As mr mike indicated on the last thread - what the fuck? Are these people mad? Which century do these Gilbert and Sullivan Sea Lords and Lord High Admirals think they are living in? These Algernon Cunningham-Backhouse Go Lightley Jockstraps - have they realised that Team GB no longer rules the waves with our fleet of 79 commissioned ships, which include one icebreaker, the historic warship Victory - flagship of the First Sea Lord, with 243 years' service under its belt, two transport docks, four survey vessels, thirteen mine sweepers, twenty-six patrol vessels, eleven submarines, thirteen frigates, six guided missile destroyers and two aircraft carriers, now with a part-complement of eighteen F-35B jet aircraft. Whereas Russia appears to possess a fleet of 365 commissioned vessels, none of which has 243 years' service, and which includes sixteen scary-sounding nuclear attack submarines and two ships that sound as if they have commuted from Star Wars - Battle Cruisers
So why did Boris prod the bear? Fuck knows. He said:
"I think it was wholly appropriate to use international waters. This is part of sovereign Ukrainian territory,
it was entirely right that we should vindicate the law and pursue
freedom of navigation in the way that we did, take the shortest route
between two points, and that’s what we did.’
Apparently Dominic Raab (Foreign Secretary) and Ben Wallace(Defence Secretary) were quarrelling about the wisdom of HMS Defender taking the Black Sea route and handed the decision over to Boris. We know what happened. Mr Putin’s deputy foreign minister Sergey Ryabkov warned against
‘provocative steps’ and vowed that Russia will bomb any ships who
‘violate the state borders of the Russian Federation’. Russia summoned the UK’s ambassador in Moscow for a formal telling off
last night as relations between the two nations continued to deteriorate
after the air and sea skirmish in the Black Sea.
None of that explains why Boris decided to provoke the bear. What do the Battleship Papers say? Fifty soggy papers were found by a member of the public behind a bus stop in Kent early on Tuesday morning. They were classified, from the Ministry of Defence and discussed Russia's potential reaction to sending Defender through the Black Sea passage. This has, of course, laid Britain open to international mockery. Maria Zakharova, Russian Foreign Ministry spokesperson asked the British Government "why do we need Russian hackers if there are British bus-stops?"
Maybe Carrie told Boris to do it.
Well, that didn't turn out well. On the Andrew Marr show today, Jeremy Hunt's view of the Hancock Great Disgrace was that there had been some of the worst failures of the State under the Hancock regime, but, at least you can say of him that he made himself constantly available. Yes. Hmmm.
The term "Special Advisor" now, of course has a special meaning - a tradition started by William Hague, and brought to climax by Hancock.
Another "Special Advisor" is Salma Shah,
who held that role to Sajid Javid, our new Secretary of State for Health and Social Care. Javid has held most of the big jobs of State. Salma told Andrew Marr today that: "we'll see a different complexion in the Cabinet now."
Andrew Marr has been off sick with Covid. He thinks he caught it at the G7 - not surprised, it wasn't all socially distanced there, either, and there were lots of foreigners - it is kind of the nature of the G7 that they will let foreigners in, and no talk of quarantining. Marr was a bit cross because he was double-jabbed and thought that gave him god-like status. Thickly made-up with ManTanFantastic to disguise the Covid pallor, Marr thundered at his guest, Sir Peter Horby, chair of the New and Emerging Respiratory Virus Threats Advisory Group (NERVTAG), "128 thousand people dead of Covid in this country. I was double vaccinated and I still caught it. What's going on?"
Sir Peter, uncowed, reminded Marr that he was neither in hospital nor dead, so the vaccinations had provided immunity from the worst consequences.
Shame that Matty Hancock didn't have access to mr ishmael's reflections on the consequences of marital infidelity back in 2013.
UNCLE SAM'S NEWS
IF YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT YOU'LL BELIEVE ANYTHING.
I am resigning because I lied to my wife.
PISS-UGLY GENERAL QUITS AS MATTER OF HONOUR.
PISS-UGLY GENERAL QUITS AS MATTER OF HONOUR.
AYE, RIGHT.
It is bruited about, by our information masters, that this be-ribboned arsehole, being the repository of all sorts of secrets - secret torture, secret murder, secret bribery, secret extortion, secret kidnapping, secret illegal invasions, secret drug
rackets, secret money-laundering, more secret torture, all, in fact of
Uncle Sam's secret, democratic, freedom-loving tools - resigned as
director of the torturing CIA spooks because he'd been unfaithful to his wife.
