Thursday, 23 May 2013


Private Eye's fortnightly slant on What The  'Papers Say, should properly read Street Without Shame but with a part-time editor like littlefatman Hislop one can't expect too much;  that he hasn't destroyed the Eye completely is probably due to the fact that it's actually run by real grown-ups

There isn't a Fleet Street, anyway. I don't know if there ever was; there will be a few bars, restaurants, bondage salons, glass-topped shitting tables  and mainstream knocking shops which are patronised by both  arms of MediaMinster and these brothels and piss corners probably form the fabric of what we still describe as Fleet Street;  the hacks, though,  can file their rants and dribblings and arselickings and plagiarisms from almost anywhere on the planet

Their personal doings, though, are conventionally mundane, sordid and local.  How many respected hacks were jumping on and into Blind Boy Blunkett's  journalist  bint,

 Yes, I know she's married, but I'm Tony Blair's 
home seckatery and I can do what I want.

 Yes, I know she's married 
but I'm a professional gossip and I can do what I want.

 Yes, I know she's married, 
she's married to me.

 Kimberley Quinn, when he, and presumably her hubby, were not around. Simon Hoggart, the Guardian's wine and gossip writer eventually confessed to being a quarter of this o'er moist menage a quatre, at least quatre;  poor woman, being gangbanged in instalments by such a crew of weird old men;  she probably led them on, bitch.

 And there's the spectacularly unprepossessing Andrew Marr and his adultery super injunction shenanigans, 

typical of hacks, dish the dirt on anyone, bar themselves.  Bo-Jo, part-time mayor, full time Filth-O-Grapher,  scribbler and bloated, albino fuckbunny;  gobby Gerry Clarkson, another Murdochee, strayed from his dwarf wife 


and sought to keep it all under legal wraps.  We could  be here for days;  what was HagFace  Robinson's 


Daily Mirror relationship with the bouncing Czech, publisher, MP and pensions grand larcenist, Bob Maxwell? Even before she had her face resculpted in plastic her wink was about as enticing and flirtatious  as a leg ulcer, Jesus fucking wept.

 Despite the absence of a trade locale, the absence of hot metal and despite the creeping, consumptive death of all newspapers - broad tabloid  and pornosheets - the hacks' trade has changed little;  they remain grubby labourers in the field of engineered public stupidity, propagandists of a scarcely distinguishable set of self-appointed ruling mobsters, networks of organised crime, those who judge themselves  the right sort   to keep ordinary, stupid people in line, place'd go to fuck if ordinary people had any say in the matter and the journalists are  an equally culpable, disgusting  regiment of the Shit-In-Our-Faces brigade.

They, journalists,  are without exception,  undeclared spokespersons for an industry.  Music journalists are spokespersons for the music industry;  writers for Q magazine, for instance, don't work for the readership but for Pink Floyd and Bruce Springsteen -  the ever breathless septuagenarian teenager, singing about his baby and his car, stupid cunt - Bob Dylan fuels an entire industry, from Rolling Stone magazine to hundreds if not thousands of fanzine-ers, Clinton Heylin can tell us who played what and when and how, in what time signature and in what key on every Bob Dylan recording, EVER - don't argue with me I have read all his mad, obsessive books - and what they all meant;  Paul Morley, of the ghastly PBC2 Newsnigh review, famous for his Hundred-bests-of-this-and-that-show appearances can find deep cultural-sociological-comical-tragical-historical significance in the direst, most meaningless, trashiest, two-minute punk thrash; they all do this shit, not just for the money, not just for free music and free tickets to gigs but for Access, maybe not Access All Areas but a few minutes access to whichever grunting, cokehead, arrested-development delinquent it is - Paul Haircut'n'Jumper Weller, Badger Brian May. Lady Sir Elton John.  These people - rock critics - are midnight shitpipe crawlers, pretending to be critics. 

 PBC diva,  Paul Gambuccini,

 a US  import, is famed not just for how many gay pop icons came out to him first - or so he claims, hissily -  but for his astonishingly crass confession that he knew all along what Sir Jimmy Childfucker was up to but didn't blow the whistle because it would have wrecked his career, his career of oozing his  comforting tongue-borne saliva up the arses of overblown nobodies.

