Sunday, 11 March 2012



UN/Arab League -  what the fuck is the Arab League? - envoy, Kofi Annan, hustling in Damascus. I mean Urgently seeking a peaceful solution acceptable to all sides. But mainly Israel.

 It is the losssss of money  which concernssss me, 
I mean civilian life.

Whispering Kofi Annan is back.  Enough time has elapsed, presumably,  since the little bit of bother about he and his son milking his position as UN Seckatry General  and making some well-deserved money. Son, Kojo, was taking bungs from  the UN Oil-For-Food programme in the late Mr Saddam's Iraq and acting as mouthpiece for various well-connected, head-chopping, women-stoning, coked-up playboys in the Middle East;   y'know the kinda folks, Princes Charles and Andy's mates, Emirs and Princes, all manner of dictator filth.   Obviously, though, seeing who his old man was, Kojo never actually did anything wrong, like Jack Straw's bug-eyed, mutant son, Will,  or Lord Prescott's conniving property speculator son, David,  or George Bush senior's apechild, Dubya.  The sons of the powerful are all, in Jack Straw's words, Good Kids, Really.

Anyway, Kofi's back, lisping  his dire and worthless platitudes over the civil war in Syria.    One of the more useless UN Secretaries General -  has there been a decent one, since that guy who died in a plane crash, Dag Hammersjkold ? -    Annan has been wheeled-out as whispering peacemaker at large and we can, therefore, expect a further conflagration in Syria, spontaneous or orchestrated, as he does his masters' bidding, glueing a warped  veneer of diplomacy over the neo-con agenda in that region. look, we sent that great man, Kofi Wotsisname, and even he couldn't sort-out  that nigger shit.  The other main players in the Peace charade - Spunky Bill Clinton, Tony and Imelda, even conflict-resolution experts,  Gerry O'Nonce and Marty Kneecaps -  must all be busy with other projects;  Foundations, they call them, these murdering fuckpigs, busy hoovering-up bribes from WarCorp.
 Whispering Kofi Annan and President-for-Life Ali-Basher.

 There are terrorists, you know, Kofi, shooting my civilians....
Yessssss, Basher but.....isssss there sssome way we can all ........earn ssssome money? I firmly and ssssincerely believe that it makessss the world go round.
 We are all men of the world, after all.  Yesssss, I ssstill have the ssssame Swissssss account.  Clinton?  Yesssss, he'll want a tasssste.  And his doxy, Hillary Trousssersssss.  Blair?  Of coursssssse.  Bush, Carter, McCain, Romney,  they all need looking after, unlessss you want to wind up, when the night comes falling from the sky, how shall we sssay, dangling in mid-air?



I remember when AIDS  - or HTLV, as it was then, Human T Cell Leukemia Virus  ( I am sure that Acquired Immuno Deficiency Syndrome was substituted for it's acronymical convenience, seeing as how we are all deemed, now,  here in Ruin,  to be too stupid to say, much less understand complete words )  first started stalking the sexlives, sniper-like of anybody who had sex. Which is most but by no means all of us.

All of a sudden the commentariat, drunken slags, pimps and nonces,  themselves, generally speaking,  all fur coat and no knickers, like Lady Barbara Amiel,  the tart who broke the bank at  the Filth-O-Graph or shameless gangbangers like Simon Hoggart of theArsebridger; all of them, anyone with a bully pulpit  from which to sermonise  was, with varying degrees of hysteria, urging safe sex on the rest of us;  obsydian, tombstone-like megaliths almost  crashed, nightly,  through the bottoms of our TeeVee screens,

 so portentous was their YouWillDie  message, OhYesYouWill.

Stars and celebrities died from AIDS in a blaze of publicity.  Trusts were established to commemorate victims and to mitigate the arse-blitz, to reinforce NewSodom's barricades against God's own  vaulting, judgemental plague.  Good for fuck all politicians leapt enthusiastically on what would become a  vast, sprawling morality play, as well as  a health campaign. No business like showbusiness

 John and Edwina, spearheading his govament's SafeSex campaign

 As  a health minister I insist that you wear a johnny, Johnny.

