Sunday, 23 November 2014




 Strikingly stylish and debonair, Nigel is in playful mood as he models his bespoke, Out Of Europe-style pimpcoat, featuring  a natty velvet collar, just the thing for promenading around Brussels' naughty red-light district, on expenses, naturally, I think you'll find that my  claims for sex-worker liaison meetings are all quite above board, snorts BigBoy Farage, quite above board; notice the feature ticket pocket to the wearer's right, just  ideal for Nigels' up-to-the-minute Ronson cigarette lighter with which he impresses the ladies, along with his funky, ashtray kisses; his smokey breath; his deep, sexy cough and his intriguingly yellowed fingers; a real man about town, is our Nigel, he'll show you ladies a good time.

 I'm a bit fussy, knoworramean, about whom it is wot  I model for, jokes debonair older gent, Arthur. Wot, not them riffraff from UKIP, wooden be cort dead wiv  'em. I mean, nuffin' but fuckin' spivs an' arse'oles, 'swot  they are; gits and tossers. To fink that we fought the bleedin' Nazis so's that smarmy fuckin' Berekely Hunt an' his fuckhead brethren can go dealin'  wiv  Adolf's fuckin' descendants. Need a right good fuckin' kickin if y'ask me. An' that's worre'llget if he comes rahnd Lahndun wiv' his fuckin' goosesteppers. That F'rage geezah, count yer bleedin' fingers is best, after you shook 'is 'and. And yer missus, best watch her, an' all, around them UKIP blokes, yeah, and the UKIP wimmen, too, swing both ways,  they do. Didyoo 'ear that fuckin' skrikin' cow on Any fuckin' Question,

 'er off UKIP, stone the fuckin' crows, thought she  was gonna 'ave a catfight with that Labour dyke, wossername, Angela Eagle, 'sin the bleedin family, mind, 'er an' 'er sister, 

both carpetmunchin' specialists. But that UKIP bint, she wants to lay orfa them tesosterone jabs, duntshe, else she'll be growin' a set a meat an' fuckin' potatoes. 

On the uvver 'and, 


looks like he might enjoy 'avin a ladyman or two in his gang, that  fuckin' ponce, F'rage. Well, stands to reason, dunnit, politicians, they're all wossanames, int they, degenerates, that's it.  And perverts;  too good for 'em, 'angin' is, if you ask me.

From our economy range, yet looking handsome and debonair, Paul, supervising  one of his staff, Marky, the Tory MP,  is featured wearing the His Master's Voice city pimpcoat. Unlike Nigel's executive-style example, Paul's is made from finest one hundred per cent recycled lemonade bottle fibre, whilst the collar is  fashioned from the highly regarded faux velveteen fabric which began its fashion life as a very desirable pedal-bin liner.  And you can take this stylish garment, the last word in debonairiness down to the laundrette on your estate, wash'n'spin it dry and wear it to your next torchlit rally, all the blood- and beer-stains disappeared out, like magic

Who said UKIP's fashion conscious men-about-town couldn't also be greensaving the planet whilst dressing like a stupid Teddy Boy, that's Paul Nuttall's message as he visits UKIP voters in Rochester, some of whom can read and write-down their own names and addresses.

 Dogshooter Debonair Jeremy, yet another politician who has joined our modelling ranks, displays the great sense of savoir faire felt when wearing this fine worsted garment, the Drop Dead, Norman.  See how Jeremy evokes that sense of Devil-May-Care, Get-Away-With-Murderism, marvel at his style, panache and elan. Formal  yet nonchalant, the Drop Dead, Norman gives the lucky wearer the confidence to do, well, just whatever he feels like, knowing that he'll get away with it.


