Friday, 27 May 2016


I was talking to a young man in the hospital, bright, funny, curious; brighter than a thousand junior doctors, working as the ward orderly.

I declined my by then usual black coffee, saying, I gotta absent that shit from my life, I like it but its so bad. Yeah, but what's life without some Vice, he countered, looking at me.

Well, even the best vices, y'know, they just  become habits.

He looked at me some more.

And then, I said, they become memories.

He looked as though, in forty years' time, he might blow on the embers of that conversation and remember me; that I might, briefly, like a holo-memory, spring into life.

A junior doctor, of course, would just have guffawed and moved-on, back into his equilibrium, going about what mr tdg describes as his dull, mechanistic job.

The time I have wasted, listening to poor or indifferent music has been the next best thing to a recurring,  crippling  vice. Indolent and indiscriminate, I have wasted years, listening repeatedly to stuff which I could already recite backwards, standing on my head, not knowing - until recently - quite how much music there was, even in the Western canon, never mind the Asian or Arabic  - although I would prefer never to hear a note of Oriental music.  I'll  just digress, on that, a moment. I recently watched a 10,000 strong, well-scrubbed and uniformed Chinese choir perform the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth symphony with some state orchestra,  they must have hundreds of them, in China.

I daresay that every last one of the choristers  sang every last note absolutely correctly for fear of a glorious, People's Republic bullet in the back of the neck but fuck me, Jesus, it was awful.
 Too many people, too many voices. Sound travels at 1100 feet per second, not fast enough to usefully cover the distance from the orchestra to the back rows  or even the middle rows of the vast choir. You'd expect the Chinks to know that stuff, physics, acoustics but no, they were all toothily singing their hearts out in perfect, unsynchronised  dissonance, a seething cauldron of noises, all a split-second out of synch. Beethoven, if he could've heard,  would've pissed on them. 

I though it  all dismally emblematic of NewCathay - copying the West, bigger, brasher, more ambitious, cheaper but useless, good for fuck all. 

We must, 

thanks to Junky George Osborne,  
hope that their understanding  of nuclear fission is greater than their  understanding of Western music, lest the South Coast go molten. 

Part of this govament's long-term economic wotsaname, 
to get the country back on its knees, I mean feet.

Chinese nuclear power? 
Right, that's the stuff.  
Ah, so, Confucius, he say: Oh, freunde, nicht dieser tone....
No, he fucking didn't.

You do hear this stuff, all the time, from luvvies, that culture, like gender,  knows no borders but that's rubbish. Oh, I like the Art of War and Zen in the Art of Archery as much as does the next clapped-out old hippy wastrel but, y'know, play the white man, gimme the King James Bible any day. 
By the Waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, and we wept, when we remembered Zion. 
Nothing about the Great Wall of China there, in King David's Blues.

Oriental culture is for ex-pats and  diplomats and  for pretend, made-up people,
 people like that frantically gibbering, loathsome cunt, 
Mark BullyBoy Potato, 

off the PBC 

(irritating, nasal, rushed, stacatto voice)
Listeners-to-Front-Row-will-have-often-heard-me-say-that-the -wealth-of-early-Chinese-literature-dating-from-the-Hundred- Schools-of-Thought-that-occurred-during-the-Eastern-Zhou- Dynasty (770–256 BC)-is-reminiscent-in-its-combination-of-song-, divination-and-astrology-of-the-tormented-inner-city-zeitgeist-which-so underscores-the-didactic-of-EastEnders-or-indeed-of the Great-Tranny-Bake-Off. Confucianism-Daoism - or-Taoism-as-it -is-sometimes-wrongly-named - Mohism-and-Legalism-can-also-of-course-be-readily-recognised-in-contemporary-works -such-as-Britain's-Got-Talent - well-I-certainly-have, I'm-a-novelist-too-as-well-as-everything-else -and-in-Celebrity-Masterchef-with those-two-ignorant-shitheads-the-fat-bald-stupid-CockneyGeezerBastard-and-the brain-dead-uncouth-Aussie-plonker. 

Where, I beseech you, readers, in the bowels of Christ, our Saviour, did the PBC find this pair of lacklustre, retarded mutants; how much rank ejaculate was swallowed by their agents, how many rectums torn and bloodied  in order to get these two hideous imbeciles smeared all over our screens like fucking roadkill?
I don't even know their names but their faces are enough to tell you that they are  coarse, vulgar and only partly-completed  simulacra, some nightmare blend of greasyspoon cook, moron and zombie. I bet they sleep in baths of warm urine and drink litres of blood-streaked, consumptives' snot.  

The thing with diseased sputum, cobber, is that it has to be served just above room temperature. 

 Thassrtight, me old china, 
jus' like it is inside the diseased Freud'n'Jung.

Too right, sport, diseased, bloody sputum, mate, a dyin' mans phlegm, 'sgotta be at fever temperature, or else it tastes like a crockashit, not many chefs know that.

 But then that's why we're the fucking' judges, innit?

And the Cockney git, this fucking prat,  he does a show where he and some other cunt invade, for a week, the lives of a couple whose children really should be taken into care, a couple so desperate to be on the telly that they pretend to be spending thousands of pounds a month on shit pizza and baked beans, from Tesco, until baldy and his oppo trick them into eating Lidl and Aldi brands, instead.
 Lidl fish paste is only 'alf the price a the Tesco one, watcha fink abaht that, my dahlin? Eh? Is that some savin', or what?

An' these strawberries, from Aldi, cor, stone me, if they ain't a full fifty pence a kilo cheaper than them ones in Sainsburys. An' you et 'em and didden even clock that they wasn't the same ones wot you usually buy.

