Sunday, 26 May 2013



After chairing a meeting of COBRA - move over, if you please, Mrs May, I'm still in charge - the unelected prime minister, the right honourable Mr CallHimDave, MA (Oxon) MP, said that it was probly time to crack down on those preaching hatred in our country and he had, therefore, ordered the security services to arrest the govament, all three parties of it.  For far too long our country has been seen as a place where totally unprincipled criminal factions have  been able to preach hatred with absolute wotsaname, immunity, is it, impunity?

Now listen, continued Mr Cameron, almost every day of the week one can probly hear these people on the PBC and in the newspapers just simply preaching hatred, that's all it is, setting one half of the country against the other half  and  probly  hoping to get themselves elected. Well, I for one have had enough of it.  Officer, arrest me and take me into custody.  

Before being taken to Wormwood Scrubs  Mr Cameron issued a list of those suspected of hate-preaching.   

Theresa al May
Cameron's security chief
 Abu al Clarke
aka Mr Cool Kenny

Nicky bin Clegg
infamous turncoat, traitor, secretly in the pay of foreigners. 

My Name's Hunt Not Cunningham.
Charged with selling-off NHS to organised crime.

Two Homes Pickles.
I need two homes because I go to work.

Michael al Spit
aka Mickey the Gob, Mickey Gabshite.
Believed to be extra-terrestrial.

Boy George, pm's henchman,
chief hatemonger
Brothers in arms, terrorists Balls and Miliband,
colluding in govament attacks on ordinary people.           

Billy bin Hague, international terror chief, 
not flying his not boyfriend around the world
 not at the taxpayers' expense.

Now look, said Cameron from his prison cell,
it is to be hoped, that by jailing all these, frankly perfectly nasty people, we will probly be able to put a stop to all this nastiness of old people being robbed of their pensions, thrown out of their homes, of sick people being forced to look for non-existent jobs, ot workers having no rights whatsoever and of rich people paying little or no tax.
It is a far, far better thing I wotsaname now...a far, far........



Sweet and honorable to die for the fatherland
(And for the fame of one's family.)

You can't really wear a black tie with a tee-shirt. 

 And anyway, ItsWod'EWouldOfWanted, his real and his step-relatives, slobbering and snotting in front of the world, dressed not in respectful mourning but  for a barbecue. Dressed a la Philpott.
The new Britons.

There will be bereaved, still,  from WW2, from Korea, Malaya, from  Maggie's election war in the South, from KneeCapsville,  they are  mostly quiet and in public, at least,  dignified; people who really did endure  a quiet, stalwart, No Comment sacrifice.  No longer, we are no longer those people. And sad though it is to say it,  the bereaved of the  officer class make the other ranks' look like shit.  

I don't know how these things work, maybe money changes hands; even so, one would expect the CO and the skypilots to talk these people down, steer them away from the cameras, into private and healing mourning, rather than into rubbishy showbusiness.

 These skriking, BestFriend mothers - escaped, it often seems,  from some grim, bloody-handed, Grecian IncestORama production  - and showy, shepherding stepfathers, you could paper the fucking walls with them, their tackiness, their doggerel poems, their sheer, fucking awful, scruffy, disrespectful  camera-hogging vileness;  is celebrity really so compelling, so addicitve that it blows in, gift-wrapped, on Death's every passing breeze?

These wretched people must spend their squalid, miserable lives rehearsing such a moment, longing, in their tedium, for a death, a lottery win, a next-door murder - anything to get them, even momentarily, into the public gaze.

And as if that's not bad enough, the People, readers of the Daily Blame and the Filth-O-Graph, dance enthusiastically to this same nauseating tune;  a glance at the angry columns will reveal a thousand to one in favour of this morbid pantomime, this gurning voice without restraint; some have recorded this unholy press conference and are rewatching it, sobbing their sweaty socks off, time after time, xxx-ing poor Lee, as though they were his sweethearts, one footballnutter posting: From a Liverpool fan to a Man U fan, Lee, mate, You'll never walk alone, RIP xxx, you were a great bloke.

