The former Mr Tiny Speaker, alleged bully, serial house flipper, expenses supremo, and, like Boris, keen on interior design, (the tax payer stumped up £20,659 for the redecoration of the Speaker's apartment in the Palace of Westminster on his instruction) has finally and eventually, at the age of 58, discovered his passion for equality, social justice and internationalism. In an interview with the Observer, he stated that he has reached the conclusion that the present government needs to be replaced. Is Boris bothered? John Berkowitz added that his political views have evolved over time. I'll say. The son of a taxi driver, and educated at the comprehensive school, Finchley Manorhill, in London, you'd have thought his spiritual home was the Labour Party, but he proved himself to be more Conservative than the young Bullingtonians when he went up to the University of Essex, where he was described by one of his professors, Anthony King, as "very right-wing, pretty stroppy and.... an outstanding student". He was a member of the Conservative Monday Club, standing as a candidate for the club's National Executive in 1981 with a manifesto calling for a programme of "assisted repatriation" of immigrants and became secretary of its immigration and repatriation committee. He has subsequently denounced himself as bone headed for holding these views and repudiated his participation in the club as utter madness. The former Mr Tiny Speaker, who claims to be five foot six inches tall and likes his wife to wear high heels, will surely be an adornment to the Labour Party. Turning his coat has nothing to do with being pissed off about being denied a peerage by Boris Johnson's lot. John says he was subject to antisemitic abuse from the Tories. There's none of that in the Labour Party, of course.
mr ishmael had a special place in his heart for mr Tiny Speaker. Here he is, in 2010: London
Well, of course, jolly good chap, what, ho-ho-ho, greatest city in the world, 'specially with me mayoring it, perfectly proper for people to, ah, um, protest, mustn't let it amount to anything, though, that's the trick, otherwise where would we be, people protesting, I mean, Gosh, where would it end ? London's police? Yes, marvelous job, dedicated, professional thugs, want somebody fitted-up, shot or beaten to death, 'sno better body of men for the job; Gosh, and women, too, mustn't forget the ladies,what? Did I mention I can speak Greek? In Greek, you know, properly. Just the thing you need in a prime minister; not, of course, not that I ever want to do anything other than mayorise this fabulous city and anyway David and wotsisname, yes, Prick, no Nick, yes David and Nick, they're doing such a wonderful job; riots on the street, wonderful, not that it's their fault, not really.
I just want to say whatever it it is that my right honourable friend the prime minister would say, yes, I have it here, We'll have the sweet and sour pork with some of that egg fried rice which you people do so cleverly, and can you put it on the slate......No...no...I'm sorry Mr Tiny Speaker... wrong piece of paper...Right...I have it here.... how can the right honourable lady argue with our plans when she isn't even a man ....????
Tory cheers. Get yer tits out!!! No, keep 'em in !!!! Slag!!!
Foreign Seckatry: Steady on Nick, glass houses and so on, and can you just mention that some of those young men students, the very fit ones, kicking in the windows, and sweating, are quite, uh, comely, and they might want to consider sleeping with me, I mean working with me, in the Foreign Office. It's not that I'm gay, heavens, hasn't my wife had miscarriages to prove it, it's just that when I'm travelling I get lonely and it's nice to have a man half my age in bed with me, perfectly innocent, many honourable members do it.
As a plane load of premiership gang rapists flew home from Mandelaberg, leader of the LibDems and Tories, Mr CallHimDave, blamed their failure to recently rape any gullible teenagers on the previous administration.
I
blame thirteen years of Labour misrule for me not being able to say
that England's World Cup victory reflected the new spirit of national
co-operation which my coalition embodies and thus their outstanding
performance is all down to me. But they fucked it. I mean, those black
teenagers out in Africa, they're begging for it, you'd think the lads
could have spit-roasted a few of them, for the country. But look,
homoerotocism, of the sort we see every Saturday, is all well and good,
millions of gay men cheering-on their idols is one thing, let's face
it, there can be no finer expression of male love than two men, or
indeed, I understand, more than two, fucking each other via a young,
impressionable, drunken teenaged girl, you know, gangrape, it really is
in the finest traditions of sportsmanship - and you know, it does have
its roots in oik factory culture, back in the good old days we used to
let them work six days but have Wednesday afternoon off, that's why some
of the teams are called something-Wednesday it was the only time they
could play and that's what we must get back to, a proper understanding
of the nature of leisure, we, with heavy responsibilities, must have it
to recharge our batteries but poor bastards, oiks, well, they should
work all the time, 'swhat they're for isn't it? But we mustn't lose
sight of the real issue, the thing which made us great and I'm talking
here about pain, pain, yes and humiliation, we in the Liberal Party do
it to the people and they love it so much that they start begging for
it. Like now. Did I say Liberal Party? I meant, of course, Mr Tiny
Speaker, to say Conservative Party, although, in truth, Mr Tiny Speaker,
there's not much difference between us, nor Labour, come to that. The
people, you see, they are the common enemy, the enemy within.