An' as fer these Brussels, well wot would you say if I told ya that loose, like, from dahn the market, they was only ten pence an 'undredweight.  You can't say fairer'n that. Job's a good un. So what would you two say if I told ya that me and wotsisface, ere, just by shopping a bit clever, 'ave saved you two more'n  'alf a million quid offa your yearly shoppin' bill? 
Nah, there's no need to fank me, luv, me and my mate, we'll go 'ome 'appy, like, cos you're a lovely family and we've saved you a lotta dosh. And that's worritsallabout, fer us.

I'm not inventing this cunt, he really does do this shit, he really gets people to act like fucking idiots, just to be on the stupidest telly show ever. 
Time he was made a peer, surely. 
Arise, Lord Moron.

But back to the more rarified area of showbusiness.

A Bully?  Me?
Well-I-must-admit-that-rather-like-that-other-tortured-cultural-colossus-Jeremy-Clarkson-I-occasionally-act-somewhat- emotionally-but-that-is-only-because-I-care-so-very-much-about- myself-I-mean-my-Art-I mean-my-listeners-at-home-eating-their-evening-M'n'S-lasagne-relying-on-me-for-this crucial-cultural-and-artistic-update. Did-I-mention-that-I-am-also-a-novelist? That-is-when-I-am-not-licking-faecal-matter-from-luvvie-arseholes.

or  Mark Kermode, 

off the PBC.
Yeah, what the potato guy said, above, only with something about Chinese enema. Did I say Chinese enema?  I meant cinema.  Chinese cinema, course I did.  Because that's like, my thing, the movies.  Yeah, course it's a real job.
Everything that happens at the PBC is really,  truly real, 
in a very real sense.
Almost incendiary it is, sometimes, so very real is it.
Talking about the movies. Scorcese and wotsisname, the nutjob, Quentin?  Letts, is it? Tarantula. Yeah, Quentin Tarantula.
Doesn't get more real than that.

And I can't see Junky George 

immersing himself in Chinese literature
 - if they have any literature in that dreadful picture-writing, shit-daubing  thing that they do, with fucking paintbrushes.
I mean, how can you write anything with a fucking paintbrush, apart from No Entry?
The way they write evening, for instance, one of the ways they write evening, is by painting  a picture of a bird, sitting in its fucking nest.
Imagine Geoff Chaucer, writing the Canterbury Tales with a fucking paintbrush;  he'd still be at it.
Look at it, it's fucking rubbish

We ah aw in dis togeddah.

- or learning Mandarin, Christ, he can't even squeak a proper sentence in English, can Junky George, he's got no chance in another language.
Oh, but mr ishmael, high-end, authentic Chinese cuisine is simply to die for. 
Right, sharks bits and birds' nests and fucking noodles. And dogs' noses.
I'd nuke em, me, the Chinks, just for that, just for dog-eating.
Worse than fucking cannibalism, isn't it, eating a nice dogbloke. I would, I'd fucking nuke the bastards

The kid, in the hospital, though, mopping floors and carrying tea and serviette-wrapped digestives to the patients, he reminded me of those chronicles of wasted time,  of passing vice and idolatry, of a life pissed up the wall, watching and listening to trash. 

I felt like the Ancient Mariner, with the Wedding Guest; I wanted to sit him down  and say, Listen, don't fuck about with all this made-up pop music shit, these people only want your money and your distant love, they don't know anything, if they did, they wouldn't be doing what they're doing, and the people who run them, the managers, the impresarios, the agents, the Svengalis, the producers and promoters, they are pure shit-filth, leeches and parasites, pimps, pederasts, drug dealers, shysters, soul-stealers  and crooks. 

Don't bother with all that pop music shit, in the end it means nothing; it's already starting to mean nothing, there 's so much of it, more and more product every month, there's new bands and artists every week, it's just an industry, it ain't art, and then - as well -  there's still all the old product, being recycled, force-fed rectally  up the collective arsehole. Never in our history have we been so sung-at, so badly; never has the mediocre been so ascendant - Paul McCartney and his amazing teenage  hair, still singing songs he wrote sixty years ago,
Willya still need me,willya still feed me?

Madge, grinding  her old arse in people's faces; 

Bob Dylan 
who can't even attempt to sing, now mutilating not only his own hugely over-rated catalogue but also mumbling his migraine-inducing  way through all that Frank Sinatra Crooner shit, y'know, Sinatra, Cool Frank,  

the plucky little New York spic, living the Playboy Life in LA,  Hugh Hefner set to music by Nelson Riddle, Little Frank,  pimping for the Mafia. And singing relentlessly about, Oh, God, what a hard time those damn women bitches have given him. Set 'em up Joe, make it one for my baby, and one more for the toad, I mean road, Christ, such maudlin, self-pitying shit. If, as I was saying, America is hard to find, it'll be due in no small measure to its obsession with lowlife crooners like Frank Sinatra and the rest, Dipso Dean and the poor, shat-upon Sammy Davis Junior, the house nigger.  I never heard two bars of Sinatra that I wanted to hear again, it was such a tiny talent, on a tiny palette, albums filled with  songs of fools' romantic love, babytalk songs, playboy songs, Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away......Farley's Rusks, for grown-ups, tripe.  In LlamaLand, there's a one-man band, and he'll toot his flute for you.  Right, Frank, heavy shit, man.

