Thursday, 4 April 2013


Among others, I blame the McCanns, Gerry and Cilla, for this outbreak of Kids4Profit. How is it that you can  abandon a three-year old, leave her in charge of two two-year olds, in a strange flat, in a strange town, in a strange country, go off on the piss with your mates, blame the local cops for her disappearance and then pay off your mortgage from charitable donations and  fund a celebrity lifestyle consisting of flying around the world, whining about the very legitimate questions of the cops and the meeja, all the time, in Cilla’s memorable phrase, bleating that people think badly of her because she’s so beautiful. 


As if. Ghastly scrawny baggage. When it comes to capitalising on the neglect of one’s children, the McCanns, let’s face it, are world leaders, while grungy old Mick Philpott is just a clumsy, hamfisted novice.

And I blame that silly old duffer, Widdecombe.   Fronting a pizza advert whilst she was an MP was not enough of celebrity for the ancient virgin nutter of MediaMinster, subsequently besporting her blubbery acreage around the dancefloor, 

 Serious, investigative journalist, Ann Widdecombe.

heedless of her own lisping, falsetto grotesqueness, doing anything, like so many, just to be on camera,  there was nothing she wouldn’t do.  Eventually, joining forces with the vile Philpott, Annie - the show must go on -Widdecombe was feeding not just her own bizarre ego but also his;  hers just pathetic, his, however, degenerate, malicious, wicked and ultimately infanticidal.  What on Earth possessed her and her producers?  Did they think that the tut-tutting of some dessicated has-been Tory biddy would rehabilitate a habitually thuggish exploitative mysogynist?  Did she and they think that Widdecombe refreshes the parts of bad people that the criminal justice system cannot reach? Did she, for a moment, give a flying fuck for the children involved in this media circus around their Dad and his harem?

No.  It was just trash teevee, the sort of banal rubish regurgitated by junked MPs;  Queenie Portillo, stutteringly revisiting the industrial and railway revolution, a pink-jacketed dilletante, 

 Let's try it just one more time Mikey darling,
see if you can remember the words this time.

shepherded, mincing tightarsed from railway station to railway station, as though he was a cultural visionary, instead of a sinecurised media fairy;  those pitifully awful Hamiltons-from-Hell, dopey Neil and bossy Christine, appearing on anything, absolutely anything that has a few quid attached to it;  Jonathan Spanker Aitken, endlessly boasting of how, with God’s help, he was able to assist his fellow prisoners, by writing letters for them, ministering to them, as only their betters can.  And Emeritus Professor of Rape Studies, George Galloway, MP, cunting himself all over the Big Brother house.  Widdecombe isn’t unique.  These telly MPs are just unspeakable. I’ve seen them, close-up, in the TeeVee studios, they’re not quite sure whether they are legislators who happen to be on telly or nascent stars, just a soundbite away from a lucrative, Robert Kilroy-Shit career.  It’s partly down to their cowardliness, their terror in the face of a producer or a make-up girl, but it’s also due to the unique cocktail of stupidity, vanity, greed, dishonesty and arrogance which flows through their sclerotic arteries; they’re filth, all of them, cocksuckers, shiteaters, pimps, slags, blackmailers, fraudsters, beasts, nonces,  FuckMeJesus but the house of commons makes the Vatican look like a decent, wholesome  place.

But none of them, MPs,  are as bad as that cheesy, scabby prick, wotsisname, JerrySpringer revisited, Springer-lite, Springer-Anglo, Kyle,  isn’t it,  somebody Kyle,  a miserable shit of a man, 


scrapings from under Life’s toilet bowl rim, bullying those betrayed, those fuckwitted by generations of blokes in suits, in govament and in the civil service, betrayed by Whisky Maggie and her spivs, Tebbit and Heseltine & Co, all smarming and smirking that unemployment is a price worth paying, just not by them;  Tebbit still, even now,  sucking Telecom’s cock, as well as kowtowing to the anti-democratic  Barclay Brothers at the Filth-o-Graph;  Hezza still flouncing around, as though he had a brain between his ears, under his absurdly quiffed, overlong hair,  oozing I-Know-Best menace, 
 Now, just you listen to me.