I blame Lady Sir Elton John.  Any chance that he might make another so-called charity record, GoodBye England's Little Drummer Boy, pa-rop-a-pom-pom?  It was mr jgm2 who most recently regretted the awful events of poor mad Diana's funeral,  the applause,  the Mafia-like flower flinging, the mass hysteria,  but it has been a staple for years of these commentaries. Pissing, we are, in the wind.

You can kind of understand the DianaFest, she had been thrust into people's faces for a decade or more - fat, thin, coked or straight -  and the feeble-minded thought that her life was not only real but was theirs, too,  their vicarious fairy story.  Nobody, however, ouitside his kin and his regiment, had ever heard of Lee Rigby.  Is it the bloody nature of his death, its visibility,  the shocking and incomprehensible self-engagement of passers-by which are so disturbing;  might it be the very ordinariness of speech and demeanour of his killers, blood-drenched, standing there, calmly  explaining themselves?

I've never been to Aff-gan, as they all call it but I would  bet my life that combatants on all sides suffer lengthier and more painful deaths than poor Lee Rigby - degraded. humiliated, terrified, infantilised, crying for mother, smelling their own blood and shit, seeing their exposed bones, their missing limbs, knowing they are dying, despite what their comrades are screaming at them, comrades trying to shoo Death away, knowing that one day this might be them, maybe even today, maybe tomorrow.  Maybe if all the deaths and maimings were seen as starkly and vividly as was Lee Rigby's then we might value them all, regret them all  as profoundly as we have his. Who knows, maybe one day the Daily Blame will take us into an Arabian or Asian home in mourning.

In the meantime, the best BestFriending a mum can do is tell her kids You can get killed in the Army, y'know, or worse. I know that's hard to do because the Army doesn't even say that.  For some reason, a few years back, the Army confused me with a real person and invited me to one of its evenings.  Everyone else was a dignitary of some sort, bent councillors, bent coppers, headteachers, hacks, council officers; haven't a clue, to this day, why I was invited.  But there I was, at an Army PR event.  Even the canapes were standing, millimetre perfect, to attention, served by starched and pressed catering corpsters.

The presentation, by Brigadier Philip King, was as smooth, flashy and seamless as any I have ever seen.  It was brilliant.  There were Phil, a lieutenant, a sergeant and a couple of corporals multi-media spinning the idea that you joined the Army to learn a trade  - and there were scores of them to choose from -  sometimes you went abroad to  help poor bloody foreigners with your expertise, in finding water or building roads and you saw the world and got paid for it;  sometimes you might help out at home, with floods and stuff.  There was absolutely no mention of the basic purpose of the British - or any other - army, which is to shoot or stab or bomb other people to death, to do it as violently as is humanly possible and, of course, to expect much the same in return.

That such well-drilled practices are, in recent decades, largely futile, is immaterial.  People who killed and tortured British squaddies are now sitting in the Belfast parliament with better conditions and pensions than Tommy Atkins will ever have. Iraq is in a much worse state now than before we blew it back to the Stone Age and we will leave Aff-Gan much as we found it. And there has never been, incidentally, so much heroin available on the streets. And this is what so irks and enrages about these fucking press conferences, it is that, via showbusiness, by lionising the dead, by - in fact  - clebrating their deaths, we vindicate by ommission filth like this:

 Snot of Aff-Gan,
 NewLabour unelected prime minister, gets his shit together.

 Drunken Johnny Reid of Aff-Gan, 
briefly NewLabour defence seckatry, 
incompetent, thug, bully, slag and ponce.
Nobody will get shot-at in Afghanistan.

 Ainsworth of Aff-Gan,  
NewLabour defence seckatry, the most over-promoted politician in living memory

 Hoon of Iraq, NewLabour defence seckatry.
 Iraqi women will one day thank me for killing their children, honest, not invent.  That'll be five thousand pounds a day, please.

And of course....

