THE SUNDAY ISHMAEL.

THE CELEBRITY PAGES.

VILEST COUPLE IN THE WORLD ARE GRANDPARENTS,

SPUNKY BILL'S PRAYER

Mah fellow motherfuckers. 

 

Me and yo' future Mrs President, mah beloved Hillary Trousers, here, we'd  jes' love fer y'all to join us as we offer up this prayer on the occasion of the birth of our first liddle gran'chile, liddle cutesie wootsie, ain't she purty, 

purty as her granma, Hillary;

purty as her momma, Chelsea


An' so Ah ask that y'all just join me in a prayer. 
To our Heavenly Southern White Father.

Dear Lord, our Father in Heaven, 
you have made Merka special. 

And different from thine other shitholes, 
and the creatures who dwelleth therein
 in Darkness,
 and who we must, as is Thy will, 
 bomb the fuckin' beJaysus out of.

Sometimes, Dear Lord, 
we all jest haveta
blow some foreign children
even unto fuckin' pieces, 
blessed be the name of the AirCorp

But they're  foreign cocksuckin' sonsafuckinbitches 
and probably deserve it, 
and so we implore Thee, Oh Lord, 
that none a this shit ever happens
 unto our little Miss Perfect.
Praise be to God.

  And Heavenly Father, 
Thou havest made us special among nations, 
 inasmuch as we must haveth more stuff
 than any other sonsafuckinbitches.  

Oh Lord, we beseecheth  Thou
that even though we be but an twentieth, 
 of Thine humanly host, 
we must need to have
 unto our sweet holy motherfuckin ' selves
an quarter of Thy bounty, 
of what Thy Goodness  hath bestowed upon Thy Creation, 
Merka must have the Lion's share. 
Otherwise, Heavenly Father, we gotta kick some nigger ass.  
Blessed be the name of the Lord.


And on the vexed question, Oh Heavenly Father, 
of our personal shortcomin's,

we beseech Thee to forgive us our sins, 
even though we damn well ain't never
 gonna forgive them as offends
 against Uncle Sam or His President.

Why, dear  Lord,
there's many as speak untruths about us;  
scarlet women, Lord, 
as have told lies about thine faithful  servant, 
William Jefferson,

 havin' been  screwin' their asses off of 'em.
Yea, even for fuckin' years, Lord, 
while he was wedded unto thy servant,
 Hillary Rodham Trousers

 Bitches like this, Oh Lord,
 got no place livin' amongst thy dutiful servants
 and spreading truths about 'em, 
Ah mean untruths, 
and we pray that You will,
 in Thy infinite mercy, 
roast their fat asses for 'em. 
Before we must require it, Lord,
 of the Secret Service,
that they be terminated with extreme prejudice.

Blessed be the name of the CIA

And Thy Servant,  Lord, 
soon to be Thy president, 

 

Hillary known as Trousers, 

it may well be true, Lord,

that she dwelleth in the land of the carpet eaters.

 

and is an abomination in Thy sight

 

 

and that she hath lain in unnatural union 

with many's an ballbustin' dyke bitch 
but Dear Lord and Father of Merka, 
she felt that she had good reason to
drink even from the furry cup
on account of some other
 
 lyin' cocksuckin' whorebag Jezebel
with whom, as Thou art my witness
Ah never had sex with,
so help me You, 
even though Ah did.

Ah feel yo' tits, babe, I mean pain.

tellin' lies about me,  

my bodily fluids

and my tobacco products. 
Grown, in thine infinite Mercy,
In the Republic of Cuba.

 
Let this not, Oh Lord, 
Thy servant Hillary's insane jealousy, 
and her wish for vengeance,
let it not


deny Thy faithful Servant, Mrs Trousers, 
the office of President,
for we are, Lord, 
down to our last hundred million dollars
 an' if I don't get to be the First Gennulman,
 living in the White House again,
I am fucked
if I know,  Lord,  how I will manage to steal any more money. 
I need to be able to offer public contracts to the highest briber.
And I can't do that, Lord, 
fucking about on charitable trusts.

The Lord And Lady Macbeth Foundation.