Pink LeaderHosen are an essential wardrobe item for the busy yet debonair fascist-about-town, they have the advantage of having deep pockets, enabling the - ahum - trousering of Euro-monies to which I am one hundred per cent legally entitled, Oh, yes, all perfectly legal, I think you'll find, as a result of my perfectly legal political association with the European Alliance of JewBaiters, GayBashers,  NiggerLynchers and Fraulein Rapists also known as the Nein means Jah party.  No, no, I think you'll find, I think you'll find that our association with Herr ZyclonB is in the great tradition of European politics, entirely democratic and having the overwhelming and entirely democratic  support, democratic support, mind, never mind all this voting nonsense, which, as we know  only benefits tyrants, the Road to Hell, as we know so well, is paved with Human Rights

Supporters of Mr Farge's European Parliamentary Group.

 but at least my right-thinking colleague, the leader of the Eichmann Party, has  the democratic support of all decent people in the New Reich. I mean, to be dead honest with you, something you don't always get from other froth-at-the-mouth demagogues,  Herr Auschwitz may well say that wimmen are, quite honestly, just tarts who, when not in the bedroom,  belong in the kitchen but here in the Poundland Party we are a broad church and many of our members feel the very same way. I know I do. Wife in the kitchen, mistress in the bedroom, I mean, let's be honest, what's wrong with that?

Annabelle Fuller
Annabelle Fuller, pictured, was confronted by Kirsten Mehr, Nigel Farage's wife
The woman accused of having an affair with Nigel Farage has revealed she attempted to commit suicide after a furious row with his wife at Ukip’s victory party.
Annabelle Fuller, 32, said she woke up in hospital after taking an overdose and attempting to cut her wrists. It came hours after she was ordered to leave the party at Westminster’s Intercontinental Hotel thrown to celebrate Ukip’s triumph in the European elections by Kirsten Mehr, his wife.
She is said to have told her: "I will have security drag you out by your hair if you don't leave.”
Miss Fuller, a former press aide to Mr Farage, said: “I was escorted out in front of colleagues and friends I had known for years and I knew outside there were a load of television cameras and journalists.
“I was humiliated. I knew it had nothing to do with Nigel and I called him up he said, 'What the hell's going on?'
“He then comes along, he hugged me and I was in floods of tears - the floodgates opened like they had never opened.”
​She says Mr Farage told her: “I’m sorry.”



Pimp Neil and Slag Christine model outdoors jackets from the Poundlanders' Door-Knocking range.  Just the thing, darling, jokes feisty Christine, for stuffing Mr al Fayed's brown envelopes into the pockets of, not that you ever did. Well, only in exchange for questions asked in the House.  

Neil and Christine Hamilton-Poundland, seen here about to film themselves having SeniorSex, Poundland-style,  for Christine's latest Channel 5 porno-documentary series, are hoping to become the Poundlanders' first husband-and-wife team of MPs. Only Mr Fruitcake won't let them, 

Not on your fucking life, 
Those two cunts are too toxic, even for me.  I mean, nothing wrong, nothing wrong  whatsoever, in taking bribes from rich people, that's why most of us, I think you'll find, most of us, well me, anyway, it's why me, I mean I, it's why I came into politics in the first place. I mean, look, I'm a banker, me, and let's face it, bankers've never had it so good. And here, and let's be prefectly clear, here am I, a fully qualified, don't forget, a fully qualified  pimp, ponce and slag and I'm bumping along on less that half a million a year.  So let's be clear, let's be perfectly clear,  there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, and people like me taking bribes from rich people. Only not the Hamiltons. 

After a hard day spent in the 'pub, and trousering expenses and Nazi-group monies from European taxpayers' pockets, what does the busy spiv wear as he relaxes of an evening, giving himself cancer and setting such a good example to the young people?
  This is Nigel Poundland, modelling a luxurious, kimono-style  smoking jacket, worn over his lounge suit trousers, shirt and tie. I call it my Oscar Wilde look, jokes debonair Nigel, puffing furiously on his cigarette.  Not, of course, let's be quite clear, that I'm a homo, Gosh, no.  Not that we have anything against brown-hatters, in the Poundland Party;  we even have some as members, although, clearly,  and wisely, very wisely, they tend to keep quiet about it. And that, let me say, is just how it should be; no names, no brown-hats, no pack drill.  Same-sex marriage?  Yes, of course I'll repeal it.  Yes, of course, none of my best friends are faggots. Or foreigners.

