Thursday, 28 May 2020

America's War against its citizens

My fellow motherfuckers. 

 I stand before you to-day as our  wholly militarised country faces even more difficulties with the negro race.  
There was a time.
My fellow motherfuckers,
A time before the Civil  Rights Act.
When humans were entitled. To protect themselves. From animals.
But those days. When they knew their place. Are long gone. 

And now it seems.
 That all they wanna do is bitch.

 And our proudly militarised lawnforcement stormtroopers4democracy.  
Regularly find themselves.
 Outnumbering these dangerous folks so badly. 

That they don't all get an opportunity.
As is their God-given right.

To pop a round in their black asses.

My fellow motherfuckers.
 That can't be right. 
Fuck me, Jesus, 
seems like we can't turn around without some nigger sonofafuckinbitch gettin' his ass blowed away by lawnforcement. Everywhere you look. They're gettin' their big black asses shot, getting choked, 
being beaten to death and when that shit ain't happenin' they're gettin' fried, gassed to death or being handed nine-hundred year sentences to be served on they ownsome in some six-foot square shithole only comin' out to receive a good kicking offa the guards, as fine a body of men. As ever served. This fine nation of ours.
Wherever they are born, niggers and brown folks deserve the right which they enjoy, here, in the Land of Freedom.  The right to be shot dead for no reason, just because some psychobastard, serial killer cop feels like it.

Whydya shoot the nigger eight times?
I ran out of bullets after that.
it is the only thing we can do with all these cocksuckin', bone-idle, fuckin' nigger sonsafuckinbitches, complaining their black asses off everytime one of them get's murdered by a decent, white  public servant. 
 God Bless Amerika.

Extract from mr ishmael's essay:
The Foreign Pages: America's War against its citizens
13th April 2015

The Bureau for Justice Statistics (BJS) found in  the period 2003-2009, that 4,813 persons “died during or shortly after law enforcement personnel attempted to arrest or restrain them… About 60 percent of arrest-related deaths (2,931) were classified as homicides by law enforcement personnel.”

America's festering racial wound is evidenced in the racial and ethnic differences in its imprisonment rate: the number of prisoners per 100,000 people. In 2017, there were 1,549 black prisoners for every 100,000 black adults – nearly six times the imprisonment rate for whites (272 per 100,000) and nearly double the rate for Hispanics (823 per 100,000).
African Americans have died from Covid 19 at almost three times the rate of white people. Recently released figures compiled by the non-partisan APM Research Lab and released  the title Color of Coronavirus provide further evidence of the staggering divide in the  death rate between black Americans and the rest of the nation.
African Americans have died at a rate of 50.3 per 100,000 people, compared with 20.7 for whites, 22.9 for Latinos and 22.7 for Asian Americans.More than 20,000 African Americans – about one in 2,000 of the entire black population in the US – have died from the disease. In  Kansas black residents are dying at seven times the rate of whites.

The first case for charging the American government with the genocide of black Americans was brought in 1951 by a group called the Civil Rights Congress (CRC) in We Charge Genocide: The Historic Petition to the United Nations for Relief from a Crime of The United States against the Negro People.
The CRC was attacked, accused of exaggerating racial inequality, and disbanded in 1956.
Bryan Stevenson, founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, has documented 4,400 racial terror lynchings so far. He has brought the historical evidence of genocide to life in an exhibit at the National Memorial for Peace and Justice; there, visitors walk under 800 steel columns representing black Americans who were lynched – some bearing names, some printed with “unknown” and the location of the lynching.
Rather than fading into a shadowy past, the case for charging genocide has – if anything - only grown stronger and clearer since the CRC first brought its petition. Daily, the news is filled with documentation of black people wrongfully killed by police, most recently George Floyd. 
God bless him.

Monday, 25 May 2020

Just do as you are told, citizen-suspect. Me? well, no......

Boris Johnson's closest political adviser, Dominic Cummings, has been in and around the upper reaches of government and the Conservative Party for nearly two decades.

But today, the PBC has decided he must go and have been falling over themselves to generate innuendo:
  The Prime Minister is standing by his man
 Boris is giving Dominic his full-throated support.