 Sinatra, though,  could at least read a score and carry a tune, sing in time with the band,
 Little Old Bob can do none of that musician stuff, never could, it didn't matter, when, for a few short years in the 'sixties, he dazzled, and  my Goodness, he did,  but his concerts these days, well, the miracle is that people aren't queuing-up, round the block, to pelt this old guy with dogshit. I'd pay good money to do it, myself, and I have heard, read, and seen more Bob Dylan stuff than most.  I haven't bought a Bob Dylan recording this century, multi-millionaire entertainer luvvies  moaning that they got the workingman's blues - Dylan and Brue Springsteen both, improbably, do it - well, it's taking the piss, I think. In my Haitch-Oh.

And among all these old geezers, fronting tribute bands to themselves, there is no embarrassment, no censure, not even a gentle, critical nudge towards respectable silence; pretty children fifty years ago, many still, now utterly devoid of creativity, 
pout and grimace  into their seventies and eighties, singing ancient, rock'n'roll nursery rhymes, as though they were teenagers.

There's all those oldies and then there's the newies, too, I dunno who Adele is or what she does but she talks like a fucking buffoon,  a village idiot; Ed Sheenan, I dunno who he is or what he does. One Direction, I dunno. I've seen Mumford and Sons and I've seen countless better ensembles in folk clubs and at folk festivals, wossallthatabout, is it that they went to public school?

All this is my fault, mine and that of those like me, who asserted that the Kinks and the Who and the Manfreds were artists, that Pink Floyd were geniuses, Jimi Hednrix sent to us from Heaven, when, in fact, those we hailed as artists were, and remain, light entertainers; real art, real music was beyond our gobby ken, we called this levelling downwards the End of Deference and applauded our cretinous selves. 
All this dreadful shit, today, Cruelty TeeVee's brutal talent shows and it's glossy nonentities, it all  happens under Music's captured banner. And it was my-my-my-g-g-g-generation offered it up to Mammon.
Somehow, thanks to me, the nation has become addicted to, enchanted by the sights and sounds  of banality. 

 I, who can only work in silence am incensed by tradesmen I employ who  cannot lift a tool unless it is to the sound of Radio Two;  you cannot get in to a taxi without having to share the driver's taste in music, even though you are paying him; GP reception areas, clinics, hotels, shopping,  centres and leisure facilities; there are few public spaces not made hostile by bad music - and I guess that in a public space, all music is bad music -  all of it making its way out, into Infinity, a cosmic environmental disaster.

I don't think that this side of Eternity there is any silence, clocks tick, lights hum, pipes cough and splutter, hearts beat - ain't it just like the night, to play tricks when you're trying to be so quiet - but there is the sound of silence, in which you can hear - discern - the myriad sounds of Creation, even in the city; you can hear the weather, the cat on the tiles, the falling leaves that jewel the ground, the cry of the night creature, the sigh of the lover.

 Simon Cowell would have it otherwise, would have us deafened to nature and to each other by cynically manufactured pap, from dawn 'til dusk, by the techno jangle of his human cash registers.

Prince died, a coupla weeks back, 

I never knew what to make of him, I quite liked Purple Rain and I quite liked that song he wrote, sung by poor, mad Hazel O'Connor, No-thing Compares,  No-thing Compares 2You but he seemed like  a completely crazy bastard, always on the go, constantly performing, jamming, writing and recording, I think that like Frank Zappa, Prince recorded every note he ever played and there is said to be a massive amount of unreleased material in his vaults.  Can't all be good, though, can it, unless, of course, his audience is entirely undiscriminating?

Beethoven - about whom I came here to talk, in the first place -  was, 

like Prince, a gigging musician, like Prince,he was fiercely independent, eschewing an aristocratic patron;  he wrote and published what he wanted to, not,  like Mozart, what  was commissioned; like Prince, Beethoven taught his craft to others, gave public performances with his peers and was completely crazy.  I saw his pianoforte in Vienna, once, looked really cool.

Beethoven is credited with composing 138, 205 or 340 pieces, depending on which catalogue one reads. Among these, Beethoven wrote nine symphonies, the opera "Fidelio," eight other overtures, eleven piano concerti, two choral masses, maybe five other several-movement choral works, slightly fewer than 100 chamber works and accompanied sonatas, 32 piano sonatas, around 350 individual songs and song arrangements, and perhaps 50 other instrumental works including sets of variations, bagatelles, etc. 

 On the subject of Beethoven  there is a lifetime's reading to be found just a click away  if you want it, although the music speaks well enough for itself. I read a couple of biographies decades ago and that's enough for me. What concerns me about all this, pointlessly,  is  the wasting of my own time, something which has preoccupied me since I met the kid in the hospital, maybe seeing in him my lighter, youthful, more careless  self.  Pissing about.

I have for a long time liked the string quartet form and I have always known that I should listen to Beethoven's Late Quartets, yet  it was only a heart attack, last week, a small one, but, y'know, a heart attack's a fucking heart attack, which promped me to  do so.

I have now managed  to hear and see a few movements, each of them blissfully heavy going, not hard to listen-to, just, as I have always said about Beethoven, like having God bow the strings of your heart, pulling you apart and mending you, by turns. Gotta go easy with that stuff.

 This version, here, however, of the third movement of opus 135, is unusual in that there is no sight of the performers; instead, there is a visual representation of the score, scrolling sidewards with the music, it is more illustrative of composition, harmony and symmetry, all that stuff,  than anything I have ever seen.The top two flowing  lines are the first and second violins, the third, the viola and the fourth, the cello and the length of the individually coloured lines represent the crochets and quavers and so on.  I guess this is  just a piece  of clever software but where  performance is  lit, directed, filmed and edited it must  subtly interfere with and distract from the music, re-interpeting wrongly, subjectively emphasising this line or phrase over that, this presentation only focuses the listener on what it was which the composer assembled, wrung from Within, heard from Without, somewhere.
Had there been something like this when first I heard proper music, well, my precious time would not seem, now, so wasted.