Tony and Imelda, peacemakers and devout catholics.

They must all love this, mustn't they? 
All filthy rich, untouchable and instead of us blamimg them, 
we are, almost as one, blaming the two Mikes of Woolwich.
Lee Rigby just the latest hero, cynically deployed  by  filthsters like Boris Johnson, who insist that  our foreign policy has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with his death.
No business like showbusiness.


Old timer said...

Excellent stuff as usual Mr I.

I am wondering why professional hugger Keith Vaz has not dropped by to lend a shoulder to cry on yet. Maybe no 14 year old daughters in that family? Wrong nationality of the victim? Agree with you about the Diana hysteria. Looks like the only people in the world left now - with the exception of the contributors here of course - were all ejerkatid by Shurley Williams' adherents. The world has gone to pot and I see no way back now. Happily I am unlikely to be around to see how my grandchildren's generation cope with it all.

call me ishmael said...

Too kind, mr ot. It's that thing, a blog, y'know, If a tree falls in a deserted forest does it make any sound? Same here, sort of - no readers, no blog. It's an odd corner of cyberspace, here, sometimes one comment here is worth more, is more valid, insightful entertaining than a thousand on the Guardian, ten thousand on the Mail.

Vaz, perhaps a little moreso than the rest of them, should be in jail.

Your descendants will just have to deal with whatever it is, like every generation does. This gang, however, all three parties, do not flinch in their pursuit of divide and conquer Toryism, even setting children and grandchildren against so-called BabyBoomer grandparents and parents. Shame and pox and arse cancer be upon them, all of them.

tober said...

"If a tree falls in a deserted forest does it make any sound? "
No. Total silence.
It will send sound waves but these are silent. Only heard by a suitable receiver ( ear drum ) and converted into sound by the vibrations on the ear drum.
No receiver then no sound.

Great post again as usual. Cheers me up in a weird sort of way :)

call me ishmael said...

Gosh, sounds right, mr tober, if hard to accept; a bit like quantum physics, where the measuring or even the observation of something changes it, what you are saying is that if there are none to hear it, noise does not exist.

I have always written these commentaries, just as there are always trees falling silently; but it was my young friend, stanislav, the Polish plumber, who taught me that if they are written To Be Read they become self-refining; that was one of the things he taught.

Verge said...

The cunts in your Rogues' Gallery must be laughing into their sleeves. The Woolwich Murder being stupid and ghastly and vile, so, the hive-mind will surely agree, must the grievances behind the "ready-for-mah-close-up, innit" justification offered before the cops showed up be equallyt s.g.& v. Recall an incident in the 80s when some guy attacked a painting in the National Gallery and said he dunnit to protest against unemployment - immediately sectioned. Anything said by anyone who does such a thing must be the ravings of a madman - stands to reason, as you were, move along...

If William Burroughs was right about paranoia meaning being in possession of all the facts, this latest horror seeming a mite convenient from a PR perspective starts to look like it might hold that much water it's bursting at the fucking seams.

Mike said...

Mr I: with pictures like these on your hard drive, I'm suprised you haven't been arrested.

The decline over the last 30 years has been staggering to observe, and as Churchill said "its the beginning of the end".

I'm with Mr Old Timer on this; the only consolation is I won't live through it - but as the pace things are moving I'm not entirely secure in that thought.

Dick the Prick said...

It's certainly lucky that young Drummer boy's shawn head has given rise to movement on the ability of guvment to push forward GCHQs resource to own every bit of data transferred as it's so blatantly obvious that these Nigerians were hi-tech wizz kids at the vanguard of modern technology using the Google axe and the Oracle meat cleaver.

And such being the fuck up that John Reid and (I shit you not) Hazel Blears have popped up offering their £5 grand's worth. If they told me how to make a cheese toastie i'd fucking check with Delia so why on planet fuck they think anyone gives a possum's turd as to their musings on anything more complex baffles me.