Smoking? Bad for one's health.  No, I completely reject thatNo proof of that. No proof whatsoever. And I think you'll find, I said, I think you'll find that the tobacco companies make substantial donations to myself, I mean my party;  yes, I suppose so, yes, one and the same, even though, strictly speaking I have not won   a parliamentary seat, not myself,  I am nevertheless, I think you'll find, the prime minister designate.  Young people?  Children? Well, let's be clear for a moment, to be perfectly honest, I think you'll find that most young people want to smoke and quite frankly, and let's be absolutely clear, my party is not in the business of telling people what they should and should not do, especially not children. I mean, where would that end, telling children what's bad for them. Even though smoking isn't. Even though, as I think you'll find, once you stop believing all the European Health and Safety tyranny; I think you'll find that most experts agree that the sooner you start smoking, the safer you'll be. And to be quite frank, to be perfectly honest with you,  as I travel around the country, the common thing I hear, on the doorsteps of ordinary people, is the cry of Please,  UKIP, Help our kids catch lung cancer! Way to go, Nigel!!!

And in fact, in fact, as a matter of fact, one of the latest  policies I have just made-up for our....our  wotsaname...our manifold, is it manifold? No? Manifest? What? Manifest-Oh? Yes, for our manifest-oh;  yes, one of our clear policies is for the setting-up of safe smoking areas in our schools for the kids to smoke in safety.

I mean, I think you'll find that I am the only party offering such safeguards for our children's smoking futures. And, let's be perfectly clear, it's not as though it's harmful to children, smoking. That's why, when people say to me, when they say, Look, prime minister elect, aren't you setting kids a bad example, with all this glorifying of drug addiction, when people say that sort of nonsense to me, that sort of scarey, hysterical nonsense, dreamt-up by an army of health and safety Nazis, I simply say to them one thing, Freedom, our young people are already enslaved by too many regulations. And if they wanna, quite properly in my view, if they wanna smoke in the classroom, or in the playground, 

well, the Poundland Party is not gonna stand in their way.

Now, one of the things I am often asked about is my innate dress sense,  my effortless style

my, what would you call it,
 my nineteen-sixties suavity,

 my unerring sense of the lounge lizard, 

the spiv estate agent, 

The devoted husband, wossat?  
Yes, she is, as it happens, on expenses and tax-deductible.
But I assure you it's all perfectly legal.

the country gent,

the street-fighting man,  
No, let's be quite clear about this, I don't need the bodyguards, I can look after myself,  as I demonstrated in Scotland,  but my party says I'm too valuable to  risk.  It's not that I'm a one-man-band or anything, irreplaceable. Although to be quite frank with you, I am.

 the lounge-bar boor; 

Off y'go, girl and don't come back empty-handed.
the understated, tasteful  elegance of  the street-corner pimp, running his working girls; 

And you, girl; shake your moneymaker.
No, actually it's called corduroy, cord-du-roi, the cloth of kings, which, to be quite honest with you, is,  in my humble opinion, exactly right for me.

 raffish yet debonair, costly yet discreet,
 the sense of Everyman, but nicely turned out

A quinty-sential Englishman,
 not that there's anything wrong with not being English;
  let's be honest, someone has to be second-best.

A pimp for all seasons,
 well, I guess someone has to be. 
Corduroy, velvet, tweed, Viyella  and brogues, 
just about covers it, I should think,
 for a prime minister elect.

Well, I am flattered that my good taste is recognised on derelict housing estates and in BNP branch offices all over the country. It's often said that you can tell a lot about a man by his clothes, and Do you know what, I think mine say all that needs saying about me.

But we haven't mentioned the troops, our marvellous activists, what are they to wear? Well clearly, they can't wear the good stuff, not only do they not have my innate good sense, taste  and unforced debonairiness, how could they, they're as thick as pigshit, very few of them even went to a decent public school, stupid,  most of 'em but  even if they weren't, there's only so much money we can screw from  Europe's taxpayers, yes, yes, I suppose it does, if you wanna get technical about it, it does include British taxpayers' money, spent on my scarves and hats and lah-de-dahs, yes, my mistresses, too, yes, paid for by hard-pressed British taxpayers,  yes, if you want to split hairs, which, quite frankly I don't have time for, no, yes, that's right, that's why I want us out of Europe, so I can pay for my own clothes and tarts and drinks and travel  and houses and food,  that's exactly why I want out of Europe.  But that's in the future, a long way in the future if I have my way. And for now there's only so much money for my clothes and, let's face it, when it comes to the Poundland Party it's me that counts, no, l, me and  not the Tory MPs we have just had elected to the House of Commons, that's right, it's me they work for. Obviously. And so, given that I need all the money for myself,  I still thought that the stormtroopers should have a uniform. I mean, let's be clear, all great revolutionary movements have uniforms.  But it should be one that their wives or mistresses can run-up for them on the old Singer sewing machine. Something that's cheap to make, something they can afford to pay for out of their old-age pensions,  something they can wear'n'wash in the laundrette, yet something that identifies them proudly  as white Englishmen.  And what could be better than this.....