But if you think that's bad, just look at the shitmunchers who call themselves political  journalists,  theirs is the rankest of sewers.  Many were shocked and disdainful when  Paul Staines, Colonel von Fawkes of the PizzaHouseOfBlood, 

Paul  Staines in his playwear.

sub-titled his blog, gossip, rumour and insinuations - something like that, anyway, perhaps insinuation is too polysyllabic for Staines, whose idol, after all,  is the racist, Nazi, sexist,  moronic  bullyboy fuckpig,  Sir Kelvin McFilth 

McFilth and Moron.
Britain's most successful journalists. 
Why aren't they in jail?

- but actually, all he was doing was aping the outrageous  British Lobby System,   by which the likes of Nick Toenails, the PBC's political arselicker-in-chief

Well, yes of course I know who said what to whom 
but I couldn't possibly tell the viewers.

 Toilets Maguire, the Daily Mirror's token poor-boy-done-good; the intolerably smug Andrew Read My Book, Servants Of The People Rawnsley 

Andrew Knobcheese, knower of secrets.

of the disgraceful Sunday ArseBridger  In fact almost everybody  in mainstream political "reporting" trades in the knowing whispers and secret handshakes of  "unattributable briefing." Slaphead Toenails smirking that "his sources are telling him.....this and that ...........close friends of the minister have told him.............. I have learned that......senior Tories are telling me...." Robinson and others gain acess to our lavishly paid employees, the filth in parliament,  on the basis of no names, no pack drill and if they do reveal names they are fucked-off out of The Lobby.  Cunts, all of them, conspiring to keep the stupid stupid and confound the intelligent.

And then there's Newsnight. Drunken  Emily Thighs,

staggering across the studio in ten-inch heels and having a chat with some arsehole from one of the political parties, with whom she was probably dining the night before.

  Stephanie Boots, banging-on about The Economy, Stupid, as if she had the first idea about  what she spoke  of and poor old Paul Mason

 - you can see his mind whirring and clunking, For fucks sake,God,  let me think of something knowledgeable  to say about this whatever-it-is, because I haven't a fucking clue; how did I get this job?   And best of all, glued to his job, million pounds a fucking year, the ridiculous Paxman, 

with his faux cantankerousness, a gilded, luxuriant Cantabrian, pretending to roast his fellow Oxbridge boys-and-girls, but telling them, pre-interview, All the world's a stage, old darling, take no notice, there's no business like showbusiness, join me for a drink in my dressing room, afterwards, no hard feelings. Yes, of course it's all free.

I was in the doctor's waiting room. Considering they're all private businesses you'd think they would furnish their customers with some decent reading material whilst keeping them waiting for an hour or so. But no, tatty old National Geographics, Hello magazines and - last week - an issue of Classic Cars. Don't know if you've seen Classic Cars but it's full of features and adverts for clapped-out old bangers, ranging from Hillman Imps to   Bentley Continentals.  This is Motoring Journalism, just the same as all the other forms of journalism.  You can learn, if you want to, how to rebuild
a thirty-year old Lancia which was good for fuck all when it was brand new and'll still be good for fuck all when you've spent tens of thousands of pounds on it, just like your local MP, good for fuck all, no matter what you do with them. 

It's the same right across the board,   the same wanky drooling over a rusty, old Triumph 2500 - you know, the one with carburettors that you need to adjust every fifteen miles - as over a gull-wing Mercedes 300 SL, which, even if you could get it to go, you'd be terrified of taking into a multi-storey car park.  It all seemed to me like a petrolhead's fantasy world.

