Beans Means Fuck

 Following yesterday's revelations by mr anonymous about Mr. Justice Bean's provenance, editor mr verge reminded me that m'learned friend has appeared in these pages before - back in November 2011 and that the following article can be found in the Collected Works.

Monday, 21 November 2011

MORE ALL COPPERS ARE BASTARDS. MR JUSTICE BEANS SAYS FUCK

 

BEANSMEANSFUCK.

Over at the Filth-o-Graph's Redneck Central poor old Janet Daly is wetting herself over Mr Justice Bean's comments that since police officers are grown-ups they can hardly be insulted by the use of the word fuck by those they are arresting.

When you can't sleep, which, given the times, is probably most nights, have a look at one of the gaycop shows, where Mark and Chris of Avon Police or Dean and Mitch of the West Mids Constabulary, all shiny clean and gelled-up,   are chasing twoccing teenagers at high speed or, more disappointingly for them, confronting gangs of  betrayed, disaffected, aimless youths who may - result - have one poxy joint between them.  What did you say, did you say fuck, I never heard such things, don't you know I'm a police officer?  You say fuck again and I'll nick you.

Fuck.

Right, I am arresting you for a breach of the peace and for disrespecting a gay police officer. Anything you say will be taken down in writing, altered  and used against you. And if you later say anything which you later rely on for your defence that will be altered too, by me and my mate, making it all up together, in the canteen.

They might not be gay and it doesn't matter if they are;  it's just that they are all this strange mixture of  macho, body armoured warrior and exfoliated, moisturised, close-cropped pansymen, and that they do all feign outrage and indignation when people swear, almost falling down in a swoon.

A spokesman for the police federation, Acting Sergeant Derek Gob said This is the thin edge of the wedge, this is, Kirsty. First my members are expected to put up with foul and degrading language which they would never dream of using themselves, even when kicking the shit out of people, and the next thing is they'll be ruling that getting your helmet knocked off whilst attacking people in wheelchairs is not enough reason for three months on sick leave or that complicity by my members in sustained serious criminality should no longer be dealt with by early retirement on health grounds with a golden handshake and a full pension.  Cunts, these fucking judges, that's what they are.

Daily Telegraph, Nov. 2011 :

The decision by the Court of Appeal to overturn the public order conviction of a young suspect who repeatedly said the “F” word while being searched for drugs, was described as “unacceptable” by police representatives last night. They said the ruling would undermine respect for officers. Overturning Denzel Cassius Harvey’s conviction, Mr Justice Bean said officers were so regularly on the receiving end of the “rather commonplace” expletive that it was unlikely to cause them “harassment, alarm or distress”. Mr Harvey was fined £50 after he bombarded police with foul language while they attempted to search him for cannabis in Hackney, east London.

Peter Smyth, the chairman of the Metropolitan Police Federation, said :

“If judges are going to say you can swear at police then everyone is going to start doing it. I’m not saying that police officers are going to go and hide in the corner and cry if someone tells them to Eff Off, but verbal ab-use is not acceptable and this is the wrong message to be sending out."

The Sunday Ishmael: 31/08/2025

The Simpleton Classes

Mmm - turns out I was wrong in thinking the Flagsters are upholding the values of Olde Englande, standing up for English culture and espousing Christian ethics and values. Seems they are racist scum, just wanting a ruck. Who'd have thought it? How could I fall for such populist propaganda? Why did I let myself get carried away into thinking that 2025's 10,358 illegal immigrants, sorry, undocumented persons seeking asylum in our great country, fleeing from great harms in their countries of birth, wanting to join our secular liberal democracy, where gay people and women are accorded respect, property and voting rights; are any sort of a problem? I must have been reading the wrong sort of newspapers. I found myself on Nigel Farage's side of history. Whoops - how the fuck did I get there?

No, seriously, its complicated. I'm the daughter of a legal migrant, spoke a foreign language before I went to school and had that nonsense knocked out of me. A colleague's mum was German, a friend has a Spanish daughter-in-law, a murderer I knew shot his Ukrainian wife in the head, before engaging in a pen pal correspondence with a Russian lady looking for a husband, an acquaintance has a Thai wife, a chum has an Indonesian daughter-in-law.... I'm fairly sure that we can all come up with a similar list of foreigners who have married in (ok, maybe not the murderer). Then there's all the foreign workers, professionals and tradespeople we interact with on a regular basis. Mongrel race, we English. Of course, these instances are of legal migration - which is pretty hard to achieve these days - it was easier back in the day when my dad fell in love with my mum. 

The issue is not legal migration, although there's a lot of head shaking about the Boriswave, designed to replace the flow of cheap labour from Europe with cheap labour from Nigeria, India and Pakistan following Brexit. The issue is that of the daily invasion in small boats of young men of fighting age, young men not culturally aligned with our great nation's secularity, stupid but brave and intrepid followers of a stone-age religion who immediately set about predating upon the host nation. Silly fourteen year old girls feeling sorry for a newly arrived migrant who "looked hungry" so they offered him a piece of the pizza they were eating, and, in his gratitude, he invited two back to his hotel room and offered to make a baby with them.  But I'm only 14, one replied, aghast, to which he grandly responded, age doesn't matter. No, but, seriously, but. It does. Matter, that is. And immediately propositioning a chance-met new acquaintance in the park is just not the done thing.

Caused a bit of a fuss. Protests outside the Bell Hotel in which Ethiopian illegal migrant asylum seeker, Hadush Gerberslasie Kebatu, had hoped to make babies, resulted in the arrests of some protesters and prompted the local Conservative Council to seek legal protection by the issuing of a temporary injunction to prevent the hotel from being used to house illegal immigrants. The High Court ruled last week that asylum seekers must be moved out of the Bell Hotel in Epping by September 12, after a challenge from the Conservative council. The Labour Government moved swiftly against the Epping Forest Council by expediting the appeal against that injunction by the hotel owners, Somani Hotels Limited.This is owned by Somani Holdings Ltd., a mid-sized holding company  focusing on hotels, care homes, and related hospitality services. It plays a central role in the Somani group's UK operations. The Somani family maintains close governance and significant ownership control (notably through Hassanali Somani).

