Thursday, 26 November 2015


I was talking last night to a city dweller. 
One evening,  recently, she'd been taking a family youngster to an indoor rock-face climbing experience in  Newtown, one of Birmingham's inner-city development wastelands, open prisons in the sky, 
for the shirkers.

At the traffic lights an immigrant teenager leapt out, unbidden,  to sponge her windscreen. 

The proper course would have been to ignore her but it seems that these days many people submit to paying this migrant tithe, which, I suppose, might generate a hundred quid a shift, tax-free, maybe more.  For the hard-working little bandits, intimidating conscience-stricken  Gillys and Davids out of a pound a time, just to get through traffic lights in their own fucking city, it must seem like money-from-Heaven.  

Maybe those ghastly,  mongrel-dog arseholes  on Cruelty TeeVee's Devil's Den or whatever it is they call that freakshow, will cash-in. 
Ontrapanewers, the new saints - spivs, slappers and bullies. 
I dunno  who's worse, the ugly, bug-eyed peroxide baggage, that snarling fucking mutant, see-you-Jimmy Scotchman, 

or the big shrieky ladyman, in the blue suit.

Sense and sensibility.
Ms Good Taste, at home,

and educating us about our failures, 
on the PBC's Question Time show

God help us, 
if these uncouth, gobby vermin 
- and the irredeemably repugnant Al Sugar 
Bears a troubling resemblance to Fred West, 
does his  Lordship.

 are representative of business, then maybe we do need an influx  of thieving Romanians and violent Syrians to improve things. It does seem, though, that these creeps would put some of their money into building  a lean, modern, state-of, client-friendly begging infrastructure, making the right connections, weeding out those beggars without proper financial planning, and taking fifty pence from every quid hustled at the traffic lights.
At the end of the day, 'swhatitsallabout.
I'm in.

The kid, anyway,  came to the car window, hand out for her pound, but as my friend gave it to her she fumbled and said Oh, sorry, lady, so sorry, I drop pound back in car, is mistake, so sorry, very, very sorry lady.......My friend said that she had heard a coin strike the floor of her car and so gave the kid another pound. 
On arriving at her destination she looked in the footwell  and found a penny.

The thieving little bastard, sensing a fundamentally kindly soul,  had duped her, yet it was her own fault for succumbing, in the first place, to such bare-faced, I-dare-you intimidation.

In the long-term interests of community cohesion I would have jumped from the car and  said Get the fuck away from my car or  I'll punch your fucking teeth out, you fucking little bastard. How fucking dare you? And if she was a bloke I would punch him in the teeth and argue about it in court.

And unless people start reacting like that, refusing to be bullied out of a quid,   they will very quickly find not just their cars but their homes infiltrated by these sly little bastards, exercising their right to demand money with charity-menaces. 
There will come a time when a tarmacing Paddy traveller, hustling you for his daughters' Big Fat Gipsy Weddings, will seem positively benign.

Susan went on to tell me that her approach to her local supermarket was via a covered walkway, 

often occupied  by squatting, migrant beggars, fit young men; that on the streets of Bearwood she ran a gauntlet of drunks and those infuriating BigIssue sellers.
Buy this rubbish, out of pity for me.
It'll make us both feel worse.

 I'd kick his arse, too,  the bloke who dreamed-up that particular degradation. 

Yeah, the scum I employ, makes' em feel better,  
 sellin' mugs a magazine they dowanna buy, fulla stuff they dowanna read.  
Yeah, it's a transaction no-one enjoys, but hey, that's what charidee's all about, innit. 
An' lessfaceit, it makes me look good

Him and that fatbastard curtains lady, from KidsScam.
Garlic Breath Yentob and his fat bint.

Oh, please. 
I mean, really.
 Do we look like the sort of people 
who would rip off the taxpayer?
That'll be twelve thousand pounds please. 
Plus VAT. 
All rights reserved.

The streets of Bearwood have never been salubrious and  for a long time, now, have been home to poundshops, pawnshops, betting shops, knocking shops  and so-called charity shops; 
now they host  a thriving, multi-cultural, begging-with-menaces  industry. 

Militant immigrant begging, zero-hours contracts, a minimum wage which is lower than the official living wage, taxpayer subsidies to bogbastard skinflint employers, so's they don't have to pay proper wages;  a legal, political, ecclesiatical  and broadcasting establishment determined to protect its own vile nonces and now MediaMinster nutters and ruperts and racists ranting for war on civilians.
Distopia is not science fiction, here it is.








Ah, it's so good to be living now, in the home of parliamentary democracy; in a successful, growing economy, where even the suburban streets are populated by go-getting, cosmopolitan, young entrepreneurs, doing the right thing, aspiring,  and by people inebriated by the sheer joy of life in a vibrant, minimum-wage, working poor, food bank-supported, disability-denying, library-free, Godlessheathenbastards' zombie economy.

