Wednesday, 26 March 2014



Well, clearly, this aircraft business is unhelpful.  Just as Cilla and I are launching a new push to find liddle wossername   and then all this happens.  Not for the first time I feel it is clearly incumbent on me to remind viewers that it's us, we who are the real victims here.  But remember.  If everyone sent us just two pounds a week, or preferably a day then some of our anguish might be relieved. What?  Find the girl we left alone in a strange room, in a strange town, in a strange country, whilst we quite properly  and very responsibly went on the piss with some very professional friends?  Well, yes, that would be a bonus. I suppose.  But lessbeclear, all this talk of Chinese people, well, it's not as though there's any shortage of them.  What?  What, grief counsellors, me and Cilla?  Like global ambassadors, easing the hurt of all these angry chinks?
 Well, 'spossible, what's the pay?
Kill all running dog pineappleheads, kill now.
Kill all Malayabloke, chop off fucking head.
Chinese 'planecrash relatives prepare to invade Malaysia. 


Well, yes, that's right,  at the request of Mr and Mrs Dr Gerry and Dr Cilla McCann, the Met is considering relocating to Portugal.  What we are all about is value for the London ratepayers. And, of course, Leicestershire child neglecters.   Value, frame-ups and racist beatings. Or Irish.  Or anyone, really. And what with large numbers of senior detectives flying back and forth every five minutes  trying to frame some fucker for the little girl that the parents left alone, we might as well just move the whole shebang over there.  I mean, why should they have all the fun?  Lady Hagan Daaz likes the sun and a slimhipped dago waiter just as much as the next elderly lady. And, for that matter, so do I, although I draw the line at kissing. Careful how you go home, now.


And this is the very sad news that the pineapple capital of the world is in mourning for some chinks, missing, presumed dead on one of their aircraft;  held together, I shouldn't wonder, with rubber bands, 'sabout all they're good for, isn't it, look you, pineapple rings and latex from latexrubber trees. Remember it from school, I do, some bloke in a DavidBeckham dress comes around daily, draining rubber juice from the trees, smiling at the white man's camera, hated fucking geography, I did. They haven't actually found anything, any bodies or bits of 'plane floating in the water and to discuss this I am joined  by Professor Simon  Gob of the University of Central England, or GostaGreenPoly, as was. 

Professor Gob,  your field is oceanography, isn't it, tell us, if you will, what the fuck's going on down there, in the arsehole of the world.  Well the first thing to tell viewers, Huw, is that the sea is very wet,  very wet indeed.  But isn't that what you would expect?  Well, you say that, but people quite frankly have little or no idea of the nature of the wetness which can range from what you would call a soppy wetness, right up to what you would call  an almost dry type of wetness.  Dry type of wetness?  Yes and then there's the motion... The motion?  Yes, people who are not professors of oceanography often think that the ocean just sort of sits there, like in a painting sort of thing but in fact it's almost constantly in motion. So, professor, what you are saying is that even if there was any wreckage floating about it could be, well, any fucking place,  could wash-up even on a Northern shore, in front of mr ishmael's gaff?  That's right, y'see there's things called currents and they're like big magical forces sort of inside the ocean and they sort of make it move;  and then there's tides, too which, I believe, are sort of  magical gravitational field, a bit like in Star Trek, y'know, that tractor beam thingy, well there's some of them pulling at the sea, making it flow all over the fucking shop.  So, in short, professor, you don't know anything about this suspected 'plane crash.  That's right, Huw, sweet fuck all, but I do like being here in the studio with you, pretending that I do. And what about the depth, then, what are we talking about here?  Well, as  a teevee oceanographer, depth isn't really my field but I should say, at an educated guess, that the Southern Ocean is quite deep, oh, two to three metres, at least, maybe four in some places but I must stress, yet again, that, when we are talking about things like this, or anything, really,  none of us has the foggiest fucking idea of what  it is that we're actually talking about,  that's the very nature of science punditry in the media age.  I mean, one knows how to talk, of course, it's just the what part that's, how shall we say, a moveable feast, yes, that's it, a moveable feast. Quite. Thank you professor, I expect we'll be seeing more of you.  That was Professor Simon Gob there for us and it's over, now,  to our showbiz correspondent, Kirsty Wark, who has news of another, tragic death in the world of advanced haberdashery. 

 That's right, Huw and thank you and first it was the woman-hating fairy Versace, gunned-down by a crazed rentboy, and if that wasn't bad enough the brilliant Alexander McQueer topped himself and just when viewers might have thought that things couldn't get any worse comes this awful; tragedy when the megatalented L'Wren Wotsit has hanged herself off her apartment door.....

Must been a fucking big door, eh, Kirsty, she was about ten feet fucking tall, wasn't she? Woulda needed a stepladder to hoist the JollyRoger from her crow's nest, knowaddamean.  