But the England supporters are truly an advanced case of masochism en masse, which is just as well, really, one way and another, said Mr CallHimDave, one of a succession of unelected prime ministers, below, in negotiations with a colleague.
But the England supporters are truly an advanced case of masochism en masse, which is just as well, really, one way and another, said Mr CallHimDave, one of a succession of unelected prime ministers, below, in negotiations with a colleague.
Privy councillors; the Devil, as ever, is in the detail.
Welfare
to work, that's what these fans need, never mind lengthy holidays in
the Sun while the rest of us are knocking our guts out attacking the
poor and the sick and the disabled. If you think it's easy dreaming up
new, petty ways in which to humiliate sick people and old people then
you have no idea of how hard it is forging a govament of national
hatred. But somebody's gotta do it. Thank God we have lots of
Bullingdon Boys in the govament. And a few gimps.
As for taxation well, this just proves my point. The footballers have been paying far too much of their incomes in taxation and it has probably sapped their will to rape, I mean win. If we 're not jolly careful they'll all be going and working abroad. No taxation for rich people, that's the thing. And we would go further, Mr Tiny Speaker. The best thing for our high earners is not to tax them at all and for every million pounds a week they earn we should bung them another half-mill from public funds, we'll easily afford it from all the disability payments we're cutting. I must pay some people to come up with some facts to prove this is right, an independent body which does exactly as I say, like these chaps at the office of budget wotsit. And Ms Frank Field is probably the right sort of slag to do it. What, he's already on the payroll? Well that's alright then, give him a rise. Reward the rich and punish the poor, that's the thing. Did I mention I went to Eton? And that's why I'm so fucking stupid.
..............................................................................
Enough Mr Tiny Speaker, BoJo the Ho Ho and CallMeDave - they are all monsters from the past. Ed.
What's that you say? They haven't gone away?
..............................................................................
Gorgeous, pouting Andy Burnham,
King of the North, according to the Andrew Marr show, is miffed with Gnasher Sturgeon, who has declared that all non-essential travel to Manchester by her subjects will be banned from Monday. This is to "minimise the risk of allowing more virus to come back here to Scotland. I'd ask you to think carefully about whether your journey is really necessary," because we've all seen Queer As Folk and we know what dirty bastards they are in Manchester.
The movements of the Tartan Army, as previously documented in these pages, present absolutely no risk whatsoever, although Gnasher did tell them off for singing nasty, but funny, songs about the English.
Well, I've been hanging out with some chums who have formed the view that the Tartan Army was allowed to invade England, not because of fears of civil war should the police or armed forces attempt to prevent them, but because those in charge of us, Who Know Best, know fine well that there is no global pandemic, that it has all been bigged up in order to inspire fear in the population for the purposes of consolidating their own wealth, power and privilege and persuading us to take the vaccine, for purposes which were not specified, but we can be assured that said purposes are dark. Too late for me. I'm double-jagged, as we say in Scotland, to differentiate us from England, whose inhabitants are double-jabbed.
Here's a concluding essay from mr ishmael:
MUSIC IS SO MUCH LESS THAN WHAT YOU ARE, BERNSTEIN 7th November 2015
My late big brother, Joseph, used to try to teach me stuff.
