Monday, 6 May 2013


         KISS, I MEAN KILL ME QUICK.         
Bragg, arts sweetheart turned walking Dead.
                           Heddo, Belbyn Bagg, here, and dis is just do say dat I bill be tobbing byself if I go barmy.

His Lordship has pronounced on death, joining the irritant, wotsisname, Pratchett, that's it, in promulgating the assisted suicide, ie murder, approach to dementia. PratchettGob, by the way, has gone quiet now that he's not finding dementia as bad as he expected it to be, not jumping up and down all day long, demanding to be killed by someone else, the horrid little coward.  The wretched  Debbie Purdy is still around, too,  Christ,  the way she was carrying on she should've been dead, or at the very least have shut the fuck up, years ago.

Bragg continued his proclamation by saying  I hab told all ob by friends dat I bill not carry on and dat day are to help be wid a boddle of bills and a boddle of Scotch - single balt ob course -  once I hab pud by affairs in order.

The pestilential culture vulture may have a book to promote or some new rubbish on Sky Arts or he may just be doing a Germaine Greer - talking about some aspect of her noisesome,  shopsoiled  self for money, the girl can't help it - and is just attention seeking. Seems that Bragg's old Mum died, just like everybody's does,  and went a bit loopy at the end and Bragg, of course, wrinkling his nose in distaste,  defined her condition as Undignified,  therefore murderable. And the law must be changed in line with Baby Boomers' displeasure with their elderly parents.

I wonder how  his Lordship described them when he found his infants rolling around in their own shit, if he projected his own concept of Dignity  onto those at a different stage of Life, and if he murdered them, out of respect, for their lack of Dignity. Man's a cunt, Bragg,   spent his life, like Parkinson,  fawning and brown-nosing luvvies and artists, grubbing for lustre by association and latterly feigning an intellectualism  which he does not have.  I don't care how he lives and dies, sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned.  But his promoting, as he is, the idea that we should murder one another almost as a matter of course, once we start getting confused  and incontinent, is, rather like his own books, abominable.

                THE QUIET MAN, IS TURNING UP THE GAS,                                                        

I say, Mr Ishmael, old chap, steady on a minute.  I think there's a good deal in what Lord Bragg is saying here and we can always learn from our Labour colleagues.  I mean, obviously we don't want to go around killing people just because they're non-productive and costly to keep alive. At least, not at first....


yardarm said...

If we ever committed the unproductive to euthanasia IDS would be the first to be turned into Soylent Green.

Started off as a soldier then quit, army probably wouldn`t bump the twat up to lance corporal then spent a few years bumbling around in middle management. I`ve met a few of his like; they come into a place giving it the old ' You lot are lazy bastards, wouldn`t last at Catterick, I`m efficient, I`m ex army, left right, left right '. A year later they`ve got their P45 and everyone`s sorting out the shit mess they made.

After no doubt getting the archer a few times this prat hoys himself of to the job creation scheme for the utterly hopeless, becomes an MP. Then, God his wonders to fucking behold, becomes Leader of the Opposition (on 9/11) where he promptly lets Jug Ears get away with murder, literally, over Iraq. Then gets replaced by Micheal Howard, for fucks sake.

Now this Christian slaphead, oozing fake concern over the poor is in charge of shitting on them for the Top Hatters, with ' reforms ' and a massive computerised system of Universal Shit.

Wonder how that will turn out: government IT scheme and IDS inability to tie his shoelaces without throttling himself. I`d sooner let a chimp lower the rods on a nuclear reactor.

MP and minister ? Teathanger and benefits grubber. Complicity with Jug Ears over Iraq and our current dronestriking in A/stan ? And then they have the nerve to bring up Philpott ? Euthanasia ? Christ, I`ve convinced myself.

tdg said...

Bragg illustrates well why it is a virtue of the English that they use the noun "intellectual" largely in a pejorative sense.

But the question of suicide is not straightforward. It is the one power we have over gods, strange not to use it.

call me ishmael said...

