Sunday, 11 May 2014


There's a couple of new behind-the-scenes shows just now.  Unlike drama, arts  or proper documentary, these are cheap to make - no stars, no sets, no locations, no writers, just member-of-the-public slags and repulsive so-called professionals locked together in a waltz of greed or grievance;  hand-held cameras, a bit of rough editing and a crude voice-over;  voila, no business like show business.

Under Offer, PBC2, lifts the lid, it claims, on the estate agent game.  The show, if nothing else, deserves an award for assembling, in last Wednesday's episode,  a trio of hideous grotesques masquerading as worthwhile human beings.  Far and away the worst is Eileen.
A nice spaniel sits on a   mongrel.

Working in a Chelsea estate agents, Eilen Neville makes the brides of Big Fat Gipsy Wedding look genteel and decorous; a loudmouth Paddy baggage, staggering about on slut-heels in a microdress, unable to properly string together three words, this loathsome trollop is feted among her colleagues for her ferocity in closing deals on preposterously expensive Chelsea  shitholes cobbled together by poor tradesmen and arriviste developers;  I wouldn't piss in most of them yet Eilleen flogs them for millions,   mainly to foreigners who buy them sight unseen.  Eilleen is proud of her  role in property racketeering and of the tarts and pimps with whom she rubs shoulders.  Nurse, teachers and social workers, of course, are many strata below Eilleen and made, by her efforts, virtually homeless in the capital city.

Darren or Wayne or Jason or some name like that 
runs an agency in working class Dagenham, now also set alight by the London property boom, grubby little flats selling for a hundred and fifty grand the minute they go on the market, superficially tarted-up by knucklehead greedy minicab drivers.  Darren or whatever he's called, had been a bouncer in another life and he brings all the subtleties of that trade to his property business.  More than half of Wotsisname's business is in lettings and their attendant evictions.  Nah, bin evicted meself when I wuz a nipper, like, an' you gorra feel for the kiddies like, knoworramean, but attheenduvtheday biznessisbizness, innit, 'sworritsallabout.  Unlike with the tart, Eilleen, it's hard not to feel a bit sorry for Wostsisname, he's as thick as pigshit and he lives, himself, in a shithole and grinding a commission from these ridiculous sales can't be easy money.  Riding and blowing into an ultimately catastrophic bubble is not, however,  the work of a real man;  parasite, carrion, call them what you will, these people are Decency's nemesis.

The most agreeable of the bunch - and that's not saying much -  was a studiedly eccentric public schoolboy, 
Mark, plying his trade in the home of the supercriminal, New Cotswoldia.  I lived on the edges of the Cotswolds, years and years ago, when it was a nice place;  used to take an old aunt-in-law out to Broadway or Chipping Camden for Sunday afternoon tea, maybe a walk around the Rollright Stones,  the locals were nice, had lived and worked there for centuries.  Now it's infested with braying MediaMinster vermin like Jerry Clarkson and Rebekah Slag and David fucking Cameron.  Later, maybe twenty years ago, I had a mooch in an architectural salvage yard near Broadway; they were selling, inter alia,  bits of common-ot-garden Victorian door furniture - hinges, handles, escutcheons, catches and locks - for eyewatering prices.  I mean a hundred quid for an ordinary door lock.  I had boxes and boxes of this stuff, back in my own  workshops,  they were just reclaimed bits of ironmongery which might come in handy one day;  here, in this place, they were stock-in-trade, the nouveau-riche Cotswoldian would pay almost anything, hundreds of pounds,  for  what he thought was an authentic replacement for his own rusty old lock.  If he'd popped into my shop, thirty miles North, I'd probably have given it to him.  There is a message here, I'm not quite sure what it is, something to do with what happens after the goldrush, what always happens.

Mark, anyway, feels that he is at the quality end of the parasite business. Drives around showily in some old nail of a car, overdresses loudly and claims to personally know all the houses, sorry, properties on his patch.  He was vain, egotistical and an arsehole but at least he was a qualified chartered surveyor, likely- unlike Eilleen and Wotsisface -  to know a gable from a gargoyle.