Too fucking right I will, if I may say so, 'salright old spinsters riding bicycles but I need to be careful when I'm riding the village bicycle, as I am with you. I'm the fucking prime minister, Oh yes, indeed I most certainly am, in a not inconsiderable manner.

Impudent govament ministers and jumped-up experts and moralists seized on this   relatively minor health problem to further lecture harangue, corral and bully us.  The appearance  of Aids  gave  I Know Bestism a hundred-per-cent-pure shot in the arm. Anybody could be an expert. Shit, I was one myself, briefly. And if you didn't want to be a pro-gay expert, as I styled myself, you could be an I-always-knew-it-would-happen redneck expert,  these people are all diseased anyway.  They need treatment.  And a good punch.

I know that relatively minor health problem is an inflammatory statement to  many  but less than two million people dying from AIDS in 2010 compares with fifteen million children dying from hunger every year.   I don't know if the San Franciscan Interior Decorators Association ever makes a hunger-quilt,  as it so showily made  an AIDS victims' quilt  but I doubt it, too busy with the string quartet in their salons to hear the  weakening howls of anguish  from the  other side of the world.

  I mentioned before that the word community   makes me long for an AK 47. Somehow,  the deaths in New York and San Francisco - on top of the Stonewall defiance - strengthened and entrenched the idea of a Gay community;  more separatism, more exclusion, more Me-ism.  And a further fragmentation of a population which should be remorselessly unified against GlobaCorp.  Black community, gay community, fat community, transgender community, foxhunting community. Bollocks, all of it. Diabetes'll kill me and it's already fucked me right up but I'm not part of a Diabetes Community.  There's only one community,  the planetary community.

The starving to death community.
 And hunger, preventable hunger,  kills more people than  AIDS, Malaria and Tuberculosis combined. Be that as it may, I digress,  the opportunity to moralise was a gold-embossed invitation to MediaMinster;  now the queerbashers, like Straight Simon Hughes, could really let rip, tut-tutting, finger-wagging; but it was not just queers who got AIDS, our masters reminded us, anyone could get it.  Although it was probably caused originally  by  a queer, further back in the fucking chain.  You know, some  of those queers were actually bisexual, too,  and, y'know, your wife might have had a knee-trembler with one of them. You know what women are like. And she might give it to you.  Or she might have caught it long before she met you, off some other lover who also did it with men.  Christ, why didya marry the bitch in the first place? Dirty slut.

But in amongst all the self-loathing and fear and guilt I spied, one night on the telly, a junkie-cowboy-angel-rentboy, somewhere in Manhattan, in Bathhouse Central,  the revolving door of rough, anonymous, gay sex with a cascade, a multiplicity  of partners, showering one another with maybe-malign sperm.  Fuck that safe sex shit, he raged,  I didn't come out, upsetting my mother and father and brothers and sisters, just so's I could settle down in some monogamy shit with the same man every night;  fuck no,  I like risk, I love it.  Here was someone from William Burroughs'  fevered ejaculatory world or from the divine Last Exit to Brooklyn,  here was one of the people who populate the pages of what mr verge calls Transgressive Literature but whom we usually pretend are just fictional , just some de Sadean erotomaniacal reverie,  or even just rhyming coupleteers from Lou Reed's Walk On TheWild Side.  Holly came  from Miami Fla., hitch-hiked her way across the USA, plucked her eyebrows on the way, shaved her legs, 'n' then he was a she, said Hey, Babe, take a Walk On the Wild Side. This guy, a young man, was as real as pain, was proper queer; not a simpering showbiz Mommasboy narcissist,  like Rufus  fucking Wainwright, but a raging, righteous, independent  Quentin Crisp punque and he spoke for lots of them, I guess. These are people I'd met, as a runaway teenager, in all-night cafes on Birmingham's Bristol Road,   way back, before before. These people are the sexual underworld, these people are the business.