As we are aware, the doctrine of the Separation of Powers means that the government should not influence the decisions of the judiciary. Therefore, the fact that the Court of Appeal overturned the injunction must just have been a coincidence. Lord Justice Bean, leading a panel of three judges, found the previous High Court decision relied on a number of errors - including ignoring the "obvious consequence" with regarding to asylum seeker accommodation capacity more widely.  Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch said it "puts the rights of illegal immigrants above the rights of the British people". Reform UK leader Nigel Farage criticised the judges’ decision, claiming the Government had “used ECHR (European Convention on Human Rights) against the people of Epping”. 

I suppose Sir Keir Starmer is pretty happy about his victory - but he may regret allowing his Home Secretary to declare war on the people - as he does still rely on them for voting purposes and he is the most unpopular prime minister in living memory. Labour long since cut ties with the working class of Britain - although still happy to take Trade Union funding; and has come to fear them, calling them racist and far right, with no attempt to understand their position. Basically, they regard the working class - a term that is no longer used - as the Simpleton Class.

Conference season is almost upon us and it is expected that Farage and Badenoch will both make a commitment to leaving the ECHR, which is widely regarded as being used to block the Home Office from removing failed asylum seekers and foreign criminals.

There's a vacancy in the top Anglican job, unfilled since Justin Welby resigned, disgraced, in January this year, following public disgust with his failure to control his paedophile priests. Doubtless, Fatty Cottrell, Archbishop of York, would like a promotion, judging by his willingness to weigh into the whole illegal migrant row. He paraded his stuff to Trevor Phillips on the Sky Sunday morning political show, attacking Nigel Farage's hugely popular plan to deport 600,000 illegal migrants through his "Operation Restoring Justice" should he win the next election. Pretty much in the bag, Nigel. Chubby Cottrell told the Sky audience, smugly, that Farage's proposals are "isolationist, short-term and knee-jerk". Yes, and what's your objection, Chubby? You are not going to get the top job by coming over all Christian, forgiving and understanding. Your dodgy decision to allow alleged paedophile and sexual enthusiast, David Tudor,  to remain in post as Team Rector for the parish of Canvey when you were Bishop of Chelmsford before getting the York archbishopric gig was just not cool. Maybe you should not allow this latitude to sexual offenders colour your approach to the Epping Forrest cluster fuck.

These archbishops, what are they like?

mr ishmael had Views on recent incumbents:

Anglican Archbishop Emeritus Beard has decided that we are no longer a Christian country.  

He has always disappointed me, Rowan Williams, firstly, by being Canterbury in the first place and then by being such a wimp at it; he is a Stringy, you see, like me,  a knower of the Riffs, Reels and Ragas captured from our common musicality and all writ down by the Incredible String Band, how could he still be a prelate, an Establishment toady, how could he be Vice's functionary, as, in his collusion in ecclesiatical beasting, he is.  Beardy, though, the most showily thoughtful of recent Canterburys, has now resolved  that C of E primaries must be outlawed, that King Brian must crown-ed be by Hindi and Muslem and Jewish clergypersons.  
Beardy, wedded for life  to the glaring preposterous contradiction that is ecumenism, serves none of the Abrahamic religions and betrays them all with his limp homogeneity, speed-blending imam and rabbi and vicar in some pseudo-spiritual NutriBullet, producing a universal person of Faith,  a GodlessHeathenBastard  for all seasons.

 Despite, however, diluting to  pointlessness the idea of Faith he now wants imams and rabbis to sit in the House of Lords, presumably on the Vaguely Good benches, bringing fresh, mad superstitions to the already corrupt, unaccountable and anti-democratic criminal institution. 
 Any rational person would see the Lords for what it is, a place of organised crime, rotten beyond remedy, peopled with sneering degenerates.  Jesus'd fire a round of fucks into them,  Beardy wants to make  them  a fully-representative, multi-faith LGBT knocking shop.
But bugger Beardy, we can all repudiate the church and abhor churchpersons  - his own gig, servant to degenerate, parasitic royalty, cost the hideous martyrdoms of his co-religionists, is rooted in lust and arrogance and like an American president with the Constitution, tramples upon its own founding document. One need not be a churchgoer, indeed, one need not even believe in God - Fuck me, I certainly don't  - to  despise the likes of Rowan Williams, contorted, as he is, in knots of cowardice, terrified that he might accidentally Stand Up! Stand Up for Jesus, snivelling and creepy-crawlying about, doing anything bar preaching the Gospel. But bugger him, he doesn't matter, save to those who hiss and simper and backstab at the Synod of  Depravity, who seethe and slander and see the  Church of England as a deliciously spiteful game of bridge, the faith it purports to safeguard no more than a moveable feast, laid to sate Debauchery's appetites.

How came we here, a place where we are taught to deride who we are and instead elevate some ragbag of meaningless, aspirational, inclusive, pluralist isms? How is it that somewhere along Ruin's  dark highway it was decided, without debate, that the very thing which attracts foreigners to Britain - its Britishness -  must be decried, degraded  and abolished and that those who still suffer from Britishness must be cured of it, must become healthily, sneeringly secular, which means, as far as can be deduced, that anything goes:  same-sex marriage; religious cruelty to animals, the explicit or implicit suppression of women and children by religious patriarchs; the refusal of even senior health service professionals to learn English;  the sprouting of alien places of  contrary and hostile and violent worship;  the farming of young British girls by alien men and the multiple bogus claiming of welfare benefits and  the utterly fatuous proclamation that any number of people may come and live here, without even let or hindrance, just because it's kind-of right.

  The detestable, money-grubbing bandits of the race relations industry have long since diversified into a multiplicity of shouty, blaming enterprises, damning the rest of us for our every waking decision, inventing  caricatures of disthinking and disfeeling, we are deniers of this or that, phobists of the other, they upend traditional, modest self-restraint and bawl abuse at those who see Pride  as unseemly at best;

Sisters of Mercy, the women-haters, the sex-haters; such a joyless bunch of tossers.

 who see cock-waving as immodest and improper, who resist the idea of family as purchaseable commodity  and who refute the desirability or possibility of trans-genderisation - butchering and inverting a man's penis does not him a her make - creating a lunatic, hyper-ethical, witch-hunting climate wherein, so long as they say the right words, mouth the right cliches,  the sharp operators, like Volkswagen, by pressing the right judgemental jargon buttons can delude us, extort from us  and fuck the entire planet at the same time.  Merely by paying lip service to the blame-babble of  poorly educated  lobbyists for Grievance and Pluralism and Renewables the very ground  - spiritual, educational and geo-fucking-logical - can be ripped from beneath us. Screeching, spiteful  queens or rapacious energy carpetbaggers,  they want to frack everybody, everybody's beliefs, everybody's values and they have devised the language by which to accomplish Ruin. Pluralism, this negligent, unsustainable, thoughtless and facetious doctrine is voiced  not only cynically and opportunistically by the predator but also as though 'twere a  wedding vow, by  the empty-headed. 