an old man desperately, for the good of his immortal soul,  in need of a good sharp kick in the nuts, make his fucking eyes water, flood his body with nausea, make him puke and shit and cry, all at the same time.  Kyle rejoices in making fools of the ThatcherSpawn;  they and their parents scrapheaped by the mad, vicious, screeching old witch, Rejoicing, for  we are a grandmother, Rejoice, for we have abolished manufacturing and raw material extraction, Rejoice, for we shit on crafts and skills and trades.  Rejoice, for there is no such thing as society, Rejoice, for you, Kytleites, feckless, o’erfecund, faithless and inebriate, loathed by your political creators, are  just part of the destruction, the Ruination of Britain, part of our evisceration by financial spivvery;  rejoice, as you are mocked and reviled on Cruelty TeeVee by Shitman, Kyle, and his securityoiks and his lie detectors, shouted at.  But in a high, sharp-suited moral tone.  What a worthless cunt that man is. He should be chancellor.

And here in PhilpottWorld, we see the charred, smoky fruits of his labours. For into his Hellish shithole Kyle invited Mick LoveMyKidsToBits,Me, Philpott.  Makes good Teevee, for a daytime audience.  Here we are, an idle, violent, threesomeing arsehole, grinning, bragging of his mysogyny.  And here is Kyle, feeding Mick’s sense of celebrity, his potency, enhancing, amplifying the urges of the already dangerous. Stupid and dangerous, doesn’t get much worse than that. Let’s put him on telly and puff him up a bit more, eh?

So, well done Kyle, one of Ruin’s masters of ceremonies.  Doing a public service you are, mate; time you had an MBE. Or a knighthood. Or maybe a quick rubdown with a housebrick.

Her Honour, Mrs Justice Slag, will rightly, as well as a good talking-to,  give Philpott several decades inside in which to burnish his celebrity.  And he will.  If he’s done a seven-year sentence he’ll know the ropes; he’ll go on segregation – Rule 42 – for a while but after that will mingle with the rest of the hard-time prison  population, those with little or no chance of release, save the coffin.  But he’ll find some fashion by which to stoke his own self-esteem.  Maybe some of those barmy women will write to him, you know, the ones who write to and want to marry blokes in the US, on Death Row, they’ll wet themselves to be corresponding with a nasty fucked-up freak like Micky Philpott.

 His Mrs will get the real hard time; she’ll get battered and scalded and abused by her sister inmates, by those in whom the maternal instinct, after all, is so strong that they prefer to see their own kids taken into local authority or foster care, rather than look after them, themsleves.  These bitches are Cruelty writ large when it comes to bints like Mrs Philpott.  Hers will be a nightmare sentence, hate-filled, punctuated with sudden, furious cruelty, dykey screws turning a blind eye;  a terrifying, inescapable nightmare. On top of the creeping, swelling nightmare in which she has been these past months. For the rest of her brutal, miserable, incarcerated life – and beyond - everyone’s hand will be against her.  The yellow press will taunt her to her grave.  That bloated, sweaty cunt, Dacre, at the Daily FilthMail is already calling this a crime that’s properly down to the welfare state, everyone on benefits contributed to this awful offence and, ever a gentleman, the puce-faced, malodorous, halitotic, tub-thumping rabble-rouser will single-out this poor abused cow for his particular form of gentlemany commentary. Mrs Philpott’s dire straits almost make the oft suggested  case for hanging, purely as an act of Mercy, neck-breaking as an act of Kindness.  How do we, none of us an island, divorced from the main, fetch up here, considering murder as mercy?

Poor old Fatty Widdecombe, blonde bombshell, though, bless her scorned and mocked soul, is at least getting some, waddatheycallem, namechecks, she is back on the telly, spinsterwise, virginwise after the event, no hint of apology or self-doubt.  He was very controlling, Philpott, she now avers, sagely. No change there, then, a font of the bleedin’ obvious, is Annie, although she won’t see that it is obviously not a good idea to make a documantary with the likes of Philpott.

