The Sunday Ishmael 23/05/2021

 

William Wordsworth tells us that poetry is the "the overflow of feelings, recollected in tranquility". By that measure, this unfortunate young woman must be a poet. Maybe not. She certainly enjoys the overflow of feelings, but I doubt she has experienced a moment's tranquility in her life. The pop song and the video are her representation of her suicide attempt, albeit prettily dressed with perfect hair and make up, looking like a child's image of an angel. I actually find it shocking, this callous milking of hospitalisation and near death for the purposes of fame and fortune.

 As you know, I don't keep up with popular music, and until mr verge brought this person to my attention, I had never heard of Demetria Devonne Lovato, who now wishes to be referred to in the plural. She was born on August 20, 1992 and is described on her Wiki page as an American singer and actor. Exploitation started early for her - aged 10, she appeared on the children's tv series Barney & Friends 2002-2004. Having got off to a thoroughly bad start in life, she has ensured that she has remained in the limelight ever since. She is now busily working the rich seam of gender and identity politics, and has announced that she is non-binary and wants to be referred to as they or them. She, he or it, or possibly they, them or we, has a new podcast series called 4D with Demi Lovato, in which the non-binary identity will be explored with a variety of guests and conversations will be had that "transcend the typical discourse".

 Is it a coincidence that Demi Lovato anagrams into To Void Male?

 

Another, considerably more serious,  transgender horror story:

A man named Allan Brennan sexually abused four young girls between 1998 and 2016. He is now a 54 year old father of two children. At his trial at York Crown Court, one victim statement said: "Anything that this evil man gets won’t be enough for what he’s done to me and my family.” Another victim spoke of her “pain and suffering over the last 21 years. I had minimum understanding of what was happening to me. The comprehension of what happened to me as a child makes me sick to my stomach."

Allan Brennan has now chosen to identify as a woman called Jessica Brennan. Newspaper headlines described this person as "An evil woman has been jailed for 22 years" and went on to report that  "She tried to rape one of the victims and another girl was subjected to systematic abuse over the course of a decade, which involved “multiple” incidents. She groomed then sexually assaulted the children at least 86 times."

I have no idea about Brennan's undoubtedly complex psycho-sexual functioning and his reasons for now wishing to be called a woman. But - these offences were committed when Brennan identified as, and physically was, a man. To now call him a woman, by his choice, must seriously mess up the statistics for sexual offending. It has been fairly well accepted that sexual offending is a man's crime and that women are involved primarily under some form of coercion. For the offences of men to now be ascribed to women is to render impossible any serious analysis of sexual crime.

What about this one? 

Paul Wilson, also known as Melissa Wilson, pleaded guilty before Liverpool Crown Court to using public libraries to access child pornography. Wilson - who has gender dysphoria and "identifies as a female even though she was born as a male", according to the defence, as well as Asperger's syndrome and multiple personality disorder - had bypassed library security systems to search for "Harry Potter erotica with a focus on Hermione Granger", as well as "children porn" and "young girls modelling underwear" at Liverpool Central Library and Toxteth Library "almost every other day". The Court was told that a confession had been received by police in the form of a letter from Wilson in the name of Dan Thompson because, his defence lawyer said, Wilson wanted to go back to prison because "she feels safer and happier in that environment."

Wilson was sentenced to 32 months which (s)he is currently serving at HMP Altcourse, a men's prison.

Or this one?

Andrew McNab, a sex offender, convicted in 2011 for sexually assaulting a teenage girl and subject to an Order requiring him to report his whereabouts, activities and aliases, was brought before Teeside Crown Court for failing to tell authorities that he now identifies as a woman, having changed his name by deed poll to Chloe Thompson. In the ten years since that order was imposed, he has breached it eleven times. He has set up a TikTok account in order to contact children. On the 19th May, the Northern Echo reported: "Judge Recorder Nicholas Lumley QC sentenced her to a four month custodial sentence, suspended for 12 months, issued them with a 12 month community order and imposed 20 days of rehabilitation activity requirement days."