They were all equally grotesque, phoney, stupid and self-obsessed; if they were professionals you might say that they personified George Bernard Shaw's maxim that All professionals are a conspiracy against the laity. But only Mark had any semblance of expertise or probity;  all of them were cheap hustlers, whoring their arses off, red-lighting at different points on Money's Reeperbahn.  Fascinating stuff, worth a look.


The other series is Posh Pawn in which  people who  - despite all the evidence to the contrary - consider themselves rich  must nevertheless strike a deal with old-fashioned usury,  the pawnbroker.  In the cases featured in this episode all of the borrowers were only borrowing, you understand,  to kick-start their brilliant business ventures, apart,  that is,  from Penury's sole representative, a stupid totty who needed ten grand or so to pay-off her late mother's funeral bill.

The pawnbrokers cast themselves more as charity workers than money-lenders -  the reality, of course, is that if the pledge is duly redeemed they will have earned a tidy sum in commission and if, as is likely, it is not redeemed, it will only have cost them a fraction of its eventual retail value;  heads they win, tails you lose;  that's the way it works and it was both sad and irritating to see the self-delusion of the pledgers.

One guy, Chris, Chris Used-to-be-Somebody, had a ludicrous business idea.  He had invented, as he put it, a kind of cinema usherette's ice cream tray but this was not designed to hold choc-ices, it was to be worn around the waist of bar staff whilst they collected dirty glasses, placing them into glass-sized circular apertures in the tray before bringing them back to be washed.  It was shit design on a monumental scale.  As anyone who has worked in a bar will tell  you, ten fingers will clamp ten glasses one to another, five on each hand;  alternatively six or eight pint glasses can be stacked one inside another and carried nestling against the forearm, a loss of balance or a slip on spillage is rendered  somewhat safe by simply dropping the glasses;  Chris's round-the-waist tray was secured to the wearer, a slip could prove lethally dangerous, who would want to walk through a roomfull of drunks with glasses tied to his or her body? Mind you, if Chris had any sense he wouldn't be hoping to launch his wonder-product with the help of his local pawnbroker.  He needed 25 to 50 thousand pounds, he said, for marketing his heap of shit to the nation's licensed victuallers and so he dug out his Tag Hauer solid gold watch and some of his mother's jewellery.  Hoping for fifty, he settled for twenty, bidding his watch and other bits not Goodbye but au revoir.  I know little about these things but the watch, in mint condition with all the documents was clearly a collector's piece and so, in the unlikely event of publicans not queuing-up to buy Chris's suicide tray,  I wouldn't be surprised if the solid gold Tag made the pawnbroker  six figures at auction, having allowed Chris about five and a half grand against it.

Some other geezer had a brilliant business venture lined-up and he pawned his Ferrari 

for a hundred and twenty grand; some former model, 

the wrong side of forty, with a face, in Warren Zevon's sardonic phrase, looking  like something Death brought with him in his suitcase, had, with some girlfriends, as she called them, designed   knickers which she thought would make them all rich and she, too, only needed fifty grand to market her idea. In her modelling days she had secreted away some goodies, bits of diamonds and notably designer handbags, gifts from exes she called them, tactfully.  Her old Dad, enthused by his daughter's newfound business acumen threw-in some of the family heirloom jewels, just to help-out his walking corpse of a daughter.

There was an unintended  hilarious scene, in which the pawnbroker's  in-house handbag expert, 


some old Cockney git who should have found something better to do with his life took the handbags to  l'handbaggers handbagger, some old trout in a trendy store who knew everything knowable about handbags, in order that they might lend the client a fair amount on her Hermes bag (timeless, timeless) 

but not so much on the crocodile job as the clasp was a little worn. 

 Fuck me, Jesus, that London, what a place that has such creatures in it.  What with Eilleen the gobby strumpet, Darren the Eviction Enforcer and now this wretched old haberdasher wetting her cheesy old knickers about a fucking handbag one prayed, perhaps profanely, for another Great Fire or Black Death, wipe these useless fuckers out.

Mrs Ishmael thought that the bint pledging the handbags and diamonds was a ladyman.  And maybe s/he was.  S/he was, after all,  a friend, they said,  of the pawnbroker-in-chief. And nothing would surprise me about him.