Wednesday, 18 May 2016


I hate to be such a bore, with all this health stuff but it would be impolite not to mention that I am in the local hospital with a Mycardial Infarction and expect to be flown to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, tomorrow, for an angiogram, maybe a stenting, maybe a medication change and maybe surgery. I walked into hospital, here, and I am just on a simple monitor and would expect and prefer either of the first two options.

This has happened a couple of times, this year, this chest pain, but has  proved to be a referred pain, from the surgery on my neck, although impossible, without ecg and blood tests, to distinguish from heart attack; this time, the second blood test revealed an elevation of the heart attack enzyme and so the plumbing needs to be explored. Orkney is notorious for shuffling-off even a hint of an emergency to Aberdeen, no-one has told me the extent of the elevation and it may be that ARI consider it insignificant or easily remedied. The entire health hierarchy, between junior and senior doctors, small and larger hospitals is, of course, impenetrable and I am merely being processed and told relatively little. Aside from a residual twinge of  pain in my chest I feel  as right as rain, strange to think that these events could, any moment, prove fatal; pointless, however, to assume a portentous, one foot in the grave dignity, a pretend clarity of purpose and vision.

I will report back as and when I can and am sorry that our discussions are once more interrupted.  I am conscious that I am long overdrawn in Sympathy's Account and only mention this business so's not to appear indifferent to others' curiosity about my absences but there is no need to dredge-up more expressions of care and concern, with which you have already enriched me.


 Amber Mad, 
minister for lunacy.
Well, yes it is a club, Europe,  a jolly good one, you can all go and work there, when you fuck-up, well, I can, and that's what counts,  and even though we do pay more money in than we get out a lot of it goes to needy countries and so that's very good for us, here,  in Britain. Apart from the people at the foodbanks and sleeping on the streets, although, do you know what,  we have made sleeping on the streets very difficult for people, yes, spikes and things, so they jolly well have to sleep walking about, and serve them right, too, it's probly all their  their own fault.
And I would just say that the Leavers keep saying that we pay fifty billion pounds a week to Europe  but the actual figure, the ac-tual figure, which I have here in front of me,  is actually seventy five pee per day. And that's a fact.

Tuesday, 17 May 2016


 M. alphons was saying, a few minutes ago, that the US was full of crap and indeed it is but historically it breeds heroes and  Father Daniel Berrigan, SJ,
who died recently, was one of mine.
 I had his book for a long time, America Is Hard To Find but it went down in the Flood, like much else, and I can't even remember what it was about, except America being Hard To Find. 

There were a few bold US radicals at that time: 
before he OD'd in Phil Spector's toilet, crazy-saint Lenny Bruce, well, he perfected the art of How to talk dirty  and influence people.

 I only heard Lenny's records long after his death but he was a profound influence, his raps accenting  much of what appears here.

The late Bill Hicks, too, took up Lenny's cause

and there have been a handful of others, satirists, novelists and lawyers.

Berrrigan's sometime attorney,  William Kunstler, a fierce opponent of the death penalty,

"We have become the charnel house  of the Western world with reference to executions; the next closest to us is the Republic of South Africa." Kunstler, 1996

 defended the Chicago Seven - a bunch of harmless anti-war dopers - as well as those wrongly accused of the Attica Prison riots and Berrigan himself, with his brother and other co-accused, Phil Berrigan, second right, a WW2 vet turned priest, who campaigned into his eighties;

 Kunstler saying that he wasn't a lawyer-for-hire, he only defended those he loved. 

If only the Birmingham Six  and the Guildford Four and the Hilsbro Hundreds had secured such representation. We don't seem to produce that type of lawyer, here. 

Gareth Peirce of Birnberg and Co, 
was one such, a civil rights lawyer representing, notably, Judith Ward and the Guildford Four but British lawyers who care about their clients are like rocking horse shit, civil rights ones especially, look at Imelda Blair, QC, our most prominent civil rightser. 

 Civil rights lawyer, Imelda, QC.
Gimme me money, that's what I want, yes, from tyrants, yes, from despots and torturers, yes, just gimme money, that's what I want.

Berrigan was a New York Jesuit priest, poet and anti-war activist who became famous for his opposition to the Vietnam War, joining protests, burning draft cards and going to jail, as priests should.  In his later years he campaigned against torture, as priests should 

but it was his legitimising of the anti-Vietnam War protests for which he will be remembered, almost before my time, Berrigan, but for a while he and others like him, in South America,  promised a better Church and a better world. 
Berrigan here, 
in old age, campaigning with his niece against his country's torture policy.
 The Noncing Monsignors, though, of Popes John Paul, Benny Nazi

JohnPaul2's Man In Boston, Benny, managed to get the Boston Diocese into Voluntary Protective Bankruptcy before those pesky children could claim compensation.

and Frankie Fray Bentos, they've got things back on track, now, while here at home our insipid, Godlessheathenbastard clergy, 

happy to splash holy water on the Tornadoes,  claim Christianity is now antique, almost irrelevant, just one aspect of   FaithCorp, worthless fucking bastards.

It wasn't always crap, M. alphons, the States; once, there was a way to get back home. Where once, though, they had Berrigan, Bruce, the Washington Post, the Black Panthers  and the Yippies to tweak Power's nose they now have  Family Guy. 
America is hard to find

THE GREAT STUPIDITY. An occasional note.