I love cars, mind you,  There's only two of us but I have three:  a one-litre, convertible Smart car, with automatic transmission and paddle-shift gear change on the steering wheel and it'd shit  all over any of those dreadful British sportscars, MGs, Triumphs, Healeys, and it doesn't piss oil out all the time, and the roof is wind and watertight, and it always starts, we use it for  local stuff, up to the town, and for fun, the 1000-cc version  does go like stink, short wheelbase makes it stick to the road;  I have an old, four-litre, auto Ford SUV, a big, lazy car, easy  to drive, which I use for carrying or hauling stuff and then I have the hundred and fifty-five miles an hour Citroen C4 VTS, with swivelly headlights, dual aircon, bulletproof glass and fuck knows what else, which I am taking to Europe in the Autumn, just to see how it is, flat-out.  I hope I don't die on the Autobahn. I use it for travelling up and down Scotland and England, it overtakes like a motorcycle, has rockhard suspension and is the sort of car which could easily get you banned.  I like cars.  I'd have more of them if I could afford it.  But I would never have a Mark Two Jag, they were shit, the Hillman Imp was a joke and I get palpitations at the thought of a '70s Bentley Continental having to go into the garage, which it would, often. So, much as I like cars, I couldn't see the sense of this Classic Car stuff, until, that is, I read the front page.

Quentin Willson - an iffy name if ever I saw one - describes himself as the nine-year presenter of the PBC's Top Gear Show, and as a highly-respected motoring journalist  and broadcaster.  You've seen him on Channel Five. He's that smarmy git with the slicked-back few  strands of hair. 


What he actually does is front an advert for a car warranty scheme which he claims to have personally devised in the interests of motorists,  a bit like Sir Michael Parkinson, funeral-frightening the old folk and tempting them with a free Parker Pen or that old,  coffin-dodging queen, Nicholas Parsons,  commending 2000 per cent APR loans for the poor.  And Quentin  voices-over, for British viewers, one of those fucking awful, US-made Lights! Action! Camera! Cops! Mortuary! shows.  You know the thing, This stupid driver thought he could get away with this behaviour, speeding or being drunk or both,  but he hadn't reckoned on the ShitCounty, Arkansas Highway Patrol and Patrolman Hiram T Cheesburger the Third. It's bits, often fragments of police-cruiser videotape from all over the States, Quentin I-Know-Besting over a selection of spectacularly trivial and uninteresting  non-event horseshit. The show goes out in the middle of the night, so Quentin, the respected motoring journalist's  home audience probably doesn't see it, but I, lonesome, obsessive insomniac, do. And he sounds just like what he is, a cheap, do-anything, fading luvvie.

He wrote the frontispiece, is that the word, for a magazine, in this isue of Classic Cars.  He was pissing himself in glee.  He'd been to an auction and bought - for just £24, 000   - an old Rolls Corniche convertible but being Quentin, he'd done his ree-surch, and learned that  this particular old banger had been bought by some gangster, gun-runner, pimp, ponce and slag for his Mrs,  some high-priced  and age-discordant beauty or other; Khashoggi, was it, something like that. And QW was creaming himself at the though that,  thanks to his ree-surching skills,   he now owned a slice of motoring history. And that made the car - and Quentin - really special.  In one of those chilly-sweaty waking nightmares, I  could see him, Quentin, his shiny, slicked-back bonce, getting down and sniffing the seats, matched Navy Blue Connolly hide, of course.  He'd had it trailered-home, by a friend, naturally, in the trade and had only driven it once round the block and there were only a few things wrong with it.  It was, declared Quentin, a keeper. Just goes to show what you can do, the prat inferred, if you are as clever as me.
That was the point of it, God sent me that magazine just to remind me, that whatever the trade they are pimping - politics, music, motoring, whatever it is,  - the writers are just filthy slags.

It was pathetic, really, a grown man behaving like that, cheaply. And I was glad when the doctor came and tapped me on the shoulder, breaking my reverie of homicidal disdain for writers in general and journalists in particular.

Even though, unlike the press, I don't use them,  I don't think that there's anything particularly wrong with sex-workers - they could certainly have better working conditions and be afforded some respect;  generally what they do is straightforward honest and, I believe, socially helpful;   unlike the press, they do not pretend to be serving a higher, truthful, critically important  purpose

 The press, therefore, for me, and not the sex industry, is the oldest  and most disreputable profession, part of the system which perpetuates the ruled and the rulers, the fucked, if you like, us,  and the fuckers, them; the press, the govament, criminal big business,  the royal ponces and the noncing monsignors, all in the same poxy knocking shop, all up each others' arses, all an offence to decent people.