She got the loan, anyway, fifty grand and we must await shooting stars in the underwear firmament.  If she and her coven don't do it all on coke. I will venture that there is little in the way of follow up on these, erm, these business ventures

It was probably the farthest thing from the minds of the producers but there was a morality tale contained within all this consumerist horseshit.

Stupid Totty had tendered her grandfather's WW1 medals, hoping for ten grand, silly cow.  In ordinary circumstamces the pawnbrokers would've just laughed at her and sent her packing but since this was TeeVee the Cockney, in-house handbag expert said he would do some ree-surch, I shouldn't think he could research his name and address but somebody, anyway, on the production team, established that these were relativey unexceptional service medals, given to any members of the then Royal Flying Corp who had been anywhere near the Front.  Stupid Totty's granddad had been a sergeant mechanic and someone on the production team had obtained a copy of his service record for her and a scene was constructed in which Mr Handbag strolled up the path, into the gaff  and revealed the truth about her ancestor to  the greedy bint.  She had never looked around the edge of one medal which was engraved with graddad's name and rank and she feigned being thrilled at  now discovering it.  The valuation, said Diamond Geezer, Head of Handbags,  on the one medal, was four.  Thousand, she gasped.  Pounds.  And the other one?  Ten. Ten Pounds.  Lady Avarice put on a brave show, insisting that had she known what the medals meant she never wouldof thought of selling them,  they'd just have to pull their belts in, her and hubby, to pay for Mum's funeral bill, praps not go on holiday so much. Cockney git actually had the cheek to say that it was all part of the service, connecting customers wiv their families,  even if what they wanted to pawn was shite and a waste of everyone's fucking time. Family, innit, 'swots important.

In a world less ruinously skewed the medals would have been far and away more valuable than a few handbags, a vulgar, gaudy pimp's  watch and a more or less useless flashy automobile.

Militaria, that's what they call it on Flog It and Bargain Hunt

with this insufferable arse

but that's just consumerspeak;  they are actually part of a sombre, national treasure.  When those medals were awarded the recipients were told all sorts of stuff about courage and duty and sacrifice and  patriotism,  all of it now, quite literally, as far as Money is concerned,  worthless.


Mike said...
Mr I: I have my doubts - you watching that stuff.

Oddly enough, my dog likes watching one of those daytime TV advertising shows we get down here. Takes it very seriously and sometimes barks approval - he particularly likes ladies underwear.
call me ishmael said...
I read the Filth-o-Graph, too, mr mike, not for how good it is but for how bad. mrs ishmael says the same thing, why ya watching that shit? It's to see how bad things really are.

Harris doesn't care for the telly, he is more of a foodie. We just had some Evesham asparagus which he enjoyed. But not as much as he likes smoked haddock, mashed potatoes and cabbage. He does eat dog food but he prefers a well balanced proper human diet.
Mike said...
Mr I: try a pug - they would never stop eating if you keep feeding them. My one loves fish - sashimi grade salmon, and sardines - preferably with a little steamed broccoli and carrot. In fact, here here now. Heard me typing and mistook the rattle for food.

The arse in the last picture we see down here - I'd assumed he was a caricature of what the English think the Aussies think an Englishman is. No doubt we will get those other progs when they drop the price sufficiently for our public broadcaster to be tempted. TV down here must be the worst on the planet.
call me ishmael said...
Harris likes carrots, too and fruit.

He is a caricature, that arsebloke, but he's making a fortune. I don't know if he is an expert or if it's all the work of researchers; he is certainly very nasty and it slips out now and again, he might, therefore, have slithered from the antiques trade which has more than it's share of the unGodly, Christies and Sothebys, to name but most of them.
Dick the Prick said...
I caught a bit of that Eileen woman whilst at my mum's house and even with the volume down it was obvious she was a cunt. There's probably a wider tale of larceny's progress with origins at Osborne's lubricated arsehole that whilst probation, land registry and any other public service not nailed down is considered up for grabs, cunts like Eileen are offered tax breaks and kick backs for ploughing their contemptuous filfth with unabashed vulgarity. There's another cunt in that programme who flogs Mayfair crap and I swear he's head gimp in some repulsively aged gay troupe - instructing his perverts in the art of sodomizing large wodges of cash from GlobalCorp's oligarchs du nos jours.

