Thursday, 14 July 2016



It had been a busy day for Tracey and Phil, he had made a few million pounds by shifting his clients - or playmates', as he called them -  assets away from the British taxman, which is what he did for a living,  and she had appointed a new foreign seckaterry, and, quick off the mark,
 Boris was busy making diplomatic approaches to foreigners.

I have the honour to be Her Majesty's Secaterry of state  for Foreign and Commonwealth but definitely not European Affairs; 
allow me to present my credentials.

Tracey had retained the previous govament's war seckaterry and even now Mad Mick Fallon  was engaged in sensitive talks with his opposite number in the Pentagon.

At the home office, Tracey's new Obedience Minister, 
Amber Madd, was introducing herself to senior civil servants.

 explaining her views on lawnforcement.

Everything in Tracey and Phil's life was looking rosy.
The govament benches were filling-up with gargoyles and grotesques, exactly like herself; a supine and stupid MediaMinster press corps was camped on her doorstep, wetting itself, as though anything was about to change and Michael Spit, for so long her antagonist would, as we speak, 

be begging young newly-wed, Rupert Murdoch, for his old job back. 
Once he had been the wordiest gossip columnist on Fleet Street and now, 
Oh, the stories he could tell. 

Time, Tracey thought,  for some quality time, together, 
the nation's first couple.


Sipping a glass of diabetic wine, the prime minister settled back to enjoy her husband doing one of his favourite turns for her. 
The ghastly old crow reflected that all was well. 
In her world, anyway. 
And that's what mattered.

Phil was getting into his stride.


Anonymous said...

Mindful (as I am sure are all true Ishmaelites) of transgressive performance artist Karen Finley's classic "Yams up my Granny's Ass", it falls to me to point out the following anagram:

Yam the arse.


mongoose said...

Well, I quite enjoyed yesterday. We do like a bit of bloodshed among the ruling classes. Today though has been boring. Even the cricket was tedious.

One is though amused by the horror at the appointment of Bozza. Diplomacy? My arse. "You will have noticed, my European friends, that both China and India are interested in discussing trade arrangements with a post-Brexit UK. Whaddya think of that then, eh, Angela? Half the population of the world right there." Now, if we could find an IT-literate body or two, we could perhaps do some work and find ourselves the 21st Century version of a trading nation. (As easy as Ebay; as varied as Alibaba; as efficient as Amazon; but not in upside down Chinese relationship speak. Good for fuck all is Alibaba.) A Honk Kong by the Sea, that's speaks European English, is what we need. They might even find a use for that HS2 malarkey. Let me look and see who they've got running International Trade. Ah. Oops. Forget I mentioned it.

Caratacus said...

"Fearful Oiks in Europe ... always said so. Well ... I haven't always said so obviously, some of the old foreign johnnies aren't too bad, I s'pose, specially the wimminfolk, fnarr fnarr. And now I'm Forrin Sekatry. The buggers at Balliol didn't expect that by jiminy jingo; I'll give them upper second instead of a first! I say, that Marine le Pen looks like a saucy little strumpet, what? They always said I'd fuck a Frog if I could stop it hopping long enough - now's m'chance ... Tally Ho!"

"Very Good, Minister, and you make your point with commendable clarity if I may say so, but if we could just apply ourselves to this particular section of the treaty document ..."

Don't know about anyone else but I'm looking forward to this :-)

Anonymous said...

Good ol' Mrs May, a proper wee treasure she is. Nice to see all that time in the Home office hasn't been wasted and she's picked up some tips from Kim and Aggie on keeping things spic and span about the House. How clean is it anyway? Still, she's got her own new gaff now and made a great start on cleaning out that old cabinet. Smart move too getting rid of the neighbour next door, bit of a party animal that one and whatever those clouds of white powder were, a pound to a penny ( although they're much the same thing these days) they weren't anything to do with the regular use of a yellow duster.

yardarm said...