And tonight the press is in a frenzy, a soldier is hacked to bits - as they all seem to love saying; Y'ever notice that, when someone is hacked to death they  all keep saying it,  even months, years after,  decades after, they all keep saying that that London bobby, pc Keith Blakelock, for instance,  was Hacked to Death, why can't they just say Killed, or Knifed? Don't they have any concern for the relatives of the Hackee, hearing that phrase,  year after year? Fucking bastards -  outside his barracks and his killers just hang around, waiting to be collared.  What is all this about, they shriek, even consulting the moron,  Lord John Reid.  How can this shit happen? And what does it all mean?

If, however, they had ever reported Obama's murder-by-drone policy,
 Collateralised for  Freedom.

endorsed by no less a political heavyweight than the inbred mutant CallHimDave 

 I'm just so glad  Obie, that you probly
 won the Battle of Britain for us.

and  by the rest of MediaMinster; if they had reported the century of Jewish-American-Zionist terror against the Arabs, maybe even if they had reported Uncle Sam's Netherlands Act - which empowers the President to use any force necessary to "rescue" any US war criminals brought before the International Court in the Hague - if they had reported that  - no matter what drunken, depressive,  bi-curious, MediaMinster  hoodlum, 


 Alastair Campbell said - the invasion of Iraq was in direct contravention of the 1948  Nuremburg Tribunal's ruling on war crimes .......if, if,  if,  if the press had ever told the truth about recent history, instead of whoring for Power, then it would not, should not come as any surprise that angry young men commit atrocitymurder on the streets of London, and don't even seek escape.  





Old timer said...

Phew, Mt I, I feel quite exhausted having just read that! But I really have nothing to add except I failed to renew my PE sub several years ago as I began to find it irrelevant and to be honest no longer interesting - and I no longer buy newspapers.

Re the cars, you have some nice motors! Many years ago I had a purpose built (ie to my own specs) Imp variant known as a Sunbeam Stiletto; cost just under 500 quid on the road. Nice wheels for a young lad; twin carbs, twin headlights, oil cooler, two seater - enough room for one plus one plus a bit of luggage. Used to go like a bat out hell too, leaving the sports car of the moment (MGB) standing at the lights. But it had a serious drawback with the water pump whose bearings seem to last about 6 months before seizing the whole caboodle up. I think the problem was with the belt drive not being perfectly perpendicular; it was slightly angled from the pulley wheel below which meant that the bearings were always being pulled slightly off straight and thus weakening them. I had six replacements in the five years I owned it, but I still retain fond memories of my days driving that little rocket around. These days I drive something a little less boisterous and a with a touch more comfort.

The wife of a good friend bagged first dibs for when I came to sell it, so in due course she had it, but it was a bit too fierce/frisky for her and the first time she drove it, they finished up in the middle of a roundabout island! So her hubby took it and she had to make do with the Escort. Cars in those days had personality - and you did not need a computer to tell you how to adjust the brakes or the carbs!

Mike said...

I had one of those Healey's Mr I. I spent coutless hours trying to balance the triple SU carbs - by listening to how much they hissed.

Still kept me occupied and out of trouble.

Masterful rant, and yes, the world is truly turning to shit.

DtP said...

A few things about this are a bit disturbing. Their accents were straight out of Eastenders so probably never been anywhere but the Costa del Shite. Why was there such shite planning? They could have proper gone on the rampage and taken out loads more and it was a pretty bloody labourious way to execute someone.

But what absolutely astounded me was that some of the eye witnesses thought it was just a normal day in Woolwich. Some one was live twittering and said "it's one of the worst 3 things i've ever seen" - wtf? I have heard stories about London and there's copy for Croydon that could fill the Daily Mail angry columns constantly but someone getting decapitated with a meat cleaver only constitutes number 3 on the 'oooh, that was bad list' is a bit mental, to say the least.

jgm2 said...