Available from any branch of Poundland
on interest-free payments of £2.99 per week, for life.
The new Poundland Party uniform,
timeless and traditional, like Poundland itself;

 hear the clack of Freeedom's jolly oaken sticks,

the jingle of Poundland's bells,

 the sweet melodies of Poundland's Squeezebox, 

hear her strong, proud voices, harmonising, 

fol-de-rohling and derry-down-daying, 
as we dance merrily
to White Man's Heaven.

Sorry, that should be White VanMan's Heaven. 
Course it should.

available shortly, the sunday ishmael, part two, Armageddon's Landscape, the political event horizon.


SG said...

'Natty Nuttall' - you sure about that Mr I? Looks more like Eddie Hitler (aka Adrian Edmondson) to me. Also I see That Mr Salmond has been stealing clothes from Poundland again with his 'Sexy Socialism' tweets.

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walter said...

ein volk, ein reich ein farage!

mongoose said...

Yikes, Mr Ishmael, I had forgotten that Jezza used to wear one too. It is like a ghastly merrygoround, so it is, of the grotesques. Speaking of which, I see that McDoom is standing down at the election. There is the vilest of politician-lickings in the Grauniad this weekend by Kneepads bemoaning the loss of this titan. Dear me. To have lived so long is penance enough.

Doug Shoulders said...

These days..was it always so?.. meedja operandum…find an indescribably awful personage or two, parade their deeds for our delectation and dismay. I’m talking about the Hamiltons of course…horror of horrors.

What is media studies?…it was on the curriculum at my school, but I never looked. . Observing the behavior of fuckery?

Farage and his trousers? 2/10 for trying. Farage and his ability to gain popularity despite being a fool? Well..gotta hand it to ‘im. A little goes a long way.

I can see him in an American fast food franchise advert soon.

call me ishmael said...

I didn't know Snotty was off, wonder what, as young parents, he and Sarah will find to do. I suppose he could join St Nigel and his Merry Patriots, help them figure out how to spell policy; he'd be the brightest brain they have, increase their IQ by a hundred per cent, overnight.

i wonder if it will ever dawn on him that by participating in the NewLabour homo-erotic menage he completely destroyed the labour movement, ushering in filth like Cameron and Farage

call me ishmael said...

I think he'll dump them,mr ds, the Hamiltons, as soon as he decently can, not that Decency finds a home in UKIP.
Media studies is a worthwhile subject, I just wish someone would start teaching it, would understand that it is not about watching TeeVee.

call me ishmael said...

i fear it is Nuttall, mr sg; Edmondson is repulsive but not that repulsive, you won't find him marching with the overgrown Hitler Youth, or scribbling his phone number and the imaginary size of his cock in the local public toilet, which, I am informed, is the default hobby of most UKIP patriots.

mongoose said...

I fear that McDoom only drove the bayonet home into the chest of the wounded movement. It's the flight of conviction that is hurting both of the main parties. The Tories are frightened of anything approaching a set of beliefs in case anybody calls it Thatcherite and the Luvvies are still hell-bent on their New or Old argument. neither truly beloieve in anything that is remotely useful to our current predicament(s).

Neither may leave the middle ground without the other doing the same, and so we have an endless bickering over who can be tougher on the twin bogeymen de nos jour - terrorism and paedophiles. (I pity the first paedo-terrorist to put his head above the parapet because there will not be a Sun-Wot-Got_Him hell hot enough for the poor bastard.) They both also have to pretend that the economic house can be put in order without a decade of catastrophic realignment of voter expectations. Today's set of leaders therefore hope for their day in the sun without the awkward questions being asked. Constitutional hocus pocus and sundry McEU fecking about is providing ample cover for a year or two's dallying. A bit of anti-anti-Muslim - progressive, all in this together, all of the people not just the few, tolerant, at our best, with us, forward, together... - a couple of year's of such yatter and Cameron will be measuring himself for his ermine and all will be well - for him. At least. But not. For us.