Funny, isn't it, that someone much further up the chain of command, right at the top, in fact, didn't.
PRESIDENT SPUNKY BILL,
FUTURE FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Mah fellow motherfuckers. All Ah done was to have this liddle bitch, less'nhalf
my age, stick mah cee-gar up her snatch, and mebbe Ah shot mah
presidential see-men load over her clothes. Ain't as though Ah lied to
mah wife, President Hillary Trousers, and certainly wasn't no need for
me to resign. See y'all back in the White House, come 2016.
--------------------------------------------------------------
TROUGHING NEWS
Former NewLabour minister for larceny.
What can one say about McShane that one hasn't already said ?
Only that -
even among stiff, six-hundred-strong competition - his exposure as a
thief is an absolute delight and Please God, even though I don't believe
in You and even though I don't believe in it, please, please, please send this cunt to prison.
BBC NEWS
Horizon,
Arena, Omnibus, Panorama; the BBC loves its neo-classical pomposity,
the maxim above Bush House - Nation shall speak peace unto nation - is
equally grandiose, vainglorious, too, when one considers that a more
appropriate motto would be Let me entertain you. Nation shall speak
shite unto nation, more like.
It is a watchword of these commentaries, here, that there IS no business like show business, that the rampant, unstoppable epidemic of largely talentless broadcast exhibitionism which has poisoned post-war society is both the herald and the instrument of Ruin. On the tube, Pink Floyd's sixteen channels of shit on m'TeeVee to chose from have metamorphosed into a non-stop, multi-portal, planetary cesspit, it's surface creeping up around our necks, it's barrel-scrapings, its turds of wisdom lapping around our chins; cruelty tevee, shopping teevee, cooking teevee, house teevee, gambling teevee, the more of it there is, the worse it gets.
And yet, its practitioners seem to merit more and more kudos - the post of Director General of the BBC being the secular equivalent to the Archbishopric of Canterbury. Everyone,
even Pope Nazi and his worldwide brotherhood of noncing monsignors, is
bandwagoning the Jimmy Saville........ As though the Vatican itself
was not the spiritual and corporeal home of The
Beast, sacramentalising the rancid, priestly prick, the dirty, filthy
fucking bastards, as though the Unholy Father, by dint of removing a
preposterous knighthood from his deceased NoncingBrother James, can
align himself and his legions of degenerate employees with the meek and
mild, the Godly.
I
am a wholly unremarkable man, not for me the rewards of obedience, the
glittering prizes, the gilded career, not even the many years of
selfless public service beloved of the mealy-mouthed town hall
apparatchik up to his arse in corruption, no, I am not even as
respectable as that. I am vested with no great acuity, no special
insights, no razor sharp wit, no-one would ever say of me that I did not
suffer fools gladly or any of that other claptrap of the obituarist,
the hagiographers and journalistic cocksucker, for who knows how to
recognise a fool, to distinguish him from a politician, a judge, a
clergy person or some other fucking buffoon.
I
am not of the same bright,
jewelled fabric as legislators and jurists, academics or senior
bureaucrats; I am neither police officer nor social worker, I am not a
hospital manager nor the heir as we call the useless ponce, to the
throne, I am not among
the charmed circle which now wails in chorus that Jimmy Saville fooled
it; odd, then, given my lustreless mediocrity, that he never fooled
me, not for a second. Surely I should be plucked from bitter anonymity
and be made Director General of absolutely everything.
All
of my adult life I have
looked upon this man with revulsion, loathing and incredulity, amazed at
his pre-eminence in the national life, his consorting with the most
powerful. I only ever had to see Saville and the words Nonce, Bully and
Beast would flash before my eyes in angry, lurid colours. Why the fuck
is it, one might justly enquire, that the brightest in the land, the
most advantaged, the most highly paid, the most capable were all, as
they protest, now, blind to
foul Beasting, right before their very eyes, there, on the fucking
television? How dare they now propose to enquire and to report and to -
altogether now, you all know this one - learn valuable lessons, make sure
it can never happen again, draw a line in the sand and move forward.
Full and far-reaching cover-up. Cunts.
I
wonder what kind of self-subterfuge went on here. Why on Earth would
parents let their children watch Saville, when you could almost smell
his rottenness through the bloody screen? I wouldn't let our children
watch the coarse and vicious EastEnders, never mind Jimmy fucking
Saville, ogling, as he did, teenage girls, dollybirds, didn't he call
them; even in front of the camera he was at it.