SG said...
Indeed Mr BB, stupidity seems to infest almost every avenue of life. Apparently, the National Union of Students is now demanding segregated accommodation for 'LGBT' students during their first year at the institutions that we still call 'universities' - lest they feel that they have suffered some form of 'offence' or are otherwise intimidated by other non-LGBT students (if any remain to be found - surely an endangered species?...). WTF? What next? Maybe segregated educational facilities for different ethnicities? Now where have we heard that before? Or different religions - sorry, I forgot, we already have those... Alas! It would appear that we have moved into a new age - post-industrial, post enlightenment, an age of gibbering idiots and inane babble - an age of stupidity, the 'Great Stupidity' indeed!


Great Stupidity News comes from across the water, in ObamaLand. Still torturing niggers down in Cuba, still murdering them on the streets at home and still tying them down and poisoning them in an orgy of painful and protracted DeathRow obscenity murder, the Great Black Hope, himself, has apppinted an Attorney General who is waging war on the State of Carolina for its stance on toilet segregation.

Unfair Toilet Segregation is the new Civil Rights Movement, even though the old one still has some way to travel,  there having been little significant change to black people's lives, other than every worthless,  corrupt, degenerate  Senator and Conmgressman  walking around like they were Martin Luther King's godson, as though allowing black people to say, I have a Dream, and letting them keep dreaming it is, as we might say here,  Job Done. Yeah, we let them black folks dream on, God bless America.
Yeah, that's OK, fine and dandy, you keep dreaming, nigger.
And Donald Trump could be worse than this, they say.

No, the imaginary rights of a handful of sexfreaks are far more important  than a black person's right to walk down the street without being shot to death, his or her right not to be framed, railroaded and then gassed, shot, electrocuted or intravenously tormented to death and  despatched to his nigger God, over in Beulah land.

Christ, has anyone seen this wicked farce over lethal injection?  ObamaLand resembles  more and more the Spanish Inquisition. Time the cunt had another Nobel Peace Prize, surely. 

Loretta Lynch, anyway, the AG, insists that NewPeople, people of self-chosen,  asserted gender - rather than biological, natural gender - can use whichever RestRoom facilities best help them express their chosen sexual orientation, whatever that may be on any given day.

Normal People, the OldPeople, in Carolina and elsewhere are a bit pissed at Loretta, saying, quite rightly, that this is an invasion of majority privacy, the fact that anyone who says they feel like a woman  can go and use a ladies' toilet, anyone who feels like a man can use a gents'.

Imagine, some six-feet-six, bearded trucker with a beer belly out to here, bloated on a diet of those mountainous multiple chili-burgers, with bacon and peppers and fried eggs and mayo and corndogs and a side of double fries and some maple syrup and ketchup and mustard, washed-down  with gallons of milk-shake, and the ladies are in the ladies' room and matey barges in, saying, Fuck me, sistahs, I gotta have me a dump, a big, big, dump.......Wachoo mean, bitch, I cain't do no dump in here? Wachoo mean, this is fer ladies only?  Cain't y'all see I am a lady, a real purty lady?  Jes because I was born a man, it don't mean I am a man, do it, now, says so in the law, don't it? I am a bonah fydee Transperson, an' I got rights, same as you, to come in here and shit my guts out. An' if any of you sistahs wanna come in and suck my pre-op dick...hey, jes because I still got me some meat'n'potatoes don't mean I aint a one hunnerd per cent slut-bitch, jes like y'all are, really, deep-down inside - if any of you or all of you wanna come in and suck my dick while I'm shittin' out twenty poundsa animal fat, well, that'd be right sisterly of y'all. 

We all women together, ain't we?

The State of Carolina insists that people use the rest room appropiate to the gender on their birth certificates;  the logic of the Attorney General's opposition to this must inevitably mean that ALL rest rooms, everywhere, must become gender neutral.  The logic of that is that the LGBT-ers will find some other aspect of toileting at which to take umbrage, maybe the fact that public toilets are generally discreet, private and windowless, thus engendering a sense of shame in LGBT people, shame at a natural bodily function, yet another example of heterosexual oppression of TransFolk. 

Given that most of the trannies I have encountered are all, by definition, pathologically, revoltingly exhibitionistic maybe the AG's next move will be to legislate for transparent public toilets, into which all can see, so's that toileting trannies don't feel any sense of shame: Here I am, I am woman, proudly taking a shit, even though I am a man.

The end of Ms Lynch's legislative journey must surely be that private shitting becomes illegal, lest it offend some fucking lunatic or other who has formed a pressure group and that everybody has to just shit out there in the street, where everybody can see. 

We shall overcome, aye, right.

The right of men to shit in women's toilets, 
that's the main thing.
This is the way the world ends, 
 this is the way the world ends, 
this is the way the world ends,
not with a bang 
               but with a hissy fit.     

Sunday, 15 May 2016



There was a Mums' media event a couple of weeks back, hailed as the first-ever schoolkids' strike, quite put me in touch with my inner Hitler, it did.  

Seems that one or another aspect of the school curriculum had displeased the parents,  they didn't want Sacha or Alex being tested every five minutes, not that they are.
Back when I was seven or eight I used to  love tests, which we seemed to have every week or two, absolutely loved them; today's precious little i-freak mutant  however, and his ghastly parents do not recognise that learning, y'know skills, craft and creativity as well as duties and obligations  only proceed through that constant consolidation   brought by testing and examination.  
What was worst about this show of shitbrain concern was that these particular tests are designed  as much to monitor the schools' progress as that of the pupils - can we still say pupils, or is five year-old Kerry now a student? - and this so-called strike was a move to suspend or eliminate those government-run SATs by rehearsing children in oppositional language and political posturing, vastly and unnaturally beyond their years; they were teaching the little fuckers to parrot Mummy's but most likely Daddy's shithead sloganising. Narcissism run amok. Let us by all means appropriate challenge the theft of our schools, the gifting of our taxes to the schools of the rich and let us damn an education system which, feeding on itself, promotes the mediocre, the illiterate, the innumerate, the gobby and the uncouth,

 calling them SuperHeads  -
this celebrity oaf would've struggled to be a caretaker in any of my schools -

whilst shoving ruthlessly scripted  infants front'n'centre is not the way to do it.