 

Okay, the syntax is getting way complicated, but something deeply disturbing is happening right under our noses. In the reluctance to be seen as judgemental or discriminatory, liberal thought is creating conditions in which it is becoming impossible to protect the vulnerable from those who would prey upon them and will use fashionable identity politics to pursue their ends. And I grant you, these predators are deeply disturbed themselves, but, for the sake of the greater good our institutions, authorities and laws should not be swayed into accepting that the sun is the moon, just because they say it is.

Here's mr ishmael, on matters not entirely unrelated, following the Liberal Democrats Conference in September 2010, when Clegg took the Party into Coalition with the Conservatives: 

 2/10/2010

It's not entirely a joke, all this stuff about the Cleggies being, well, you know, unduly fascinated, obsessed, even, by bottom parts.  The recent Power At Last, Great God A'mighty, Power At Last Conference was, in parts, an actual freak show, a morning, it seemed, given over to the shrill - or not so shrill - demands of  the BGLT sandwichers, gays who wanted a gayer world, a rasping ladyman called Jenny who demanded,  sulky and wanton, that ladymen be treated just the same as proper natural ladies; Straight Simon Hughes, all warty and ingratiating,  offering himself up to humanity's diversity, I'll fuck anyone who votes for me, and loves me, a little bit and former TopGayOldBill, the revolting Brian Paddick wanting everything and wanting it now, Sunshine. Just a nice morning of heterophobia, even the non-homos clapping like self-hating seals at each new outrageous and abominable demand.

Paddick, Steven, Simon and the rest,  that ghastly ladyman, Jenny, at the LibDems staged conference are just old-fashioned embittered fucking misanthropes, spiteful malcontents, upsetting their parents like that;   they should,  all of them,  men dressing as nuns, bearded ladies with Adam's Apples and dykes in brogues, just join the Old Bill and beat-up on ordinary people officially.  And as for transgender surgery which the LibDems want made available on demand, what on Earth is all that about if its not malcontentism running riot through Ruin's consulting rooms, why don't the doctors just tell them to fuck off, like they should ?

I mean, if I went into psycho-sexual counselling and said Look, Doc, can you fix it for me to have two cocks, and right big ones, one at the front and one round the back, only nowhere near the wotsaname thing, the anus, above, far enough above it so's a nice pair of balls can hang down and not get all covered in poo-poo, you know, and not get all crushed-up when I sit down, maybe cut out a new pocket or something,  you surgeons are clever......?  Say that again, Mr Ishmael, you want me to transplant an extra cock and balls onto your arse...is that it...? Yes, Doc, I'm serious. You see I'm actually a bi-phallic man trapped in a uni-phallic existence, and I am so unhappy, I've been unhappy since I first started having erections and noticing there was only one of them....There's only supposed to be one of them, Mr Ishmael.... But if a bloke is born a bloke and wants to be a woman, claims he's been, wotsaname, wrongly assigned, then you have no problem cutting his balls out and shoving his scrotum up inside like a vagina  and reducing his John Thomas to clitoris-size? That's what you do, isn't it?  It is fucking grotesque and you all oughta be up before the BMA, not that they're any good for fuck all,  the mentors of Harold Shipman. But the police, certainly, they should be talking to the surgeons  about mutilating folk like that, they should all be banged up. 

It's almost a byword here, that scrotum- sanding story, but  for newcomers, it was in England, about fifteen-twenty years ago,  there was a group of blokes, don't know if they were LibDems or not, probably,  met-up regularly and applied Black and Decker sanders to each others Crown Jewels. The judge ruled it illegal, even among consenting offenders. You're not doing any of that shit in my jurisdiction, he said, no matter how much you like it, I don't give a learned flying fuck about consent, this is bad shit and banged the freaks up for a few months.  They were also nailing each others' foreskins to the workbench, consensually and with great mutual respect, knobheads.  