Something
happens, I think, with celebrity, theTeeVee takes some half-wit, one
trick pony, like Sir Wogan and after a wee while, because his agents
and his producers insist that he is a national treasure, he becomes one.
And for fifty years, it seems, he peddles his stage Paddy horseshit to
millions who think they are being given a treat. Somehow, we have been
persuaded that the useless prat Paxman is a ferocious, tenacious
interviewer, that none can evade his invigilation, even though they do
it every night. Why is it, if BBC interviewers Humphries and Paxman et
al are so good that - despite the proven universal venality of
MediaMinster - only once in my lifetime has a BBC political interviewee
stormed off the set in mid-question. Older readers will remember Whisky Maggie's pretend defence seckatry,
useless John Nott, ripping his 'mic off when the late Robin Day fired a
round of fucks into him. Why is it that Paxman's failure to nail Michael Howard's balls to the chair is hailed as a triumph and not the
miserable failure it was. Why is it, en passant but in an associated
point, that during this round of MediaMinster cruelty, this round of
punishment of the naughty electorate - how dare they question our
expenses? - how is it that, should a public voice be raised in anger on
any of the lame BBC forums - Any Planted Questions, Approved Question
Time - it is immediately silenced by the uppercrust goons running these
fucking awful shows ?
If
BBC political interviewers were any damn good there'd be John Nott
incidents all the time. But of course MediaMinster all send their brats
to the same school, dine in the same restaurants, holiday in the same
resorts, best of chums, just invent a bit of onscreen confrontation for
the sake of the hoi poloi.
Sometimes
there is a pretence that some presenter or other has some specialist
knowledge, that Monty Don does do his own garden, for instance; never
runs out of compost, although, one man toiling away there in his cardy,
he uses tons of it, tons. I make compost in my walled acre and I can
never make enough of it, never; have to buy as much from Lidl as I make,
at least as much, and I don't have to make teevee shows and write books
and columns and save heroin addicts from destruction, like Earnest
Monty does. No, it's bollocks, of course; Monty has a team of gardeners
doing the work, he's a presenter, leans on his shovel and sighs
worthily about how good life can be, if only we do like him, magic
gardening with invisible labourers, scriptwriters, producers and the
best horticulturalists that your licence fee can buy. Let me entertain
you.
And Saville knew nothing and cared less about music, he was a bouncer, loitering in nineteen-fifties nightclubs and Locarnos,
musclebound and stupid, thick and nasty, an Anglo version of Sean
Connery. And then, thanks to who knows whom, as with Thicko Sir Sean, Thicko Saville got lucky.
Enforced
on us by that great liberal, Tony Benn, lamely imitating, or trying to
imitate the pirate radio stations of the 'sixties, Radio One was, of
course, always a ship of fools, cheesy clowns, gobby name-checking
morons, braying, posturing egomaniacs, as musical, in the main, as
constipation. Where the pirates had spunk and spirit, Radio One fell
flat and never got up. Remember, ye ancients? Tony fucking Blackburn,
Jimmy fucking Young, Ed fucking Stewpot Stewart, Bob Holness and Kenny
Everett, geniuses, one and all. Bunch of cunts. Few, if any of them,
gave a fuck about music; John Peel, maybe, before he turned into a silly
old fart celebrating punk and in so doing missing the point entirely,
it wasn't for him; Dave Cash, Johnny Walker, were OK but the rest of
them had all the sincerity and ability of one of those grinning
imbeciles selling gen-yew-ine Craponite jewellery on one of the
downmarket shopping channels. Downmarket shopping channels, yeah, I
know, that's saying something, hairsplitting to the Nth degree, they're
all downmarket. But even by the standards of his peers, people like the
nauseating Simon Bates and Dave Lee Gob, Saville was awful,
unspeakably bad. How and why on Earth was his first contract ever
renewed?
If
you started with Little Richard and went to, I dunno, say, for
argument's sake, the evisceration of rock'n'roll by the corpse-chilly
precision of Pink Floyd or by the rapid descent into joyless bombast of
Dire Straits or the phony, consumerist hysteria of the Archbishop of
Sweat, Bruce Springsteen, you might mirror the encroaching, inevitable
grossness and the putrefaction, the stupidity and the selfishness of
we, the Boomers, bleating now, anew, not that we wanna dance but that
we shouldn't have to pay for our care, in our twelve-bar old age.
WHAT CAN A POOR BOY DO?
