Monday, 13 May 2013



 Don't recall if we said this at the time but isn't there  a  prefiguring  of Ruinous Doom in a situation where  a twelve-year old girl has grandmother of 44, with a boyfriend ?  Isn't this, to the child, at best confusing?  What boundaries are there, beyond which she should not, for self-protection,  stray? How would she know?  Who would tell her, don't sit on Grand-dad's knee, he's not Grand-dad, he's a nonce?

Maybe it's the death of organised religion, maybe it's the decline of neighbourly scrutiny and disapproval, maybe, in short,  it is that mass of legislation which we call the Permissive Society,  the Rabelaisian 'sixties feast that makes a norm of such a bizarre set-up - three familial female generations,   probably all grist to the mill of someone like Hazell. Both mothers must have given birth at sixteen. Is it the benefits system that enables the establishment of households and kinship networks as dangerous as these ?  

Mr mongoose calls them snuffler's beards,  these goatee things and I have adopted that description.  I have had a moustache for over forty years, Christ knows why, I just grew it and it's been there ever since,  I keep it in solidarity with my younger self.  I shouldn't, therefore, snipe at others' growths but I do.  It's the combination of jailbird shaved head and fussy, finicky  little beards, some cocktail of thug and dandy which aggrieves me.  It is a look which I have always associated with those unfortunate white trash illiterates on Death Row in the Land of the Free.  Now, though, they are everywhere, these shiny-head/hairy-chin combos. Probably have  bits of scrap iron  through their foreskins, too, rings on their toes, like savages. 

I was looking at a new-intake Tory MP the other day,  a bloated yet dedicated follower of fashion, greasy double chins cascading over his starched collar, almost onto his designer-shiny suit lapels and he has one of those beards and one of those closely shaven, ridged, bumpy, veiny, shiny  skulls.  It is clearly the height of fashion and such creatures as these would probably look at me and think, How quaint, an old-timer's moustache.  But they wouldn't mistake me for Stewart Hazell or Mick Philpott, as I would them.



(Hair-free) Old timer said...

In my youth we used to call those little pointy fluffy beard owners a "Dick van Dick".

You will of course understand the connection.

DtP said...

All the locals must have known he was guilty as hell as his criminal record was amazingly scumtastic but it was the fact that he fronted it out. I guess the cops can't pop nuts in drawers these days but their failure to find the body in the attic was fantastically useless. She was discovered when she started to pong a bit! Marvellous. Modern Blighty, ah, this sceptered isle.

Ho hum.

call me ishmael said...

Not to put too fine a point on it, mother and grandmother must have known, too, they'd both been fucking him, don't need to be a headshrinker to know he'd go for the threes-up. I think they should all be in jail. And the Dad, him, too, put him in jail, failed in his duty of care. There are ways and means, I know, for a non-custodial father to put the fear of God into any would-be, common-law stepfucker. It is a terrible phrase for we liberals but this is The Underclass and we cannot unbreed it.

Good job we have Michael Spit in charge of education, he'll sort it all out, mr dtp.

The cops, well, what can you say? A Boy Scout would do better than this lot did. Better by far that we police ourselves, than rely on such rubbish. Wonder if any Inspector Gob or Superintendent Filth will resign.

Yes, mr ot, it's like I Wear My Heart On My Sleeve only it'sI Wear My Cock On My Chin.

mongoose said...

A man who has been done for hanging about the place with his very own machete? Well, if I was a copper I think that that would have given me pause. "Search the house, lads." "All of it, boss?" "No, don't bother with the attic but do check under the sofa in case the kid is playing hide'n'seek, innit." Staggering fucking incompetence.

call me ishmael said...

The other aspect of such cases,mr m, which we refuse for some reason to acknowledge, much less address is the Jailbait Quotient - the premature sexualisation of our children, the commodifying of young flesh by cosmetics and fashion and by, it must be said, pouting.

This unnatural notion that it is a child's right to masquerade as a woman, or that it is any woman's right to dress as provocatively as she wishes and then be appalled, devastated, traumatused and all the rest when, on some, the provocation works, this, this is the fucking Devil's work. Hormones run riot in everyone, up to a certain age; to tempt and provoke urges in the damaged and damned Beast Species is frankly suicidal. Parents must discourage their children from provoking the beast. That's no right at all, that's just dangerous.

And thirty -eight years, well, after ten or twelve it stops mattering, he'll fashion a life of sorts, it's what we all do, confined, and eventually he'll be nutted-off to Broadmoor, or one of those places. Hard to see what else to do with him, short of the rope, or somesuch. Better that it hadn't happened, better that we teach our children well and wisely.

Perhaps a bit abruptly, after a bit of whisky-sipping, I reminded my grandson's father, on the night of his son's birth - You know, of course, that there are people in this world who would love to stick their cocks in him and then torture him to death. C'est la vie, say the old folks, goes to show you never can tell.

Dick the Prick said...

Tits. Spent ages scribbling and forgot to copy and interweb 404'd. Tits.