As per the lad himself and his old dear, well, that last text message he sent was pretty sentimental and I suspect a bit boozy but taking it on face value then I suspect the family may have been really badly let down with media advice with Major Golightly Jockstrap watching his own in-tray and angling for a bit of profit. Panic on the streets of London = no cuts to defence budget? The old dear yesterday doing a Queenie walkabout at fucking prime time was just sallacious voyeurism with none of the training. WTF is wrong with 9 at night and a nod to the meeja to show some fucking respect or else!

And that Lord Carlisle cunt is blaming Cleggy for the whole shebang, too. Never daunted by calling Cleggy a useless cunt, I do think there's got to be a line of responsibility somewhere in the old blame game and it's a stretch of common sense to blame young Nicholarse. Hey ho - the show must go on...

jgm2 said...

If a tree falls in a deserted forest - does it fall at all?

mrs narcolept said...

Forests are full of things listening, even if we can't see them.

commander cam caterpillar-man said...

"if a tree falls in a deserted forest does it make any sound?"

you bet the fuck it does

Dick the Prick said...

Took ages typing but blogger getting ancy, fucked it up. Hmmm. Check out Sinead, it's just a rip off of an old Celtic hymnal which she sings perfectly well unlike the drunk Kerr fella. Ah, someone said listening to musical was just practice for Sondheim. Celts have awesome music!

All the best, dude.

old ma cleanspeak said...

dear mr ishmale,

i must admit that i have become most preoccupied by the fate of the two megalo-machete-men who attempted, but probably ultimately failed, to lower the tone of gangland-warfare in the leafy london suburb of woolwich, england, and am left wondering precisely how the authorities will determine their sentencing, should they eventually be found guilty.

to my mild and moderately disposed liberal mind, they seem like quite nice lads really, and i am sure that, under the saner conditions of more normal circumstances, having almost certainly flushed their deeper societal frustrations from their neuro-psychological systems, they would, without hesitation or undue deviation, willingly assist a frail old lady, such as most evidently i am myself, across the busy local main road, with my heavy bags full of organically produced shopping.

i therefore am of the personal belief that the punishment, befitting the misdemeanour of these two sadly misunderstood youths, should be broadly confined to a severe yet short sharp period of community service, during which time they would, of course, be electronically-tagged, lest they should become disorientated and urgently require directions to their home place of abode. indeed, i see no ostensible problem with this aforementioned proposal, provided, naturally, that the wider social environment, in which they are granted freedom to live, is systematically and ideologically denuded of official figures who are in the habit of sporting uniforms.

in the unlikely case that the court deem necessary a term of protective custody at her royal highness' pleasure, i perceive no obvious reason, in these times of bitter austerity, why a specially-designed and appointed, high-security facility of incarceration should be erected specifically for the accommodation of their particular needs, not least because our own already well-defended and historic houses of parliament could very readily be refitted with reams of razor-wire and converted for this very purpose - although clearly, before allowing the two naughty boys the run of the place, one would first be duty-bound to ensure that mr anthony charles lynton blair were duly ennobled a hereditary peer of the realm and that all existing elected and ermined inhabitants, inclusive of our own dear present post-code prime minister, were likewise safely interned within. moreover, i am in no doubt that our revered democratic palaces would develop into a far greater and more popular tourist attraction than ever they have been, and that the established right-honourable occupants of the refurbished installation would give the pair of publicly-nominated freshers the appropriate share of lebensraum to which they would unquestionably be entitled.

conversely, should the esteemed powers which rule over this green and pleasant land prefer to decide upon a rapid reinstitution of the capital penalty for to deter the errant ways of our two bad and bolshie brothers, then surely half the armed-services, security-services, police-services, and the whole damned raaaaaaaaaassss political hierarchy will have to go to god's good gallows along with them.

call me ishmael said...

I, myself, ms omc, am one of God's own probation officers and I believe, that is to say, I know, having tested the evidence, that we must love the sinner but hate the sin and if we would prevent such things we must perforce understand them. To do otherwise is to condemn us to the barbarisms of those two best sellers, the old testament and the holy Koran and perhaps other hate manuals, eg the Liberal Democrat Election Manifesto or the Daily Mail.