Ah mean, Lord,
havin' foundations and initiatives,
that's one thing,
 but verily I say unto you,
it is fucking peanuts
and the taxman's all over you.
 I know, Lord,
that we should render unto Caesar and all that  
but me and Hills, 
we think to ourselves, 
we lied, we cheated, we killed 
for all that money 
and it don't seem fittin' 
for us to be giving any of it to the govament, 
which, as Thou knowest, Lord,
will only give it to poor folks and niggers.
So, please, Lord,
 for us to get the really big bribes and bungs, 
ya gotta get us back in the White House.


And we beseech You, finally, Heavenly Father,
that our new grandchild, 
be not forced to live in cardboard shelters
 nor in sub-standard housing, 
that she be not forced unto the place of the FoodBank;
that she be not beaten or shot
by marauding, out-of-control, militarised lawnforcement;
be not incarcerated in cruel and unusual 
mediaeval-style high security prisons
run only for the profit
 of people who bribed me handsomely;  
that she be not slowly DeathPenalty tortured to death
 in a gas chamber;  
that she be not gunned-down
 by a fellow student, 
 that she be not spied upon, 
lied about, lied to
and framed by her National Security Agency,
nor be disappeared or killed 
on the orders of her own President; 
may she not, Oh Lord, enlist,
be sent abroad to kill 
and return home to cruelty, 
to bullying and to neglect
as, dear Lord and Father of mankind,
 are so many of her fellow citizens.
Amen. 



As if, Lord,  she fuckin' would.

THE ARTS SECTION

WOTSONTELLY, BBC4, AN EVENING WITH JIMI HENDRIX

'SCUSE ME, WHILE I KISS THE SKY. 

 We were talking, recently, about Art and craft and trade and I suppose hobbies,  about what distinguishes Art from the others  and last night BBC4 was devoted to a fragmented study of the so-called art and artistry of the late Jimi Hendrix; some of it was produced by old garlic breath, himself, one of our shameless license-fee-created millionaires, 

StarFucker Al.

Alan Yentob, is pure groupie hyperbole, 
he's good at that, Al, tosser.

What happened to guitarist, Hendrix, was that he went, in a short time,  from being a US paratrooper
 
 to being a global superstar and sex symbol, 

worse than that, for a young man, he was hailed and  quickly hailed himself not as an entertainer, which is all he ever was but as an artist.

There can be no argument, his recordings with the Jimi Hendrix Experience, a  trio comprising

 

Brits Noel Redding, Mitch Mitchell and himself, were revolutionary - if you can have a revolution in showbusiness, that is - but they were only revolutionary pop songs. Hendrix was among the first to play the electric guitar as something other than a loud acoustic guitar;  the scorching, reverberating  menace of  Hey Joe; his own, spasming Purple Haze, the raunchy Foxy Lady,  the dreamily lyrical Wind Cries Mary, his urgent re-working of Bob Dylan's All Along The Watchtower were totally unlike anything else of their time and poor Jimi was, accordingly,  in their own fearful interests,  embraced and colonised  by other so-called superstars,  such as Mr Pete Nose of the Who,

 

 a man obsessed with writing songs about boys - Pictures of Lily, My Generation, Substitute, I'm A Boy, I Can't Explain, The Kids're Alright, Squeezebox  and the dreadful, unspeakable so-called rock opera, Tommy, about an abused deaf-dumb-an-blind kid.   Hendrix, on the other hand,  wrote pile-driving yet ethereal songs about paranoia, about lust, about  Heavenly fucking. Where the Who were fuelled by Black Bombers and Purple Hearts, Hendrix's creative toolbox was expanded by Lysergic Acid Diethylemide; technicolour to Townsend's melodramatic monochrome; Hendrix's tidal waves of part chords, lead runs, overdriving, buzzing and humming, echoing his voice note-for-note belittled Townsend's  jerky suspended fourths.

 Frightened of being outshone, Eric Clapton, who until the appearance of Jimi Hendrix was the unchallenged God of the guitar, also championed Hendrix, 

 

Come with me, we will be Gods together, 

equal Gods. You gotta wife, Jimi? Only my friend George Harison shares his with me, his wife; we're all artists, you see.

basking in reflected glory, loving him with the kiss of JunkyDeath.  

