Thursday, 11 April 2013




 His unholiness, Archbishop JR, oilman and cleric,
 now Archbishop of Canterbury.

Founded for absolutely no other spiritual  or temporal reason than to facilitate the anger, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy and gluttony  of syphilitic, headchopping monster, 'Enery the  the Aighf, the C of E, now in its dying days, aptly  represents  and promotes - the Gospels having been, like so much, hijacked by Ruin's highwaymen - frocked'n'collared, unbridled licentiousness; belligerent and  impertinent Sapphism  and doesn't even try to do God, just buggery and whatever is its Sapphic equivalent. Don't tell me, I don't want to know. Really, I don't. 

Wishful lesbian pornography is one thing, gross Karen and grosser Caroline, Mr and Mrs-ing around the place, Karen pierced, tattooed and driving tractors like  an inflated, MichelinMan  version of David Archer; copping helpless babies from gaybisexualpre-optransexual freaks of nature, over indulged by a misrun health service - gender reassignment, indeed - well, Karen and Caroline, blubbermountains decked-out in manly suits for their faux wedding are too much for me,  and me probably the most liberal of persons to haunt this quadrant of cyberspace. 

 That the C of E's mission statement is now a catechism of the sexually aberrant and bizarre - in Christian terms, at least - that its Moving with the Times  agenda - as we now call bad intentions - negates everything for which it once vaguely claimed to stand; that its most strident voices sing not Hymns Ancient and Modern but  Perversion's Praises, instead, well, it's all quite comedic, really,  the Established church revealing itself as the overbearing, hissy freakshow its most powerful always knew it to be.

 I have personal reasons for asserting - insisting - that all clergypersons are  beasts, unrecognised nonces, either by deed or by omission, by collusion, denial and obfuscation.  If you think about it even for a minute or two - the costumes, the ritual, the incense, the falsetto chanting, the pseudo-solemnity, the intrusive power over the vulnerable - Vicaring, like showbusiness proper,  is just the sort of gig sought by the flashy, showy predator;  rubber-stamping for God the souls of the young, the bereaved, the hospital patient, the homeless and the hungry. Zoning-in, like a heat-seeking missile on Grief's inevitability, your whoreson vicar/chaplain/priest/padre can sniff out your sorrow and stick his cock in it. Pack up your sorrows, he'll simper, and give them all to me. But he'll minister, especially,  bless, to  the young.  Suffer the little children to come unto me. 

 Choirmasters and vicars, how many thousands of the fuckers were exposed by the old News of the World,  week after week, year after year?  And yet, still, as though we were mediaeval serfs, bishop-nonces and archbishop-nonces hiss and glide and simper among us,  lording it up  in palaces - y'ever see the Bishop's Palace at Bath and Wells?  FuckMeJesus, they have the cheek of the Devil, the churchly princes - and, all dragged-up, sitting even in our legislature, the cheeky cunts.  Fuck 'em, up against the wall with them.  Take our  money and property back from them, give it to the poor. We should hang up Justin by his nuts, just for his cheek.

 I do not believe  that homosexuality and noncing are the same thing, I do feel that the Anglican church's loving embrace of all things evolutionarily and scripturally aberrant must make it a hotbed of unnatural carnality, the sort of environment which sees paedophilia as part of God's rich tapestry, for Him to chastise or forgive and for the rest of us to meekly accept.(I say that I don't conflate gayness with beasting - which  would be the gravest of secular sins - and in truth I don't, but I stumble a bit when I hear Peter Tatchell, in many ways an admirable, sincere and courageous person, when I hear him call for the lowering of the age of consent for young gay men aged twelve and thirteen, a bit of a queer leap, that.)

This newest gabshite, the old Etonian evangelical,
Swing swing together,
With your bodies between your knees. 
JR and his  first lady sing the Eton rowing song for the meeja.
We are all in this together.        

will be entertaining in a brisk, clean-shaven sort of way but his - or anyone's - capacity to reconcile the louche, sybaritic amoral, white, western Anglicanism with the diehard, punitive, reactionary, black  African  Church of England/Christ the Cannibal is so limited as to be irrelevant. The Church  of Christ Sodomite  and ChristCarpetMuncher is fucked, like Woolworths. 

Don't ask me, chief, I'm outta here.
Cannibals, arse bandits, surplice-clad, dildo-wielding dykes in the rectory? Fuck that  shit. Amen.

 It will matter fuck all to Justin, of course; he will have reached the second-highest position in the God-serving career ladder - woe unto ye, ye who see contradiction in such Godless,  heathenbastard,  hierarchical horseshit - and that, for a gobby alpha male like Justin, is the main thing;  the poor ye have with ye always, innit.