Our Gnasher has weighed in to support the PBC, giving Boris a good blogging: 


Speaking to the Scottish PBC today, she told him very firmly, I needed my Catherine,

and did my best to support her decision to travel to her holiday home during the lockdown, but when it was clear that there were votes in it, I threw her to the wolves, without a second's hesitation.

You wanna stay in office, Boris, do it. Off with his head. Show some leadership, man. The voters willna take it.

 Clapping and rainbowing may be the opium of the masses, but second homes hundreds of miles away, lovers crossing London to give personal attention - well, that's just downright annoying.

Prof Neil Ferguson, the epidemiologist whose modelling helped shape Britain’s coronavirus lockdown strategy, has quit as a government adviser after flouting the rules by receiving visits from his lover at his home. He said he made
an “error of judgment”. Too right. No doubt he'll be back.

Meanwhile, up North, local newspapers the Inverness Courier, the Press and Journal and the Orcadian have been making a fuss about this gentleman,

Iain Stewart, NHS Orkney’s new chief executive.

He has been commuting between his Orkney accommodation to his Inverness home every weekend, to see his family, a journey involving a sea crossing and 120 road miles, whilst encouraging the island population, to whom the borders have been closed for two months, to avoid nonessential travel. He told The Orcadian last Monday that he is still travelling to his home on the Scottish mainland when he can. The Scottish Government has supported his  decision to commute to his home in the Highlands, during the coronavirus lockdown. So there's hope yet for young Dominic.

Here's a paragraph from mr ishmael:

 Gender doesn't colour my loathing of politicians, you have to treat them all equally, they are all filth;  thieves, fraudsters, blackmailers, drug addicts, murderers, rapists, extortionists, embezzlers, money launderers, war criminals and child rapists; slags, pimps and sluts, shit-eating degenerates, all of them, repeatedly criminal  either in commission of the acts or by default in not reporting them in others; 
gender is irrelevant.
 But that's just me, one of God's liberals.

(from Honours Amonst Thieves posted 7th August 2016)

Sunday, 24 May 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 24/5/2020

I'm not a violent man, never have been, never had to be, I was always, from about eleven, over six feet tall.  I've had the odd incident, was charged, once, with attempted murder but that was just Old Bill, doing what he does, lying his arse off;  it was self-defence and the judge threw it out, laughing.  I hit this guy - who was attacking me with a deadly weapon - as hard as I could, just the once, broke his face in bits - teeth, jaw, cheekbone.  'Salways made me think twice about that stuff.  And the other thing is that the older I've become the more I realise how utterly miraculous is Life, Creation, how our self-repairing systems are hard-wired, clever beyond belief and how a punch in the gob is potentially an act of heinous vandalism.

That's not to say that some people don't deserve to have their beings vandalised;  we can all think of six-hundred and fifty of them, immediately - thieves, ponces, slags, war criminals, Earth criminals, blackmailers, extortionists and child molesters;  there's a giant-sized A&E department's worth just sitting there, lying and bragging and guffawing on the green benches.

Qu: Where is Britain Going? A: To the Dogs

No use to blame the doltish, useless, shape-shifting, Oxbridge bullyboy, Cameron,  dressed-down in his best Fascist Man at M and S  jumper 'n' jeans and his pampered, landed-gentry, airhead tottysow, pregnant for the cameras, Jesus, these fuckers'll do anything for a photo-op, always have, bread and circuses and royal babies; no use blaming his braying, pinstripe freaks or his shoe fetish Lady of The Conference, May,  or his arriviste wannabees, Michael Spit-Gove, gazing up to his overprivileged, inbred, shadow cabinet betters, sneering down, like a fucking I-Know-Best Jesuit, on the lower orders from which he sprang, or crept, or oozed, whatever the  filthy, slimy, halitotic little turd did,  motormouthing the need to punish the poor, harder and longer, or Billyboy Hague, slapheading about in his best suit, buttplugged with cliche and crass, jingoistic aphorism, increasingly a   bizarre caricature of his obnoxious, freakyfag,  schoolboy self, with his Big List of Important Things To-Do, When I'm Important. I was born middle-aged, me, and I am ay very model of ay modern Tory MP. That you are, baldy, that you are.