We should never forget the gospel of Highway 61 Revisited, as told, in days of before-before, with a backbeat you can't lose it:

God said to Abraham: Kill me your son
Abe said: Man, you must be puttin' me on.
God said: No,
Abe said: Whaaaat?
God said: You can do whatyawant, Abe,
But the next time you see me comin' you better run.........

You must kill your son to show your love for Me.

Fuck that shit, whether it comes in a yarmulke or a turban or a fez . Peace and blessings be upon their headwear.

mack the good grammarian said...

@old ma cleanspeak

you are self-evidently a stressed and schismatized soul sailing through troubled waters, ma, but barring a couple of dropped subjunctives in the final sentence of the third paragraph, you seem, in a far more constructive and communicative manner than that exhibited by the objects of your preoccupation and concern, to have expressed admirably your frustration at the dictated dangers lurking and bubbling in the sick seething shallows just beneath the shimmering surface of our pseudo-liberal, yet ferociously fascist society.

the two ordinary members of the public of whom you speak have simply sought to mow the shiny soldiers of suppression sown by this sorry cynical state both in the fractured fields of afghanistan and here at home on the burly beats of bill-battered britain - alas, this is a cruel contaminated crop which we none of us should attempt either to grow or reap.

call me ishmael said...

I am in Dundee, mr dtp, taking the waters. I will listen when I return home, although I would volunteer to beat Sondheim to death with the corpse of Ned Sherrin. Before your time, you should be thankful.

call me ishmael said...

Enough, already, with the serial alliteration.

Dick the Prick said...

Bit harsh. Spent all afternoon yesterday fisking 'she walked through the fair' (fuck all to do with Sondheim - some Mik folk saga) note for note, phrase for phrase and fuck me sideways, it's got it all. My mum says Sinead's shite but i'm not so sure lasses should like divas, I think it's a bloke thing - the other, the different, mercurial emotional shit.

For blokes hearing bloke singers they want the wizzened (sp), the gravitas, the experience whereas a bloke listens to a diva and she'll break your knees without your head being involved at all. Gil Scott Heron has the best songs but can't sing whereas Van Morrisson has the best bloke voice but is a cunt. There's no fucking sense to any of it.

Sondheim & Streisand and i'm good for a couple of hours. But there's Beyonce, Sinead, Bjork, Lisa Hannigan, Natascha Khan, Angelina Georgiou and Streisand for hopefully 8 good years. Replete with awesomeness - groovy! Blokes, can't name one. Ho hum.

rite to reply said...

@mack the good grammarian

'terribly' troubled waters, even, mack - as for mr ishmail, don't mind him, he's a man hardened and callous to the plight of those of us afflicted by literary stammer dysfunctionality.

@call me ishmael

as is apparently the common convention amongst comment-contributors on this blog, i would like to take this opportunity to offer my opinions on correct and civilized conduct at funerals, and given the huge fan-base you have collected over in my own undergrown neck of the global cyber-copse, i have carried-out a quick census in order to ascertain communal views on what would constitute a croaking-ceremony commensurate with the congruous commemoration of your own good life - notwithstanding, of course, our hale and hearty hopes that such an occasion will not be in the offing for at least a century or so, if ever, and that we ourselves will be lucky enough to be corporeally capable of comprising a considerable quota of the congregation.

in any case, the clear consensus is that, in accordance with critico-satirical and comedic custom, your corpse should, within twenty-four hours of kicking-it, be conveyed by the special alliterative services and committed to the ground beneath an afghan minefield (or a comparable location in whichever poor compromised country the allied forces of britain and america are in a future era continuing their constant war for greed against humanity), before communicating the precise map-coordinates to the corruption (collective noun) of celebrities and politicos whom you have so consummately and crudely consigned to the slag-heap of chronicled eternity, in order that they may come and cavort and stomp upon your conclusively charged grave.