When even Google are starting to buy London property as a means of fleecing the tax payer, well, it seems that the humble Landanner can go fuck himself should the prospect of home ownership be on his agenda - they're only voters anyway and fuck me, can't have them getting in the way of international money laundering - fuck, they'll be wanting other stuff too, i'd wager - some kind of human rights next, the cheeky cunts.
callmeishmael said...
The probation service, too. Yes, it went quietly, not even the Guardian making a stink. It had diabolical leadership, in the persons of Judy McKnight and Harry Fletcher, union bosses happier dribbling on the Today show than representing members' interests, like Bob Crow or Len McLuskey did and do. I am sorry, wrote one of these cunts to a seriously aggrieved member, that I haven't been able to help you, I have been busy lunching with ministers. Honest, not invent; I saw the letter.

There need only be a few cunts like Fletcher and McKnight in education and health, which there are, and the whole shebang'll be sold off. Come the revolution there should be more than a few union leaders dangling from the People's lamp posts.

I remember reading Decca Aitkenhead in the Guardian, years ago, saying that the probation service offered the only decent, human face to be found in the grinding behemoth of the criminal justice system. That was at the tail end period of the service's role being to advise, assist and befriend the outlaw, bring him back inside. Fuck me, Jack Torture couldn't be doing with that shit and now it's all gone; politicians and union leaders shitting on members and public alike. As you say, mr dtp, nothing must get in the way of GlobaCrime.


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

Bravo, Mr Ishmael. Your post neatly captures the stinking hypocrisy and moronic stupidity of Mediaminster and other heralds of Ruin at war with us. Programmes like that estate agent shit show television can`t do its job and shits out rubbish like this rather than bothering to investigate properly the dystopian phantasmagoria of the new property bubble, the bollocks Help to Buy and endless lies re growth, recovery. The Money Riot is back, the Great Tits Up never happened, well it didn`t, not for the financial terrorist filth, cushioned by the creation of endless magic money and pansy faced careerist entitlement politicians leeching off us. They hope to keep the Potemkins Village economy going just long enough to assuage their careerist entitlement to sit behind some desks and join their City bums of puppetmasters on the boards of zombie companies. And if we wake up and realise we`re in the Yellowstone Caldera of recessions then the Civil Contingencies Act is still on the statute

yardarm said...

And that worthless estate agent bint is just one of an army of parasites, banksters and other financial terrorists, libel ambulance chasers all begging and pleading for Russian oligarch loot to launder and leech off. Is there a scientific term for a parasite that lives off other parasites ?

So when effete Westminster pansies like Dave and Hague start wagging their fingers at Bad Vlad he must laugh his bollockski off.

jgm2 said...

I think I caught that Posh Pawnbroker show a few months ago. Sounds like the same episode. Some tart needed a few quid and brought in an unused, still in it's 'bag-within-a-bag' wrapper, PRADA or some high-end designer handbag. Which she'd been given by a previous 'boyfriend' = payment for being fucked by an arab. The thing was worth thousands apparently. Maybe tens of thousands.

It's a whole 'nother world. All that 'Made in Chelsea' trust-fundistas all on permanent holiday their entire lives (jealous? Me?) Celebs for no other reason than they've got a shit-load of money. Or, more correctly, their parents have a shit-load of money.

They seem immune to self-awareness. Oblivious to what a complete bunch of over-privileged, vacuous, numb-skulled twats they are.

callmeishmael said...

One wonders why it is, mr jgm2, that they agree to be filmed in these situations, which are, anyway you dress them up, demeaning, y'know, flogging-off your whore trophies to some oily gippo is bad enough, doing it on telly seems bizarre; most viewers, one thinks, would feel only a mixture of schadenfreude and contempt.

I suppose it's just like the Jeremy Kyle Show experience but for airhead snobs, the celebrity of self abasement. Stavros, his clients and his bumcrawling employees just a waste of oxygen, they wouldn't last a moment in my lifeboat.

jgm2 said...

I can (kind of) understand poor people doing it. The likes of Jade Goody and now 'White Dee' are/were utterly talentless plankton. Their 'celebrity' owing wholly to the marginally less fuckwitted who now get to point at somebody who is even more fucking stupid than they are.

