The Sunday Ishmael 7/2/2021

"Covid, the gift that keeps on giving."

How refreshing - one of the Shadow great and the good telling the truth. What a honey-fall Covid has been for reporters, politicians, obscure virologists, statisticians, signers for the hearing-impaired, pundits and a host of others - but principally, as Dick Faulkner pointed out, the lawyers. His good chum, Excitable Ed Miliband,

has been wheeled out to attempt damage limitation by saying Dick is very, very sorry that his remarks at a briefing for a City firm staffed by millionaire lawyers were captured on tape and therefore couldn't be denied. 

 Covid has been dominating the news all week - so nice for the news people not to have to bother with investigative journalism or report on anything else. I am very tired of it - principally because I had my Covid vaccination yesterday and I am subsequently dog-tired - don't expect anything of me today. I'll let you know if my arm drops off. I just want to curl up in front of my fire with my dog and watch old episodes of Dick Shitshow Strawbridge sorting out his Chateau in France.

He's very spry for a sixty-year old with a monster 'tache and an amazing avoirdupois that carries all before him. He has an enormously comforting aura - no wonder he keeps getting all these shit-show gigs.

Peter Sutcliffe was a victim of Covid in November last year. Some 10 years previously, stanislav ruminated on the dismissal of his appeal by the High Court, confirming that he would serve a whole life order and never be released from custody. He never was.

STANISLAV, A YOUNG POLISH PLUMBER, EXAMINES THE YORKSHIRE RIPPER'S REQUEST FOR RELEASE 6/3/10

If stanislav in Broadmoor official government nuthouse had been for nearly thirty fucking years, listening to Grade A criminal lunatic in group therapy session, all addressing offending behaviour issues, ie violent noncing and baby raping and granny raping and dog raping and getting wet-towel treatment off psychobastard sadistic screw then him asking can go home now please would be top of fucking list and no fucking mistake is. I mean, can only fucking ask. Sometimes even in real life and not nuthouse the place can seem like fucking bedlam house of fun, filled up with deranged lunatics - Mrs and kids and telly, can be enough to trigger psychotic episode; fuck me, Jesus, what like it must be in real top jolly nuttiest nuthouse in the country, filled up with crazy bastards and more coming every day; inmates is nuts, headshrinkers is up on fucking ceiling, screws is nuts, visitors is nuts, governor is nuts, food is shit and laced with lithium and same is every fucking day for thirty fucking years, only difference is some days get extra kicking off psychobastard screw. And can't complain, wossapoint, nobody gives a fuck about Peter Sutcliffe. 

You there, Officer Cunt, have you been assaulting this inmate, Sutcliffe, the filthy bastard?  

Governor, Sir, I cannot tell a lie, I have been kicking the bastard up and down the ward, Sir, he deserves it, Sir, and it's part of my calling, Sir, as a psychiatric nurse, Sir. 

Jolly good show, man, give him one for me, eh, carry on. 

Not even Howard's League for Cushy Jails and treating Convicts like Real People, not even Probation Service or entire federation of Methodist and Quaker smirking do-good vegetarian bastard prison visitors with bad breath is going to complain on behalf of Peter Sutcliffe, bastard killed thirteen women and even though they was prossies and probably asking for it, thirteen is a lottta Toms to be offin'.

 'Ow you is feelin, today, then, Sutcliffe, you bastard? 

Oh, you know, I'm nuts, me, killed thirteen women, what can I say? 

Aye, Sutcliffe, but 'ave you been addressing your anger management issues?

 Nah, can't be arsed, boss, gets on me tits. Y'know, thirty years in here, bit hard on the equilibrium, I mean, if I wasn't barking before I come here, y'know, ten years'd do it to any bastard. Put the Archbishop of Canterbury

in here, him with the beard, for ten long ones and he'd be climbing the fucking walls, I been here best part of thirty. I mean, is it wrong for me to wanna get out? 