I don't know if he lived or died, that young man, but I really wished him well  in his outlaw  adventures.  I have been a brinkman all,  no - I lose track of time - some of  my life;  even as a kid, cycling downhill with my feet on the handlebars;  riding on the open platform of the corporation bus, back leant on the chrome unpright, holding on to nothing, an invitation to the blues, one pothole would have thrown me into the following traffic; always standing right up to the edge of the train platform, literally and figuratively, driving cars and riding motorbikes way too fast, falling off and crashing, DOA, one time, revived by an Emergency doctor, whom I promptly, flailingly thumped, as soon as consciousness was restored and I saw him incising my chest to drain a collapsed lung;  drinking too much drink and smoking too much smoke. Bring another bottle, build another joint.  One time a doctor said to me Don't ever get another skull fracture, mr ishmael, your skull's like a fucking jigsaw.  But it's alright, I learned my lesson well.  Motherless children have a hard road, just takes time to work that out, if you've never known anything else.And of course we, all of us, must take, if it's kindly offered,   shelter form the storm -  shelter  which some,  here, have so recently and irretrieveably lost.  I'm alright, now, never travel by train. Or motorbike.

I have friends in their sixties, after a lifetime of predictabilty, regularity and security, moaning about their mothers being a nuisance, and me not having known one these fifty and more years.  One way and another, therefore,  I am seriously sympathetic to the sexual outsider, living out on the streets, battered, mistreated and villified cruelly, even - no especially - by the worthies who  dally with them, so hotly, so moistly, before scurrying home,  their true passion aired,  to their official wives or husbands.

The worst that happened to me, I should say,  was that a Methodist minister  tried to molest  me, shortly after my mother died. He didn't succeed -  I was big for my age and strong and his wife was downstairs  but the attempt was one of the most shocking things that ever happened to me.  I say he didn't succeed but noncing happens  in a funny old world, maybe being able to exert brutish, breach-of-trust power over the vulnerable and get away with is thrill enough. Brian Duckworth, his name was and he and another minister ran a  ring, like they do, assaulting, trading damaged children, between themselves and some Dr Barnardo's staffers. Same old story, same old song. Duckworth went on to be something big and smiley and trustworthy in Methodism, worked in Central Hall.  Dead now,  the bastard.

I don't mention this to make a link between homosexuality and paedophilia, even though I do think that intrinsically, in some cases,  there is one.  Duckworth, for instance, wasn't, to my knowledge, homosexual as such, he was married with children and as far as I know stayed that way.  Just liked to molest children, just a paedophile.  But there are other cases, other currents, in which gay and paedo merge, almost as an act of carelessness.  In many ways, I admire gay activist Peter Tatchell, he's brave, taking on Mugabe's men and he's brave, being wrestled to the ground by Michael Portillo's goons and he's forgiven Simon Hughes when what he needs is a punch in his warty gob but when Tatchell  starts talking about young gay men of twelve and thirteen and how the age of consent should be lowered to thereabouts I can't help but wonder where he's bound.  I go pale, inside and out, at the shocking effrontery of such an assumption,  gay young men of twelve.........Maybe I'm an old reactionary, maybe people, legally children, should be able to fuck whoever they want to from the very second that they are able to.  The idea of an age of consent is, of course, unnatural, repressive of million-year old instincts but much of how we organise society is contra-natural and I think that we have to have ages of consent in the same way and for the same reason that we have speed limits on the roads - to stop people being hurt.  Mr edgar recently chastised me for my use of the phrase Age-inappropriate relationships but the idea of Peter Tatchell  or someone even older than he having penetrative sex with a twelve year-old - and this would be the consequence, or one of the consequences of such legislation - and the emotional damage which such behaviours might cause is poorly, inadequately described by the phrase age-inappropriate.  Believe me, mr edgar, I am a Duckworth scholar in such things.

It is all murky and can be argued either way, libertarian/tolerant or what should we call it, traditional/intolerant but  maybe not all gay people want to see the age of consent lowered to puberty, maybe it's just the in-yer-face segment of that community which wants to have its boy and eat him.