He continued way past the time that he could but while he still could, when we were children, he did so very well. My late father, Joseph, was a skilled man, a time-served motor engineer but like most of us he was a poor teacher, sermonising was his cup of tea, he preached an edgy and entirely worthy scepticism in cadences which I hear to this day, cautionary but resigned; he would quote huge chunks of poetry, Grey's Elegy, especially, assuming an understanding on my part, at ten, which was entirely unrealistic, never stopping to check my comprehension, he roared away, theatrically; I mean, what ten-year old would understand, simply upon hearing:
brother Joe, however, until whatever it was which went wrong went wrong, could teach and inspire. Latterly, he would browbeat and hector with the dreadful righteousness of the habitually drunken Presbyterian, as much at odds with himself as with his fellows.
| Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, | |
| Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; | |
| Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile | |
| The short and simple annals of the poor. |
brother Joe, however, until whatever it was which went wrong went wrong, could teach and inspire. Latterly, he would browbeat and hector with the dreadful righteousness of the habitually drunken Presbyterian, as much at odds with himself as with his fellows.
Before he was overtaken by himself, though, Joey was a dazzler. We were watching a Western on the black-and-white telly one day, long ago and far away; it was that ghastly John Wayne in Stagecoach. The Duke, as he later modestly called himself, was in the role which probably made his Hollywood name. As the Ringo Kid, Wayne, atop a stagecoach travelling through Monument Valley, exchanges shots with a pursuing band of savage injuns; mile after mile the stagecoach thunders along, the Duke's Winchester deterring the blood-crazed, raping redskins, their blood-curdling war cries underscoring their lust for the white women aboard the coach; only the marksmanship and outlaw courage of the Ringo Kid, mile after bumpy mile, can save the women from a fate worse than death.
Good job they're so stupid, the Apaches, said Joe.
Whaddayamean?
Well, all they gotta do is shoot one of the horses.............
So why don't they?
Because then there would be no chase.......no film.
If there ever were marauding Apaches, chasing after a stagecoach defended by a big fairy in a big fairy shirt balancing on its roof then those blokes, from the time of the Conquistadores' introduction of the horse to the Americas, would have grown skilled in killing other beasts from horseback; gun-shooting or arrowing one horse from a team would have been child's play, but then, as Joe said, there would've been no film.
It was my introduction to what we call the Suspension of Disbelief, the fact that you must mentally eat shit, bite into it and swallow it down, you must ignore your common sense for fiction to work its work upon you; and by fiction I mean theatre, film, television and what we still insist upon calling journalism. As mr mike noted, during his recent visit to Sheffield, even what we call the news is theatrical, not just a bit theatrical, entirely so, playing us, as in Hamlet's impatient words to Guildenstern:
Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me!
You would play upon me.
You would seem to know my stops.
You would pluck out the heart of my mystery.
You would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass.
Something has happened to me, or to my circumstances, recently, whereby most of the sources for these commentaries are become entirely worthless, not worth viewing, hearing or reading about, much less transposing into their deserved bitter caricature. It is as though I am relentlessly beaten about the head and shoulders with Tom Lehrer's dictum that a world which could award the Nobel Peace Prize to Henry Kissinger was a world far beyond having the piss taken.
I am unaccustomedly away from home from early Monday until late Thursday and during those days I am by turns citizen-suspect at the airport, passenger on the 'plane and in the taxi; patient in the hyperbaric treatment centre; passenger in another taxi and then, worst of all, guest in a hotel run by charity-biddies - salaried ones - and cancer patients from Orkney and Shetland, furiously anxious and generationally tribal. I fucking hate that place. I fucking hate Shetland and Shetlanders and I fucking hate the fact that so many of them smoke cigarettes, laughing naughtily as they have a last gasp before being driven at your expense to their radio- or chemo-therapy. Quite brings out my inner Simon Heffer, it does, stupid fucking bastards. I know addiction is hard, I know that having cancer is a prime location for the resignation which inhabits the line, When you got nothin', you got nothin' to lose; I know we should properly hang a few multi-national tobacco barons and their stooges, people like Ken I Never Heard Of Dolphin Square Clarke, PC, QC, MP and we would if only they didn't all give so much money to MediaMinster; and I know that we should tax tobacco beyond the reach of all but the most wealthy and seriously punish illicit traffickers. But never mind the pushers, users have responsibilities, even in addiction. I look at these people going to have treatment for the poison in their systems while greedily inhaling as much poison as they can, from what they call their only pleasure in life and when I see them huddled together around a dining table eating their sausages and tatties, hissing loudly about Incomers to the Isles I want to kill them, shove their mouths onto an exhaust pipe, tape their heads to a rear bumper and stand on the throttle.
Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me!
You would play upon me.
You would seem to know my stops.
You would pluck out the heart of my mystery.
You would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass.