 By trying to delude us all into believing that these ruined  little ones  had collectively and consciously  placed themselves out of school and were developing a dialectic of liberation their parents revealed themselves as  vain,  empty-headed, cretinous arseholes.

How the rich, their own spawn sequestered in luxuriant, hothouse cloister must lol out loud at Angela Lamb. Whoever she is.

The strike proper, deployed by teachers, however, is an entirely  different matter, a source of manufactured Outrage, teachers not having realised  that their primary task in our world is to mind the brats, in order to enable Mum, Tracey or Dad, Kevin, to go to work and fund what Trace and Kev call their lifestyle, in fact a ghastly, lifelong  treadmill of shitty housing, shitty cars, shitty food and clothes and shitty holidays in foreign shitholes, Kev and Trace's life of shit depends on the teachers just getting down to their proper job of child-minding, wossamatterwivem?

I watched, aghast, as some seven year-old, pigtailed rodent mouthed her Dad's catechism to a ChannelFourNews interviewer, who should properly have boxed her fucking ears. These little striking vermin, though, their shop stewards had been drilled by an army of KevDads for fucking weeks and were word-perfect  in their denunciation of both David Cameron and of the hapless Nicky Morgan,   Junky George's Education Privatiser, who took over from Michael Spit.

 Nicks here being barracked by, well, 
by education professionals,
 No, no, before I became the nation's Headteacher I worked as a corporate tax lawyer, so I know exactly how to  make the nation's schools look attractive to foreign investors, yes, if you will, GlobaCorp, and the first thing is to demoralise the teachers, make them leave education and employ zero-hours former shop assistants in their places. Of course, when I say the nation's schools, I don't mean the proper schools, like Eton and Harrow and St Pauls, just the shit schools, to which most students go. Or attend, yes, to which most students attend.   And yes, the more those schools play-up the easier they are to privatise, I mean improve, 'course I do.  Yes, just like the NHS.

What these ghastly parents don't realise is that by pretending to - what's that word, empower?  - their spawn they do incalculable damage not just to the teacher's role in the classroom - which is, inter alia, in loco parentis -  but to their own roles as parents outside of it.  Many, of course, have long abrogated such natural, hierarchical responsibility and now live a life of low-rent parental cliche, the national Confessor,

Ye, who walk in Poverty and Need, 
come ye unto my show and be ye redeem-ed.
Lo, and made cunts of.
Jeremy Kyle, their home tutor 

- luv'em2bits, me, my kids, doennyfin4'em or vilest of all, he's not just me son, he's me best friend.

I don't know if, the next time there's a row about bedtime, Kev and Tracey's brats will stage a walk-out, start a wildcat strike with the neighbourhood kids or ask ACAS to arbitrate, but I do how so very much hope so.

And this direct action by minors has spilled-over into an already febrile Scotland, the best part of England.  


Not happy with being allowed to vote obediently for Gnasher,  Scots teenagers last week, 22,000 of them, organised - that is to say logged-onto -  an online petition to protest the severity of the previous day's national maths examination;  I say maths but it was probably arithmetic, no difference these days, adding-up and taking-away requiring a calculator and a course of stress counselling. The e-petition, anyway, drafted by a brilliant young Scot:

 “On the 12th of May 2016, many people sat the National 5 Mathematics exam across Scotland. The exam consisted of two papers - a non-calculator and a calculator. The second paper was challenging which is expected of course as examinations aren’t supposed to be a breeze, however, paper 1 was catastrophic and disastrous. Not only was some of the content unseen before but it was unlike any other past papers from previous years. Floods of tears have been shed as for those who have been offered a conditional for college or university, this exam was crucial to their entrance to the course. As well as this, 6th years who have no choice but to leave school will have no further chance of taking this exam in high school and this could hold them back significantly in the near future. I am speaking on behalf of every one else who sat this exam when I say this is just not acceptable and is not going to be tolerated. The pass mark needs to be lowered.”
Not acceptable and not going to be tolerated, eh, little bastard needs his arse kicked.

I did see one of them interviewed, some bovine, hulking, moody teenager and he couldn't manage to speak even the inferior, Scottish version of English, yet felt able to set and mark his own examination in mathematics

Here is the brave new world of grievance, not only do its inhabitants speak only in hyperbole  - things are never a bit difficult but are always a to'al nightmare, horrrrr-endous and devastating, as in matey's observations, here, a boy whose examination was catastrophic and disastrous.   
Catastrophe and disaster, well, having one of  Mad Mick Fallon's drone missiles landing in your playground, that's catastrophe and disaster; tsunami and earthquake, they're catastrophe and disaster, being too fucking thick to pass your maths exam, maybe you should spend less time on your i-thing, stupid, and a bit more on your homework.

I daresasy that under direction of the Scottish National Socialist State Minister for Everything,

The nation's mother.
Christ, talk about a face like a slapped arse.
Maggie Sturgeon, 
acting as the sovereign will of the Scolttish People made flesh, the SQA, the examination board, will appropriately regrade all the failed papers as passes, and blame the Westminster govament and its sixty million citizen-suspects for the gobby stupidity of Scottish teenagers; what else could happen?