But the current gay issue is a message from another world, not about lowering the age of consent to twelve, it is about faux-marriage, or the unqueering of homosexuality; those making the running on this one demand that they marry, just exactly like heterosexual couples.  A million miles from the oppositional Manhattan outlaw,  this group is desperate to subdue and colonise the very terrain from which their predecessors fled.  Anything you can do, we can do better.
Civil union confers upon gay couples all the legal protections of holy deadlock,  the absence of which underpinned the movement  for civil union. The term marriage, therefore, and the pursuit of the nomenclature is strictly totemic.  The pursuit  by some gay people  of the term married couple is, in my judgement, a bitchy, spiteful, rub-their-noses-in-it  hetero-bashing manouvre which should be resisted, which is an abomination.  Of course we must let people live together without hindrance and with proper legal protection but let them not insist upon this dreary, spiteful  wrongheaded homogenisation;  wassamatter, are they no longer proud to be gay?  Aren't  they now demanding  a right they al;ready have, the right to be straight? 

Despite their aversion to participating in the biological activities  which creates life, gay men, some gay men, rich, pampered,  dribbling, self-indulgent old queens like Lady Sir Elton John can now buy, commission children in the market place, just as if they were sending some gofer out for  a line or two of cocaine,  they take no risk, they bear no pain,  they create nothing,  they only consume.

But that is not enough for them;  they fool themselves and  attempt to browbeat, to cudgel with the truncheon of  equal rights, to fool everybody else that they are young parents ordinaire, wilfully heedless  and expecting the rest of to be as pig-stupid ignorant as they  of the fact that fucking, conception, anxiety, pregnancy, labour and delivery are the only route to parenthood. Obviously. Elton and David may  primp and preen, may act as parents  magnifique et formidable before  their fawning, tonedeaf courtiers, when all they are is shoppers.

 Frothy, empty headed, vacuous and trivial, play-acting at being alive.

And so it is, so it must be with those screeching and whining that not only must they, non-reproductive,  samesexers, be treated the same but must be linguistically, terminologically indistinguishable from the breeders.

 Punch in the gob,  that's what they need;  quick rub-down with a housebrick.





For some years, now, BBC2 has been running a series of Transatlantic Session in which a basic band of vaguely traditional Scottish-Irish musicians joins forces with some visiting American dignitaries of the genre - some of them are quite magical but they are grown increasingly tedious;

 smirking, beardy fiddlers, manic pipers and an absolutely intolerable lap slide guitar player who, regardless of suitability or taste ladles his syrupy tones over absolutely everything, join ensemble with some long-tressed Kentucky singerbabe, just as doggone purty as a picture, 


 or a guitar-flailing Tenneseean loon sporting a snufflers beard, the whole cloying confection intercut with commercial ethnobabble about the Music and the Roots and about NoBarriers. Fucking horsehit, really, although it has been worth looking at just in case the late Kate McGarrigle

 or Mad Maestro Paul Brady - surely a cousin of Marty Kneecaps -


 or some such transcendent musical jewel made a brief, sparkling appearance.

The redeeming feature of this long-running series is that there is never an appearance by gibbering hobgoblin Sir Jools Holland and his assorted headshrinkers and necromancers; that, in itself on a BBC2 music show, is a kindness.

 No, laydeezangennulmen, don't laugh, I really can sing.
 And I have extremeley eclectic musical tastes.

The loose underpinning of these jamborees is the supposed connection between (whte) United States music and Scotland, the best part of England - y'know, nationalism. Scotland's great influence on the world, the ethnic cleansing of the US by murderous Scots, Paddies, Germans and all the Bible thumping riff-raff of Europe, of which Scotland and Ireland appear to be so proud. Sioux, Arapaho, Navajo, Cherokee, Iriqouis and Innuit, Celtic bandits have slaughtered them by the thousand, stole their lands, desecrated their sites, raped their women and children.; Ah, but Jaysus, the music. And sure the people was starvin' at home, so they were, so why not take stuff from the Redskins, now, dem being Godless heathen savages an all, so they are.