furthermore, the general feeling is that the funeral-service itself should be skipped completely in favour of a rave-up and in the consequential interests of economy and getting-in as many cans, coke-bottles, kinky cabaret-artistes, liberty-cap mushrooms and as much quality columbian cannabis as is commercially scorable - finally, following the well-trod traditions of these formal festivities, the musical entertainment would totally contravene your own eclectic tastes, the concert-list including a contemporary-jazz-rendition of when the saints come marching in, a ragga version of land of hope and glory, an impro on god save the queen by jimmy page, then another by motörheadto really nail it, and to wrap-up proceedings and allow mind-fucked mourners to pogo the night away, a looped-tape of a personal favourite of mine, anton bruckner's eighth symphony, the excruciating.

guests celebrating your virtual life will not clap, but will definitely be pissed-out-of-their-tiny-little-brains.

i mean, for chrissakes, why would anyone want to clap at a funeral, unless they were happy?

good job you won't be there to appreciate the palaver of a performance, mr ishmael, you'd probably be highly irritated - but obviously, you won't be peeved by this parodic comment, because you're not a real person, init cocker?

mack the good grammarian said...

@rite to reply

"before communicating the precise map-coordinates to the corruption (collective noun) of celebrities and politicos whom you have so consummately and crudely consigned to the slag-heap of chronicled eternity, in order that they may come and cavort and stomp upon your conclusively charged grave."

would more correctly be put as:

"after which the precise map-coordinates would be communicated to the corruption (collective noun) of celebrities and politicos whom you have so consummately and crudely consigned to the slag-heap of chronicled eternity, in order that they might come and cavort and stomp upon your conclusively charged grave."

that was the only semi-satirical sentence in the whole piece and you arsed it up by omitting to use the passive and then conditional mood, you cunt.

rite to reply said...

@mack the good grammarian

right, that's the last time i defend you, you back-stabbing creep.

call me ishmael said...

We are not, here, mr mack, apostrophe jihadists; I have made that clear on previous occasions; it is the rich and powerful and institutionally, congenitally corrupt whom we target, rather than the hasty, the over-enthusiastic or the simply typographically cack-handed.

But just you continue to rant as you will, better that you do it here than in bed, for you'd only fall out of bed.

It would only be in response to infantile vulgarity and rudeness that I would delete a comment; I feel that all who contribute, thoughtfully, in the long cybernight, are - more or less - gracious and compassionate and I believe I have only ever junked one geezer, who was an absolute cunt. But there is always the naughty step, a resting place for the o'er hasty, the impatient and nduly and unwontedly irascible. I quite enjoyed mr rite to reply's comment, as, in a strange and more painstaking way I enjoyed yours; please, however, target your ire at whoever is really pissing you off and not at a fellow-cyber traveller. I did manage to introduce some mutual courtesy, in days before, at Colonel von Fawkes's PizzaHouseOf Blood but since I have left it all seems to have found Mr Staine3s's own regrettable level. We must not permit such decline here.

Come back to you mr dtp, about that.

mack the good grammarian said...

dear mr ishmael,

although i was simply attempting to assist mr rite to reply in his excellent endeavours, i now recognize, in the cold light of your consequential criticism, that in the course of tutoring the poor unlearned feller in the finer aspects of cobbling together a sentence in a half-coherent fashion, i may have let my educational exuberance rather get the better of me - i therefore apologize most sincerely, and will henceforth try to keep it safely in my trousers.

however, i would perhaps beg leave to raise with your good-self just one specific issue, such as it originates from your performance-related chastisements - this being the prickly theological question of whether corruption may indeed be passed down from parent to child in a purely congenital fashion.

myself, i fall more into the camp which believes nurture to be the prime causal-factor of the sin, for to hold any other philosophical view would necessarily entail the whole bally lot of us, lock, stock, and smoking-lobby-sop, being slung into clink for the deep-ended duration...