I have obviously become my dad. I first noticed it at Lady Di's funeral. There was this solemn occasion and people started clapping and cheering. Was it just me who wondered at what point it suddenly became appropriate to have a round of applause at a funeral. I've been to a couple since but I don't recall anybody breaking out into spontaneous applause as they lowered mum into the ground. Maybe we're behing the times.

And now this fucking nonsense. I'm beyond being shocked by the utter fucking barbarity of the religion of peace and, if their point is to bring home the reality of the UK's intervention in such shitholes as Afghanistan and Iraq, then I really would prefer it if they paid a bit more attention to Tony Blair's or Alistair Campbell's schedule than some poor squaddie's. But what does my fucking head in is that the people of Woolwich, when confronted with a beheading in the street and knife-weilding lunatics at large, think that the appropriate behaviour is not to run away or drive over the fuckers with a car but to get their mobile phones out and upload the results to Youtube.

Callmeishmael said...

All the eyewitnesses I saw spoke like backward six year olds, is it some kind of open plan loony bin, Woolwich?

I, too, stopped , after decades, my
PE subs and switched to Viz magazine ,far more satirical and delightfully vulgar. I haven't bought a newspaper this millennium, why would anyone?

jgm2 said...

Correction - not a squaddie but a Drummer apparently. Drummers, along with other musicians, normally being trained as medics and stretcher-bearers. Almighty PR fuck-up for the religion of peace.


Same with newspapers for me Mr I. Still buy Private Eye though. He may be pissing in the wind but all the dirt is in there. We can't say we weren't told about Maxwell or PFI or WMD or NHS fuck-ups galore. And we only know of the rest of Fleet Street's finest' off-piste activities thanks to PE too.

That Craig Brown is as funny as arse cancer though.

Callmeishmael said...

Yes, I still buy the Eye, most fortnights, I just don't have a subscription.

Sometimes I get too cryptic for my own good. The street of Shame was meant to apply both to MediaMinster and to the tweeting, phone snapping horde which you berate in Woolwich, mr jgm2.

tdg said...

The fact of paranoid psychosis remains the same, but its common subjects change with the times. The same incidence of psychotic murders can thus suddenly seem like a rise in terrorist atrocity. It may be there is no explanation here but a medical one.

callmeishmael said...

Does this, then, mr tdg, confer on, for instance, the Shankill Butchers and the Provos a sanity of Purpose, rather than a collective paranoid pyschosis - is orchestrated, concerted and sustained "purposeful" terrorist activity "saner" than acts such as yesterday's?

Might not these two - bearing in mind their headlong rush at armed police - be considered martyrs, or would-be martyrs, rather than patients, and might we not, also, within an albeit horrifiyng continuum of violence, acknowledge, at least, the restaint and discernment they exercised, killing but one military target? The deputy prime minister of Northern Ireland was happy, in his struggle, to kill and maim all and sundry, the more, to his mind, the merrier.

There is probably an applicable medical or socio-medical explanation for all aberrant behaviours but I am not sure that they cancel-out the perceived sins of empire - droning, rendition, assassination, concentration camps and all the brutal sins to which psyched-up, ill-educated squaddies and GIs are heir - gangraping, torture and mutilation, the fun and perks of the professional soldier.

Is a violent response to events such as these necessarily a manifestation of a severe mental illness? You're a clssicist, mr tdg, surely there are many real historical and mythologised events wherein guerilla acts like these are seen as blind, futile yet noble heroism.

Mike said...

Mr I: I find it hard to do relativism at a time like this. Rather I prefer the notion of absolute evil, and these black bastards are absolutely evil in my book. Thats not to say there are not other evils, but they do not justify this act.

call me ishmael said...

It was just a question, mr mike, of mr tdg, just a thought and perhaps a nod to, was it Auden? all the children learn, those to whom evil is done, do evil in return. Just trying to make some sense of stuff. Coincidentally, I saw - or could bear - only a couple of minutes of last night's Question Time, from Belfast; seeing Sinn Fein and the hideous, hereditary orange attack dog, Ian Paisley Junior moralising about this, now, there was relativism for you.

jgm2 said...