We have yet to hear from Ruth Three Boys Davidson on this matter but no doubt she, childless, like Reichsfuhrer Sturgeon, will have things to say to parents, about where they have gone wrong.

 There was a chink of light, on the STV News. 
Had Jon Sox been reporting this matter on ChannelFourNews 

Well, it's absolutely dreadful.....something must be done....but what....we've been here before. Well, I have, anyway. Many times.

he would have been wetting himself about the plight of these poor foreign teenagers, denied a future by a cruel examination board, his hair already whitened by his care and compassion for foreigners and poor people, John Sox'd have gone bald in a flash over this latest wotsaname  but STV's correspondent, bless him, merely said, 
Well, exams, they're supposed to be hard, aren't they,
 isn't that the point of them?

How did this happen, that, good consumers, we enslaved our children to i-Corp and then thrust upon them identities for which they were unready?


An English High Street after a Leave vote;
the Dead rise Triumphant.

Well, lessbeclear, I'm not saying that there will be war, 
just that it's a hundred-to-one certainty. 

Yes, war with the darkest force in Creation, with Death itself.
They'll all come back, you know, and quite proply, too. I would if I was them. Is it was them?  Or is it were them?  No matter, if I  is one of the dead, especially one of the dead Romans who built all the motorways and the central heating, and I am or were dead and buried in the ground, yes p'raps in Bath or up by Hadrian's Well - wossat? Wall, is it Wall? Not Well? Fuck me, this history stuff, it is a pain - I should jolly well be clawing my way out of the ground and eating babies, just as fast as I could. 

There's even 'photos of it happening, yes, from the Future, of your babies, being eaten. Yes, yours, people of Britain. Your babies. Being eaten. Yes, by Brexit monsters.


The dogs of Brexit War.

Oh, they'll all die,  you'll see,  or be eaten, as an inevitable consequence of Boris the BabyKiller telling lies about me. That's the sort of thing that happens when people  disobey their sovereign Lords. It sort of tears a hole in the fabric of wossaname, that bloke, he mentioned it, that mr sg, the space/time continuation. It means all Hell'll break loose.  And because of us leaving Europe, not that Europe will allow us to leave, but if we were to leave, which we can't, all the babies would die. Not a lot of people know that it is only due to our membership of the Common Market that so many babies survive.

Oh, Lady, you have erred in your voting
 and I am come for you.

The Mums, they'll all die, too. 

 And the Dads

You had your chance, 
now Death is your portion

Yes, the Kings and Queens, too.
Only not Queen Brenda, obviously.
But maybe King Brian, what is it, Brian the Second?  The Third?

Yes, charity, always makes one laugh; 
'spect it's the same with you, Sir Jim.

Yes, to be fair, we could actually manage quite well without King Brian, I think.

And on top of all the babies dying from the Brexit Plague there will be total unemployment, that's right, no jobs for anyone, apart, of course, for those of us in govament. Thirty million or more jobs are absolutely dependent on us remaining in the Common Wossaname.  Those who do survive'll all be heading South, to sleep opn mr mike's verandah, if he'll have them, yes, in Australia, which doesn';t yet know it but will one day also have to joine the EU.

And there'll very likely be no food. Not many people know that every bite we eat comes to us from Europe. And quite frankly if we leave Europe, not that they'll let us leave, but if we do, they'll simply not want to send us any free food, as they do now.
So make no mistake.
 There it is, War, Plague, Famine and wossaname, what's the other thing, yes, Clint Eastwood on a Pale Horse,

 killing every bastard in town. 
 Just killing people where they stand.

That's what Brexit means.

 That's it, the Four Horsemen of the Apprenticeships.
Is it Apprenticeships? What? Sir Alan Sugar? 'S he on horseback, too?  I thought he was Labour. No? Donald Trump?  He does the Apprenticeships?  Is he in the House of Lords?
 But no, everything I say is absolutely true,
it's even in the Bible.
The lesson today is taken from the Book of Fear, 
the last book of the New English European Bible.

And lo, after an vote by the unGodly for Brexit there came an pale horse
which was the personification of death with Hades following him jaws open receiving the victims slain by their failuure to vote even as they had been instructed unto, by their betters whom hath been set above them by the holy persons of GlobaCrime Incorporated.
And so shall perish all whom  knowing that they should, having been sent instruction by HM Govament, yea, even in an pamphlet, 

paid for  by themselves at an cost being nine million shekels and  stuff-ed with falsehood and barefaced lie, do not do as they are told.
There endeth the lesson. 
Blessed be the name of the Euro.
Not that we would ever join unto it.
Unless they told us to.

But no,  people are always asking me about border security and I have to say that it simply couldn't be any tighter than it is presently.  I mean, we keep the nig-nogs out, quite proply, in my view, well, some of them, there's no knowing how many of the blighters slip in, y'know, in containers full of curry, but we keep most of them out, some of them, anyway. And otherwise there's just half a billion Europeaners who can  come and live here, just, y'know, if they feel like it.  No, no, nothing we can do to stop them, five hundred million of them, yes, twelve times the current population of the UK, is it twelve? Twenty, then?  Let's see, the population's now 65 million or so.  Maybe seventy? 
Alright, maybe seventy, nobody knows, I mean, how's anyone expected to know how many immigrants there are when nobody knows? 
But say the population is seventy million and seventies go into half billions, what, three times,is it?  Seven times? Is it really? Sevens into  half a billion, well, seven sevens is forty nine. Are forty-nine.  And forty-nine's nearly a half billion, so forty-nine times the UK's current population can come and live here, if it wants to, if they want to, whether we want them to or not. Well, even if that did happen, which it won't, that would still  make us one in fifty of the UK population, we, the current UK population would only be outnumbered in our own country by fifty to one. Lessbefair, you can't have borders which are much more secure than that, can you?
I say, haven't got a brown envelope stuffed with twenties up there, have you?