Yes, Huw, that's right and   the fragile world of the ragtrade is shocked to its seams and gussets by the
 news that Sir Mick Jagger has lost what some commentators are calling the love of his life and others are describing as just another freakish bit of totty.  Be that as it may we are joined here in the Newsnight studio by Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Paul, what's your take on this tragic wotsaname?  


Well, thanks, Kirsty - didn I write a song called Kirsty, kinda plaintive and haunting, with a string quartet, yeah, sure, musta done:  Kirrrstee, for me, she's the girl that fills me up with glee, my-y-y Kirrstee;  that'll be copyrighted, by the way, like forever - but anyway, yeah, I know Mick and I loveim2bits, both of us being kinda rock'n'roll knights - didn't I write a song called Rock'n'Roll Nights? musta done - but no, we came up together, Mick an' me an' I'm just gutted for him, me. We've now both kinda lost wives, who we doted upon, although  despite my pain I've remarried twice - keep on rocking, y'know, 'swhat I do -  and so I can really like empathise with my old mate, Mick.   Although, Kirsty,  I must say, as a Little Richard fan meself, like - did I tellya that when me and John were like starting out we'd just sit with two acoustics like and try to plagiarise Little Richard songs,  not do much plagiarise as steal,  an' I know that Mick and the other one, the druggy, wossisname, Keef, yeah, Keef the Junky, Mick an Keef. like, they loved alla those great rock'n'rollers, too.
 I really miss John, me, it was a great liddle band, the Beatles, I'm a big fan, but no, where was I, yeah,  Mick, much as me and him both loved Little Richard I think that, y'know, you can take this Long Tall Sally thing a bit too far, knowharramean?  Fab, Kirsty, great talkin' to you.

Well, long tall Sally, she's built for speed
She got everything that Uncle John need...

Because I used to love her
But it's all over now.

 Oh, wow, man. It's kno-o-ow, man? I mean, I really dig the know, man, and I loved his chick, I just love that freaky sex, like with cripples and amputees and monsters, man; if you got wings ya better just fly, you know. It just seems like,  that a lotta cats - and chicks, man, chicks, too -  hang around the Rolling Stones and wind-up dead.  What can you do?  How should I know?  I'm just a guitarplayer, right? But no,  I'm here for him, man, he can dig that. Even though I hate his fuckin' guts, man, I still love him like a brother, man.  I mean, like I should be dead meself, right? So there you go, man. I guess that's why they call it the blues, man.


Thanks, Kirsty  and now more news on the fate of MH Flight 370, as it's now become known in gleeful newsrooms all over the world,  and this is the sighting by intergalactic x-ray equipment of some more bits of shit bobbing about in the Southern Ocean,  the most hostile and inhospitable place on Earth and over now to professor Brian Gob, professor of shipwreckology in the university of his spare room in the West Country.

 Professor, these bits of shit, what are they likely to be? Well Huw, the thing is, nobody knows, not until they actually get 'em aboard a ship and see if they have Malaysian Airlines written on them somewhere.  People have described this as looking for a needle in a haystack when you don't even know which country the needle was made in or whether the haystacks were square or pointy ones but it's actually much worse than that.  Could be Osama bin Laden, or bits of him.  Hows that, then, professor?  Well, Huw, that's a good question but I'm just reminding viewers that the late Sultan of Terror was buried, as they call it, in some of these very waters and could have floated down to wherever it is that they've found all this shit and might well be having the last laugh.

So what you're saying is that there might well be a terrorist dimension to this mystery?  There might well, Huw, there might well.  I have been studying shipwreckology for, oh, some time now, from here in my spare room and what my experience tells me is that when it comes to shipwrecks you can't rule anything out and you can't rule anything in.

What, are you saying that Osama bin Wotsit brought down Flight 370?
Almost certainly, Huw, almost certainly.


In other news, the education minister, Mr David Laws,
has condemned striking teachers.  
What people should do, if they want more money, even when they already have lots, is become benefit cheats, like me.  But this strategy only works, obviously, if they are in govament and can claim that being gay is something to be ashamed of, not that I was, of course, just that I was.  Anyway, all done and dusted now and I have fully returned  to bullying poor people.  Nick Clegg, yes, I expect him to do very well against Mr Farrage, tonight.  And like all LibDem MPs I shall stand ready and willing to stab him in the arse, I mean back, if he doesn't.