Founded for absolutely no other spiritual  or temporal reason than to facilitate the anger, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy and gluttony  of syphilitic, headchopping monster, 'Enery the  the Aighf, the C of E, now in its dying days, aptly  represents  and promotes - the Gospels having been, like so much, hijacked by Ruin's highwaymen - frocked'n'collared, unbridled licentiousness; belligerent and  impertinent Sapphism  and doesn't even try to do God, just buggery and whatever is its Sapphic equivalent. Don't tell me, I don't want to know. Really, I don't. 
 That the C of E's mission statement is now a catechism of the sexually aberrant and bizarre - in Christian terms, at least - that its Moving with the Times  agenda - as we now call bad intentions - negates everything for which it once vaguely claimed to stand; that its most strident voices sing not Hymns Ancient and Modern but  Perversion's Praises, instead, well, it's all quite comedic, really,  the Established Church revealing itself as the overbearing, hissy freakshow its most powerful always knew it to be.

 I have personal reasons for asserting - insisting - that all clergypersons are  beasts, unrecognised nonces, either by deed or by omission, by collusion, denial and obfuscation.  If you think about it even for a minute or two - the costumes, the ritual, the incense, the falsetto chanting, the pseudo-solemnity, the intrusive power over the vulnerable - Vicaring, like showbusiness proper,  is just the sort of gig sought by the flashy, showy predator;  rubber-stamping for God the souls of the young, the bereaved, the hospital patient, the homeless and the hungry. Zoning-in, like a heat-seeking missile on Grief's inevitability, your whoreson vicar/chaplain/priest/padre can sniff out your sorrow and stick his cock in it. Pack up your sorrows, he'll simper, and give them all to me. But he'll minister, especially,  bless, to  the young.  Suffer the little children to come unto me. 

 Choirmasters and vicars, how many thousands of the fuckers were exposed by the old News of the World,  week after week, year after year?  And yet, still, as though we were mediaeval serfs, bishop-nonces and archbishop-nonces hiss and glide and simper among us,  lording it up  in palaces - y'ever see the Bishop's Palace at Bath and Wells?  FuckMeJesus, they have the cheek of the Devil, the churchly princes - and, all dragged-up, sitting even in our legislature, the cheeky cunts.  Fuck 'em, up against the wall with them.  Take our  money and property back from them, give it to the poor. 

 I do not believe  that homosexuality and noncing are the same thing, I do feel that the Anglican church's loving embrace of all things evolutionarily and scripturally aberrant must make it a hotbed of unnatural carnality, the sort of environment which sees paedophilia as part of God's rich tapestry, for Him to chastise or forgive and for the rest of us to meekly accept.

This newest gabshite, the old Etonian evangelical,  will be entertaining in a brisk, clean-shaven sort of way but his - or anyone's - capacity to reconcile the louche, sybaritic,  amoral, white, western Anglicanism with the diehard, punitive, reactionary, black  African  Church of England/Christ the Cannibal is so limited as to be irrelevant. The Church  of Christ Sodomite  and ChristCarpetMuncher is fucked, like Woolworths. 

Don't ask me, Chief, I'm outta here. Cannibals, arse bandits, surplice-clad, dildo-wielding dykes in the rectory. Fuck that shit. Amen

 It will matter fuck all to Justin, of course; he will have reached the second-highest position in the God-serving career ladder - woe unto ye, ye who see contradiction in such Godless,  heathenbastard,  hierarchical horseshit - and that, for a gobby alpha male like Justin, is the main thing;  the poor ye have with ye always, innit.

I was in York Minster on Easter Sunday and his grace, Archbishop John, was glad-handing the pilgrims on their way out. Acting in my capacity as a member of the counter-press, I asked him if he was sticking to his pledge of not changing his underpants until Bob Mugabe had been lynched, boiled-up and eaten. Bless you, my son, he grinned.  I couldn't smell his underpants, even though it was a hot day and he was well wrapped up in archbishop clothes, so who knows, him and his Saviour, I guess. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he was wearing underpants made of cloth of gold, handsewn by some scrubbed and shrivelled Anglican nuns, especially for him, fringed with diamonds, and had been bullshitting the Faithful all along, about him and Uncle Bob and his self-denial of bodily hygiene.  I mean, being an archbishop, he wouldn't expect to be walking around York, all greasy and shitty in the down below department. He certainly didn't look as though he hadn't changed his underpants for five years.  I missed his sermon but saw, instead, right afterwards, the Choral Matins, locked behind iron gates in the  Quire;  there were only about a hundred of us, virtually outnumbered by choristers and deans and precentors and crippled, old sidesmen demanding money.  I gave them a tenner, what his late revoltingness, the phoney reverend, Ian Syphilis Paisley, used to call a silent donation, and was glad to get out of there alive.  But the music was fantastic, I had never heard any of it, psalms and anthems in settings by Victorian devouts, as it was happening in the beginning, is happening now and will carry on happening, alleluia, amen. And there were only a couple of readings by the dean and some other dude, short and to the point - Do as God fucking tells you. That'll do until Christmas, save to reflect that a life ordered by the Church calendar obviously has its leisurely attractions, its comforts, especially when the regular rituals are performed in such a setting, glass and wood and stone, its shapers' hands long coffin dust, its restoration and repair as constant as Time.

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Amuse-Bouche

I was rather disgusted by the day's special offering on the blackboard, but my companions perked up no end and recommended that I order the Partan Toes. 

I didn't want to eat toes, but, you know, when in Rome - well, you've just got to eat the boiled sheep's eyeball. Or, in this case, Partan Toes. 