Alongside all this nationalist tedium there is an international marketing opportunity, or should I say grassroots movement, as people all over the world discover their Celtic connection and in the true spirit of traditional musicians everywhere, sign recording contracts and hope fervently for a cross-over, number one platinum album.

I got in trouble - and a little acclaim - up here a while back for publicly  lambasting  the rapacious juggernaut arts movement in Scotland.  Here, and especially  so the further North you go, any smirking wee Fiona sawing at a tuneless fiddle is a maestro-in waiting;  any sourfaced crow singing unaccompanied in Gaelic  a fifteen-verse dirge about hanging or murder or betrayal - some Fathomless Grievance Blues - anyone, in fact, who, lacking taste or modesty, gets up and makes a noise in front of others deserves public subsidy, because, like the horsebeaters in BigFatPikeyWeddings, what they are doing is traditional.  Not while old people are cold, ventured I. And anyway, most of it is shite;  those awful accordions, Jesus fucking wept. And what is  good will survive and flourish without subsidy, like the Delta Blues.  Some were delighted at my heresy, others wounded deep in their morbid souls.

I shrink, therefore, from Scottish traditional music, especially performed by professional ego-tripping ponces and slappers. And I retreat even further from the overseas varieties, from Canucks claiming some spurious ancestral connection to the  banks and  braes o' bonny Doon; from Kentuckians ot Tennesseans blethering about Wicklow and Clare.  The only good things to come from that hillbilly region were the Everly Brothers and Dolly Parton.

Mr mongoose, anyway, suggested this chanteuse, as an Evensongstress.  I dunno, had he been bombarded for a decade or more  with Annie Crow and the Smirking Wee Fionas, he might take a different view of this stuff.




This is one of those things that we all get. A guy I used to know  never bothers to write to me but instead forwards me  dozens of these things, which, I presume,  he receives  from somebody who can't be bothered to write to him, either; it's communication, Jim, but not as we know it;  in fact, it's not communication at all.  I dunno what it is, some i-phenomenon, waving, not drowning, maybe.

Most of them originate down there in mr mike's  world and are generally from some Aussie redneck, hating Koreans, Vietnamee, all Asians, in fact and chinks, niggers, jews and abos,  especially abos, who are ruining his country, immigration, welfare and  women. He hates most things.
This one, though,  from the UK, is different and sits well, here,  in these chronicles of Ruin

They Walk Among Us - BE VERY WARY

This is a collection of letters sent to a South of England Newspaper who had asked for examples of stupidity


My daughter and I went to the McDonald's drive through check-out window to pay our bill and I gave the clerk a £5 note.
Our total bill was £4.20, so I also handed her a 20 pence piece.
She said, 'You gave me too much money.'
I said, 'Yes I know, but this way you can just give me £1 back.'
She sighed and went to get the Manager who asked me to repeat my request.
I did so, and he handed me back the 20 pence and said 'We're sorry but we do not do that kind of thing.'
The clerk then proceeded to give me back 80 pence in change.
Do not confuse the clerks at MacDonald's !!

We had to have the garage door repaired. The GARADOR repairman told us that one of our problems was that we did not have a 'large' enough motor on the opener.I thought for a moment, and said that we had the largest one GARADOR made at that time, a 1/2 horsepower.
He shook his head and said, 'Lady, you need a 1/4 horsepower.'
I responded that 1/2 was larger than 1/4 and he said, 'NOOO, it's not. Four is larger than two..'
We haven't used Garador repair since. Happened in Moor Park , near Watford .


I live in a semi-rural area. We recently had a new neighbour call the Highways Department to request the removal of the 'DEER CROSSING' sign from our road.
The reason: 'Too many deer are being hit by cars on this stretch of road! I don't think this is a good place for them to be crossing, any-more.'
 Story from Potters Bar, Hertfordshire.


