Friday, 28 September 2012



 I've been in the business twenty-six  brutal years and if some supersmug git tells you that On balance he has it about right, then he's lying to you  as well as to himself and what he needs is a quick rub-down with a housebrick. I don't know how it all got started, this shit, I brought her up just as if she was one uv me own, that shit, luvemtobitsIdo, more like a favver, I wuz,  than her own Dad.  It's all bollocks.  The natural step-state is warfare; why wouldn't it be? You're not my real ladder, you're just my stepladder, you can't tell me what to do.

Children  hate their step-parents, wield nasty little uncompromising  daggers, often egged-on by the absent, supplanted parent.  I have done some,  no, lots of  egging-on, too, in my sweet time, my child honed into a lethal, heat-seeking weapon, a little Exocet, fired From Me To you.  The guy stepping her was, by common consent,  unfuckingspeakable, a deranged public schoolboy, control freakery bordering on insanity, even his widow, the person to whom I was first married,  said to me, in our once-in-thirty-years conversation that he was as mad as a hatter, unbearable. He was a sucessful merchant, import and export, his life fine-tuned between Coventry and Manhattan but he hadn't bargained for and could not deal with the implacable hostility of another man's child, resident in his life, and by proxy, therefore, me, too,  resident in his life.  It was so unfair, apart from anything else, a member of his uptight household travelling most weekends to another's.  And coming back, time after time, transformed.  Fuck him and his plans,  I thought.  And I think that it was his inability to override the natural bond between father and child that led him to die young, from alcohol poisoning, in the  Coventry Salvation Army hostel.  It was kind of poetic, except that he was about as poetic as dogshit.

My own  contemporaneous step-experience wasn't as vivid as that;  Mrs Ishmael's person to whom she was first married didn't have much interest, it was she, in fact, who facilitated and encouraged his children's access to him - see, the language of the responsible divorcee, facilitated and encouraged, a veneer of gabshitery weakly  glued and pinned over a wormy hatred.  She should have openly hated him, detested him, he was an utter cunt, no good to man nor beast.  But she put her hurts away and drove the children to their father's every week, he being too lazy or too drunk to collect them himself. And he, too, despite repeated warnings from the medics, industriously drank himself to death at only forty-seven; it wasn't that he was brokenheart maudlin, he'd married the woman for whom he had left the then yet-to-be Mrs Ishmael, he'd been paid an over-generous share of the former matrimonial home's value, but he and his new Mrs just liked being pissed on vodka, whether his children were there visiting or  not.  He was too out of his  mind to orchestrate a campaign of civil disobedience in his former wife's home  but he had his own ways-  quite rightly - of pissing on our shoes.  When he did stagger up to the great off license in the sky I was tempted to say to his  children, See, that's how much he cared about you, couldn't even be bothered to stay alive for you.   I didn't, but I might yet.

But even without any sniper fire from his world, stepping his children was a horror show. I've never seen Groundhog Day but I understand that it's about - inter alia - somebody waking up everyday and fighting exactly the same battles as he did the day before, with the same people. My life was like that for years.  Didn't matter how much you helped with the homework, didn't matter how much time you spent, didn't matter that you taught them to drive, got them cars, gave them work, didn't matter that you turned yourself inside-out trying to nurture these graceless, poisonous little fuckers;  every once in a while it would be You can't tell me what to do, you're not my real ladder, you're just my stepladder, I hate you.  And they were quite right to hate me,  I wasn't their real ladder.  Not their fault that their natural parents got together and then got untogether, not their fault at all,  they didn't even ask to get born, much less adjust, welcomingly,  to  whoever their mother or father is now fucking. And that's all there is to it, really, sometimes it's veiled, finessed, but that's what it is, the step-relationship. Hatred. Life's hard enough without having to deal with ersatz, pretend parents as well as everything else.

And, lo, now the world is full of it.  Oh, one reads and hears of special, wunderkind children, who flit gracefully between their parents' current menages, spreading light and love and of course the implication of this,  the between-the-lines-shit, is that at least one set of  pseudo parents is clever and caring beyond the capabilites of most of the rest of us poor, stupid, selfish  fuckers.  But fuck them because for every one of these supersmugs there will be thousands of people ripped to shreds,  hosting a malignant parasite or two or three, their sunny second starts eaten-away from within, that's just how it is.  It is why, I guess, that in nature - where life and death and survivalism are writ larger  -  incoming males kill the spawn of their predecessors whilst we, assailed and suborned by witless, gobby childologists  -  Fuck me sideways to Christmas, I have known some Court Welfare Officers whom you wouldn't let near your Yorkshire Terrier, much less your children - we, anyway, probably because we have to,  continue to encourage and facilitate the impossible, the dangerous, the unnatural; thoughtfully, considerately, micromanaging, we make for him, Ruin's own progress.