Clapton's own bizarre deification rested on shambolic, noisy performances in his  warring trio, Cream - three junkies playing at cross-purposes; 

 

 bassist Jack Bruce overplaying everything; Clapton furiously and endlessly doodling  at what sounds to me like an eleven-bar blues and drummer, Ginger Baker, thrashing and flailing away, marooned on his own, lonely Planet Heroin, his drum figures doubtless making musical sense to him but to no-one else alive. Fucked-up Brits trashing black music. By contrast Hendrix's trio had invented an entirely new form , neither black nor white,  the blues coloured electric.

And it  was only on hearing The Band's Music From Big Pink that Clapton found a musical direction which enabled him to play with some taste; Americans, again, showing this tedious, over-rated  Limey the way home.

No wonder this pair, Slowhand Clapton and Pete Nose, 

 

 Hendrix with some Mod brats.

ploughing cliche's furrow, latched-on to Hendrix, a true original, and called him artist.

Left-handed,  Hendrix played a conventional Fender Stratocaster  upside-down

 

 

and some musicologists argue that his inverted access to tone controls and especially the tremelo arm shaped his unique sound; makes sense to me, I never thought him an extra-terrestrial.  Hendrix  also employed a Home Counties electrical engineer to  develop and refine his amplifiers and effects, y'know, tradesman stuff, valves, frequencies. It's not Beethoven or Rembrandt, fuzz-wah-swell pedal, overdrive  and distortion, that's just being a tradesman.

Having been a   member of various New York R&B ensembles, Jimi Hendrix hit lucky; he was spotted by Geordie, Chas Chandler, former bassist with the Animals,  brought to England and teamed with Redding and Mitchell; the Jimi Hendrix Experience recorded all that is memorable and valuable in his short musical life.  Delusions of artistry and the esteem of the artily worthless killed him.  

At the end he  spoke of himself only as an artist, with a higher purpose and so - artistically -  he took loads of drugs; artistically, he disbanded the Experience, forming a succession of rubbishy groups with old buddies and new show-offs, all of them discordant, atonal, arythmic; artistically, he bought his own studio in New York and recorded what seems like years' worth of intolerable garbage.
  

His Woodstock concert performance reveals the depths to which he had, so artistically, sunk - too many players, too much percussion, artistry's license enabling him to play out of time and out of tune. But  then so much of Woodstock is grossly over-valued, most of it was shit, shit that only Uncle Sam can produce and digest, convinced of his  own appetising exceptionalism.  Only the Star Spangled Banner redeems Hendrix's sprawling, self-indulgent performance, and even that runs-down and collapses on itself, a black hole of circuitous jamming;   the studio version is infinitely better. 

As a pop entertainer, Jimi Hendrix, in the nineteen-sixties, produced some of the most interesting and original material of that  facetious and culturally over-stated period; as an artist, however, he never got off the ground, drowning, instead, both figuratively and literally, in his own artistic shit. Having been out, jamming, man, and drinking, he took too many sleepers and didn't wake up that morning.  He was twenty-seven
  

Clapton, now in his late-sixties


and Townsend, similarly,

 still, in their dotage, play their old hits to gullible crowds.  They still speak of his tragedy,  heedless, maybe, of the fact that their noisy, Me-Too, arty patronage of Hendrix is what blew him fatally off course. 

Anybody tells you that you are an artist, punch 'em hard in the gob.

And if you meet the Buddha on the road, 

kill him. 

AND FINALLY, 
THE NEWS FROM POUNDLAND.

MR DOUGLAS FRUITCAKE
MP FOR THE CONSTITUNCY OF
FRUITCAKES-ON-SEA.

All my life people have been refining washing powder. You'd think it  the very stuff of Life, so vigorous is its promotion, its ubiquity in our viewing, our commercial viewing, anyway. 

The term soap opera originated in 1930's US radio broadcasting, cliff-hanger radio series being sponsored by washing powder manufacturers;  even then the white, tinted or speckled flakes and powders were deemed, by those who calibrate our consumption,   indispensible to people  craving a fulfilled and hygienic life.