Something has happened to me, or to my circumstances, recently, whereby most of the sources for these commentaries are become entirely worthless, not worth viewing, hearing or reading about, much less transposing into their deserved bitter caricature. It is as though I am relentlessly beaten about the head and shoulders with Tom Lehrer's dictum that a world which could award the Nobel Peace Prize to Henry Kissinger was a world far beyond having the piss taken.
I am unaccustomedly away from home from early Monday until late Thursday and during those days I am by turns citizen-suspect at the airport, passenger on the 'plane and in the taxi; patient in the hyperbaric treatment centre; passenger in another taxi and then, worst of all, guest in a hotel run by charity-biddies - salaried ones - and cancer patients from Orkney and Shetland, furiously anxious and generationally tribal. I fucking hate that place. I fucking hate Shetland and Shetlanders and I fucking hate the fact that so many of them smoke cigarettes, laughing naughtily as they have a last gasp before being driven at your expense to their radio- or chemo-therapy. Quite brings out my inner Simon Heffer, it does, stupid fucking bastards. I know addiction is hard, I know that having cancer is a prime location for the resignation which inhabits the line, When you got nothin', you got nothin' to lose; I know we should properly hang a few multi-national tobacco barons and their stooges, people like Ken I Never Heard Of Dolphin Square Clarke, PC, QC, MP and we would if only they didn't all give so much money to MediaMinster; and I know that we should tax tobacco beyond the reach of all but the most wealthy and seriously punish illicit traffickers. But never mind the pushers, users have responsibilities, even in addiction. I look at these people going to have treatment for the poison in their systems while greedily inhaling as much poison as they can, from what they call their only pleasure in life and when I see them huddled together around a dining table eating their sausages and tatties, hissing loudly about Incomers to the Isles I want to kill them, shove their mouths onto an exhaust pipe, tape their heads to a rear bumper and stand on the throttle.
mr ishmael's essays today are:
London drafted 11/11/2010
SkyMadeUpNewsandSport, S&M England, The World Cup drafted 28/6/2010
Music is so much less than what you are, Bernstein drafted 7/11/2015
Both anthologies of the work of mr ishmael and his young Polish friend, Stanislav, Plumb Cheap for You: Honest Not Invent and Vent Stack - are available to purchase for mere money at Lulu or Amazon. It is cheaper to buy from Lulu. Here's how to buy your own copies:
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is set up, follow our link; a pop-up box asks for age confirmation - simply set
the date to (say) 1 January 1960, and proceed. (If you type the title, the
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The full title is "Vent Stack love from
stanislav" by ishmael smith, and the cover you'll see is red with white
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8 comments:
Mr Tiny Speaker? It's as transparent as a transparent thing with windows in it. Offer the sinking Starmer a few days anti-Tory headlines, do not trouble the electors but pass directly to the Lords as a Labour peer. Starmer - if he had any nous - and she should have some lawyerly cunning in there somewhere - could play the situation, lead him on (perhaps he already has) and then paint the Tories as completely unreliable and cynical. And he'd use up the despicable wee man into the bargain. If he lets him in, he can say goodbye to those red wall seats as MTS prattles on about Brexit for another few terms. he's already staring down the barrel of no chance at all until at least 2029.
Good Test match going on, mr mike. Proper cricket.
meanwhile, boris "the bucolic" is busy burrowing his way through beautiful bucks like a bastard, but claiming to be oblivious to the fucking obvious fact that the amersham and chesham constituency was lost to the liberals due to his arse-headed approval of the extraneous atrocity otherwise known as hs2.
of course, at a national level, the liberals and labour also back this public expenditure black hole, and the media are collectively burying their corrupt heads in the silver-lined sand-pit of high-speed-ignorance whilst the great train-robbery continues unabated in broad bloody daylight - thus bundles of bucks have clearly been bunged into a brown-paper-bevy of very bent back-pockets.
indeed, sensitivity surrounding cross-party-backing of the project to bore into an english country-treasure-trove was evidently so acute that post-poll-mortem the victorious smash-'n-grab-goddess, ms pseudo green, was curiously unavailable for comment at ed gravey's cheap lib-dem publicity-stunt.
personally, i hope that johnson "the vandal" loses every tory seat along the line from london to leeds - including his own - however i sincerely doubt that this one stinking result actually represents a tectonic shift in the self-entrenched dynamics of southern british politics - just a swift psephological swallow.