I thought all of this in a split second when I saw this geezer, the step of Missing Megan.  And I thought Somebody in this press conference macabre will stride up there and punch him in the face.  Twenty-six years before the stepmast, as I said, and there was,  there is,  no circumstance imaginable this side of Hell in which I would say to Mrs Ishmael's daughter, Youanme, we had a date, Babes, youanme can still make that date, Sweetheart. This guy, whatever his fucking name is - I don't care - is doing all this Daddy's-little-girl- baby-talk shit, on global teevee, aimed at a young woman who is obviously mature for her years,  attractive and  sexually active; 


what bizarre impulse made him spew out this degrading shit, this Come home to stepDaddy wetdream nightmare doggerel?  And we can still go  on our Date. Can no-one  now deliver us from such stunted, tawdry mewling and puking?   There she is,  off with her adored teacher and if they'd waited - what? - less than a year, they could have done exactly as they pleased. Love and lust are a riptide but  the law is the law and Matey's gone down in the noncing flood,  only by months, but he's noncing  and will probably go to jail.  I don't much believe in jailing people but whilst we are still doing so we should certainly jail him. You just can't have teachers fucking their pupils or students or customers or stakeholders or whatever the fuck it is that Michael Spit-Gove says we should call them,  here, in the Big Society, nasty little Murdoch rodent. That she's nearly a woman, looks like a woman,  that  was the excuse of every nonce I ever heard, led me on, the little tart.   I didn't know she was twelve.

So, she's lost in France, in Love, knowing that some very adult shit is gonna fall on their two-hearts-beating-as-one and this jerk, speaking not to her but to some real or imagined constituency of  knuckleheaded Sun-reading sentimental morons, offers up  some grisly,  creepy and extremely suspect date with her fucking stepfather, as though it was  an  irresistible inducement, a temptation beyond her wildest, her stormiest hormonal dreams, an offer that would see her  abandon Romeo and rush headlong back into the arms of her wretched mother and her mother's equally wretched bloke.  No fucking wonder she ran away.



banned said...

Not that the French give a fuck since their age of consent is 15 so if Sir is fucking her sideways in some sleazy Hotel de Ville they are not breaking French law.

The editor of Jaqui (little girl mag) expressed indifference since Megan is 'nearly a woman' while some ex-cop bleated on about 'the poor young child abducted by..."

The Radio 4 audience noted the hypocracy when compared with the longstanding Paki-paedo rape of "nearly a woman" underage white slags and the indifference those victims faced from those officials supposed to care for them.

Will it be a surprise if, when the couple are recaptured, Megan regales us with tales of systemic abuse by stepdaddy as excuse for her elopement?

call me ishmael said...

Well, mr banned, it won't surprise me.

Occasional Correspondent said...

Mr Ishmael writes beautifully but The Great Stepping Wars should be written as a sprawling savage internecine saga by George Martin or Stephen King.
As a veteran of the Great Stepping War myself, and now into my seventh decade with a bit of perspective on it all, I can finally acknowledge that we spouted nonsense to disguise the naked truth – “the children will be happier and do better in life away from the unhappy marriage of their parents”. Talk bullshit, why don’t you? The great post second world war sociological experiment that saw moral codes overturned, the self-interest of the individual ride roughshod over commitment, fidelity and duty had nothing to do with the happiness and well-being of children, who were the casualties of their parents’ restless search for sexual novelty, satisfaction and romance, fuelled by a an assault on family values, stoicism and the British instinct to make the best of a bad job, orchestrated by the boys from the BBC, Germaine Greer and her cohort of militant feminists, appalling literary authors extolling the right for all to the transcendental fuck and the ever-growing army marching out of the cupboard.
Children do better, measured by adult-life indices of health, income, employment and the absence of addiction, when they are jointly raised by their birthparents living together in calm, well structured households. Children are less likely to be living in poverty, neglected, in chaotic circumstances and the victim of sexual and physical abuse when their parents stay together, suborning their “right” to self-fulfilment to their children’s need to grow up safely.
Tough message totally contrary to the spirit of the age. I don’t see that clock being turned back even though the think tankers are finally making the connections. However, I shudder to think what my life would have been like had I not divorced – I was one who married in haste and repented at leisure – but I daresay that’s my self-interest talking. Maybe all marriages should be arranged?

Dick said...

Going on a date with the step-daughter is just dam creepy. My best mate kicks up a fuss when he has to go home and 'babysit' until usually corrected by some ejeet as to you can't babysit your own kids you loser but if any bloke said he's off on a date with his own kid, let alone some other chump's bairn then a quick little knee in the nuts would save the cost of a phone call to the local Nonce Hotline. Freak.

Anonymous said...

Exactly, Mr Dick. He needs a good kicking - just in case.

Anonymous said...

Wtf has happened to this woman? She's only 38, look at the state of her.

He looks like a junkie to me. Ray Liotta on crack.

a young anglo-irish catholic said...

Children are remarkable conservative.

As my godson's brother said to his divorced mother..'well, I like seeing you everyday and I liked seeing daddy everyday.'

The daughter of my mate in Asia has fought tooth and nail from a remarkably young age to get her parents under the same roof.

I view it all - childless - as amazing. The sheer animal instinct of these babes to have parents under the same roof.

Still, Harman and Hewitt's 90s report insisted that 'families don't necessarily need fathers'. Pity the children are so unreconstructed to see the light.

a young anglo-irish catholic said...

Could I also offer, Mr I, the incomparable Daisy Harris enquiry from Monkey Dust.

I find it usual concentrates minds in cases such as this...

Dick said...

Just watched the press conference now 'she's safe' and to be fair her step dad ain't a girl nonce, he's a gay nonce. Is there a younger brother?

Woman on a Raft said...

Anybody who says "family unit", put them on the bonfire too.

call me ishmael said...

The skymadeupnewsandfilth is that she's flying home without her charming mother although the grieving mumsy went out to France specially to be wiv 'er babes. Stepdad is amazing, is he on drugs or is he just a headbanger; is this the nearest he can get to one of those teevee talent shows, no business like showbusiness?