Perhaps we will now  see,  across the constitutional board, the full fruits of those with Old Etonian expertise;  a fuckwit, pig-ignorant unelected prime minister presiding over the break-up of the United Kingdom, for his own electoral advantage and witty, grinning Archbishop/CEO Justin presiding over the long overdue break-up of this worldwide, Godless, money-changing, bomber-blessing,  child-molesting, hypocritical, homosexual freakshow. An institution founded entirely upon one man's cleaving not to his God but to the seven deadly sins, at last reaps its reward. The mess, one might say,  is over, go in peace.


jgm2 said...

He Lives!!!

Glad to see you back in cyberspace Mr I.

Just back from three weeks decadence pissing away my money before it officially reaches parity with the Zimbabwe dollar and thought I'd see if Fatch's demise had flushed you out of retirement.

If I may abuse your platform and go off-piste for a moment I'd just like to draw your attention to today's cutting edge BBC article about the effect of the recession on prostitutes.

Five years into the Brownian clusterfuck and the BBC's new angle is 'Will nobody think of the hookers?'

Anyway, pleased to find you alive and well.

banned said...

Thank you.

tdg said...

How is your garden, Ishmael?

call me ishmael said...

Thanks, mr tdg. I was just wandering around, this afternoon, bemused, as ever, by life's furious self-assertion, some of it initialised, as it were, by my hand but long since thriving and independent. We have had glorious weather whist the rest of the UK has been drowneded and blizzarded - two winters back I bought a huge, old, four-wheel drive Ford, hoping for epic journeys in ferocious weather, the Gods, however, have mocked me since, scarce a flake has settled on my lonesome, stony lanes and so stuff,often retarded here, flourishes. I had the ride-on mower in use as early as February.

We still see Buster, peeking around a tree or a hedge, although he is long dead. I think this walled acre needs children or a proprietorial dog or two, the former come and go during the Summer but I have not yet overcome my antipathy towards dogbreeders and nor have I found a companion animal amongst the animal charities, most of which seem to have nothing to do with animals and much to do with the stalwart egotism of their staffs; holidaying near Lindisfarne in the Autumn, I drove an hour and a half South - Doncaster - to a Dog's Trust Shelter, there to find a group of employees who exhibited more behavioural problems than the dogs to which they reprovingly introduced us, A goodboy will turn up to share and guard the garden, or, as Mrs Ishmael reminds me, a good girl.

So there, mr tdg, thanks for asking, the garden does well, erupting; the serenading seals, beyond the walls, will be back in a few weeks and for ten days the Whitebeam avenue's blossom will intoxicate all who traverse it. Owls, hares and hawks abound,though I shrink from rednesses in teeth and claws. I said to myself today I must share some Spring photographs, your kind enquiry has additionally prodded me. Watch, if you will, this space.

Rufus said...

There is little to chose between the clergy and politicians.
They both look upon themselves as superior to the common herd.
They both deal in falsehood and bribery to gain support and wealth.
They are totaly devoid of any natural moral compass.

call me ishmael said...

I don't think, mr rufus, that there is anything to distinguish them, one from the other, save the sham general election processes, overseen by the hereditary national broadcasters, the Dimblebys and on their demise by some other bunch of overpaid and over exposed sycophants. Huw Welshman is being groomed presently to be the voice of state occasions at the BBC and bizarrely, Alastair Stewart, the convicted drunken driver who still presents that rubbishy plod propaganda show, Police! Lights! Camera! Mortuary, he does it for ITV.

In the C of E there are career frontbenchers, career backbenchers and as in MediaMinster politics there is a disproportiionate number of thieves, slags, pimps, ponces and nonces. Oh, and they both say prayers before getting down to their organised crimes.

mongoose said...

I think, Mr I, that when you name your church after your country, you have given the game away.

jgm2 said...

Dear Mr I,

Please can we have our weather back. I was a bit (okay, a lot) disappointed by last years weather down here in Sussex but a repeat year will only serve to convince me that the Gulf Stream has indeed shifted off it's axis and that we in (previously) Sunny Sussex are doomed to the shite weather that was yet another reason to leave Fucking Scotland.

I suppose that, as financially independent and early adopters, we could just do the whole white flight thing and fuck off to somewhere more reliably warm but that would just confirm the poor decision I made in 2007/8. Not the decision to leave Fucking Scotland (because that, weather aside, remains an entirely rational and sensible decision) but the lack of conviction that baulked me running away from the entire UK.

banned said...

@jgm2, the Warmist Junta at the Met Office are trying to say that the shifting Jet Stream is new and all down to Climate Change but my Dad told me all about it during one particularly drab summer in the 1970's. (sorry for going O/T Mr Ishmael)

tdg said...

I look forward to pictures of your garden; only bodies sprout in mine, and for some reason the logic of death and renewal does not work so well there. Perhaps if we each had a garden, a real garden, our world would be a serener place.