In the context of Orkney and Scottish seafood, "partan toes" refers to the claw meat of the edible crab (partan). These crab claws are sometimes served as a specialty dish in restaurants in Kirkwall. Jollys of Orkney, Shearer's and The Brig Larder sell them, alongside other fresh seafood such as hand-dived scallops. The Brig once had Cod Tusks on its A-board outside the shop. Well, I never knew that Cod has tusks, I exclaimed to my friend, who was momentarily puzzled before carefully explaining that Cod is one sort of fish and Tusk is another sort of fish.  Partan toes are prized for their delicate, sweet taste, are bloody expensive and are enjoyed as they are or used in recipes such as Partan Bree:

Ingredients:
1 large cooked crab
2 oz rice
1 pint milk
1 pint liquor from boiling the crab (or water, if you bought in the crab pre-cooked - recommended method - screaming crab is distressing)
¼ pint single cream
Salt and pepper
Chives (pull up from garden, discard weeds and snails, chop up with big fuck off knife)

Method:
Remove all the meat from the crab, keeping the claw meat separate. Cook the rice in a pan with the milk and water until tender. Liquidise this with the brown body meat from the crab. Add the white meat and cream and reheat. Add salt and pepper to taste. If the partan bree is too thick, you can add some more milk if required. Serve garnished with fresh, green, finely chopped chives. And a Partan Toe, if feeling generous.

Should you expire from a surfeit of partans - unlikely, given the cost, the independent retailers and florists' shops will post a small notice in their windows, headed up: "An Intimation and an Invitation", exhorting all passers-by to participate in your funeral rites at St. Magnus Cathedral. It's a thing. A big thing. The woeful loss of the dearly beloved (or absolute stranger) is mitigated by the opportunity to put on your best clothes and get down and sorrowful with the citizenry.

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Politics and Geology

I am the proud possessor of an A in A level Geography, so there's no fooling me when it comes to lies, damned lies and climate change. Why is there a hose-pipe ban in Yorkshire? Because privatised water has given all its profits to its shareholders and not re-invested in the infrastructure of reservoirs and the detection and remediation of leaks from old water pipes. Britain is a wet country. No, really. Just because August has been nice and sunny does not mean that Britain is not a wet country. Gods damn it, it rains. A lot. All bloody winter. And Spring. And Autumn. And a lot of Summer. Just catch the stuff, eh? How about that for an idea?  Why is there a massive fire on Yorkshire's Langdale Moor? Why is the peat burning two foot below the surface? Well, that's the Gods having a laugh. "I'll give you hosepipe ban", they chuckle, "Start spraying that water. Line up and piss on the heather. Get out the slurry tankers and drench the moors with effluent. Send up the helicopters with water balloons and water bomb that fucker". 

Do you think the Gods are anti-capitalist? Or just like a laugh?

Anyway, that Yorkshire stuff is a little diversion - the point of introducing my enviable Geography A level is to applaud Kemi Badenoch's latest headlines:

"No more net zero – extract every drop of North Sea oil"

"Fuck Ed Zero Miliband", Kemi may say in her planned Aberdeen speech next week, "I pledge to you, my people, that I will abolish great swathes of anti fossil-fuel extraction laws. There's oil in them thar seas and we are going to get it out. We are going to make Aberdeen great again. Once more will Aberdonian taxi-drivers ply their trade in Beamers and Jagwars. Once more will house prices rival London's. We will Make Aberdeen Great Again. We will stand firm against the Norwegians nicking our oil. It is going to be burned anyway, so we might as well have it and Miliband Minor can skip off, singing hello, twees, hello, fwowers."

The thing is, the oil and gas under the North Sea doesn't know it is Britain's oil and gas and will just stay there, since it is naughty to extract it. Nope,  the clever fellows with their clever machines will  suck it out and not stop to check whether it is speaking Norwegian or English. You can believe me on this, since I have an A level in this sort of thing.

What's black and leaps out of the North Sea, yelling Knickers?

Crude Oil.

Anyway, amongst all the fuss about the ECHR and Nigel Farage (get used to him - he's the next Prime Minister. If he can be arsed)

 Matthew Pennycook, an obscure housing minister, has stuck in his two-pennyworth. Matthew Two-Pennycocks said that leaving the ECHR would align Britain with Russia and Belarus. Maybe that's a good segue into seeing how far our favourite builders have got on the house they are building at the edge of a forest in Belarus.

You'll need to turn on the subtitles (hit the yellow CC button), because they speak Belarusian. Or Russian. Anyway, they say Da. It will take an hour of your life, but you may like it. It is very ASMR. ASMR is a subjective experience of "low-grade euphoria" characterized by "a combination of positive feelings and a distinct static-like tingling sensation on the skin". The acronym stands for 

autonomous sensory meridian response. There's building, outdoor cooking, gardening and Kittens.

There are four splendid anthologies of the writings of stanislav and mr ishmael, compiled by his friend and editor, mr verge, the house filthster. You can buy them from Amazon or Lulu. Here's how:

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are available from Lulu and Amazon. If you buy from Amazon, it would be nice if you could give a review on their website.

IIshmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps 

please register an account first, at lulu.com. This is advisable because otherwise paypal seems to think it's ok to charge in dollars, and they then apply their own conversion rate, which might put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links below (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Ishmael’s Blues" into the Lulu Bookstore search box. Click on the “show explicit content” tab, give the age verification box a date of birth such as 1 January 1960, and proceed.

Link for Hardcover : https://tinyurl.com/je7nddfr

Link for Paperback : https://tinyurl.com/3jurrzux

https://www.lulu.com/shop/ishmael-smith/flush-test/paperback/product-9yjvn7.html?q=Flush+Test&page=1&pageSize=4

At checkout, try WELCOME15 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, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £16.84; HB £27.04.

The Sunday Ishmael: 24/08/2025: Put out More Flags

 

I couldn't fly the flag of St George here - even out in the countryside, it would be frowned upon, to put it mildly. Oh, there's no shortage of flag flying - the Orkney flag

is displayed by the Viking/Norwegian types and the Saltire

is flown by the Weegie ex-pats. There's even the occasional sighting of the Union Jack, because Orkney isn't rabidly pro-Independence. If Scotland seceded, Orkney would be Independent of Scotland in order to throw in their lot with Norway, which is fairly indifferent about re-embracing their lost children. A bit like West Africa, which hasn't rushed to extend a repatriation offer to the formerly enslaved citizens of the United Slaves.