That was the thieving git, Laws, there, for you, reminding us of those two wankers slugging it out later on BBC 2.
Nick Robinson will be here later to tell you what it all meant because, obviously, you are all too stupid to see through it for yourselves and he has to do something for his half-mill a year.  And Jerry Paxman, and Emily Maitless, and Kirsty, and Laura Koonisberg,  they'll all be here, telling you what it means to you, even though it doesn't mean shit.  That's it from me and the team and it's over now to Jayne Tits with the weather. But just before I go viewers,  sometimes, you know, this job, reading all this shit, interviewing  all these talking  arseholes, I think to myself, Huw, bach, a dog is better treated that you are, boyo, look you, isn't it.


Verge said...

Hey Mr Ish, Harris looks in fine fettle. Better company than all the slags pictured above, I shouldn't wonder. Good to have you back (shoulda said this a few posts back) and please give my best pagan cyberblessings to your foot.


call me ishmael said...

He's doing well, mr verge, got stuff of his own, places of his own, habits and familiarities, knows lots of words, figures things out - keeps trying to open the windows in the car, I had to put the childlock on. And he's young, I keep forgetting that, all my other good boys were -and remain in my memory as - old; oh, they were young once but it's lifetimes ago, now.

Mike said...

Lovely little fella, Mr I. Is he a pure Yorkie?

As Mr Verge says, you have put him in very poor company.

call me ishmael said...

Beauty and the beasts, mr mike. He's pedigree, a strain of Yorkie, same strain as Buster, not a black and tan, I think he's called a Blue or something, highly-strung, determined, fearless, imperious and curious, he's the most intelligent dog I have ever had, doesn't say much for the other blokes.

Shouldn't you be out, anyway, looking for bits of JumboJet?

Mike said...

Mr I: I'm not that daft (re the JumboJet). The yanks and Aussies know everything that moves in the southern hemisphere. That plane was full of gold on its way to China and was robbed. Why else would the chinks get so excited over a few people?

call me ishmael said...

"Why else would the chinks get so excited over a few people?"

Well, I did wonder, they don't usually care, do they? And I did think, spitefully, fuck 'em, yellow bastards, if they want to live in the material world of greed and capitalism then they better just realise that planes do go down and it doesn't matter a fuck what Confucius or Mao say about it.

slack magic said...

the loss for the families affected by the plane-disaster must be excruciating given the chaotic response to the accident by the various authorities...

...but i have to agree that the news coverage of the event has, if anything, been even more tragic, and is due for a double-strength dose of parodic pasting.

now, i'm obviously no expert on aviation, terrorism or any-fucking-thing actually, nevertheless i think i'm entitled to my tupp'orth on the matter like everyone else...

...and well, my personally deducted theory is this:

i reckon some aboriginal people in the australian outback were sitting 'round going umpa-umpa-umpa on their mandapul (didgeridoo) thingies - someone did an um where they should have done a pa, someone pointed their bone in the wrong direction, and before-you-know-it the white people on the plane had a ritual kurdaitcha death-curse cast against them which contacted the jumbo-jet's transponder through the dreamtime causing it to boomerang back towards oz and ditch in the deep southern indian ocean without any trace whatsoever...

...fucking bad luck for the other poor cunts on-board, obviously.

call me ishmael said...

I don't know that it has been chaotic, the response. It certainly hasn't been slick but if they don't know what happened they don't know what happened, innit. And excruciating agony is what, one way and another, we are born to.
I hadn't heard the robbery theorem before but I'd rather believe that than believe in the lone JFK assassin.

hopping-mad mandarin said...

gold? no sir, the hold was crammed with rhino-horn destined for consumption by senior chinese government officials.

Anonymous said...

The news used to be about exactly that - new stuff.

The 'disappearance' of a jumbo jet is news, granted. But banging on, and on and on and on, 24/7, as the stupid Americans say, about not finding it, or even having the faintest idea where it is is not news, not by any stretch of the imagination.

It was either blown up by rag-heads or has not 'disappeared' at all and the yanks, and probably the aussies, know exactly where it is. Probably the latter, as if it had been blown up the yanks would be quite excited about needing to (yeehah) invade Malaya to protect us all from... well, dunno, something bad, that only they can protect us from.


sofa search-and-rescue said...

no vincent, this may sound somewhat callous, but it's all most absorbing, a bit like watching the world snooker tournament for a couple of weeks - when they finally find this aircraft and wrap-up the news coverage, i swear i won't know what to do with myself.

Dick the Prick said...

Due to my sustained use of booze and pot I found myself watching the home affairs select committee (honest, it was the drugs - I do have a life!) but it comes to something when Hogan Howe makes Vaz look alright. When it's a toss up between oily, self promotion, financial and familial reward through the use of blackmail and playing the race card in comparison to being totally over promoted and using an entire police force as his own personal authorised rent a mob well, Vaz seems rather humdrum. Another step on Ruin's highway, perhaps.