But it seems relatively harmless, compared to that ladyman Sunday Roast carve-up shit.   Take a perfectly good set of meat and potatoes, hack it to bits, turn it inside out and shove it up inside where it hadn't ever oughta be......That's different, it's about personal fulfillment....... Fulfillment my arse, how is it different, Doc, it's worse, much worse than me wanting two cocks;  I wanna stay a man, for fucks sake, I just wanna have two cocks so's I can, y'know, so's I can entertain two ladies at the same time.  Twice the fun.  For me, anyway. And how would that BLGT gang react if they couldn't get in to have their balls scooped out of their scrotums,like they were bits of melon, or Stilton cheese,  the mad fucking bastards,  because the place was full up of normal heterosexual geezers  having penile and testicular enhancement surgery?  The size twelve stilleto'd be on the other foot then and no fucking mistake. Sarah-George Brown'd be up in fucking arms. See what Brian Paddick has to say about that, the silly LibDem fucker. Invented for the likes of Paddick, the LibDems. Married, now,  to a Norwegian bloke he is.

But only in Norway. Go down a bomb that will, with the voters of London.

Would-be Mayor Paddick, in an artistic moment.

Now, I'm liberal, but to a degree, I want everybody to be free but no, it's not funny, a man demanding two cocks, just because he's unhappy with one. And it's not funny, a man demanding to be surgically altered, just because he really, really wants to be.  And to those who join, supportively,  in that absurd clamour, those like Sarah Brown,  the greater opprobrium attaches.  There is only so much about which we can protest, and there is already plenty without this bollocks.  There is no such thing as a legitimate transgender cause, about which people should march, or fundraise, there are just whining arseholes, unhappy with their lives. Fuck 'em.  There may well be cases, however, where Nature has been insufficiently determinate at conception and which require surgery at birth or in infancy.

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 The Ameriguns

Did you come across this in the week's news?

America has more firearms than people - an estimated 390 million in a population of about 331 million though some experts believe the real figure could be close to double that when unregistered weapons are factored in.

 Gabriele Galimberti, photographer, saw a great book opportunity.He contacted more than 500 people on Facebook groups for firearm enthusiasts. Fifty agreed to pose for him with their gun collections. His resulting photographs are fairly jaw-dropping - these are a sample.

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In other news:

 Eurovision Humiliation 

Don't Care. 

The song was shit, I'm told. Not that it matters. We were always going to get a kicking.

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Sunday Morning Sick Dog Blues.

Mr. Harris, Gentleman, of Lanarkshire, Harris and Orkney, is unwell. He stands in a distinguished line of Yorkshire Terriers. Have I told you this before? First, Frankie Sweetheart Smith came to live with us. He was a chunky boy, whiteish, and I adored him. He was the first dog I'd ever had to live with me, although mr ishmael had prior experience of dog ownership, and so he was most amenable when our friend Pat told us Frankie's hard luck story. Frankie's human dad had been admitted to a respite facility for palliative care - ominous words, so his little companion couldn't go with him. Pat was looking for another family to adopt him - she couldn't herself as she already had two huge, soulful, greedybastard Labradors living with her. Frankie cheerfully adapted himself to his changed circumstances, which involved walks, baths, gourmet grub and many very comfy beds. Charming towards humans, he couldn't abide small, yappy dogs. He died on the road outside our house under the wheels of a chap who was absolutely devastated, and no doubt will drive more mindfully in future - but too late for inoffensive Frankie Sweetheart, who had taken advantage of an open door to launch what turned out to be a kamikaze attack on the two small dogs on the other side of the road. mr ishmael, sitting in the road, blood on his jeans, cradling his little friend as the light went out in his eyes, was inconsolable, as was I. He decided that the only thing to be done to get over our mutual grief was to adopt another little dog in need of a home. So we went to a Yorkshire Terrier Rescue Centre and came home with an 8 year old, neurotic, hyper sensitive quivering bundle of nerves and yap called Pepi. Straight to the vet who said the best thing to do was to kill him. He'd got destroyed kidneys and Kennel Cough from the Rescue Centre.We took him home, kept him warm and hydrated and stopped him running about like loonytunes by putting him into a soft crate. Mr ishmael phoned an old boy who was a Yorkie specialist, who prescribed Buttercup Syrup. The cough was dreadful but the Buttercup Syrup sorted it out and the little dog slowly recovered, without any help from the murderous vetbastard, and lived for a further 8 years. Mr ishmael decided that a large part of the problem was Pepi's name. He thought Pepi needed a name to toughen him up, give him something to swagger about - a boxer's name. So he called him Rocky, after Rocky Marciano, or, possibly, Rocky Graziano. His Imperial Majesty, Rocky-Woo Smith. 