My daughter went to a local Kentucky Fried Chicken and ordered a Taco. She asked the person behind the counter for 'minimal lettuce.'
He said he was sorry, but they only had Iceberg Lettuce.

From South Oxhey , Hertfordshire.


I was at the airport, checking in at the gate when an airport employee asked,
'Has anyone put anything in your baggage without your knowledge?'
To which I replied, 'If it was without my knowledge, how would I know?'
He smiled knowingly and nodded, 'That's why we ask.'

Happened at Luton Airport


The traffic light on the corner buzzes when the lights turn red and it is safe to cross the road.
I was crossing with an intellectually challenged friend of mine.
She asked if I knew what the buzzer was for.
I explained that it signals blind people when the light is red.
Appalled, she responded, 'What on earth are blind people doing driving?!'

She is a Local County Council employee in Harrow , Middlesex. (And she's NOT blonde)


When my husband and I arrived at our local Ford dealer to pick up our car, we were told the keys had been locked in it.
We went to the Service Department and found a mechanic working feverishly to unlock the Driver's door.
As I watched from the passenger side, I instinctively tried the door-handle and discovered that it was unlocked.
 'Hey,' I announced to the Fitter/Mechanic, 'it’s open!'
His reply: 'I know. I already did that side.'
This was at the Ford dealership in St Albans , Hertfordshire.



TDG said...

That style of yours, Ishmael, neo-elizabethan: it could so easily go wrong but it never does, it is always right, always something both surprising and right in every sentence. I wish you would write a book. Do it today and I'd find someone to publish it tomorrow.

mongoose said...

Well, I am not a professional Oirishman, Mr I, and so I am allowed to like what I like and bollocks to fashion and fascism. (It had escaped me BTW that that lady was Canadian/Breton-something-made-up-and-mad.)

As for the lingo, my old da used to speak it back in the day. There is a teacher at my kids' school who has a decently broad Irish accent " one, two, tree, four...". The kids take the Michael, as kids will, but, fuck me, is that the best you can do, you sons and daughters of Shakespeare. Do fuck off, please, as soon as you like.

OTOH we do not help ourselves. There is a vile TV programme called "Three men in a boat". I think I have shared before that I bumped into them down the river at a sodden wedding. The Irish one of three, a gold standard Professional Plastic Paddy Prat, took them to Ireland to do their three-men-boating. Arsehole insisted on going to Arran so that he could sit and converse in Oirish with some poor woman. I'd have said "Yes, I speak the Gaelic because I live on Arran and that is what we speak. What's your excuse?" It is almost as bad as the PPPP I encountered at work one day long years ago who insisted on having his name rendered in the gaelic alphabet. Arse!

Dick the Prick said...

He's awfully deft Mr TDG isn't he? I remember getting one of those AIDS leaflets at primary school and didn't know what ignorance meant so that kinda went over my head.

I couldn't give a monkeys about gay marriage but I do think the politics are shite - that it's coming from the Tory party is strange, that to be opposed is reflexed with some bigotted label, that, frankly, they're cheeky fuckers expecting people to trade convenience for a fake equality. To be fair, it's a bullshit issue unlike forcing Catholic adoption agencies to close because they couldn't tell benders they'd got the wrong shop. If people want to marry, cool, but there are bigger principles that won't be assissted by statutory inclusivity. This is a bullshit issue being used as a wedge by an alcoholic, useless PM who knows he ain't losing political capital out of it but is to the detriment of, you know, doing something. It's fox hunting all over again where the only people who give a shit are 15.

Gay marriage, ffs, it wouldn't even make the list of things not to care about. It's bullshit. Obviously it's gonna get passed but it's just another fake law for which divorce lawyers are no doubt grateful.

call me ishmael said...

Dara O Brin or some such, that's yer man, mr m. a journeyman gabshite. He even turned up on planet Cox a while back, co-hosting the show with the ever-smiling Professor Brian. All this universe stuff, isn't it just like really amazing?