Is big story about Yorkshire Ripper and tale of our times is. First off, is not a ripper, not like Mr Jack of the Royal Family and General Medical Council, Yorkshire chap didn't go pulling ladies' insides out like in Freemasons Big Book Of Whore Punishment but was more like Mr Maxwell, was actually Yorkshire Banger and not Ripper, just sneak up behind lady sex worker and Bang-Bang, Sutcliffe's silver hammer down on her head came and then more Bang Bang made sure she was dead and never go sex working no more and upset decent God-fearing lorry driver stroke raving lunatic. Didn't select liver and kidneys and whip out, like for breakfast. Just was bang-bang on head. With hammer. Alright, still brown bread is and clogs plopped, but no surgery, no ripping. Everybody knows, even Jerry Clarkson off Top Gear, you know, cars going sideways round corners with tires smoking and big fag screeching Ooooh, my hair is in fire, this best car is, In The World, even he knows that could solve mystery of every disappeared teenager in country if lorry drivers was all arrested and confession beaten from in best tradition of British bobby but without tapes running. Mr Sutcliffe didn't carry away body parts in cab of lorry, didn't even slice open poor Mrs sex worker and have shuffle around so is not proper Ripper. But journalist is lazy bastard, good for fuck all only getting pissed and telling lies, is not worth waste of bullet on shitbag rubbish journalist and instead roasted at stake should be with unsold copies of In-de-fucking-pendent, load of old bollocks with Fatboy Johann Hari and revolting greasy, old, social climbing baglady Yasmin Alibhai Muslem, stinking of fucking mutton and scabby old toes sticking out from tights. My son is a lawyer, Bismillah and I am the most important Muslem baglady in the whole of the country. Apart from Mrs Keith Vaz. Anybody here read that fucking rubbish? Yabbo and that know-it-all poof? May as well fuck off and see Mrs Cardigan's Diary of Nothingness or Col von Fawkes from PizzaHouseOfBabyBlood and no point is in hanging around here, waiting for pretend journalism or stocks and shares report. Fucking hate journalists, here, never mind pretending to be one; is fuckery, innit. Is just good thing that Ripper didn't, after police fuck-ups, become RipperGate. Ever since President Tricky Dicky burgled Democrat offices in Washington every fuck up ever written down by journalists has Gate stuck on behind. But the lazy bastards love a dead hooker. If one sex worker is killed in line of duty is always screaming headline, Prostitute Killed, like prostitute was all there was to poor dead lady, maybe only did prostituting one night a week to pay off overdraft from rotten banking bastard and having all our money right thing for country is, according to snot-eating, arsehole-licking, one-eyed mutant, Brown. And prostitute? No, never, am fucking presbyterian, ask any bastard who knows me, I would never go with a prostitute, never, says First Lord of Snot, well, not a lady one anyway, ask anyone who knows me, they'll tell you how normal I am, can't get no more normal than one-eyed, gibbering son of fucking manse and national fucking embarrassment, can't even fucking add-up two and two four makes without having argument with self and fight with staff. In Brown world, anyway, prostitute is called Ree-Surch Assistant or Special Advisor, and is generally bloke. In dress.

stanislav can write better than journalist and is fucking plumber.  Creepy little fag Pauk Burr-ell was dogsbody and arselicker to Diana, barking Princess of Wales. Fuck me, he says, when Lady Di gets wasted for being a fucking nuisance and fucking half the household cavalry, half the NHS, and half of Fleet Street, fuck me, am so lonesome I could die, could fucking top my little fag self, now that Boss is toast and I am nobody's Rock. Could just do away with myself and go up in Heaven ironing her jeans and brushing her blazers with her. What the fuck must Burr-ell Mrs have made of this shit. Alright, hubby is fag, everybody knows that, is butler, innit, is all oily, smirking poof but have children anyway, just like Prime Minister Snot but hang about and fuck me gently, is fucking rich, innit, saying he's gonna top himself and leave Mrs and little Burr-ells all alone, just because Prince Philip and MI5, 6, 7 & 8 had the mad bimbo offed. Mrs Burr-ell should have kicked the smirking little turd very hard in that region between anus and scrotum, the bit that makes you sick, makes your eyes water and makes you throw up your ring piece, Oh yes, fuck me, Jesus, is the only thing some bastards understand, is pain out from nightmare come and just go on in wave after wave after wave. Is only fair, fucking useless bastard loving dead mad fuckwit slapper princess more than decent woman who married him even though is all-edged arseburglar and has fucked around all the seamen's hostels in the world.  

Have some headlines, pretend journalists:

Mother of Twins Killed was NOT a ripper victim

Maxwell's silver hammer

 Soldiers all heroes, especially limbless ones 

Prostitution, Sex workers, slather, slather..

 

Peter William Sutcliffe (2 June 1946 – 13 November 2020), was an English serial killer who was dubbed the Yorkshire Ripper (an allusion to Jack the Ripper) by the press. On 22 May 1981, he was found guilty of murdering 13 women and attempting to murder seven others between 1975 and 1980. He was sentenced to 20 concurrent sentences of life imprisonment, which were converted to a whole life order in 2010. All but two of Sutcliffe's murders took place in West Yorkshire, the others in Manchester. In August 2016, it was ruled that Sutcliffe was mentally fit to be returned to prison, and he was transferred that month to HM Prison Frankland in Durham. Sutcliffe died in hospital on 13 November 2020 at the age of 74, after being diagnosed with COVID-19. He had been incarcerated for 39 years.

 

Honest, Not Invent is an anthology of essays by stanislav and mr ishmael. It is  available from lulu.com  and  is listed by both Blackwells, the Book Depository and Amazon.

 

To buy a copy:

please register an account with Lulu first.  This will save you a couple of quid, as going straight into the links provided below seems to make paypal think it's ok to charge in dollars, and apply their own conversion rate, which will put the price up slightly for a UK buyer.  Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Honest, Not Invent" into the Lulu Bookstore search box.  If you follow a 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 anthology will not appear as a search result until the "show explicit content" box (found at the bottom left by scrolling down) has been checked.  You may also see the age verification box, as above, at this point.

Honest, Not Invent is available in paperback or hardback.

Link for Hard Back : 

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/ishmael-smith/honest-not-invent/hardcover/product-njr7vg.html

Link for Paper Back : 

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/ishmael-smith/honest-not-invent/paperback/product-wq2kpg.html

There may be a 15% discount try the voucher code = TREAT15 in the coupon box, which takes 15% off the price before postage.  If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up.     

 

Still cold here.