By
Boomers I mean those mid-century born, around nineteen fifty, the Teds
were our older brothers, pre-warbabies, Blitzkids, evacuees, quick to
violence, to storming, motor-cycle chain, broken-bottle GBH; dressed in
drape coats and drainpipe trousers, coiffed and sideburned, ungainly,
insectoid, in crepe-soled brothel creepers, all sicklied o'er with
pimples and blackheads and brilliantined dandruff and bad breath and
BO, the Teds, Rockabilly hooligan vigilantes of style, were the
fag-end of something else, spivs, maybe, and were washed away by what we
call rock 'n' roll, their time swift and sharp, like the fleeting
caress on the cheek of a cut-throat razor; from Teddy Boys, truculent,
rebellious if bizarre nouveau Edwardian punk-thugs, the market moved
into the more orchestrated and exploitable zone of the post-war economic
miracle, the teenager, born in the early fifties, spending his or her
parents' monies in the early sixties and their own ever since; many of
them remain, paunchy, grey haired, arthritic, defiantly teenage, in
their sixties. Many of them, rock and rollers still, malleable,
gullible, still market fodder, voted, laughably, for their own lay
preacher of rock, after all, he played his own, Prime Minister's
Edition Fender Stratocaster, they voted for Tony Blair. This is the
story of how the machine eats-up everything. This is the nightmare of
Rock 'n' Roll, I Gave You The Best Years Of My Life. This is the way the
world ends, not with a Doo-Wop but with an I SimplySayPeepulOvBritain,
Clearly, On Balance and In a Very Real Sense. This, friends, is the
Ruination Blues.
Well, itsa one for the money,
Two for the money,
Three for the money
Now Go, cat, go
But don't you
Step on my Blue Suede Shoes.
----------------------------------------------------------
CLOSE YOUR EYES AND I'LL KISS YOU
How the Beatles destroyed Rock 'n' Roll.
Like many, they were overawed, the fab mopsters, by the Minessotan Dwarf, punchdrunk on his own imagery of collision, his own fricasee of easy chordings and hammerings-on, Dylan did more, suggested more, accomplished more with a guitar, a mouthharp and a formidable, burglar's intelligence than these four did with their Gretsches and Rickenbackers, the Hohner Violin Bass, their harmonies and that dumb fuck, up the back, the luckiest Scouser in history, banging on the drums, shaking his head.
McCartney almost once said that they kept Ringo on because he was so stupid, came up with odd wordplays, Howyadoin Ringo? resulted in the simian growling, Oh, I feel like I've had a hard day's night; the creativity of enforced, cloistered co-habitation resulting, in the nursery rhyme number one worldwide hit.
The Beatles historical perspective was terse and limited to the USA of maybe the forties and fifties; McCartney derived a bigband sensitivity for arrangement and harmony from his dad, Jimmy, but mainly the Beatles, in Hamburg, covered US R 'n'B and the great, the maestro singer-songwriter, Chuck Berry.
Dylan tapped into all sorts of shit. An American Russian Jew he had listened to everything, country, rockabilly, swing, jazz, country blues, urban blues, bigband and that amorphous mass, folk-airs from Scotland and Ireland, ballads from England, spooky nigger hollers from Mississippi, Everly Brothers' Kentucky harmonies. louche, funky, shake-your-moneymaker twelve-bars from Chicago, Howlings and Lightnings and SonnyBoys; Hank Williams poorboy lovesongs, hobo talking blues and railroad songs from the Depression, Rebel and Yankee tunes, Steven Foster......Lennon and McCartney, by comparison, were popular music illiterates.
But never mind that, they could do harmonies .......We've heard a lot here, recently, about the harmonies of the Copper Family, unaccompanied English rural songs, in which the voices embellish themselves, each other, with nary a squeezebox or fiddle to be seen, just the voices weaving in and out, around and around, reeling, almost, and a-rocking. Well, the Beatles' very first hit, Love Me Do, was remarkable for its harmonies as well as for the almost Elizabethan useage, not Love Me or Do Love Me but Love Me Do; almost off-key.
mr ishmael's essays today are:
HAVE I GOT SOME OLD NEWS FOR YOU drafted 11th April 2013
THE SUNDAY SERIAL, C'mon Everybody drafted 11/3/2010
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:
Or...
shorter link, which might make it easier if you wish to paste it into an email and tell a friend:
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
 |
| Y'know that Hancock? says the toilet, chattily, I used to have 'im in the cab, here |
 |
| She's a winner! Doesn't that just take the biscuit? |
17 comments:
Is that A on Monica's lanyard an "access-all-areas" pass? Reckon Bill thought so, and acted accordingly.