He also chairs that ghastly Mock the Week show, satire from grotesquea, aimed at football studies or hairdressing studies undergrads.

I know one of those effete Gaelic speaking arseholeds, insists that his mail be rendered in gibberish.

It isn't, mr dtp, for many people, an issue of no consequence; many who thought that marriage meant one thing are now being force-fed the nostrum that its meaning is elastic, means whatever MediaMinster want it to mean.

call me ishmael said...

That's very gracious, mr tdg,thanks.

Verge said...

Idiot Sighting # 8

Halifax Minster - you can catch this on the bbc news website. Canon Hissing Sid with a straight face, quoting yer man on the cross, "forgive them, fodder, for they know not" etc. I'm pretty sure I also heard a different segment from same service on the radio where C.H.S. said the 6 dead soldiers had given "their lives for the peace of the world."

(Natch the crazed septic who's just terminated a highscore of kiddie ragheads was not in his right mind. To Ruin's regulars it may sound pretty much like standard-issue mission creep. But he didn't really mean it, so that's OK then. And Obama's done said soree. Presidential thought-bubble: What more do you cunts want?)

Jesus titty-fucking Christ with a blood-spattered cumshot.

P T Barnum said...

Your defiant bath-house Queer would laugh in the faces in those all-male or all-female couples who do the state-sanctioned ceremony, with the cake topped with two little grooms/brides, the 'first dance', honeymoon and the whole paraphenalia of heteronormality, and that's even before calling it 'marriage'. I knew a lot of those boys in my younger days, with their wild, melodramatic ways, tempestuous love-and-sex-lives, was a kind of honorary brother to some, and went to some of their funerals as they were taken by AIDS or HIV or whatever the acronym was that year. It wasn't a community, that was a word foisted from outside, it was a scene, and within the scene there were families, made-up families for outsiders who took care of their own. It would never have occurred to any of us that marriage was something to be emulated: that was what the Other World did, just like monogamy.

a young Anglo-Irish catholic said...

I do not understand the demand for 'gay marriage'.

Actually, I do: it is the one of last stunts from the Stonewall publicity department.

"Bloody hell girls, what have we left to bitch and moan about? Aside from the straights cutting down the rhododendron bushes in Bloomsbury Square, no where to bed down now..."

Look at this exchange:

“They have got a problem because the definition of marriage is in the 1662 Prayer Book and Article 30 of the Church of England, which are both Acts of Parliament,” The Archbishop of York told the BBC’s Andrew Marr Show.

However, legal experts questioned the Archbishop’s claim. “I can’t see why Parliament would need anyone’s approval to change the definition of marriage,” said Adam Wagner, a barrister and editor of the UK Human Rights Blog. “Parliament is sovereign, it can legislate what it likes.”

When you get married in a church, the union has to be registered with the state. So we all have civil unions. The Church service is a religious ceremony.

So the Government - useless bunch of queens, with Cameron and Clegg's respective cojones held in their wives' respective £700 handbags - is going to force the church to 'bless' gay unions?

Is it really?

Or is this just another sham fight, as you say Mr I. Like the gay rights movement of the 1980s. They could have gone on a post-Larry Grayson and Julian n Sandy charm offensive.

But no, they decided to start a fight with middle England by promoting homosexuality in a primary school. And surely they got their fight and ended up with Section 28, with they happily told us banning the discussion of, but was banning the promotion of...still, took Tony seven years to remove Section 28, and Blair knew about being bitch-slapped in the public loos at High Wycombe.

So is the Government going to force Elton and David on the Church, or is this one big set-up, so the bitches can bang on the closed door of the Abbey and give themselves another reason to nail themselves to the cross, now Section 28 is gone?

You call it a Civil Marriage and a Church Marriage, but that would be too easy. Are the forces of Grinder really demanding the right to mince up the Churches' aisle?

Really? Is Cameron actually wetter than the bottom of Edward Heath's boat, policy developed by his wife's guilty toff conscience? She knew a black guy at Art college, played pool with him, a rapper. Yah, honestly, not invent.