So at that end of the spectrum, down with Jeremy Kyle, it's kind of a no-lose situation. The worst that can happen is that you are just as poor, stupid and despised as before the show. On the upside you may be identified as a special kind of stupid that the likes of Max Clifford can turn into 10% agent's fees.

For the rich on the other hand it makes no sense at all. There was some chap a few weeks/months ago who'd won, I dunno, 100m or so on the lottery and rather than keeping the news to himself, agreed to publish his name and address. He wanted everybody to know he'd suddenly got lots of money. Imagine all the 'old mates', 'new mates', hustlers, pimps and gold-diggers that will now be emerging from the woodwork.

Surely the more circumspect rich crave anonymity. I'm not 'rich' by the standards of the 'Made in Chelsea' crowd but it is wonderful to be able to go where you like without an entourage of acolytes, hangers on, hairdressers, personal shoppers, diary secretaries, demented fans or photographers following you around. I'd hate to be hounded 24/7 for an embarrassing photo or casual throwaway comment that would fill the twittersphere with demands for my imprisonment for some thought-crime or other.

If I won the lottery (which would be a miracle since I've never bought a ticket) then I wouldn't tell any fucker. I wouldn't buy a big fuck-off house either. I've had one of those. More trouble than they're worth. I wouldn't buy a Ferrari. In fact I wouldn't draw any attention at all to myself.

My point is that you'd think that rich kids - who don't need celebrity in order to get access to clubs, First Class or cash, growing up in an environment of similarly rich kids would see their parents keeping a low profile (on the whole) and understand why. But they don't. They are so fucking stupid. They're just White Dee with cash.

There was another one up in Fucking Scotland ten or more years ago. Won 8 or 9 million and couldn't think of anything better to do with it except race expensive cars around his lawn. Pissed the lot of it away, him and his new 'mates'.

As you alluded to in a previous post hereabouts - just as idleness cuts across all class boundaries (myself for example) so does utter fuckwittery. It's easier to excuse the Jade Goody's of the UK - they don't know any better but Spencer et al will have grown up in naice houses with expensive education and good role models (or perhaps not) and frankly, I expect better from them.

I like to travel Mr I and was down sailing around the Caribbean with a mate in January. I know that sounds terribly expensive and indulgent but the entire 11 or 12 days cost £400 quid travel (Air France into St Martin and out of Guadeloupe) and $1000 for a bed on the boat. Plus food and booze.

We pulled into St Barths past Roman Abramovich's other big yacht.

My point is that the rich spend millions, hundreds of millions in the case of Abramovich to go to these places to get away from the endless prying and hounding - and yet anybody can go there for notalotabucks. I can go anywhere I like for practically fuck all and nobody bothers me at all.

It's fucking great.

The rich spend millions trying to buy anonymity and exclusiveness yet it can all be undermined or enjoyed - depending on your outlook - by some navvies son for less than the cost of a mobile phone contract.

Yet these dumb jackasses want to be recognised. And not in a Rutherford-I-split-the-atom kind of way. No, they want to be recognised for being utterly talentless gobshites with rich parents.

Jesus wept.

We are surrounded by utter fucking imbeciles Mr I.

callmeishmael said...

Interesting stuff, mr jgm2, the choices people make regarding what they do with their money, particularly in relation to how they value themselves.

I don't have a mobile 'phone. I was among the first to have one but quickly tired of their intrusion, haven't had one this century. I don't need one, I don't think anybody needs one. I know that people like them but that's not the same thing as needing one. The needs of the New People are a mystery to me.

I rarely take holidays. People pay good money to come on holiday to exactly where I live. I don't need a holiday from my home. I like to visit foreign art galleries and cathedrals but I would just call that travel.

When the Bic disposable razor appeared I was awestruck. I thought This is fucking amazing, no more scrabbling about with blades and rusty razors, just use this thing once or twice and bin it, wonderful. But it seems that every year RazorCorp develops a newer, better, infinitely multi-edged shaving blade which no man can do without. No man except me. I have tried these things and the first shave is very good, but only the first shave, and they cost terrifying sums of money, there was a pack of three on offer in Tesco last week at about six quid, over three hundred quid a year. I won't buy them. And the people who buy these things have to buy gels and balms and fuck knows what else, grooming aids, maybe ten pounds a week, maybe fifteen, maybe more, it could be getting on for a grand a year, just to shave.