Bloody cold down here today, Ishmael. And my beaded-panel doors have both warped even before I've got them up. Nasty new timber again. Curses. Maybe I'll light a fire with them to cheer us all up.

call me ishmael said...

It's the way it's dried, probably the way it's grown, too; all my internal doors are original pitch pine, just plain, six fielded panels, quite plain, nothing grand, just over two hundred years old, maybe a hundred when they were felled in North Amerikay and they are straight as a die. I guess that any such left down your way will have been caustic stripped by a bloke called Pete, with a white van and a drink problem and will be, like him, goog for fuck all.

Neither leaving the middle ground is the crux of this newspaper's other section and will appear shortly, when the opiods hiatues subsides.

I am not sure, travellers such as mr jgm2 may know but I believe that other nations have managed to maintain a left of centre movement alongside relative prosperity and I think that such was retrieveable after Blair but Snotty surrounded himself with fascists like Jacqui Schmidt, John Reid and those hateful, simpering Milibands, rendition, torture, internment and ID cards, these were his instruments, God rot his fevered bombast and his black, Presbyterian soul.

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mongoose said...

Indeed, but barely dried at all as far as I can see. I looked at some reclaimed pitch pine and a) it was a fucking unbelievable price, and b) was dog-doings, smashed about and ripped to shreds. I shall just bung an extra ledge on them and a bit wider and we'll have to suffer one part of the house being not perfectly straight. They'll see me out and more importantly will keep the sparring teenage girls apart.

Labour is currently run by idiots. They're not even devious idiots. Christ, Balls is probably the cleverest - which makes me worry. The inspiration seems to be to say "Bedroom Tax" or "cost of living crisis" as often as possible and hope for the best.

mike said...

I believe a lot of wood is now dried in ovens, with predictable results.

When I last lived in England, in the West country, our house was built in 1506. The oak beams were original, as was the oak flooring - wood that would have been used to make ships that faught the Spanish Armada. The beams were riddled with tiny worm holes, but from hundreds of years previous. Impossible now to drive a nail in, or drill a hole, as the wood was harder than iron. Bang your head on one and you knew it.

SG said...

Regarding UKIP and patriotism I was immediately minded of Dr Johnson's classic refrain. However I found a much better one from the good doctor:

"A patriot is necessarily and invariably a lover of the people. But even this mark may sometimes deceive us.
The people is a very heterogeneous and confused mass of the wealthy and the poor, the wise and the foolish, the good and the bad. Before we confer on a man, who caresses the people, the title of patriot, we must examine to what part of the people he directs his notice. It is proverbially said, that he who dissembles his own character, may be known by that of his companions. If the candidate of patriotism endeavours to infuse right opinions into the higher ranks, and, by their influence, to regulate the lower; if he consorts chiefly with the wise, the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous, his love of the people may be rational and honest. But if his first or principal application be to the indigent, who are always inflammable; to the weak, who are naturally suspicious; to the ignorant, who are easily misled; and to the prfligate, who have no hope but from mischief and confusion; let his love of the people be no longer boasted. No man can reasonably be thought a lover of his country, for roasting an ox, or burning a boot, or attending the meeting at Mile-end, or registering his name in the lumber troop. He may, among the drunkards, be a hearty fellow, and, among sober handicraftmen, a free-spoken gentleman; but he must have some better distinction, before he is a patriot."

walter said...

Surely a lot of timber years ago was quarter sawn so that it doesnt warp,Today its just cheap pine sapwood cut in the most economic way but fit for fuckall!

call me ishmael said...

Just for the fragrance, I used to burn pitch pine - pew-ends, bed-spring frames - there was little I could do with them. I have still a few bits and sometimes use them for repairs to things like drawer-runners, saw into them and even after being two centuries felled, they release the smell of the forest.

Never having lived in a house of oak, mr mike, Australia would need to have been paved with gold for me to leave one like yours.

Quarter-sawn, few would know what you were talking about, mr walter. I was talking a while ago, to a graduate business leader and her daughter, the flames in the Rayburn were stored-up sunshine, I said, from long ago. How's that, said Mum and so I explained about carbon and fossil fuels. And is that really what coal is? What did you think it was? Well, I thought we made it, in factories, somewhere.