 I don’t ever venture into any tellyregions  where I might encounter the repulsive Kyle, so I don’t know how he’s reacting to the verdict on his comrade-in-shit but I’m sure he will, from the bottom of his grimy soul, be giving a  bravura performance. He’ll just be dripping ethics and righteousness all over the studio floor.

We haven’t yet heard from Doctors Gerry and Cilla but I can’t imagine that they won’t have something to say, he in his nasty, know-it-all, teeth-clenched Glaswegian and she Scousing her threadbare sincerity for all she’s worth.

The same press, of course, which brought an albeit seedy prominence to Philpott will now fuck him six ways to Christmas; his name’ll soon be merged in the national consciousness with Hindley and Brady, and the Wests. And serve him right.  Serve him right, too, if he dies in jail.  I don’t much believe in locking people up, not most of them, anyway. The Huhnes needed to be locked up and in rather more severe conditions than those which they now enjoy and for rather longer – legislators conspiring to pervert the course of justice is positively, dangerously European and needs to be stamped out. And I do believe that if we do lock people up for a long time we should offer at least the possibility of redemption, reform and eventually forgiveness.  But just occasionally, rarely, someone crawls out of the slime, someone who like, say, Tony Blair, is just bad beyond hope of redemption, just a wrong ‘un, one irredeemably estranged from goodness, one in whose case we should throw away the key, melt it down.  Mr Philpott is one of those people and I don’t care if he never comes out of jail.  We should not, however, obscure with our rage the fact that, at least in part, he drew strength to his mad, vengeful purpose from his fleeting entrance to the charmed circle of celebrity.

If they could talk, maybe the six dead Philpott kids would say to the likes of Kyle and Widdecombe: Please, will you just go away and shut the fuck up.


DtP said...

Glad you're okay, Sir.

What has been surprising is that he and his chum apparently had chats at least 6 weeks before and yet the 'plan' was to break the back window and usher the bairns down a strategically placed ladder. With that in mind (or not) all kids were supposed to be located near said window and be ferried to safety quick smart. However, Numbnuts & Tithead failed to check said kids were in the designated room, failed to obtain a tool to break the double galzing and used too much petrol.

To therefore blame the welfare state is certainly credible due to vast brood incentivized through a plethora of tax credits, allowances and such like but this Philpott fella was also a soldier and, presumably, a school pupil at one stage. Are not the Army and the Education system also at fault for producing such a monumentally idiotic twat that treats preparation as quite a big word and probably best avoided. For 6 fucking weeks this 'plan' was mulled over, cogitated, ruminated and discussed; for 6 weeks these fuckwits got as far as 'probably need a ladder and some petrol' and then condsidered their calculations sorted? At least Gerry & Cilla were playing catch up after their piss up, these shit for brains employed less thought than the man on the Clapham Omnibus uses when lunch is on the agenda.

Hmm...and in a thought that i'm not overly happy about but looking at the kid's faces it does sort of spring to mind that they were always going to be 6 statistics, ever present on some Local Authority or Police case notes but I guess hindsight is only available reflectively.

Anywho - really glad you're back.

call me ishmael said...

Thanks mr dtp, glad to see you're still alive, looking like a saint.

I didn't know that matey was a squaddie but I think there's a show coming on soon about the number of ex-soldiers who are inside for serious violent offences, suprise, surprise, they took a cleancut kid and made a killer out of him, 'swhat they did.

Somebody needs to re-evaluate the post-conflict management of the armed forces, too many of them are dangerous to one and all; maybe the first thing we should do is stop calling them all heroes, heroes, by definition are the exception. And the second thing we should do is shut the wives to fuck up. Arenchasickovem?

The best thing, however, would be to stop sending working class kids to foreign parts on behalf of GlobaCorp. And then sacking them without pensions, as the spivcabinet is now doing.

Your final thought is right, of course, now being called Angels, the neighbours and the press would soon, had they lived, have been calling them something else. No business like showbusiness.