Dave Simple and Gideon, and everyone else squatting on the Great Latrine of State, shitting in our faces, they are very happy for us to gripe about migrant beggars for while we are doing that we permit their cruel 18th century brigandry; while our services, owned by us, are sold to Usury, we squabble about already derisory wages being undercut by European immigrants.  This immigrant problem, for such it is, no-one in parliament wants to solve it, for if they did, they would, simply by reneging on whichever EU treaty permits free movement of Labour.  Instead, up grows the cry of racist! - from those who are desperate, are always desperate,  to bomb poor, brown people wherever they are, to set them alight, rape them and torture them, cheeky fucking bastards; filth like, well, like all of them, Snotty Brown, William Hague, Jack Torture and now Winston Simple and the lunatic Mickey Fallon, all up to their diseased arses in Iraqi children's sundered intestines, these cunts cry racist!  at the wholly reasonable demand for  this country to remain largely British, as though that were unreasonable, as though every last filthy, thieving, child-molesting, coke-snorting peer and member was not elected or appointed to do that very thing; as though the British parliament was like a pan-European Dragons Den, there purely to facilitate the greed of any jumped-up barrowboy or grotesque female impersonator, or gabshite Jock louse.

It is odd, how a chance anecdote can crystalise a whole welter of grievance and irritation. I have known Susan all my life and have often been irritated by her almost congenital commitment to the idea of Doing Good, to Oxfam, to Helping,  but the ruefully-told tale of   her exploitation by a cynical teenager  inflamed my red mist   ducts.  I was raging, speechless, over a pound.

Either I'm too sensitive or else I'm getting soft but my friend, Susan, like many, is somebody's widow, doesn't matter whose, her life partner is gone and she must do what she must do, hard enough,  I suspect, to get out of bed and try, without her having to deal with imported menace, every time she leaves the house.

mr old rightie chided me the other day, for disparaging Mr Nigel Poundland; other contributors, sadly,  have left this place, over the same disagreement.  Be it Corbyn or Cameron or Clegg or Gnasher or the Fatman, Salmond, however,  I despise career politicians roundly and unremittinigly and set no store by them;  that is not to say that I disagree wholly with their stated aims, nor the wishes of their supporters, just that I do not trust their honesty, should they be in a position to keep their promises. 
And who would blame me?

The hustling migrants, young or old, should fight oppression in their own country, should resist the depradations of GlobaCorp, of skymadeupnewsandfilthandsport, of that ghastly cadre of politicians, local and national and pan-national, many of them not even elected.  We cannot do it for them,  for we should do all those things, too; we have our own fight, and nary  a comrade, nary a standard bearer in the whole rotten Palace of Filth.

The enemy within.


oldrightie said...
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oldrightie said...

Ishmael, I'm ashamed I chided your superb work. 99.9% brilliant. This piece no less. However we needed Enoch Powell back when and he got short shrift. As does Farage today. It is the human way to belong and it takes leadership and courage to harness that.that. Farage appears to possess more than the rest of Westminster put together. I never, ever believed until the last decade I would ever admire unreservedly an ex KGB star, either!

As for Bearwood. Scene of my four and a half year old bereavement at the loss of my twin brother. Taken in by a friendly, surrogate aunt. Bearwood a middle class, lovely suburb a cut above my home town of West Bromwich, back then. Now Mosque centre.

Caratacus said...

There are times, Mr.I., when my eyes prickle a bit when I read of some particularly crappy goings-on. In my short and merry career on this planet I have been privy to some pretty shitty episodes in the human experience and, like your good self, am moved to almost irrational anger by the smallest of transgressions. A remarkably similar vignette unfolded once some years ago as I sat at a some traffic lights in some multi-cultural shit-hole and it followed the same path; the traffic lights, the dropped coin, the expectant hand held forth ... unfortunately for the thieving bastard I happened (a) to keep hold of the £1 coin I had been preparing to offer, and (b) kept some small change in the door shelf into which he purported to drop the proffered coin, from which area I grabbed a handful of change (15p approx) and stuffed into his appalled hands as I drove away with his carefully dropped 2p coin. Saved myself a fair bit there, it would seem ... and with a very clean windscreen to boot.

And I don't think that Mr. Old Rightie should beat himself up too much ... many traditional Tory supporters have been dreadfully let down by a succession of cynical placemen and insincere bollock-brains over the years. As a result some of them have been driven into the arms of the likes of Mr. Farage. Unlike your good self, I am prepared to allow that Mr. F. may be genuine, albeit with the limitations of a chap immersed in the ways of fractional reserve banking ... and I watch from the sidelines prepared for disappointment.

Mike said...

Mr oldrightie: Enoch was right with his prophesy, of course. (Incidentally, I think he was black-balled not for the Rivers of Blood speech, but for his objection to the Common Market - he clearly saw what was coming with that as well).

Anyway, my point is that its now too late; the trojan horse is in the gates, the gene pool fucked. There is only one solution now - The Final Solution - to fix this.

tdg said...

The immigrant gypsies--for that is what they are--are aliens in the eastern european nations they are misidentified with; shunned, despised, condemned to their otherness despite decades of coerced integration, as prescribed by the Marxian idea of constitutional equality real life so insistently and tediously disproves. So hard to blame them for preferring the easier ride they get over here.

call me ishmael said...