Honest, not invent.

call me ishmael said...

Very good, mr sg, that, although a bit too unnecessarily complex for plain-speaking Nigel. No need to confuse people; Vote UKIP, that's all they need to know; it's the answer to all the eternal conundra of the human condition, mark my words.

Mike said...

Mr I: the floors of my current house are old red ironbark - this may be a native of Australia? Its a lovely deep reddish brown hardwood. Every few years they get a coat of tung oil.

DtP said...

They have a uniform?

It's the guy behind the guy, Most of the time it's silemnce. much of the time, it's nowt!

call me ishmael said...

When I did business studies, mr mike, the econonomic geography lecturer spoke of tough foreign timbers, one called que bracho - the axe breaker - which foreign races used for flooring, probably South American she was speaking of, but I'm sure Australian raw materials are as timeless as ours used to be, we just never hear their version of Hearts of Oak.

call me ishmael said...

You know, mr dtp, how, before before, gaymen cruising would have a bandana hanging out of their hip pockets to identify themselves to potential lovers; it won't be long before the Corps Nigellus will have some similar uniform device, so's one Kipper will recognise another, amongst all of us traitors.

Mike said...

Mr I: as a connosieur of wood, I highly recommend a trip to Bangkok and a visit to the Jim Thompson house. Beautiful teak in the traditional style, and magnificent se asian antiques. Worth reading the Jim Thompson story, btw.

mongoose said...

Quarter-sawn? I picked out the bits as near as, and as straight as but it is just crap pine cut down yesterday. Truth be told, it needed doing and it needed to be now. And so I got what I didn't pay for. The house being what it's made of, I do tend to make everything out of oak but it seemed a waste to bang up some panel doors out of that and I'd have needed hinges as big as God. It is, of course, always stupid to make anyhting out of dung timber but it is a lesson I need to relearn every once in a while.

Yes, Mr Mike, the JT House in Bangkok is great. The cities of the East must have been somethig to see back then, before jet travel turned them all into R&R depots.

DtP said...

Dear Mr Mongoose. Unlike our fair host and your optimistic spirit, i fear for such wood hewn xylonic scrimshaw when our words be shawn.

If Runnemeade be words' legacy then agree it.

I am a Tory by pledge but this test is wrong. Protection is discriminatory - would it were different.


mongoose said...

A butcher writes...

Hmmm - added a 20mm lap on each edge; ripped one board almost down the middle and put half on each side; cut a couple of grooves in the back of each ledge and skooshed in a bit of tatty old aluminium bar I scavenged out of the trash way back when. No bar left for the second door, and this one is like Heath Robinson's mad uncle made it. But the bugger will start flat and we will call that victory enough.

Course after all this screwing around I could have just bought the proper but expensive boards to start with. Ho hum. Also have made lots of useful kindling.

yardarm said...

So this UKIP thing, does this mean they want to make us independent of things like IMF, WTO, GATT, G7, NATO, GlobaCorp, banksters, dosh jugglers, all those cunts who gather at Davos, will we be independent of that shower or will we still be the sort of shit hole that closes down libraries because Lehmann Brothers went tits up, cuts bus services because Fred Goodwin couldn`t count to twenty one without stripping naked, be free to ' decide our own destiny ' as Tribespeople put it `cos if they don`t, then there ain`t vey much Independence in UKIP.

SG said...

Even if they (the Nutkippers) did would we be free from the influence of said organisations Mr Yardarm? I don't think so. The Tribespeople foolishly believe that they can live without reference to the outside world. They would soon discover otherwise - at best a tartan Cuba but more likely a North Korea. It seems to me that the Kippers, or English Nationalist Party as they might be more properly called, and the SNP, or Scottish National Socialist Party, have much in common in so far as they are small minded and inward looking (although to me, and these things are of course relative, the Kippers look positively cosmopolitan compared to their SNP counterparts). Regarding the fate of many libraries, and I think here that we are talking about local community libraries rather than the Bodleian or British Museum type which I suspect will still be around in much their present form in two or three hundred years time, who uses them and for what? I feel sad for their lost but it is no more than nostalgia. We are not talking about the loss of the 'Book of Kells' here but rather eclectic ragbags of tired volumes that, for the most part can be accessed for free, over the thing that we are using now in any Starbucks, MacDonalds, Costa etc. Regarding buses, in some shape or form, they may have more future than the libraries...