...but admittedly, there are others, like your good and respected self, mr ishmael, who hold the sin to be pre-installed within us all by a rogue biblio-biological programmer...

...whilst then again, there are yet others who are of the opinion that we spontaneously self-manufacture the stinky stuff and must take full responsibility for the exceedingly detrimental effects it has on the social environment - a compelling hypothesis to which i am also partially predisposed.

now, i'm not precisely sure which position the conservative member of parliament for newark, mr mercenary, takes on this point of principle, nonetheless his party colleagues, flocking to his defence like shekel-shitting sheep to the shearing-shed, are avidly assuring the public that their friend, the right-honourable royalty-receiver, will be carrying the cash-can home alone, stashing it at the bottom of his greasy grassy garden of graft, and then deferring to blow the load-a-loot it contains after a decent period of dishonourable discharge.

meanwhile, let us not forget kommadant von stanks, of guido fawkes' fame, who, although he probably doesn't understand the true meaning of 'anarchist', still thinks he is one, in an arschit-house rave sort-of-a-way, when he is, in actual fact, just a naughty word.

permission to withdraw and serially self-flagellate over my failure to spot that rite to reply's errors were in reality a missed passive-conditional mood followed by a subjunctive, and that the festivities to which he alluded would more correctly have been described as raves.

the conspiracy of lunacy said...

@mack the good grammarian

is it not ironic, at this fraught and fear-ridden time, that the racially-redundant slime-pail, mercer, was one of the few politicians in the houses of pocket-the-lot who was militarily experienced enough to realize that anti-terror control-orders simply contribute to the climate of minority-group alienation and radicalization?

or maybe major cannon-hole, rather believed that such policies prevented the possibility of intelligence-gathering in the pursuit of popular fascism? whad'ya reckon mr ishmael?

mack the good grammarian said...

@the conspiracy of lunacy

extraneous comma first line sec para grmrmgrgrmrgrgrmm

sorry, did i apologize for my use of language, mr ishmael?

call me ishmael said...

The former career soldier has an unhappy time in parliament. Firstly, Brigadier Joyce, now Field Marshal Mercer, soon, I often hope, we will see the self-cashiering of the odious Colonel Bob, although he has, ever, a future on the Sky News Sofa of Shit.

Duke Wellington, too, I believe, had a torrid time.

As to your query about his pragmatism, well, call me irresponsible if you wish but I don't give a fuck what Patrick Mercer thought or thinks about anything.

rite to reply said...

@mack the good grammarian, 1 june 2013 02:19

and that the festivities to which he alluded would more correctly have been described as raves

you wrote one cocky clause too many there mack, mate - absolute bull, 'rites' could have gone in there, perhaps, but definitely not 'raves'.

now, you've been warned about this sort of sillibuggery already, twice - so watch it son. go give yourself another twenty lashes of the cat o' noun tales.

mack the good grammarian said...

ok rite, but instead of 'sort', i think you meant 'type' there...

yardarm said...

Interesting point, Mr Ishmael about officers over promoted to Parliament where they are as fucking useless as the rest of them. I mean, Mercer doing a Byers and falling for the stunt the News of the Screws pulled for years. If they`re that thick in the officer corps no wonder we had our arses kicked in Iraq and A/stan.

Wellington and maybe Britain was only saved by his instinct for choosing the right moment to retreat. Churchill was quite fond of a whiff of cordite. Eden and Attlee served in WW1, Heath & Callaghan in WW2. The future Iron Lady, vanquisher of juntas, finger wagging at Moscow, was twenty in 1945, an age when many women were in the Wrens, Land Girls, nurses or in factories. She was at Oxford. To the Lioness of Finchley the Second World War was something other people did.

I`m still puzzled why that upright Christian ex Guards officer and cunt Ian Duncan Smith chucked up the army in `81 when there were three million on the dole. He didn`t fare well for a decade until the bastard got back on the teat.

call me ishmael said...

And Healey was a tank marshal on the Normandy shores. Can't see any of this lot facing fire, but then, why should they, people are queueing up for it.

general opinion said...