Pretty soon, mr smith found it increasingly difficult to leave His Excellency at home whilst he went to the shop, so he would leave later and later, playing his guitar to Rocky-Woo, who was particularly fond of guitar. So mr ishmael thought the best thing to do was to get Rocky-Woo a dog of his own to be his companion in order to allow mr ish to go to work. The little dog who came to live with us had been rescued from a puppy farm, where he was a stud dog, had never been in a house, climbed stairs, been toilet trained, worn a collar or a lead. He was a little barbarian. Rocky-Woo taught him everything he knew, which was considerable, and was rewarded by the incomer periodically leaping onto his back and sinking his teeth into the back of his neck. He would also creep up behind humans and bite their ankles before darting away to dig a hole in the garden to hide in. Operating on the same naming principle, mr ishmael bestowed on this unnamed stud dog - he'd previously only had a number - the name of Buster, channelling American heavy weight boxers, including Buster Mathis and Buster Douglas. Of course, Buster rapidly became corrupted into BusTerminnel. Somewhere along the line Barney joined the household -  Barney was a collie, about five times the size of Buster,  who was an equal opportunities kinda aggressor and meted out to Barney the leaping-on-the-back-and-sinking-teeth-into-neck routine. 

Buster, of course, has enduring fame as Buster the BlogDog: https://mrishmael.blogspot.com/search?q=In+search+of+little+Buster

Following the passing of his warm brown friend, mr ishmael endured the state of doglessness for quite a while, before launching a full-on dogsearch which culminated in Mr Harris entering our lives. He already had a fine name of his own, having been named for the island of Harris, where his people had liked to holiday, and he was in need of a home. Mr Harris, Gentleman of Lanarkshire, was mr ishmael's constant, close companion during his illnesses. Harry is ten years old now, and his pancreatitis has required several hospitalisations in the last 12 months. He has now developed diabetes in consequence of his compromised pancreas. mr ishmael would say Harris just wants to be like me. They love him at the vet's and he likes going there - they have opioids. He'll be home soon and I'll be having to mince chicken to disguise his meds and he'll be needing insulin.

I note that, following the death of his beloved golden Labrador, Nigel; Monty Don, target of much ishmaelian abuse, has taken to being seen on camera with his little Yorkie, Patti, tucked under his arm:

 

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: 

Please register an account with them first. This will save you a couple of quid, as going straight into the link 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 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 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.) 

 The full title is "Vent Stack love from stanislav" by ishmael smith, and the cover you'll see is red with white titles and a picture of Buster the Previous Blog Dog having a green thought in a green shade.  

Link for the paperback:

 https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/ishmael-smith/vent-stack/paperback/product-q8jzk2.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Or...

shorter link, which might make it easier if you wish to paste it into an email and tell a friend:

 https://tinyurl.com/naajavmu

 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

At checkout, try WELCOME15 or TREAT15 in the coupon box, which (for the moment) 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.  

With the 15% voucher, the book (including delivery to a UK address) should cost £10.89