Doug Shoulders said...

Look at what happened to poor old Gadaffi when he tried to trade on terms that would prosper his own counrty. And the wee fat bloke who runs N. Korea isn't the most popular geezer over here..why? Is it because he doesn't buy into our globabank ponzi scheme?
Quantative easing? I don't want money that has been shat out some bankers arse.
What a fuckin' scam. You couldn't dream up a more insidious method of fucking over a populace. Never in the field of human commerce has so much been owed by so many to so few.
You can’t beat the fuckers so join them.

yardarm said...

We shall never be free of them, Mr SG. Disagree about the libraries.; I find they and the net complementary; the internet hasn`t made them obsolete, not everything is on the net, there again have found the net to be more convenient in certain circumstances and also much to be mined. Depends what the requirements are, I suppose.

Any source of knowledge is to be cherished, but the filthsters can`t spiv off the libraries and although they are worth more than any damned bankster they won`t be getting any QE magic money.

call me ishmael said...

The libraries are civilisation; their closure is an act of hate-vandalism directed at nearly everyone; George Osborne, as more are now realising, is a nasty, vicious junky, Bullingdon Boys, it's what they do, destroy things.

call me ishmael said...

There is a point, there, the SNP do make Farage look wholesome. Both, however, do sing the praises of a lowest common denominator which should have no place in a civilised country.

SG said...

Libraries are indeed civilisation Mr I. Though I feel that many of the the institutions to which I think we are referring fall short of the description. Incidentally, I suspect that although Dr Marx spent much of his life in them (proper libraries), as an historical materialist he would have been unsentimental about their demise. As for civilisation - I feel sad for its loss but it is no more than nostalgia...

call me ishmael said...

But books work without electricity and without electronic snoopers reading them over your shoulder; without servers, search engines and advertising. And it is the 'net which relies upon the book, mr sg, for inspiration, for content, all the 'net produces is itself.

SG said...

I feel the ground weakening beneath me on this one Mr I. However, my beef is not with books or, indeed, libraries as such but rather the things that many so called libraries have become. But needs must I suppose - maybe they should just put some real books into Wetherspoons, Costa et al?

mrs narcolept said...

Electric books are not an enjoyable experience, more like being handed a page at a time and having to read it through a letterbox, though I do visit the Project Gutenberg site quite a lot, as it is useful for the sort of thing I might want to re-read but am not sure I want to have to find shelf room for again.

As for Mr Poundstretcher's wardrobe, I am sorry to have to say that most of it (though not the pink trousers and the dressing-gown thing) look like my dear mr narcolept's tidy-clothes, last bought in about 1982. He was complaining today that he wasn't going to be able to wear his ancient covert coat and rather fetching hat to an event where his normal clothes would look too scruffy in case he might be mistaken for a Poundland candidate.

call me ishmael said...

I find myself trapped in the Gutenberg Project, mrs narcolept, reading stuff I never heard of but should have done; I am sure I could spend the rest of my life there.

I was thinking about your other point only yesterday, books v ebooks. I read little fiction, these days, and I find that what I do like and need to read is much more easily accessible online - drama, poetry, philosophy, science and nature - than on the bookshelf; you can have Paradise Lost on-screen long before locating it in a bookcase somewhere, anywhere in the house yet, on the other hand, having public collections of books in dedicated spaces is, in my view, vital; I worked in a public library, mr sg, and borrowing books is only part of what they do, maybe it is those facilitations and outreaches to which you object but compared with employing professional culturistas librarians come cheap; and who knows, looking at Osborne and his ruffians, maybe we do need spaces in which revolutionary thinking can take place, whither the Karl Marx de nos jours noir?

I thought that mr narcolept dressed habitually in oily Belstaff jackets and thick leather boots; that he has a wardrobe of pimpclothes only raises him further in my estimation.

I bought, yesterday, in which to travel home from Inverness, a pair of Marks and Spencers luxury moleskin trousers, they are not actually mole skin but oddly that is what they are called. Harris puked all over them, in the car. Last time I venture into PimpWorld.