some strange archaic custom not practiced today, unlike the rest of his vices.

So Francis Dashwood; orgiast, Satanist rightly felt that Chancellor of the Exchequership was the most humiliating thing he did " Hello, Francis, off to deflower virgins on an altar dedicated to Satan ? " " No mate, just off to impose a cider tax on the good yeomen of Devon ".

Is a fully formed Fidel Castro about to spring from Germaine Greers loins in that photo ?

TDG said...

If normality is defined by fidelity to function there is nothing "normal" about writing, say. It is a perversion of action more directly and profitably devoted to obtaining the nutrients on which life depends. The same is true of much of what we do. So the appeal to normality does not work. I don't see why it needs rationalizing: people find the idea of sex between men unpleasant, viscerally, and therefore would rather not keep hearing about it. Why not just leave it at that? Anyhow, sexlessness, or inept, charmless, gormless sex are far greater evils than the slick, easy promiscuity heterosexuals object to homosexuals implicitly promoting amongst their own kind.

Dick the Prick said...

Mr TDG has a point; met a 1 night stand the other day now with child, fucking dodged a bullet there - yowzers!

Agatha said...

No comments on the Food Section? Your other correspondents have let you down, Mr. Ish, by not applauding your expose of the great eating out con perpetrated on the British public by a conspiracy of media celebrity chefs and journalists. It's all effing product, it's not religion - mind you, religion is effing product, too. When did we decide that food is entertainment? And why? Why on earth do we think it is posh or clever to go to some noisy, overcrowded, public place and eat over-priced food that some minimum-wager has heated up in a microwave and drinking unpleasant wine at a vast mark-up? Is it just to get out of doing the washing up? Better to eat at home and buy a dish washer. Do you remember that Jilly Goulden? She was a telly wine critic back in the day, with a nice line in hyperbole.Did her liver explode in the end?

Anonymous said...

Hope all's well buddy. Much love. DtP

the noblest prospect said...

Hope the new veins are doing the business.

Our best wishes, Mr Smith.

Reginald said...

I do hope, Mr Ishmael, that you are in a state of reasonable good health and not suffering another bout of the nasty.

Anonymous said...

I miss your posts and I see you haven't posted for a while - hope you're OK.

black hole sunset said...

All very quiet for a while, now. Hope everything is well in Ishmaelia.

mongoose said...

Where are you Mr I?

Anyway. If a chanteuse can tempt you back this late evening...

The Wonderful Flo.

mrs narcolept said...

I can never roast a turkey now without thinking of Stanislav.

x