@call me ishmael

I`m still puzzled why that upright Christian ex Guards officer and cunt Ian Duncan Smith chucked up the army in `81 when there were three million on the dole. He didn`t fare well for a decade until the bastard got back on the teat.

iain duncan smith effectively retired from the british army on 2nd april, 1981, and got out of firing-line just in time to avoid the falklands war the next year - gossip from the officers' mess suggests that, through his intelligence contacts, smith heard about general galtieri's march 1981 visit to washington, when the white house gave the go-ahead for galtieri's argentine coup in december later that year, and was accordingly briefed by chums that the general's ships would almost certainly be hitting the falkland islands in the very near future, simply in order to boost the argentinian military junta's popularity back in buenos aires.

in fact, the argentinian invasion took place on 2nd april 1982, exactly a year to the day after smith's retirement - and maggie thatcher then sent the boys down there to sort things, thus wangling herself a general election victory at the cost of many many young men's lives. clearly the upper echelons of british society knew the score from the off, and the british government cynically turned a blind-eye to general galtieri's plans to invade the british-occupied islands purely for its own political advantage - meanwhile, back in london, iain duncan smith bunked-up with batty betsy fremantle and married her and her stinking wealth in the same year as the falklands conflict was going-off.

after getting the bum's rush from zimbabwean revolutionaries, when he and the british colonial old-guard got unceremoniously booted out of former rhodesia, smith probably felt he had seen one tour of duty too many. interestingly, whilst serving with the commonwealth monitoring force in zimbabwe, smith actually had a comfy back-seat job working as aide-de-camp to major-general sir john acland, who was previously active in campaigns against the mau mau fighters in kenya at a time when british colonial forces committed genocide against kikuyu tribesman and other africans.

when major-general sir john acland retired and smith could no longer shelter under his fairy godfather's protective wing, our present secretary of state for work and pensions retired too - that they both did not know the falklands débâcle was just around the corner is almost unimaginable.

there is no hard evidence that smith was involved in any human rights abuses in zimbabwe, since he didn't get near the front-line, but rumours of the existence of a quietly-spoken but sex-crazed dunca dunca tribe, which suffers from congenital hair-loss and incorporates wellington boots as an integral aspect of its traditional dress, could well point to the sort of actions in which mr smith was engaged whilst stationed there.

kommandant von stanks - acrid-house rave organizer said...


mr ishmael, i must object in the strongest possible fashion to the manner in which the immaculate memory of the late great baroness has been disrespected and dishonoured in this belligerent comment - this woman was my idol, my inspiration and my political pin-up gran. i even own one of her used incontinence-pads - it is an authentic, cherished item of monetarist memorabilia which i lovingly preserve in its original condition and wear when i want to get all warm and tingly.

mack the good syntactitian said...

@general opinion

an informative explanation as to how the british and american intelligence services play deadly-games with the lives of others for political gain.

gossip from the officers' mess suggests that, through his intelligence contacts, smith heard about general galtieri's march 1981 visit to washington, when the white house gave the go-ahead for galtieri's argentine coup in december later that year, and was accordingly briefed by chums that the general's ships would almost certainly be hitting the falkland islands in the very near future, simply in order to boost the argentinian military junta's popularity back in buenos aires.

a bit of a side-winding sentence - perhaps lift 'in the very near future' and plop it between 'that' and 'the general's' for increased clarity, then remove 'simply' together with the comma preceding it, the comma after 'washington', and bob's yer uncle.

if only the wire-wool of world politics were so easily straightened out.

call me ishmael said...

if only the wire-wool of world politics were so easily straightened out.

You see, as one who searches more keenly for verve and punch and rythmn than for wordy extravagance I would have written that final phrase:

if only the wire wool of world politics were (actually was) so easily straightened - the out is a weakening superfluity, reducing the power of what is a good, if gramatically flawed, line.

mack the good syntactitian said...

@call me ishmael

well thank flip we've got that sorted (out).