Normal service will soon be resumed. The Maidenhead Horror was a City clerk, Amber Nonentity`s dainty bum cheeks polished a chair as an investment banker, Andrea Loathsome worked a photocopier for Barclays; even Arthur Askey is something in the City, a cunt, probably. No doubt there are many others. In the EU or out, Banksteristan carries on; the suit clerks to grub up the loot, the Joe Soaps to carry them.

walter said...

What! no mention of sabrina mr ish

call me ishmael said...

Nir Yana, mr walter, before even my time, those two corkers.

call me ishmael said...

mr verge, getting out or staying in, you need to do less or more of both or either of them. And anyway, no decent critic would analise the prime minister, not when she has so much on her plate. I mean anagramise, 'course I do.

Did you see the show about David Jones' In Parenmthesis, last night, on PBC4? I had never heard of it or him, such a wordwright, makes the more famous WW1 poets look like children.

call me ishmael said...

It is a contemptuous appontment, mr mongoose, Fox's. I hope someone's watching his travel arrangements and hotel bookings.

call me ishmael said...

Jolly japes on the first day, eh, king caratacus, johnny foreigner booing our man like that, Cripes, don't they know who he is, never heard of his distinguished father, the cunt, Johnson senior?

call me ishmael said...

It is laughable, mr yardarm, isn't it, all of ir, as though Tracey was gonna chase the moneychangers from her bed, or anywhere else. Looking forward to how she and Gansher are going to get on, they won't be exchanging pictures iof their childen, that's for sure but they do havew footwear in common, bless. And being mad.

call me ishmael said...

That's nice, mr anonymous; there's a short video on the Twitter thing, by someone called Angry Salmond, showing a Henry vacuum cleaner, falling over, unconscious, having hoovered-up, post-Junky George, all the white powder in the Treasury. I should think Her Indoors doesn't approve of coke-snorting and that's really why he had to go, nothing to do with financial matters. I'm sure neither she not Dopey Phil could do their two times table unaided.

Anonymous said...

Thanks for the tip - in a listings-glance I probably would have mistaken it for yet another hagiography of David Bowie. The real DJ sounds much more interesting.


call me ishmael said...

It really was writing of an enviable quality, a rich, classical, scriptural, bardic lamentation, seeded in the shocking compost of the Somme, nourished for a dozen years, crafting in the Welsh borders, a carpenter of words, someone said, and its four-year creation bringing nervous breakdown. I thought I iknew most of that WW1 stuff but Jones was a quiet man, unpushy, and unlike the oficer poets, loath to sell his works of craft or art or literature. Do try to watch the show, it is fiercely educative, way beyond its subject matter. With some trepidation I will order the book from the thieves at Amazon. I am sure your own, Welsh, poetic platoon - in some of whose works I have heard Jones' halting, curious, exquisite rage - will know it, mr verge.

Bungalow Bill said...

I will look at it too thanks Mr I. A devout Catholic he was (I don't know any of his poems) of the very best sort. Your Orcadian man, George Mackay Brown was another.

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

I read all of his novels over one Christmas period, a few years back, GMB, and was dazzled by the lustre of his prose, narratively inconsequential little phrases, either sprung, gleaming, from his mind or refined, reset and polished until they appeared to have. Some of the historical Orcadian fantasy was delightful but eventually I wearied of his native obsession. I have a collection of his poems which I dip into now and again and always admire his craft if not his subject matter. Jones' In Parenthesis, though, or more accurately the televisual framing of it, punched me in the heart. Do let me know what you think.

Bungalow Bill said...

As fine as you said it would be. The Queen of the Woods section at the end, my word.

call me ishmael said...

Ah, that's good, mr bungalow bill, and reminds me to order the book.

Mel Brandle said...

It is not easy understanding the underlying story behind this whole chaotic situation. It just seems like an entire storage of twists and turns that are most likely to change yet again the very next day. Laymen would not simply understand it all.