But not the flag of St George - who was an unlikely patron saint of England, being a Greek chap who served in the Roman army, but not to let fact get in the way of a good story. No, never that flag in Scotland.  Not so in Weoley Castle, Birmingham, I am delighted to say. The Weoley Warriors are "A group of proud English men with a common goal to show Birmingham and the rest of the country of how proud we are of our history, freedoms and achievements.

Giving hope to local communities that all isn’t lost and they are not alone.

We will be using all funds for flags, poles and cable ties.

We are happy to take road requests on donation, please use the contact function below.

We have been overwhelmed with all of the donations given and road requests. Please bear with us as all volunteers work full time, we will endeavour to fulfil all requests.

We are also contributing materials to other like minded individuals.

Thanks you for your support, god bless."

Rally round the flag, boys. Not just Weoley Castle - also in posho Barnt Green. And it isn't just in Birmingham that the English flag is being raised on lampposts. It is happening in Worcester, Bradford, Greater Manchester, Newcastle and Norwich. In York, Flag Force UK is raising funds to raise flags. Their website states: 

"Ultimately around the world people fly their flag with pride and no one bats an eye. We have the same right to do so while using the attention it gets to spur on positive action. Let's reclaim our flags and symbols and use them as a force to do good."

If you detect a certain defensive tone, it is because the fashionable bien-pensants are upset about this movement to reclaim pride in England, apostrophising it as racist, inflammatory and contrary to the official rubric that diversity is England's strength. I'm sure the flagsters are right. And about time, too. 

Apparently, the first flags went up in Weoley Castle, which is a nice enough residential suburban area to the south of Birmingham. I used to live near there. It has the ruins of its own castle, named "Wēo-lēah" (from the Old English) meaning "temple clearing". Before the Christian era there may have been a heathen temple there. The flags went up in protest that a 12 year old girl in Bilton School in nearby Rugby was prevented from participating in the school's "culture celebration day", for which pupils were asked to wear cultural dress rather than school uniform. The little girl wore a union jack-themed dress and was stopped from making a speech about being British.

Any culture except that one. Any national dress except that one. Any flag except that one.

To be honest, I always thought that flying flags was a bit naff. I thought that patriotism was alright for foreigners who don't know any better. That we don't need to do that, we British, because we know, deep down, that we are inherently superior to everyone else, and that the polite thing to do is not to rub it in.

I'm a convert now. Because it seems that the campaign of the sophisticated, terminally embarrassed, middle class metropolitan liberal-elite stone-mad wankers to destroy national pride, identity and history has been a huge success. That whole separate development rather than integration tosh, that cultural diversity crap, that failure to call out female genital mutilation as child abuse "because it's their culture", that serving of halal meat in school dinners in order to respect different religious beliefs (bollocks - you do know how animals are slaughtered in order to produce halal meat? If not, please go elsewhere to acquaint yourself - I can't bear the pictures) - yes, all that woke stuff has permeated the national psyche to the point where the middle class are ashamed to be British.

Thank god for the working class. 

Here's stanislav, writing about Birmingham back in 2010. 

Today, stanislav takes temperature in Birmingham, used to be workshop of Empire and manufacture every fucking thing, from tiny little needle to big fuck-off Howitzer and Spitfire and lorry and van and car,  now  whole fucking place  just poxy shopping centre is, Selfridges ugly building and Merry Hell Centre in Duddl-eye .

 Brummy not as bad is, obviously, as Jock, ginger, mutant, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child molesting  bastard out from mind on tonic wine, cheap smack and temazepam, lying in fucking gutter in vomitstained shellsuit and tattoo on forehead saying JUCK and never day's decent work has done or even can read and fucking write, only  to scribble "please fuck my arse, the noo"  down on public toilet wall, "for fifty pee, discount for parties, arranged can be, d'ye ken. Nae English."