Fuck me.

Mike said...

My grandfather was Oirish - the family escaped from the poverty in Dublin to a new life in England. He had the magnificent name of Melchisedec - he wasn't "gay" I don't think as he had 13 kids, 7 of whom died at birth or infancy.

Well he walked from Liverpool to London looking for work, eventually walking back to Manchester. Lived in doss houses, sleeping "on-the-line".

Finally died of "consumption" - whatever that is?

Reflecting on that, as I have been as my wife's father just died, makes me somewhat less than sympathetic to today's trendy fads and celebrity weaknesses.

BTW Mr I, there was a good joke re Elton's babe on Colonel von Fawkes - I dearn't repeat it as last time I did you deleted my post.

call me ishmael said...

I don't think that over the years I have deleted even twenty posts, and I don't recall ever deleting one of yours, mr mike. Not unless you were in drag. Shurely shome mishtake.

call me ishmael said...

That's better framed than I managed, mr ptb. The Scene, yes, that was it, the Outsiders' inside.

Tom Robinson, wasn't he one of those Front and Centre types, his sexual interests used to inflate his meagre, miserable talent, as though plodding, numpty gayness was the new Rock'n'Roll?

Bitching about stuff is what activists of any kind live for, mr yaic, but many gayblacklesbianandtransgender activists could start a row in an empty room. I hope that one day they will be properly perceived as being of the same stamp as the now woebegone multiculturalists - basically enemies of the people, all of the people.

I tried to let the six dead squaddies' bash just roll on down the road past me, mr verge, along with a horrifying, unavoided fragment of Twin Rathband's fuckwit eulogy. Becomes bad for a man's mental hygiene, all this breastbeating and hypocrisy, a wilderness of wailing stupidity and self=promotion, sometimes you just have to blank it, or else find yourself communing with the ghost of Mr Moat, maybe find yourself considering that giving the Devil a never-ending, fiery rimjob is preferable to watching one more edition of the Six O'Clock News, with Huw Weshman and his band of chirping, braindead, grammar-deficient, intellectual cripples, reporting-in for us from all across Ruin's realm.

A young Anglo-Irish catholic said...

Mrs rathband has hired max Clifford. Pc rathband has been buried in Staffordshire. A long way from his wife.

Mrs rathband has got 'her side of the story' in first accusing her dead husband of getting' too close' to a charity worker.

Too close after she gave him the heave-ho, but I don't believe her. This story is going to get very messy, as I said before.

Still, smearing your dead husband is normal in these Jeremy Kyle end of days...

jgm2 said...

To your gems of idiocy I have been present on all these occasions...

Quiz night:

'What continent has the highest population density?'

'Are we counting 'Antarctica' as a continent?'

On hearing that a German couple are getting married in lederhosen...

'Where is Lederhosen?'

On hearing the awful handgun statistics from the US where there are 20,000 handgun (or whatever) incidents every year...

'What's the big deal about people shooting themselves in the hand..?'

Dr Yllek said...

Mr TGD seconded, or thirded, Mr Ish.
The Scene is not the scene from Now but the idea behind is that it should become a Scene From The Olden Golden Times, only a couple of thousand years later. BabyLonDon4G, or is 5G these days? Who knows, but many care.

Let me unmuddy the waters straight away by saying that I am even more +Progressive than Abu Cameron on the issue of Gay Marriage. Not only I believe that gays should be allowed to Marry in local church, mosque, or in a sinagogue, but it should be made compulsory! And, no divorce for them. No Sir, they fought hard for it, let them enjoy their hard won rights.

Thing is... a recent chatter within the 'open minded legal community' in good Ole' to re-think how to deal with those wanting to corner young Mr Ish and show him all the ways Holy Spirit can enter the young and faitfull is becoming louder. In a whispery way. Foolish decent ordinary people worrying about their kids,whoaaaaa. Let us run kindergardens, spread some love and understanding. Endgame is same old, same old....