Oooh, Mr Harris looks distinctly unimpressed with a ball there, has he seen a vole or something and is calculating its soon to be swift death? Has spring moved your way yet, it defo is a cheery time of year although I suspect that your list of domestic 'shit that needs sorting out', that which euphemistically falls under the banner of spring clean is a bit of a ballache. I can't see my roof that well from the other side of the street but have concerns about random bits of cement rained down on my pathway - could do with a week off, about £5k and some organised phone calls, really. UUuuuurrrggghh!

I hope all's well.

Anonymous said...

I do enjoy your McCann rants - I doubt that they will ever be called to account for their shockingly self-indulgent behaviour - but it is good to know that there are others that are not fooled by their grasping Scouse chippiness.
The ghastly Cilla always puts me in mind of old Slotgob - another one who should get the old piano wire & lamppost treatment.

Dr Yllek said...

It was Osama, reaching out from his watery grave.....*shudders*
That new blogdog is doing great, it seems.

Anonymous said...

" Dr Yllek said...

It was Osama, reaching out from his watery grave.....*shudders*
That new blogdog is doing great, it seems. "

That's stretching it a bit.


call me ishmael said...

Ate, mr vincent, It is sort of absorbing but strange how the distant imponderables have become our staple fare, news-dietwise; they crashed the shedules to tell us that the freak, Pistorius's necktie party had been adjourned for a week, as though anyone outside of MediaMinster gives a fuck; he killed her, he's a crazy bastard, the only question should be whether he gets lifed-up or nutted-off, as we in the criminal justice fraternity used to say and yet we have wall-to-wall of the horrid fucking mutant; I would give him twenty years for his cheek, and his fucking lawyer, too, if he'd put his hands up and sad I lost it, I thought I really was a superbeing, I'da fined him heavily and put him in the loonybin for a while but whatever its is this case isn't THAT newsworthy, is it? Same with the 'plane, who is it, exactly, gives a fuck about this?

I watch those proceedings, too, mr dtp, without either pot or booze or any my cupboard-busting pharmacopia of opiates and other blessings; OilyVaz, Tryell, is it, Tyrie ?? the bankers' stooge, and scabby old Hodge, they are a wonder to see, slithering about in their imagined rectitude. Hagan Daaz is the wrongest copper I've seen in a long time, and I've lived to see many. Careful how you go home, now.

I think that for the McCanns to be called to account there needs to be a morality revolution and Lessbeclear, nobody wants that, now, do they? Although, having asid that I think that, certainly amongst those who dwell, betimes in cyberspace, Gerry and Cilla are deeply despised.

the telepatric doorman said...

the co-operation and co-ordination of the international intelligence services with their sky-fuck-full of wisp-a-smoke-sniffin spy-satellites has been a wonder to behold, has it not?

up here from my newly-constructed garden observatory located in intergalactic pot-hole m51a somewhere in the outer whirlpool galaxy, i have been ideally positioned to monitor the entire unfolding event from incident-advent to incident-demise, and clearly it's been quite a shocker - unfortunately, from here, it's probably going to take about 51 billion years to transmit the details back to you on earth, and judging by the length of my report you will probably have to set aside around another 51 billion years to read through it and decipher the indefinite conclusions at which i have arrived via a tortuously circuitous route.

so that's it for tonight's edition and i'll see you again next millennium. now kindly bog off the lot of you and leave me in peace to examine the inner vortex of this bloody great black hole into which i've been serendipitously sucked.

Anonymous said...

RE this Pistorious weirdo, Mr Ishmael, I really hope he does not get sent to prison.

The world could do without another murdering jailbird as South African President in 30 years time.

The bloke's a liar, a weirdo, narcisistic. A killer, an arrogant little tick-turd.

Just take him out the back and shoot him.


call me ishmael said...

Well, much as I agree with your sentiments and your character assessment, mr vincent, you know that I don't believe in the extra-judicial. And I think, also, that there is, here, an example to be shown the mindless, cheering public - be it premiership footballers or F1 drivers, we have
bred a New Centurionship of gang-raping outlaws, an inviolati; these creatures do as they please; Beckham, for instance, and his lawyer filth persuading some dazzled magistrates that it was Ok for him to speed in a built-up area because he is famous. The nation applauded the moron, Farrer, and it turns out that all he really wanted to do was appear in adverts with Richard Beardy Branson; the Lawson trollop remains undisciplined for her drug misuse, whilst poor junkies go, yet, to jail. Jailing Oscar is the best challenge to unrestrained celebrity criminality. If he walks, on a technicality the rest will feel even more licensed to kill than they already do.

There is, also, another point about celebrity athletes - people like the grotesque Andy MommasBoy Murray - which is that they are so fiecely and unnaturally driven that they are to all intents and purposes, mutants. That would be a defence for Oscar: M'lady, my client is not a bleck, begging your Ladyship's pardon, he is worse, much worse, he is a fucking mutant.