So there, Mr Poundland-ToryTraitor, that's shot your fox, not that we do that any longer. Or at least not for the time being

 But it's not just me, all the people who quite proply, in my view, failed to predict the last financial crash or indeed, it must be said, any of them,  every last one of them is now predicting the utter collapse of the entire global economy if people don't do as I tell them.  I mean, if people like this are against Brexit, why would anyone vote for it. Just take Mrs laVache.

You Brits, vot are you like, eh.
'ow many times do I 'ave to tell you all?
Ze Brexit eet ees le merde. 

Okay, Iyam facing ze prosecution in my own country for embezzaling from ze Frog taxpayer, n'est ce pas but zey vill never convictez moi, parce'que  Iyam ze mout'piece of ze criminal superpersons of ze entire world, ze IMF.

An' any'ow, if ve can fuck ze entire Greek nation up le derriere avec le broken bottle, zen vot does it matter if I 'ave divert a few billion Euro to mes amis while I was in ze Frog govament?  Everybody do it, n'est ce pas?
Non,non, ecoutez moi, zis Brexit sheet, eet 'as to stop, cos eef eet doesn't stop an'  Britain vote to departez-vous from le grande projet  zen every bastard weel want to leave, aussi. An' zen ve vill all be fucked, all ze top people, any'ow, like moi.

That was Crooked Chrissie laVache, there, my economics adviser, and she works for the very cream of Organised Crime so she knows what she's talking about when it comes to the proper exercise of democracy.

But before I go I would just l;ike to place on record that yes, I have every confidence in Mr John Whoremonger, the culture seckatry, every confidence and I believe he has done a splendid job in not provoking a row with people who listen to the Archers.  Yes, and PeeEm. Because do you know what, as war looms in Europe, the last thing we need is dissent in the Home Counties. It is quite right that we ask Mr Murdoch to be patient a little longer. Yes, I know he doesn't have much longer, especially now he's climbing-up the Texas MoneyGrubbing Tree as often as his doctors will allow him.
Mr and Mrs skymadeupnewsandfilth.

But if he'll just hang on a bit, we will be able to scrap the extorionate BBC licence fee and allow viewers to pay, instead, the even more extortionate cost of the various skymadeuopnewsandfilth packages.
Yes and there'll be none of that culture bollocks, either, Shakespeare and that. Classical music. Art. Paintings and things. Who wants that?

And  as to the Talent, being paid ten grand a week by the national broadcaster - is that what it is, half a million a year, something like that, five tens are five, so fifty times ten is fifty five, fifty five weeks in a year, yes, ten grand a week to a telly celeb, who probly, quite proply in my view, organises his tax affairs very sensibly, yes, doesn't pay any, that's right, yes, like Mr Gary Barlow

Take That.
Two tax avoiders together.

 or Sir Philip Green - well to those moaning minnies,  I simply say, lessbeclear, finding a former Butlins Redcoat who can host a meaningless teevee show, that can be jolly hard and as with the bankers, if we want the best, we simply have to pay for it.  And, lessbeperfectlyclear, also,  about the good that so many in TeeVeeLand do for the rest of us. 

Lessbeclear about benefactors,  such as Dame Esther Rantzen - the very scourge of child abusers, apart from, quite proply, in my view, those with whom she was fucking,  
I mean sleeping, like the great Tory Nonce, Sir Nicholas Fairbairn. Or Sir Trevor Wogan, never known to take a penny more than his normal fee for all his charity works, 
And now that'll be just a thousand pounds, 

fer all them wee sufferin' children out there, yes,  a minute, a thousand pounds a minute.
Sure isn't it the least I can do.

 generous to a fault, was Sir Trev Wogan. 
 And Sir Jim Savile, I mean,  he did an immense amount of good,

for the NHS

you know, before he went a bit wayward. And to be fair, everyone knows I believe in giving people a second chance when they're working for me, yes,  or Mr Murdoch, and although Sir Jim worked for the late Baroness Whisky 

 and not for me, he was nevertheless a jolly good friend to the Tory party, 

yes, particularly in Wales, where there was some scandal about Tories and children, rigourously covered-up, I must say,  by Lord Hague, without fear or favour, much less concern for the children. So, he can't have been entirely bad, can he, Sir Jim?

No, Mr Whoremionger was absolutely right to take it easy, this time, the furore over the future of the PBC will blow over, like everything else, and then we can get back to dismantling it and giving the best bits to the ontraprenewers, who have so helped make this country what it is today.

A wonderland
rich in aliens
with a thriving beggar population
with vulgar foreign criminals
laundering their stolen money through the City of London
 And last but not least, the heart-warming sight of this great country's industrial and human wasteland.

So, lessbeclear about what's at stake, here.

If, like me,   you want a country where the public services, built up and paid for by you, over several generations can be handed to American criminals; if you want our country to remain the money laundry and the knocking shop of every crook in the world; if you want council housing all over the place to be sold to Chinese investors; if you want manufacturing to be utterly destroyed; if you want everyone to be on a low-wage, zero-hours contract, hustling for a  tin of beans down the food bank; if you want your kids sitting on the street, begging  with the Roma or selling themselves to Russian mafiosi; if you want, within a generation, to see the Chinks pissing down your throats and the Germans shitting in your sinks then, like me, you'll want us to remain a member of the European Supranational Corporate State.

If you don't want these things to happen then voting for Brexit is your very, very last chance to stop them happening. But I suspect that, like me, you're all too clever to do that.