Once, the stuff simply washed whiter but that was in my mother's time of drudgery. As television enslaved us, to itself and to the products of its sponsors, washing powders - Ajax, Rinso, Omo, Daz, Tide, Persil, Breeze, Oxydol, Surf and countless, now vanished others,  grew ever more complex and sophisticated, their additives - blue whiteners, no, seriously, blue stuff to make your white stuff whiter, bleaches and pre-soaking enzymes - and ingredients became more and more modern, scientific-sounding;   the Space Age was entering the twin-tub washing machine.  

A party political broacast on behalf of the Persil Party

But no matter the earnestness of the adverts,  it was all just fucking soap, no more than that, washing your clothes down by the river, in the communal wash-house or in the new Hotpoint or Bendix, you need some soap, that's all, never going to be Paradise, doing the laundry. Soap is just soap.

And so it is with this gang of ponces and slags and thieves and impostors. Shit is just shit.

Eternally renewing, rewording, repeating their  bogus credentials, their miracle ingredients, their clever formulae,  their latest additives, eternally competing one with another, for the right to shit in our faces.
 And now there is a new product,

 different, brighter, better;  
what a pity it is made from the same old shitheads.
 No, honestly, they are differently different,

dimmer, duller, more impertinent.
 But largely the same.
Give 'em five minutes in Westminster and you'd never tell them apart, LibLabConFruit.

It is a matter of incredulity to me, that I see so many of my fellows arguing the toss between this shower, parliamentarians and would-be parliamentarians, when  they are all, every last one of them,  just shit,  walking and talking.  

I'm quite entitled to my expenses.
 And my mistresses. 
I went to public school, for God's sake.
 
Douglas Fruitcake-Turnover, MP.
Why does he always remind me of a man who has just awakened from that dream - the one where you're walking down a crowded street and suddenly realise that you're naked from the waist down?


Oh, it is rich to see Miliband more crestfallen than usual, 

wringing out his  party dishcloth of condescending phrases, mentally wetting himself;  Clegg is beyond embarrassment, he can already claim to have achieved more than any Liberal in the last century, even though last time around he cinsisted that his was a new party albeit that it is actually twice as old as the Labour party;  Clegg, congenitally, I should think, inhabits a world where  the Truth is an extra-terrestrial alien, nothing will trouble him, for there is nothing there to be troubled, in that part of the brain which houses conscience and doubt and discomfort and ethics and morality Clegg must just have a big, empty space. Like  the Tory, Blair, leading the Labour party, Clegg is a Tory leading the Liberals, pretending that he's a Liberal restraining the Tories and Cameron, well, he's whoever he thinks he is when he wakes up - field marshal, statesman, diplomat,  historian, philosopher and charismatic leader of a fractious and foolish  people, when  he is thrown out, either by party or electorate it will because they are mistaken, blind to his qualities, stupid.  Miliband may lose what he thinks is his Destiny,  but the rise of the FruitCakes will only slightly discomfort the leaders of the unelected government for they are FruitCakes, themselves,  there is only one party, it is the party of party politics, a hang-over from the 'sixties and 'seventies, long past its time, struggling for breath and  kept  alive only because MediaMinster is too stupid, too lazy and too frightened to imagine  a different form of public administration, one servant to Decency and Duty, rather than to greed and conspiracy, knowing whispers and secret handshakes, beasting and blackmail.

Already, prominent Fruitcakers are bragging about being 
simultaneously  MEP and MP, with simultaneous salaries, pensions and exes. Already Fruitcakers are turning their policies, such as they are,  inside-out, inventing principles according to the prevailing winds. Didn't they ditch their existing Clacton PPC, in favour of a sitting Tory?  How does that work, then, in terms of honesty and loyalty and solidarity and principle. Ah, yes, of course, same soap powder in a different box, washes whiter.

If anyone thinks that Nigel Fruitcake, Diana Fruitcake, Paul Fruitcake or Douglas Fruitcake  differs in any way from those currently on the green benches they need their fucking heads looking at.