now, perhaps what could eventually, if not exponentially, exacerbate conservative rural woe would be the sly in-slotting of additional - but as yet undisclosed - high-speed-stops between the major cities - for example at the exclusive berryfields estate north of aylesbury...
and it is in fact no serious stretch of the imagination to suppose that, under the clunking cloak of political progressivism, such subversive planning would inevitably act as a capitalist catalyst for an environmentally defiling eruption of diverse london-overspill-development...
herald the advent of uzi-toting urban gorillas roaming the hitherto idyllic pastoral landscape...
and conjure the sub-prime spectre of indigenous home-county-tribespeople jibber-jabbering in the trees, congenitally bereft of the power of speech.
mr ultrapox, this is an excellent scenario for a dystopian novel. Having very recently read Lionel Shriver's The Mandibles, in which she convincingly portrays the rapid and absolute breakdown of society after the collapse of its financial institutions and belief systems,I'm completely up for the eventuality of your Eloi and Morlock disintegration of the Home Counties.
We are cattle, my dears, who have grazed, bred and fatted - and are now being prodded into the abattoir.
And as if it were only 24 hours later, and as Van the Man once sang, the leaking has begun. Cringe-worthy crawling about on all fours to Corbyn to get nominated and then rejected. For the Tiny Speaker there is no lower that he can go.
The more I read, the more I'm tempted to move back to England. Just so I can emigrate again. I can't tell you how good it makes you feels.
i'm glad my rampageant rustic ruminations meet with your approval, mrs ishmael, but of course you are being unduly generous, for i'm sure you well realize that the novel of which you speak has already been written, that it is called "planet of the apes", and that i have utilized a tongue-in-cheek take on this work's scenario in order to illustrate the absolutely shocking socio-racial, and indeed political, metamorphosis to which the quaint ethno-cultural enclave of conservative middle england will so cruelly be subjected should unplugged urban sprawl be illicitly unleashed down jolly roger johnson's promiscuous population-pipe.
bearing my preceding exposition in mind, i should probably have inserted the word "unblemished" after "hitherto", and "left" after "tribespeople"...
what's for certain, however, is that the globalist political class is now shamelessly represented by the biden-bum-kissing neo-imperialist jig-a-jig johnson and his treacherous trans-parliamentary ilk - and that it is the innate corruption endemic within this nasty neo-liberal cia-subsidized cess-pit which, having already fostered cross-party criminal collusion in the despicable trump-crushing coronavirus-fraud, will soon sign the undemocratic death-warrant of traditional british conservatism.
rip uk
in the opening paragraph of my first comment above, "because of" might have been stylistically preferable to "due to"...
or maybe in fact the offending sentence could have been altogether better constructed thus:
"...that his arse-headed approval of the extraneous atrocity otherwise known as hs2 was the prime cause of the amersham and chesham constituency being lost to the liberals."
anyhow, domestos scrubbings plc is coming up trumps again...
primarily with his grassroots-rocking revelation that crypto-globalist gangsters within the department for tea-leafing fraudulently employed bogus-modelling-data in order to persuade our ever-gullible, arithmetically-challenged arsehole of a prime minister to give the go-ahead for construction of the hs2 railroad to financial ruin.
moreover, the chalky white elephant stampeding through the chilterns is apparently schnozzling up such a lyon's share of public funds that the vital northern powerhouse rail-project has now been humanely destroyed.
of course, the fuse is also lit on the junk-bond sino-french firework which is currently under construction in tsunami-prone zider-country...
therefore we now just have to wait for the hp powder-keg to blow before we can all collect a meal-deal on deep-fried moggy.
no doubt, jake's begun singing the blue touch-paper blues...
and courtesy of cgn, his buddy hustler biden is already sniffing the chinkley point c profits...
further to the subversive subject of rampant institutional hs2-fraud...
former euston landowner michael gross has now asserted that, in late 2019 and 2020, he personally provided dominant scum-trimmings with independent projections of huge hs2-cost-increases - and that, via the bluebell-sniffing ex-tory-tea-cosy, he also alerted the government to affidavit-backed allegations of hs2 "fraud, incompetence and dishonesty", due to which billions in public funds had already been squandered.
truly, one begins to wonder how much 'commission' boris de fiddle johnson is pocketing in his part-time subterranean rôle as an hs2 'quantity-surveyor'...
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