Someone needs to develop a language for this stuff, mr tdg, it is not suicide as we know it, bleak and private; isn't it more a case of Celebrity's last gasp, no business like show business ?

These are not people who have rejected life, most have had a full life, now, with a bit of advance warning of their death they seek to milk it for all it's worth.

Proper suicide fills me with dread and awe and uneasy curiosity - for the reason that you cite, among others. This stuff is showboating. Let them, with a bare bodkin, their quietus make, instead of shuffling about, gibbering.

tdg said...

Yes, caught in the public headlights these people go giddy with the sick glamour of collective pity, and it is not attractive, but then many people do the same thing in hospital, covertly thrilled by the attention their impending death has bought them, and against which their ordinary lives are just loose change.

I would shift the burden away from patients and into the hands of the doctors that once carried it, not in the pursuit of power (as modernity misunderstands it) but of consolation. Except we cannot, for doctors no longer want it.

tober said...

Thousands must commit suicide quietly with a wee overdose instead of all this noisy fuss,court cases, newspaper articles and trips to a swiss death house etc. Cancer patients seeing their approaching death and not fancying what they see will have a wee back up plan I'd imagine.

DtP said...

@Mr Yardarm - I think you forgot that his missus fixed it for him to get selected in a rotten borough. All of the reasons you give do, ofcourse, act as a reasonable charge sheet for being an unmitigated cunt but...there's more, a cherry on the cake, if you will.

This little cunt spent a fair amount of his time undermining Major for being a pussy on Europe and then, when he was nominally in charge of the Tories, had a hissy fit when Tories undermined him calling him a fucking useless cunt, I believe the term is, he can give it but the fuck can't take it. A playground bully epitomised and enacting policies that simply will not work. Cunt.

Mike said...

Well, we all will die.

In a perverse sort of way I hope I get the death sentence from a doctor - "you have 6 months to live" - rather than going out in a car crash or whatever.

Then I have 6 months to square the ledger with the bastards who have annoyed me, with nothing to lose. They had better watch out.

Old timer said...

The Romans had the right idea. A nice deep warm bath, a couple of bottles of the finest wines and a self-administered slit wrist/vein/artery or two to help the process along.

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yardarm said...

Thank you, Mr DTP, I didn`t know that. Is it Chingford, his seat ? Tebbit`s old one.

Yes, he kept pulling Johnny`s underpants down over Maastricht then wondered why loyalty was a scarce commodity when he was ' leader '. Now he`s been set up to fail, Flashman not wanting to ruin the career of one of his chums in the Department of Fuck All.

Apparently IDS and Gideon loathe each other. During IDS ' leadership ' Gidders, correctly, referred to Jug Ears as ' our true leader '. And he recently tried to get the bald berk transferred to the Ministry of Injustice but IDS refused. He turned down a job offer; ought to have his fucking benefits stopped.

call me ishmael said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
call me ishmael said...

Blogger call me ishmael said...

Until very recently it was accepted in our culture that the Almighty had set his hand against self-slaughter and that the Lord, anyway, didn't send you more pain than you could bear, these were a collective security blanket and anonymous doctors would carry that weight, if it became necessary.

We, the deference-free rock'n'roll generation, have discarded such precepts, rolled them up in a joint and smoked them, and now we speed blearyeyed along the road of self-indulgence towards Wodevva, who knows, perhaps a nirvana of inter-species sex, the porno unltima de nos jours - Cameron to legalise Man-Dog marriages, I believe in families, and in this day and age the idea that they should be be mono-specieal, is frankly-untenable,probly, asserts prime minister; we race towards a destination where Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law, a place where, Heaven knows, anything goes, Because you're worth it.

Bikinis for four year olds? Yeah man, it's the market, you gotta love it. Those little bitches, they love it, too, shakin' their little asses.

Anyway enough happy consumerism, we digress.

Restraint, therefore, given such commercial atrocity, in the matter of our last exit, flowers more sparsely than before.