I don't blame them, nor the Pakistani from the hill village. I blame those who insist that the nation state and its terms and conditions can be maintained despite porous borders and infinite enlargement.

call me ishmael said...

No shame, mr oldrightie, I come here to be chided.

call me ishmael said...

I believe it is widespread, king caratacus, but we should not need to gird our loins against it in the first place. I think Bearwood has been less resilient than other suburbs. Shame, as you say.

call me ishmael said...

I don't believe there is any solution, mr mike, just different levels of catastrophe. Tracey May claims to believe that fucking about with the numbers of passport inspectors will fix everything, and she's in charge of it all.

Mike said...

I agree Mr I. The Final Solution won't happen, although its the only logical action if you wish to preserve your Britishness.

Its too late. Downhill is the only direction from here.

call me ishmael said...

And that's why we called the song Chronicles of Ruin. It requires a deftness and an insight beyond the wit of MediaMinster to manage national decline, global upheaval and adjust to changes hugely more potent than Guthenberg; where we need insight, imagination, compassion and purpose we have dullness, laziness, ranting and vice.

I have noticed, these past few Putin years, that the Russian foreign minister speaks much better English than does our own wretched Hammond, a rabbit in a spiv suit'n'haircut, frozen in Unsuitability's headlights, in office only because of the failures of others; Fallon blustering, he may as well be in the back garden, playing alone because none of the other kids like him, wearing a cowboy hat and firing a cap gun, he must be giving the world a laugh, a grubby, thieving, braying Tory lout, banging-on like he was Churchill, Prince Hal before Harfleur, Nelson at Trafalgar when, in fact, his true resemblance is to a tub-thumping, spluttering Mussolini; not fit to work in a Kentucky Fried Chicken shop, this vile piece of shit, strutting vainly, courts apocalypse, a demented barrowboy, he would see us all incinerated.

Dr. Yllek said...

'Lawnforcement'..there is some profound truth in the name. Newly imposed Enclosure, but this time the troop equipment comes from highly specialized German manufacturer, most likely in the name of pan-European solidarity. Or efficiency? Who knows? We'll just have to wait and see.

call me ishmael said...

Once one starts to write them down, the way thay are said - seckaterry, newkuler, govament, probly, lawnforcement, proply, lessbeclear, p'tickly - and then when you consider all the vacuous clauses - at the end of the day the bottom line is that the Devil, as ever, is in the detail, clearly, well, to be honest, I have to say, on balance that I hear what you are saying - and the complete failure, especially among ministers, to know the difference between singular and plural - the govament are, the BBC are, the cabinet are, the Party opposite are - and then the inability to see that - for instance, in, I simply cannot under-emphasise this enough, or, they were utterly and completely decimated - they simply do not understand what they are saying. Blair's favourite catechism was that we should be under no doubt, when one can be under a misapprehesion but in no doubt, not under it, you can't be under doubt, you can be under suspicion. The people who commit these solecisms are among the best educated in the country, or perhaps the most expensively educated. Michael Spit used to crease me, you could go through any of his speeches and realise that even now, in his forties or fifties, his dreadful English would see him fail an examination which I passed at eleven years of age, and he was the fucking education seckaterry.

George Orwell wrote a great essay, in the 'forties, on the deliberate corruption and dilution, by parliamentarians, of our language.
It is about a twenty-minute read, will be online somewhere, and helps us realise that these ghastly bastards have been around in their current form for longer than we think. Meantime, lawnforcement, fawts'n'prayers and lessbeclear, among many others here, dr y, are my reminder of Orwell's opinion.

Bungalow Bill said...

You are right, of course, Mr I, that language has died in the mouths of the quarter-educated nincompoops now in charge of everything. More alarmingly (though as an inevitable consequence), logic has gone as well. The New People, in your apt coinage, go glassy-eyed and heedless when confronted by rational, precise argument. They breathe a different air to those who came before them; they know, incontrovertibly, that Key Performance Indicators are the whole truth, that Gym and Cycling are universally good and will confound death and that the Centre Ground is the only Cathedral in which worship is permitted.

More than anything, they know that Truth is what they are told, and any who say different may as well not exist.

It's a version of Paradise.

Caratacus said...

I can't remember the exact words, but Thomas Jefferson wrote something along the lines of, "when a man casts a longing eye to office, a rottenness begins".

As I look pensively and less than sympathetically at the charmless goons who are debating whether or not to bomb the living shit out of a country that has done us no discernible harm as far as I can see, I am reminded of those wise words. And we are told that Mrs. Osborne's little boy regards himself as a future prime minister and is anxiously manoeuvring his flabby arse in that direction. I suppose he could be right - he seems to be qualified in almost every respect: ambitious, sociopathic, economically illiterate and proud as hell about it, cares not a jot for the people adversely affected by his squalid thoughtlessness, and is kindly regarded by the money-changers and other corporate chums.

call me ishmael said...

"....and on their promises of Paradise you will not hear a laugh."

Thank you, both, for laying, with linen and crystal and china and silver, the rough table here rudely presented.

Mike said...

It looks like big boy Dave will get chance to drop a few bombs-for-peace.

Expect more than the Christmas lights (are they still called this) in London this year.