NewsboyCap said...

Mr Ishmael

Good to see you back, and still on form.

Yes that fuckwit Milliband, the nerve of 'im. Complaining that his beloved footy team being manage by a Fascist FFS. Pot Kettle an all that...arse.

Woman on a Raft said...

God bless you Mr Ishmael, I haven't even read the piece yet, I'm so relieved you picked up the keyboard again.

The Jannie said...

You left out Jimmy Savile . . .

Anonymous said...

A most welcome return sir. Cutting through the crap as usual. More power to your fingertips.

Anonymous said...

Marvellous stuff, your poetic turn of phrase suits the ever faster decent into the hell of the modern world.

Sometimes the fuckwittery of the vile swine that lead us inexorably closer to the shit house can only be adequately described with the liberal use of many fucks and cunts.

She Who Must Be Obeyed is in total agreement.

So pleased you are back.



Callmeishmael said...

Not sure where to go with Sir James. I half-wrote something about him while I was on sick leave, mr the jannie, but I became so mad that I had to stop, for fear of emotional hernia. I will dig it out, for MSM consider the matter done and dusted; save for the odd wretched old degenerate, like the hideous Dave Lee Arsehole, it has all been or is being dealt with by means of a full and far-reaching cover-up. They know not shame. All the BBC management, all the NHS fuckers involved, even - especially- the turd who would be king, His Grace the Prince of fucking Wales, all of them should have been fired, their shameful retirements washed with the tears of generations of brutalised children. For Jimmy Savile, read: The Excellence of British management.

DtP said...

@Mr Smith - as per the Savile of Jimmy, Mizz Raccoon has done a fucking tour de force series on him and much of the allegations, investigations, castigations and judgements being a contrived set of utter bullshit. I'd sort of recommend reading it as for blogging gold it's defo an Olympic champion but I think i've summarised it sufficiently.

She went to Duncroft where the initial allegations surfaced and, well, the accusser is a fantasist.

jgm2 said...

I didn't know Philpott was ex-forces either. When we lived up in Fucking Scotland, surrounded by enough land to separate me from the Mel Gibson worshipping fuckwits, we used to rent the land and stables out to horse-owners. One of the horse-owners tossed a few bales of dry hay into the field and their horse scoffed most of it without stopping to sup from the trough and gave itself a bad dose of colic.

Saving the fucking horse involved regular administration of industrial amounts of cod-liver oil to grease half a ton of hay through it's other-wise dessicated bowel. So the horse-owner's ex-squadie boyfriend decided that the way to stop this happening again was to burn the remaining bales. Now, any time I've set fire to hay or straw involves nothing more than fluffing up a bit of hay so the air can circulate and cracking a match. But matey showed up with a couple of gallons of petrol, splashed it around liberally. And then cracked a match.

Nearly blew the stupid fucker half way across the field.

They're in the army for a reason. And thinking through the consequences of their actions is bottom of the list.

call me ishmael said...

Tut, you mustn't say that, mr jgm2. Doncha know that nowadays joining up, even in the catering corp, automatically makes you a hero; getting on an aeroplane and flying to the Isle of Man confers the Military Cross and military wives, of course, are all sweetly-singing Florence Nightingale types. Apart from the slappers, who, as a mark of respect, bang the whole platoon of their deceased hubby; to be fair I dunno if it was the whole platoon, but it was some of them, anyway, and some of them went to jail over it, esprit de corpse, eh?

My own view is that ten minutes on the parade ground with some bristly old fag shouting at one is grounds enough for a Post traumatic Stress medical discharge and a post-discharge career in the Simon Weston School of self-promotion. Y'remember hero Simon, he was the one who, like all of us would, survived some fairly severe injuries, a hero, therefore; we're all heroes, now, but especially the squaddies and the cops, or anyone, really, that the govament may set upon us.

Anonymous said...

I have looked here from time to time, over the last six months or so, hoping to find a new posting, and worried I would never read one. Wonderful to be able to read your thoughts again Mr Ishmael. Thank you.