The New IRA or Continuity IRA or Real IRA or some other bunch of cunts murdered a lad (couple of lads?) outside their barracks a couple of years ago while they were taking delivery of a pizza.

This came as something of a surprise to the BBC after 15 years or so of relative calm so they dispatched a TV crew to interview the locals for a bit of vox pop. They voxed some cadaverous young proto-murderer who was almost totally incoherent on account of his accent but you could just pick up that he thought it was all right, so it was, and sure weren't the British to blame anyway, so they were, and sure what were they doing there anyway.

Any sensible government would have sent somebody straight around to his house and 'disappeared' the nasty wee cunt. But what is so thoroughly dispiriting is that this kid was only 18 or 19. He'd known no 'trouble' to speak of. It had all been relatively calm since John Major was PM yet they're still poisoned on their father's knee like the nasty fuckers screaming in Farage's face up in Fucking Scotland. The pudding faced Salmond just being the fat-controller front-man focussing the simmering resentment and hatred so many seem to have of their English neighbours.

This bloodthirsty muslim jackass will likewise have been poisoned, if not by his father, then some bushy-bearded cunt from Shitistan. Made all the easier to do, of course, by Blair's utterly incomprehensible war in Iraq

It's a clusterfuck and I suspect it will never be settled until one side or the other goes totally medieval. But I don't think it would do any harm at all to round up Blair and Campbell and anybody else who had a hand in manufacturing the 'case' for the Iraq war and toss them over the fence to these fuckers as a kind of peace offering.

This cleaver-wielding nutter was apparently urging muslims to go down to Syria. I'm guessing he wasn't urging them to support Assad so in the space of a week we have the situation where our own government is siding with people who want to overthrow Assad who, in their turn, are nothing more than cannibals and fifth columnists.

It's fucking surreal around here innit.

A|gatha said...

Britain wages wars of aggression: it is in a constant state of warfare: is, was, will be. One soldier is killed on the streets of London and people are surprised, shocked, devastated. Surely this is what happens in war? Soldiers dying? Or is it only the enemy,on the enemy's territory, who is supposed to die? Did someone say surreal? There is an astonishing lack of ability to think through action to consequence. Sex leads to pregnancy and/or sexually transmitted diseases. Uncontrolled personal spending leads to lots of stuff and large debt. Joining the army isn't about completing your education or getting a better job, it is about learning to kill peple and, in turn, becoming a target for the enemy. Voting Conservative leads to loss of income and resources for the working class. Wear sunscreen and don't wear your Army uniform on the streets unless you are prepared to engage in combat.

call me ishmael said...

Don't know about Big Al, after the election,he snuffled up loads of bungs from "speaking engagements" at GlobaBank and there's his diaries and his blethering and cock-waving in various TeeVee Toilets - he does the Sky Midnight News Review Pissup, he does the Andrew Neil Show-Off Show and there's always Any Questions for a quick grand, so he could pay for his own security but I betcha he doesn't. Tony and Imelda, of course, cost us a half a mill or so per annum, on account of their criminality and their need to be in a protection programme. It's not going to happen, mr jgm2, I am very sorry to say. Mediaevalism, however, is always a possibility - germ bombs and dirty wee nukes, that shit is all over the former USSR, held in lock-up garages and stables. And then there's Pakistan's proper nukes. It is just a matter of time - you might yet regret abandoning Scotland's stoney fastness to the tribesmen.

Sshhhh, ms agatha, you mustn't say that. About the heroes.

jgm2 said...

Mr I,

' It is just a matter of time - you might yet regret abandoning Scotland's stoney fastness to the tribesmen. '

Better to die in England than live in Fucking Scotland. 'To Hell or to Connaught' is famously attributed to Mr Cromwell.

He might just as well have been talking about Fucking Scotland.

mongoose said...

Have a care, mr jgm2, some us have families still condemned to own chunks of Connaught. It's good for fuck all, of course, except for the burying of the disappeared.

These meat-cleaver dozies - there's a certain eye-for-an-eye attraction to packing them off to Colchester glasshouse to serve their sentences. I am sure that they would not tarry there long.

jgm2 said...