And then there's the food. There's all kinds of gastro-intestinal danger which the New People embrace, stuff I never heard of and wouldn't eat in a million years, ethnic cuisines which as well as being revolting are simply unsuited to the digestive systems of Northern Europeans. Some people eat raw fish, don't they ?

The phones, the tablets, the grooming, the holidays, the eating-out, the cars, we haven't mentioned the cars but my new Volvo V40 is, frankly, preposterous, it is the work of a manic depressive, the manual is about five hundred pages, not the workshop manual, the driver's manual,I will never read the manual and I will never, ever know what all this stuff is for. It is a tiresomely good car, boring, in fact, and it is laden with stuff which only makes sense to the New People.

So add a high-tech Volvo or a VW or an Audi to all the other indispensable shit without which the New People are incomplete and it is no wonder that they cannot afford to buy a house for themselves, no wonder that clean shaven, well holidayed, in instant communication with thousands of cyber friends, adventurously fed and at the wheel of a ridiculously prissy and overdesigned vehicle the stupid fuckers demand that I - and you - underwrite their mortgage for them.

Enslavement for life, is what it is; the New People, tweeting and texting inanely, force-fed tat, believing they are exercising discernment; Strasbourg geese, applauding those who will strangle them and eat their livers. Fuck 'em.

jgm2 said...

That's exactly what it is. Enslavement. Voluntary fucking enslavement.

My mate has just lost his job. He's the same age as me, his kids are the same age as mine. Our eldest are just sitting their GCSEs. In another two years they'll have left home. He has no mortgage, no school fees and (I'm guessing), with the pay-off, high five - low six figures sitting in the bank.

Here, Dave (not his real name), I said - this is fucking brilliant - I know it's a cliche but think of this as an opportunity - the summer's coming, why not take the whole family on a two month round-the-world trip or something. Fuck, even a round Europe or round Britain road-trip. It's the last chance you're going to get. Some really great lasting memories. Another two years and they'll have left home. No future employer is going to second guess a decision like that. In ten years time you'll look back and think 'Why the fuck didn't I do that...?'

But no. Desperate to get another job. Got to get back on that fucking treadmill. Be a 'real' man. Provide for the family. Blah blah. Despite having two or more years savings in the bank.

Another mate, shit with money, serially bankrupt, him and the missus but occasionally a 'windfall' will arrive. Five thousand quid from some long forgotten PFI or pension scheme or something. First thing he does? Every time? Buy the 'best' car that his windfall will buy. Cannot think of anything else to do with a chunk of money except buy a car. Because, in his mind, his status is defined entirely by the car a man drives. He can't get his head around the fucking old nails I drive. He probably thinks I'm living hand to mouth. Only conceivable explanation for driving a car like that innit?

And every cunt has to have the latest fucking phone. I have no mobile phone either. For the same reason as you. I don't want any cunt ringing me up at any time and asking me questions or 'don't forget to buy some.....' or 'dad, can you drop x, y, z off at the school, I forgot it this morning...' or whatever. My wife bought me a £10 phone. I get around that by simply never charging it and never taking it with me. I have no idea what the fucking number is. I'm guessing it starts with an '0'. But the kids and missus have to have i-Shit phones. Their Blackberry's are 'no good' any more apparently. Thousands of pounds of Blackberry just abandoned to be replaced by £2000 of fucking i-phones. Plus call charges. Macbooks, i-pads, more thousands of pounds of disposable shit.

The one saving grace is that we can afford it but the rest of country seem to be doing shit jobs in which they're desperately unhappy just to keep up the payments for their new car or new phone or their new wet-room or their new kitchen...

Why bother forcing people to become slaves when they'll sign up voluntarily.

call me ishmael said...