Is not Glasgow or anything - but fucking shithole is anyway,  Birmingham, these days, and good for fuck all,  now, just like all of not very Great Britain, after brilliance of fuckpig billionaire  cheeky bastard shopkeeper of M and fucking S and B and fucking Q - or leaders of business as they like to be called - grubby fucking shopkeeperbastards peddling tat and junk made in Chink sweatshop and rubbish is and wanting to dictate government policy, since when is fucking shopkeeping bastard political scientist,  all can do is pay minimum wage and flog off loads of rubbish, is worse than fucking Taliban these bastards, them  and thieving bastard banking cunt are all so fucking clever we don't even make  fucking cars any more, only fucking rubbish wooden ones  -  Morgan, they make a handful of cars and employ a handful of people, the UK car industry   - and only good for fucking Diarrhoea Balti, Birmingham is, down Ladypool Road,  pissed up bloke and Chlamydia totty in bare leg and high heel can eat as much rotten Halal goat meat as possible for  three quid at Formica table and never mind poor beast throat had cut in backyard and bled to death, screaming in shit and blood, for Allah,  the merciful   and bring in own bottle of Newcastle Brown can  from paki supermarket next door,  with rotten old tomatoes and fruit sitting in  shitty old crate on pavement with dogpiss and exhaust fumes, like real metropolitan sophisticate,  for washing-down purposes and enjoy eye-watering bout of le posterieur flambee next fucking morning as  burning hot,  high pressure torrent of liquidise goat and naan bread come shooting out from arse in every fucking direction and arsehole stings just  like was swarm of fucking wasp living up Jacksie and can't even hardly stand-up straight from toilet and stink would strip varnish off from front door of hi-rise council flat and called multiculturalism,  this fucking nonsense rubbish is,  was dead ginger bastard Robin Cook who said Oh Ah, Fuck me, used to be could ask British person what was favourite dinner and roast fucking beef with pudding of Yorkshire would be answer, but now, aha, ahum, answer would be chicken tikka fucking masala and that goes to show how very far we have come as a nation under New Labour, going down Ladypool Road pissed up and scoffing condemned, unfit for human consumption  meat and arse-destroying spices, according to Cook, is equivalent of two-year tour of Indian sub-continent,  stupid ginger Jock bastard, as though eating shit curry same thing is as studying Paki history and writing and music, is not very much,  is true,  of history, because Paki country has only been here fifty fucking years or so and might not last another six fucking months and could disappear  and us too if Talimen cop hold of nuclear PakiBomb and have to get terminated with extreme and I mean fucking extreme prejudice, what with militantbastard and terroristbastard and  mullahbastard and insurgentbastard and bent governmentbastard  and Bhutto dynastybastard,  worse than house of fucking Windsor is and Prince of fucking Wales, not to mention applepie-eating, crewcut, granny-raping CIA murdering psychobastard gonzo and  embittered belligerent lesbian lunatic  Hillary Trousers flying all over the fucking place shouting at people as though it was the whole world what pissed on her wedding vows and not just Spunky Bill, the murdering, thieving, bullying, coke-snorting, whoremongering arsehole and soon to have heart failure, with any luck is. Fucking place could go up in garlic mushroom cloud any day.  And anyway Pakistani founder  bloke, Jinnah the Paki,  only set up muslim  country in first place because he and fellow head-chopping, women-stoning hysterical beardy  maniacs and worshippers of Allah the wise and merciful, peace and blessing be upon his name can't get on with neighbouring Sikh and Hindus all down together there,  shitting in the Ganges and holy bathing all at the same time, with cow and buffalo wandering in and out from house and  shitting sacred shit on carpet  and  some bastards  so  poor are that unfuckingtouchable is. Unfuckingtouchable, worse than piece of shit. Who wants to  multicultural, all men are pluralist brothers be,  with bastards like this, fucking savages, punch in fucking mouth should get and never mind pushing-in to queue down at Post Office.  The very idea.  First thing should happen when Hindu or Sikh or Muslim bastard come in country, even if is Krishnan Guru O'Murphy, off C4 news with Jon Sox, or famous gobby cricketing bastard playboy, Imran Khan,  is give good swift punch in nose, not bit of slap, good proper thump, broken cartilage and hot blood choking in throat and seeing stars and told, we don't do that untouchable shit in this country, is fucking rubbish.  And we don't slaughter goats in the back yard, neither. And No, you can't burn your dead uncle's body on the municipal fucking bowling green, fuck off and I don't give a flying fuck what it says in the European Human Rights Act;  is that fucking clear?  And while is here, is no more mosque or fucking temple to go up, is plenty allfuckingready. Is fucking England here and not fucking Asia.  Understand?  Is fucking England, have come to fucking England and is Christian culture and architecture and not homeland of Ali Baba and Forty Fucking Thieves with minarets and flying fucking carpet and bullock shitting in the middle of the A45 and nobody can shoo the bastard away.  Fucking England is  - or Wales or Scotland, best part is of England -  no point is trying to make home from fucking home, better off is to stay at home and use Mosque already there. Or Temple. Can build Mosque, OK,  but has to be in line with local planning and look like decent proper Norman C-of-E church, with spire. And fucking clock. And graveyard.  And gay mullah living in loving partnership before God with young rentboy. Okay, fuck off, now,  and Hare Krishna.  Is in England now and best to behave is like decent English bloke and not elephant-riding Mahafuckingrajah, with slaves and concubines. And all this Mrs  shit, her all wrapped up in head to fucking toe binbag  and walking four paces behind you down a Wolverhampton street  with her eyes cast down in the gutter, like  repentant fucking sinner from Middle fucking Ages,  you can forget all that bollocks, Ahmed, me old son;  same with your daughters, you and your half-shaven fag sons try any of that honour killing nonsense and you'll get a good fucking kicking, you heathen fucking cocksucking bovverboys.   And if only some bastard had said this all along, in best proper polite English terms of course and maybe no effing and fucking blinding, or not so much, then proper understanding and mutual respect would have been develop. Instead, bent,  jumped-up councillors and stupid,  gobby MPs have hung everybody out to dry in  deranged and chaotic equal opportunities climate, too timid, too cunning, maybe,  certainly too hungry for votes to tell our newcomers the score.

Anyway, Jinnah and Co said fuck all this superstitious shit, is only one god and Allah is his name and peace and blessings be on it and anybody disagree get  Fatwahed and beheaded on TV and we can't be doing with all these long beards and fucking turbans and mad sexual intercourse all day long,  all twisted-up like made of rubber was in Hindu book of Kama Sutra, filthy fucking bastard nignogs, we off out of it are, in new place and call it Pakistan, is long way of saying Paki.  And from there  we invade Birmingham. But if Paki bloke cannot get on with Sikh and Hindu what fucking chance is with Godless, heathen bastard Aston Villa-worshipping Brummie nutcase? Is not integrate, anyway, no matter what City fathers say, no matter what Baron Hatterjee of Sparkbrook says, horrible spit-spraying old faggot,  is just ghetto of Labour-voting shopkeeper and cash 'n'carry wallah. Or disgusting banana  republic, as High Court Judge, Mr Justice Knobrot QC, said, a few years back. 