There is a certain historical echo to the recent murder of a British soldier.

Yet again it seems that a couple of Micks were responsible.

call me ishmael said...

An absentee landlord, eh, mr m, each of us, I guess, has his own special gift.

Who was it said, hereabouts, and I paraphrase, I don't mind paying taxes, it resu|lts in what we call civilisation? An eye-for-an-eye sits ill with that sentiment but then which of us is consistent, aside, perhaps, from Mr jgm2 in his unflinching Albaphobia.

This was something different, previous suicidal terrorist attacks have been accidentally so, as in the case of the clueless Coventry IRA man, or of the assisted suicide variety, as in the case of the shot to death Tube and 'bus bombers - a bit like the Great Escape "How many of them were wounded?" "None, they were all killed."

These Mike guys ran towards what they must have thought was certain death and no amount of howling at the moon will equip us to prevent that sort of thing. It is as ms agatha says, we are, since the dawn of Bush-Blairism, in a constant state of war, largely against brown, largely muslem people and it would seem to me the work of an hour's planning to paralyse and terrify a country such as ours. Merely dress a half-dozen such couples as the Two Mikes in white coats and stethoscopes and send them into hospitals, with their meat cleavers and mayhap more modern weapons; imagine people,decent white people, being hacked to death in their hospital beds. I think we might then mildly disagree with the buffoon albino fuckbunny, Johnson, about our foreign policy being nothing to do with this shit.

The other tactic of the Allah Akhbar brigade, of course, would be the targetting of the blessed chidren of the fithyrich, in Eton and Harrow and Oxbridge. We must pray it never comes to that.

tdg said...

I do not wish to suggest that an act such as this *must* be a manifestation of mental illness but rather that the violence that sometimes accompanies mental illness may incidentally latch on to political ideas, making it seem as if the ideas are driving it whereas they are really post hoc rationalisations of a causeless impulse. Where the perpetrators are isolated and the violence unnatural this seems to me more likely. But of course it does not have to be so.

call me ishmael said...

Thanks, mr tdg, I will think on. I am ever confused about the elastic interface between sanity and criminal responsibility and I was amazed by the insistence of the Court that Peter Sutcliffe was perfectly sane and fit to stand trial, despite having hammered to death a dozen or so women - there could have been no differrence, sane or not, in the disposal of his case, he would have gone away for natural ife, thus ensuring an eventual, if much delayed, diagnosis of mental illness, it was as though the Court was saying You're not fooling us, just because you lived a dual life, happily married to one woman whilst habitually bashing the brains out of others, No, no way you're insane, sunshine.....................

jgm2 said...

'The other tactic of the Allah Akhbar brigade, of course, would be the targetting of the blessed chidren of the fithyrich'

Or a co-ordinated visit to their local MP's surgeries. Having first looked up his voting record on 'Theyworkforyou'.

That would be terrible indeed were such a calamity to occur.

One thing that no polite person dare suggest for fear of being arrested as the worst type of criminal there is ie 'a racist' is to stop any more of these fuckers enriching our culture by simply turning them back at the point of entry. Although, as these two Micks show, the damage is done, they'll be as British as you or I and with the paperwork to prove it.

I was reading a potted history of Britain. It seems the Celts and Picts were hostile to the Romans initially but after being kicked up and down the park came to appreciate civilisation to the point where they became jolly good little citizens with an ordered community and flushing bogs and one thing and another. So effete did they become over the centuries that, in the end, they got to importing Saxons to do all the unpleasant stuff like guarding the borders. The Saxons, seeing the lush, fertile lands of Britain compared with the shitholes of home and the soft-handed locals decided that this was very much an opportunity for them.

It seems that history is repeating itself.

Britain has become too soft and is once again in the process of being over-run.

I'm not certain that more curry houses was a price worth paying.

call me ishmael said...

Yes, every one of those words rang true and glowed like burning coals; the difference between then and now is that non-integration has been the - largely - NewLabour position and for the most cynical of psephological advantages, NewLab MPs, like Jack Torture and Roy hatterjee would cultivate and bribe so-called community leaders ensuring themselves a virtual block Asian vote come election time, Straw is a really refined and sophisticated sort of racist; kill the wogs abroad, bamboozle them at home.

mongoose said...