mr ishmael wasn't alone in having the horrors at the very sight, way back when, of Savile. As a student in the mid-80's I came across a middle-aged Ancient Mariner type, probably schizophrenic in the eyes of straightworld doctoring, who wore an Iron Cross he claimed had been his war-dead father's. He also claimed to have fought in Vietnam - for the French, having joined the Foreign Legion after serving in Korea as an American conscript. Possible, possibly, but who knows. Apropos of nothing much, possibly his alien's take on English culture, he warned me about the BBC - "that guy you have on there, that Jimmy Savile, he's a demon." Out of the mouths of babes and madmen...
cheers
v./
I remember in the good old days, they used to protest at those female Russian weight lifters - because they were big (though not by today's standards), or had hairy armpits, or a bit of facial hair. But basically because they always won. Now, someone with a cock and balls (I assume he still has his bits) is openly welcomed as a woman weightlifter. There is no hope for the West. The proverbial snake eating itself.
Whenever something is so obviously mad and stupid, mr mike, the wise hominid asks why, and who benefits? We have only just scratched the surface of giving ethnically-different folk a fairer break, and women, and gay folk, and what we used to be able to call disabled folk. And now this. It seems as if they are searching for an ever more recherche non-normality so that we can usher it into the tent of grievance. (Remember PIE in the Seventies.) It seems to me to be an erasure of individuality. We are destroying personhood. It is surely that eradication of personal thought and expression that Orwell so clearly foresaw. The removal of the ability to argue. The destruction of words, of personal expression. It will fail of course, and we will win - Darwin tells it so - but blood will be spilled between then and now.
And yet here in Bandit Country life resurfaces. When they come for our cars, our summer holidays, our lamb chops and our household boilers, then we'll see.
Arizona audit results later today. Ho hum. Orange man still bad but he should anoint de Santis immediately. Fuck 'em. Burn it down. Go start anew.
how about running a sweepstake on the date, after it reaches the south china sea, that her majesty's ocean-going hole-in-the-exchequer is summarily despatched to davy jones' locker by an inscrutably humourless people's liberation army...?
a sick notion, i know, but when is our prime minister finally going to twig that he is not nelson...
and war is not a fucking game.
It won't get that far, Mr ultrapox. It will breakdown before it gets past India - in fact, that would be a suitable resting place as they are dab hands at breaking up ships.
As it flies its 18 F35s (8 UK, 10 US) - I'm assuming they can fly - I look forward to the Russians putting online tracking data, plots etc of this stealth aircraft.
What a joke this all is.
Would that it were a joke, mr mike, would that it were a game, mr ultapox - trouble is, the over-privileged elite running these war scenarios care nothing whatsoever for the lives that would be lost, that are lost, that have been lost when jaw jaw becomes war war. I saw "Oh What a Lovely War" at an impressionable age and conceived a deep, ineradicable loathing for war and for the war masters. I see Wiki describes the film as comedy. I found nothing to laugh at in the film and left the cinema with tears streaming down my face as the film closes with a long slow pan out that ends in a dizzying aerial view of countless soldiers' graves, as the voices of the dead sing "We'll Never Tell Them" (a parody of the Jerome Kern song "They Didn't Believe Me"). Was it John Mills as General Sir Douglas Haig who explained the war strategy in terms of erosion - we have more men than they have, so even if we each score evenly in kills, we will win.
Or as Shakespeare had it: "As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport."
Mrs I: the West doesn't understand what war is. Estimates vary between 27M and 32M Soviets killed in WW2. But this is a massive underestimate because it takes no account of the countless numbers injured both physically and mentally. Then there is the substantial loss of life because births that would have naturally happened did not. There is a current dip in the demographics in Russia because of this. This is not even to mention the colossal destruction.
This explains why Putin, Lavrov etc are restrained in dealing with the West. Because Russia is still remembering and recovering from WW2. Just watch the march of the Immortal Regiment after the May Day parade on youtube to get the feeling:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OhT-ilQb2a4
A timely reminder, mr mike - didn't I put up a post about it? The Russian sacrifice was heroic and did much to end the war. Our greatest ally in defeating Hitler, it is a terrible irony that the West is so suspicious of Russia and her motives, whilst we happily swallow Germany's dictats. Germany lost the War but has won the Peace. Well, at least Britain is out of Greater Germany now.