Is hardly no bastard in work anymore here in Brum apart from probation oficer and outreach worker and fucking imbeciles in Selly Oak Job Centre or Restart. Anybody hear this cunt of a man, manager of Selly Oak Pisshole Job Centre on madeupnewsandfilth's Radio Four Programme?  Radio Four does worthy and concerned  programme, all  shit fucking rubbish  with no advert or jingle like decent station and daytime or early evening is like wander into world of phony, thoughtful, sanctimonious  caring, is fucking endless Woman Hour with wretched old fucking boot, Jenny Murray and  Pee Em with Eddie Smug and WATO with Martha Kearney and MoneyBox and some tight-fisted, mean as fucking dirt busybody  old fucking bastard from Hemel fucking Hempstead or Tunbridge fucking Well  phone-in, whining and  screeching, Can get extra farthing per month on pension, please? miserable, grumbling skinflint old  codgers and fucking tied-up and tortured should be in own home by Hoodies, Hello...Hello..can you hear me ...I want to give money to poisonous fucking bastard grandchildren to help them through Uni - Uni is what used to be called college of fucking cooking and hairdressing and watching telly studies and is run on cheap by local council with wanker lecturers who can't write a fucking sentence in decent fucking  English and need themselves Educayshun, Educayshun, Educayshun - and fund their fucking Gap year, obnoxious, smirking little consumerist pricks, and what best way is to pay no fucking tax? Oh, fuck me, thanks for your call, Margaret,  there, in Saffron fucking Walden and I am joined in the studio by an accountant, another accountant and another accountant, none of which fuckwits saw the credit crunch coming until it had wiped out all their clients' monies  but they'll be able to advise you, because they are the experts.......Anyway was programme on about Selly Oak Job Centre and was interviewing clients - ie deadbeat bums on fucking dole,  most of West Birmingham - and everybody says is all shit, no courses, no advice, no funds, get treated fucking worse than  whore at hockey match, come in the door and get fucking ignored by staff and eventually told is that  nothing fucking doing is and that all the jobs on the board are all made fucking up, honest and not invent, all made up, no point applying is because what happens is Ree-surcher from Job Centre telephones employer and says Any Job Going ? And employer says No, fuck off, be down there meself, soon, in fucking Job Centre. But might be jobs, one day?  Well, might be. Can put you down for twenty, then? Do what the fuck you want. Okay, then, forty. And soon all the boards and computer screen is fill-up with jobs which aren't, but might be. And government lying bastard minister for benefits can say, Oi, citizens, look,  here is million or two of jobs unfilled, better get off down Job Centre of Shit and get one, even if is all imaginary, imaginary job is better than no job, innit, and better watch out or will imaginary benefits be collecting.  Interviewer says to Job Centre Manager, Wossallthisshit, then, made-up jobs?  No, is straight up, meet all criteria of Department of Work and No-Pension, which is main thing, otherwise I get the sack and is coming in here myself and applying for jobs which figment  of statistical imagination are, and not really there at all. No, no,  no, is plenty of courses, paint and decorate and cv writing, to name but all of them...But Mr Smith says your staff told him no course was and to fuck off and get course from private firm...No, no, no, I do assure you he is wrong.....Is not fucking wrong, is fucking outside, Mr Smith,  go and fucking ask him, has sorted out course for himself which you useless fucking bastards should have sorted out.  Have spoke to dozens of fucking people and all the courses which they should be able to get for retraining for new fucking jobs in the new fucking economy of the fucking future and which Gordon fucking Brown and Ed fucking Balls are always going on about, and that useless  walking disease, Lord Nothing-Wrong-With-My-Arse Was -Just -Routine- Emergency-Arsectomy Requiring-Few-Day-In-Royal-Hospital-For-Officer-And-Poof, well, your staff have never fucking heard of them.  No, no, no,  I assure you and your smugbastard RadioFour listeners that this will be just a question of minor adjustments as the new programmes are rolled out across the country. And can't fucking obviously, comment on individual case, So there. Bollocks. Restart, down SellyOak Job Centre of Shit is, like every other fucking thing, whatever we say it is.

Birmingham economy is fucked,  manufacturing is destroyed  by people who lied and stole and killed and cheated and blackmailed and now can only mouth jargon and fucking slogan about imaginary new economy, imaginary jobs and imaginary prosperity, thieves and jackals, good for fuck all and up against wall should go. Steven Byers gave Longbridge and its traditions away to thieving bastards, beyond the law or morality's reach, its workforce now at the mercy of government initiatives at Selly Oak Job Centre of Shit is. And if any justice was Byers and Hoon and the rest would be in custody remanded at Winson Green and no fucking bail, pending trial for deception and theft and good kicking having off thin blue line of lazy fat screws. Only trouble is madeupnewsandfilth quickly hoovered-up mess of ExpensesCrime and MortgageCrime and WarCrime and JunketCrime and EarthCrime and most especially, in Scotland, best part of England, of massive NonceCrime. 

George Cadbury great Edwardian philanthrowotsit was, here in Birmingham and made ethical business, sort of, was better, anyway, than nasty fucking leprechaun,  Willy O'Walsh,  does at BA and now is sold off to GlobaCorp, just for fucking money. as though money was real, like people and soon Cadbury chocolate outsource will be in New fucking Delhi, with cow and buffalo wandering around production line.  End of road for Workshop of Empire and just instead cheap corner shop will be and sharp-faced, ferrety Brummy  a citizen of depressed EuroRegion become. Like Albanian.

And testament will stand, Birmingham,  to growing our economy of goodforfuckall service industry, of worthless lying bastard financial adviser, of light regulatory touch. And culture will be of screaming  fag hairfuckingdresser  and Cruelty TV  and celebrity slapper with big plastic tits;  toolsetter and capstan operator, like  miner and steelworker and shipbuilder,  out on street with outlaw junky angel and prostitute will be, in Ruin.

So,  Asian vote will stay largely with SnotParty and so will probation officer, teacher, gay and bisexual community relations officers. And nurse and social worker. Blue collar bloke, still wiping off Byers' shit from face, will not vote Snot but will not vote Sam and Dave, either and  unlikely is to vote ShitEaters4HomeSeckatry. (Note off editor for overseas readers. In run-up, as we say, to last UK election, LibDem shadow Home Seck discovered by tabloids was to be dirty bastard copraphiliac, in house of commons was saying You watch me, voters, when I am Home Seck, which, actually speaking will be never, I tough am going to get with prostitution and stuff like that,  But and is big fucking but, huge fucking but, same bloke, Mark Eaton, MP, was doing unmentionable shit with rentboy, unfuckingmentionable, in fact, in United State of Obama, would have Hizonner Judge Hymie Goldblum yelling Yes, you can't,  you miserable sonofafuckingbitch and probably go in Old Sparky and get fried-up with eyes popping out and dangling down cheek and veins bursting and cock shooting sparks out from end, like Mount Vesuvius and crowd of Anafuckingbaptist witnesses in Sunday suit singing We Shall Overcome But You Sure as Hell Won't, Motherfucker,   if caught is doing this shit. 

Was German sort of perversion.  Everybody know that Herman the German is filthy fucking bastard and poking about in shit is every morning with Mrs and Jah,  Liebschen-ing is, dis poo is sehr gut, Liebschen,  is firm and gut colour and smell fresh and happy und look, Lieschen,   mein own poo is wunderbar, is neine  blood and full of seeds is so mein bowel is gut und cleansed, scrape clean with seeds from gut German wholemeal bread. Could probably, Liebschen,  pull rectum inside-out and eat dinner off. Come Liebschen, let's sit down together, holding hands  on our side-by-side Herr und Frau toilet bowls and do our liddle, healthy poos together, Jah? Heil Hitler.