Pity the poor immigrant? Well, fuck that, I am one and no bastard pities me. Of course, being a Guinness wog, it is more difficult to spot. It is not about multiculturalism that we should worry for I could take you to Coventry this minute and into a paddy social club for a Sunday knees-up - Irish dancing and the fucking Fields of Athenry. May I be spared evermore. But fully assimilated? Are they, my fat green backside! But are they tearing up the countryside? No.

It is in fact the rule-bound English who are the fools around here. Too polite, too nice, too soft to tell Ahmed or Manuel that if junior wants to get on at school it would be appropriate to equip the little bugger with the English language. My father went to school speaking Gaelic in Galway and his language died with him. So be it. He did not mourn and feck about demanding that the I be taught in some mad dying language so that my culture be respected and my heritage preserved.

So it is not the Celts who are the softees, mr jgm2. Jeez, the deluded end of my lot have been trying to turn back the last thousand years of history armed only with a armful of Armalites and a few rebel songs. But it wasn't the ordinary Irish of the land; it was McGuiness and his useful idiots.

Now we have a pair of dickheads - clearly having enjoyed the culture and heritage of Sarf London for quite sometime - talking about some mad-hatter's pretend culture out of a sky-fairy book and saying that Allah made him sneak up behind an off-duty soldier, run him down with a car and then chop his head off. Fuck that. Arseholes! Yes, very much the Sutcliffe end of the Sutcliffe-Bin Laden data range but social difficulty and hard times are not excuse enough for idiotic butchery of this sort.

call me ishmael said...

I've already been in thse clubs, mr m, abd the churches, too, bloated and bent Paddy businessmen buying favours from randy priests, as though purchasing mediaeval blessings or exemptions, John Kirkpatrick was one of them, I hope he's dead, fucking pig. I know those highways like I know the back of my hand. But they are not comparable, they are irrelevant, actually, to what we call the Arab street and the righteous jihadi headchopper. And anyway, you know me well enough to know how much I would smart at anyone deing so despatched. That isn't the issue, the lonesome death of Lee Rigby, it's the Hows and mainly the Whys and can we prevent more such, or are we simply to bathe in this rank sea of maudlin melancholy and furious vengeance lust. See today's post.

I worked, incidentally, in the North at Clandeboye House, the seat of the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava, wed, at that time, in a lavender fasshion, to Lady Lindy Guinness. I was a servant but - genuinely - did not know my place, unlike legions of footmen, butlers, lady's maids, upstairs maids, cooks and bottlewashers, gaamekkeepers and groundsmen all fawning and bowing and scraping their Orange arses off. The Irish aristos are just like any old aristos. She still owes me a fiver she borowed. Despite having homes and thousands of acres in Scotland and Texas and homes in London and Paris her Ladyship never carried actual money, just demanded it from those around her; a side of Irish society generally kept well-hidden.

tdg said...

I imagine the judge in the Sutcliffe case felt insanity should be diagnosed not by those with expertise in defining its boundaries -- psychiatrists -- but by reasonable common opinion, which is what a judge is supposed to embody. It is surprising how far this convention can reach: a trial judge once ordered a jury *not* to reason in the Bayesian way they needed to in order properly to understand a set of technical data brought in evidence by the defence. It is a strength of English law that it is suspicious of anomalies, no matter how well justified, but it comes at a cost.

call me ishmael said...

Speaking for us all today, then, was mr justice slag. Outlining all the ways that the latest beast is unhinged and then sentencing him as though he wasn't. We must secretly love the existence, if not the persons of our beasties, eh, mr tdg, or we would set wiser heads to dealing with them, it Is as though a longer sentence will spare the next child's abduction, rape and disposal. Even though it will do no such thing and never has.

tdg said...

Yes, and now we are told he watched porn so porn must have caused his behaviour. The Queen is rich so everyone who is rich is the Queen. Schoolboy logic.