...at least Britain is out Greater Germany now. Really mrs I, really? Yet we still follow their laws, to the letter, we still contribute to the Eu budget, we still contribute to the Eu defence budget and you can bet yours last pound if there is trouble between bad Vlad and the Eu/US, the west, young British boys will be the first to be sacrificed, to support our European friends.
Yes the Russians did suffer the bulk of sacrifice mr Mike, but Britain’s role should never be under estimated, something our betters seem to have forgotten of late.
Oh and we still have freedom of movement, one way of course.
Okay, mr inmate, let's say we have set our footsteps to the path that leads us out of Greater Germany. We hope. And Frau Merkel has made it clear that she doesn't want any Brits cluttering up her nice, clean, virus-free Europe. Quarantine us! Off with our heads!
Have you noticed there's a dearth of compost available? It used to be piled up outside Tesco and Lidl in warm towers at £2.99 a bag. Where has it all gone? Have the Europeans stock-piled it?
Yes, Mrs I, you did a fine post on the Immortal Regiment. I thought the point worth repeating as few in the West now understand, and history is racist, or just plain propaganda. I thought the youtube vid was a good one.
The Russians are very good at war once they put their minds to it. BoJo and his stunts would do well to remember that. If they try it again, their bluff will be called.
Yes Mr inmate I don't discount Britain's role in WW2, particularly the early days. My dad, PBUH, fought 5 year in N Africa, and ended the war in Lvov (now in Ukraine), although he never explained how he got there. But, and its a big BUT, The Soviets took on and defeated the cream and bulk of the German forces; their losses were orders of magnitude greater than the UK or US. And I'm sure they would have endured more if required. It disgusts me that the West is attempting to re-write the history of WW2.
Hermans eh, maybe England might upset ‘em tomorrow.
Yes compost, must be peat free, global warming n stuff. There’s a dearth of stuff atm, deck boards and timber, decking screws, oils or stains at the local suppliers and the prices ffs. Is this the inflation we aren’t getting?
What’s next? Oh yeh covid passports, yellow stars for we non-conformists, an a meat tax, meat tax, are these fuckers insane? we’ll need to find more arable land if we’re all to go veggie. What will we do with all the waste from veggies we don’t eat? now we feed it to the cows n sheep n horses in the winter, oh that’s ok we’ll burn it…oh wait we can’t global warming.
Correct mr mongoose, there will be blood spilled for all this green nonsense.
I’m not disagreeing mr mike, the west are doing their best to discredit Russia and it’s overwhelming efforts. But our betters now give more credit to American and Commonwealth forces than to the British armed forces, and especially our greatest generation at home, keeping the war effort going not to mention the rationing of food and coal.
if that thick cunt sadowitz could work out, back in the 1980s, that jimmy saveloy was the beast of broadcasting house, then how comes those brainy oxbridge-educated bbc-bods never twigged?
We are about to have the re-introduction of rationing of food and coal, mr inmate, plus petrol and diesel. The people will be allocated a number of carbon points that they can choose to spend on driving their car, heating their home or eating meat, but not all three. Given the proven track record of this Government on instructing us to do as they say, not as they do, no doubt they will continue to do exactly as they please, including eating babies. And SPADs.
Ah, mr ultrapox, of course the brainy oxbridge PBC bods twigged. How could they not? One look at Savile and you could see the greasy unwholesomeness oozing from his pores.
The interesting question is why they not only tolerated this dead-eyed daemon, but actively promoted him, giving him access to children, and so legitimising his brand that he was able to have unlimited access to his victims at Stoke Mandeville Hospital, where he sexually abused 63 people, ranging in age from eight to forty, from 1968 to 1992. The 2015 Stoke Mandeville Report also found that over the past 40 years Stoke Mandeville had employed three doctors who had "subsequently been convicted of sex crimes against patients". Was his unwholesomeness catching or did he just slide right into an environment that welcomed those of his predilections? There's a few possible explanations for the active promotion of the Savile brand by the PBC managers:
1. They had absolutely no understanding of the working class, pop and youth culture, thought that Savile was representative of a class alien to them and that he would go down well with the audience, boosting their figures and improving their tenure and their incomes.
2. Everyone is at it, so no need to take exception to it.
3. They were frightened of offending their senior managers, who were also at it.
The British Disease. It took the Ancient Mariner, as described in mr verge's comment at the top of the thread, to call it out, because he was an Outsider.
Post a Comment