I sometimes stay in a Dundcee hotel, the Invercarse Best Western and much of its trade comes from funeral teas, there are always one or two when I'm there and they seem so utterly sobre and proper, everyone, often a hundred or more, dressed with an eye to the occasion, creating a palpable mixture of sorrow, respect and I guess, relief that it was somebody else and not them who's dead, gallows humour, even. And all their vehicles are shiny, cleaned for the occasion. They last two or three hours, these things, I must have seen at least a dozen of them and they all go on within the hotel's other business - holidaymakers, salesfolk, conferencees, adulterers and there we all are, and Death is Cool. In the midst of life we are in it. Maybe, daily, up and down the land, this is still the case, maybe we remain a place where Death shall have no dominion.

Yet all around, copycatting, skriking and caterwauling or like Bragg, intoning pompously, there are those who would drag Death front-and-centre, their death, anyway - giddy with the sick glamour of collective pity - and have their personal terror dramatised for my delectation. This is me, entirely rationally, making the decisions with my family and of course my doctor, and this is me getting on the 'plane and this is me in Switzerland, smiling bravely as they help me into the death house.

I'd love to kick'em in the arse, just one more time, for luck. Never mind, oh thoughtful one, it won't hurt for long.

Fuck 'em, Pratchett and the rest, they're gonna die, let 'em learn to live with it.

7 May 2013 15:39

Arthur said...

Funny really.
I always felt that Melvyn had some form of dementia.
No normal person could so far up his own fundement as he has been for all the time he has been broadcasting.

Anonymous said...

Maybe Lord Bragg could host a companion series to "In Our Time" called "Time's Up"!

mongoose said...

A bit of charity is due the Bragg Bastard. He is of unsound mental health and didn't his wife either did didn't kill herself deliberately.

I think it may be those broody fells and timeless loughs. He is a pain in the arse however. But maybe also as constant as the northern star.

call me ishmael said...

As we are fond of saying here, mr m, charity covereth up the multitude of sins and anyway, they wwere separated at the time, he and the tragic figure. He blames her therapist but then he woild, wouldn't he, he would have done no wrong, would he, nice, affable, genial, erudite chap like him. I mean, he and the second Mrs were close friends of Tony and Cherie for twenty years until Cherie bitched all over them, how could he be anything other than wonderful?

Wouldn't matter to me if his grandparents, parents, brothers and sisters, children and grandchildren all slew themselves, the man's just a showy, teevee reptile, the man's an arse, another working class boy in the House of Lords, primping and poncing. Don't we just hate showbiz immodesty, isn't it the first step on the dark road to Savileism?

Dick the Prick said...

It's a common theme on this blog that the best option is 'no fucking comment'. The Purdy woman who went all through the courts for her husband to give her a bottle of whiskey and a shit load of paracetemols because at some point she's be unable to - yeah, yeah, lots of empathy, tough break, glad it's you not me etc etc. But the committee of ways and means doesn't have to sit for that long to come up with the full politicians defence of total deniability. "Did you administer shed loads of booze and pills to your missus?" "Nope". "You did though, didn't you?". "Nope". "Fucked here, Sarge, this cunt says she did it".

Why must everything be sanctioned in law, why must suicide have anyfuckingthing to do with the CPS or statute? Just fucking do it and fuck you with the consequences. The Liverpool pathway is perhaps the extreme end of the curve - "oh, shot, just an ingrowing toenail - whoops!" but most doctors have a decent batting average for accidently topping people so when a husband, son, wife or daughter has a quiet word, it's no fucking skin off their nose.

My uncle's mate had motor neurone so they fixed it for his missus to fuck off to London for a show with her sister and sorted the boy out so she didn't have to find him. As if Inspector Fucking Morse wanders up and starts banging on about it being awfully convenient. Too fucking right it was, you cunt, now fuck the fuck off. Charge me, don't charge me - I couldn't give a flying fuck.

I'm not popping those who, scared, in pain, aware of the futility of their mortality direct their fears to the state but the smart money, the quieter gamer would just get it sorted.

call me ishmael said...

And on that point mr dtp, let's just remember - for richer, for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, ' til Death us do part.

If mrs ishmael were to ask me I would just do it And take my chance with a jury, what would it matter?