Is famous for being romantic like that, German bloke. Only not with Jew. Or gipsy. Or poof. Well, Eaton bloke was (allegedly- see Wikipedia - ed.) worse than this, was worse than Herman the German. After day in Snot parliament, passing laws,  would go in rentboy flat, take off MP suit and lie under glass coffee table and rentboy poo would do on tabletop only tabletop not there was and, well, is fucking decent family blog here and not go no further but Fuck me, Jesus, what sort of people can be who would   have shit-eating freak in front of front fucking bench ? Here is our shadow Home Seckatry. And in his spare time, he eats shit, yes, that's right he eats shit, not his own mind, no, that would be disgusting,  he pays other people to shit on him and eats it. Is fucking  having fucking laugh, innit, with voter. ShitEaters might win in Solihull, which is very posh part of Birmingham and so full of poof and freak is but out of work car and chocolate egg maker will not vote for ShitEaters.)

Is some racial tension, growing unemployment and Austerity Years of National Recovery from the Bankers' Depredations are coming for all. Never mind, always is internet porn and daytime telly and burglary to fall back on. Probably political map  of Brum will remain mainly SnotGreen  with a few splash of Sam and Dave Blue and maybe little spot of ShitEater Brown, like skidmark.

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Thank you, stanislav. Heavily edited to take out the rude bits. Should not need to point out that this is 15 year old satire and not incentive to incite racial hatred, but, le loi est le loi si vous êtes Mede, Perse ou Lucy Connolly, so just to be clear, this is satire.

Back to the flag flyers of Birmingham, York, Bradford, Worcester, Manchester, Newcastle and Norwich.

"The meteor flag of England

shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,

and the star of peace return." 

Thomas Campbell -  1777-1844.

Bet you didn't know that the Union Jack is named after Jack Crawford? At the Battle of Camperdown off the Dutch coast on the 11 October 1797, Venerable was Admiral Duncan's flagship. During the battle, part of the Venerable's mast was felled, including the admiral's flag. Lowering the Admiral's personal flag was a sign of surrender, and even an unintentional fall was unacceptable. Despite being under intense gunfire, Crawford climbed the mast and nailed the colours to the top.

Hence - Union Jack and nail your colours to the mast.

Here's Bob Fox, At Trades Club in Hebden Bridge, February 2010, telling Jack's story:

What's on Telly.

Hostage

Starring Gentleman Jack, aka Suranne Jones as British Prime Minister Abigail Dalton

Julie Delpy as French President Vivienne Toussaint

Bashy, (a rapper) aka Ashley Thomas as the Black Husband
Lucian Msamati as the Downing Street Chief of Staff, looking like David Lammy after a very heavy weight fell on him 

Netflix tells us that "Hostage" is a gripping new political thriller series on Netflix, featuring a storyline where the British Prime Minister's husband is kidnapped, forcing her to navigate a complex web of political intrigue and personal dilemmas.

This is Tosh. Complete, unadulterated Tosh, filled with stereotypes and clichés. It is impossible to suspend disbelief. Two female Heads of State, one with the obligatory Black Husband, one bonking her stepson, a David Lammy-style Civil Servant functionary, and a forest that resolutely stayed very English-looking, despite the tents, helicopters and hostage takers. Just titillatory crapdoodles. I swore I wouldn't watch more than the first episode. My friend managed 25 minutes before giving in. I'm up to Episode 4 now and was only able to stop myself gulping down Episode 5 because it was midnight and past my bedtime.  I know – terrific tosh! Downing Street has now been blown up and Madame la Presidente is dead – it all serves her right for being a dirty whore because it was the girlfriend of her stepson who duped him into carrying a laptop bomb into Downing Street. But Gentleman Jack will save the day, what with her perfect cheekbones and Black Husband and Half Black daughter who grassed her up to the press but all is forgiven, because what can you expect from a retarded teenager? And her Wilfrid Pickles old dad whose only narrative purpose was to show she has common roots is now murdered at the hand of Madame la Presidente’s step-son’s girlfriend who is cross because her Regiment - the Jolly Highland Sheep Stealers, has been axed because of Budget cuts. But, fortunately, before Downing Street was blown up, miraculously not killing Gentleman Jack, her Black Husband, Half Black daughter and la Presidente’s step-son, who seems to incur no moral opprobrium because he has stubble and is a bloke, despite banging his aged step mother and videoing it – the video that was released to all media outlets by his Hoots, Mon, former Jolly Highland Kilters girlfriend, fortunately, as I say, a deal was struck in which the French for Fuck’s Sake, will supply the British with all the drugs that the NHS has run out of, which deficit has caused rioting on the streets. Take a deep breath.

One more episode to go, one more episode to sort Britain out!!!

Highly recommended. If you like tosh. Which, it turns out, I do.

...................................................................................

You may like this.  It speaks to those of us who have far more decades behind us than ahead of us.

There are four splendid anthologies of the writings of stanislav and mr ishmael, compiled by his friend and editor, mr verge, the house filthster. You can buy them from Amazon or Lulu. Here's how:

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are available from Lulu and Amazon. If you buy from Amazon, it would be nice if you could give a review on their website.

IIshmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps 

please register an account first, at lulu.com. This is advisable because otherwise paypal seems to think it's ok to charge in dollars, and they then apply their own conversion rate, which might put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links below (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Ishmael’s Blues" into the Lulu Bookstore search box. Click on the “show explicit content” tab, give the age verification box a date of birth such as 1 January 1960, and proceed.

Link for Hardcover : https://tinyurl.com/je7nddfr

Link for Paperback : https://tinyurl.com/3jurrzux

https://www.lulu.com/shop/ishmael-smith/flush-test/paperback/product-9yjvn7.html?q=Flush+Test&page=1&pageSize=4

At checkout, try WELCOME15 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, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £16.84; HB £27.04.

The Jolly Highland Sheep Stealers Regiment now axed due to Budget cuts.