And simultaneously, mr jgm2, for it's blatant lunacy, most still manage to do this zombie arithmetic, first launched by Gordon Snot, the fucking nutter. It goes like this,It is the right thing for the country that in order to support what we call Growth - even though it is Decay - hard-working families must prudently spend every penny they have on shit in the High Street, they can simply prudently borrow some money from themselves, via their building society and pay themselves back, via their home, which is of limitless value, thanks to my abolishing the bust component of boom and bust. And because under my govament people are all living to be a hundred it is the right thing for the country that every hardworking family as well as spending every penny they have - or can borrow - on High Street Growth also prudently saves every penny they have - or can borrow, same thing really, neither a lender nor a borrower be, not when you can be both - for their old age because their pensions will be worth fuck all and we will confiscate their homes in order to pay for their care. Spend everything, whilst saving everything, simply a matter of having your moral compass properly aligned. I commend myself to this house. He really was stark, raving fucking mad.

It was the arithmetic of the congenitally innumerate presented in the language of po-faced Presbyterianism. But the best of it was that right up until the gibbering, messiahanic end everyone in the commons thought him the best chancellor in history, and by the indicators of inculcated mass consumerist stupidity which you chronicle even within your own small circle, he was.

jgm2 said...

Just had a call from 'Dave' - perhaps he reads this blog - fuck me, he's doing it. He's taking the summer off and taking the family to Southern Africa. Tickets booked. Just tapping me up for some recommendations on where to go and where to stay.

Fucking brilliant. Family holiday of a lifetime. Memories to take to the grave. Safari, Chobe, Victoria Falls, Cape Town. Fucking amazing.

I hope he doesn't get mugged or murdered now.

The Brownian madness has risen again though Mr I. All this 'help-to-buy' nonsense proving once again that the UK economy is perched on nothing more than the 'feel-good' factor caused by soaring property values. 'Great', the great British muppet says to himself, 'my house went up in value, I shall buy a new car, I'll just get the money from my giant, live-in, cash machine. It's like free money innit?'

Does nobody have any kind of memory at all? This is the mentality that got us into this shit in the first place.

Everybody would be 100% better off if houses only cost 10% of what they do now. Yet the British Public are delighted when the most expensive thing they will ever buy becomes even more expensive.

I've said it before but when you see, at first hand, the collective madness of the average voter, it is no wonder politicians treat them (and us) with such utter contempt. And it is no wonder that 'the rich' keep their money well away from the UK taxman.

lilith said...

Mr Yardarm, you are so right, it is business as usual re: money.... They let me buy a brand new car on the never never the other week! And here's me, living in paradise in "fuel poverty".

Mr Ishmael, what you need to put Gillette out of business is one of these. (or a cheaper version of the same thing) Elby says one razor lasts him min 8 weeks.

call me ishmael said...

That's what I meant about Snotism, mr jgm2, it hasn't gone away, nor will it, the zombies rule. Mr yardarm puts this better than I, this zombie money thing.

There is something nice about new cars, ms lilith, I have one every three years but they soon grow lacklustre, that's why I keep the hot Citroen, too, and I could easily slot into mr jgm2's get-me-from-A-B attitude, although it would have to be a good, flashy old nail. Four litres good, two litres bad sort of thing

I thought, by the way, that we were all in fuel poverty. I've stopped looking at the price of petrol and heating oil and electricity and live in hope of a new Angry Brigade attacking the fuel plutocrooks.

call me ishmael said...

I'll have a proper look at that Razorsharp thing, ms lilith, looks good but I'm feeling too stupid to quite understand it at the moment. It's because I'm one of the Old People, not so much in years, just in quality.

I am of an old race, could read before I went to school, I know that hopefully is an adverb, know what a collective noun are and that aitch is not pronounced haitch. Knoworramean?

callmeishmael said...

I don't know if Dave reads this blog, mr jgm2; perhaps he should. But his - or anyone's - stepping out, even momentarily from the mass delusion is good news.

lilith said...

Take your cue from Harris, Mr tricks are not impossible for an old dog ;-) With the razorpit you just soap it and push the razor firmly along the soapy rubbery surface. Keeps it clean and sharp somehow.

Getting used to the new car. Haven't hit any bollards/fence posts yet. Slightly nerve wracking. Nor have I washed it on the grounds that dirt forms a protective layer...

call me ishmael said...

Perhaps Harris could learn to do internet shopping for me, ms lilith, as it is, I shall instruct mrs ishmael to make the purchase for me, she likes to keep busy.

Sounds good, I will try it.