No use to blame the Tory Manque, the suit-and-haircut poltroon, public school Clegg and his toiletmen, mouths filled with shit and piss and semen, stepped-out, momentarily, from the Westminster cottage, smiling their shitsmiles, lecturing us  about the consti-fucking-tution, if you please.  GodalfuckingMighty, that we should live to be condescended-to,  lectured-at  by the cowardly, hypocritical, lawyerbastard degenerate, Straight Simon Hughes;  see,  always told you, Ruin does have a sense of humour.

No use wondering how it is that the windmilling no-nukes sandal-weaving   buggery co-operatives now dominate the political landscape,  more Are You Being Served? than The Assyrian Came Down, Like A Wolf On The Fold;  nasty, faggoty, self-righteous, pestilential, turncoating, cocksucking, shiteating, cross-dressing, tut-tutting, creepy-crawlying, Hughesing their way to a position entirely unmerited, bullies, traitors, scabs and hypocrites. Vince Cable ? Seer and mataphysician? Oh, do fuck off and grow up.  Cable, very belatedly agreeing with the rest of us that UK personal debt was a worrying phenomenon, has somehow been elevated to the status of Prophet With Honour, an observation with which he can honestly say, Andrew, that he wholeheartedly agrees and via which elevation he can, in true LibDem style, urge the savage punishment of the most vulnerable. Nasty, grubby little fox-trotting nitwit, a figment of the imagination of skymadeupnewsandfilth.  Next they'll be telling us that You know, that wise King,  Solomon, in the Bible, like, he was an early Social Liberal ShitEating Democrat.

No use to blame  the fat layabout, Andrew Gobsley of the Liberal  Observer,  or Pay Me And I'll Go Down On Anybody On Any  Channel, Toilets Maguire,  of The Consumer Mirror;  or  David Fuck Me Will This Hereditary Blowhard Never Fucking Die Dimbleby, prickling and preening and pimping all over your shit-tubes, twenty-four hours at a stretch, preserving, at all costs, the status fucking quo, as his bloated, grunting, obnoxious father decreed it, I Am The Voice Of The Nation-ing for all he's worth, lest his star fade and he be seen, at long last,  retrospectively, as he is and always was, an enemy of all the people living on the outside of media's toxic  bubble, jumping mightily on them, should they dare challenge his poxed and privileged guests - Janet Teeth-Porter, for fucks sake - as they jointly shit in our faces, week after week, year after year; Dimbleby,  the arse-rapists' KY jelly.  And thanks to all my guests for being here on Question Time, tonight. Aren't I clever?

No use blaming Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, he'll range his squadrons against us if ordered to, as we, once the powerful electorate who have sent such a strong message regarding our punishment, swiftly become the enemy within. Or Chief Constable FastTrack Gob, OBE, charging-up his Tasers for imminent crowd suppression, or Brenda von Hohenzollern Battenburg  von Munchkin Whoops Change All That To Windsor And Play Greensleeves Very Loudly and her cardboard cut-out, lazy, good for fuck all, fancydressed, Ruritanian Princes and Princesses and Dukes of this and Earls of that with ribbons and sashes and medals and swords and Dowagers and clapped-out mistresses, Parker-Bowlesesque whores and slags and bumboys, Comptrollers,  Chamberlains and  Pursuivants  General, Keepers  of the Royal Dildo, Squeezers of The Royal Toothpaste, Wipers of the Royal Arse, the whole ghastly melange of greedy, idlebastard privilege and comfort disguised as Duty and Sacrifice and Noblesse fucking Oblige. Brutal, thieving slags, all of them, muttering my government this and my government that, as though, six months of the year on holiday, and the other six cutting ribbons, any of them gives a fuck, partying, birthdaying, official birthdaying, ski-ing, hunting, fishing, shooting, helicoptering, blundering about pissed on fifty quid cocktails, the inbred, hooraying shower of shit.

Rotten as all these are, the blame  for what is to come lies with the Brown-Blair-Mandelstein cabal of blackmailers, bullies and bankers' bumboys, the NewLabourNewWorldOrderistes.  Here comes Ruin, fast and furious, to your hospital, your library, your social services, your roads, your nurseries; his praisesingers and fellators in skymadeupnewsandfilth cheering him on, the people must suffer for the alacrity with which they bought into Mr Red Braces' product, whilst he is protected from all consequences, given the national treasure for his compensation.  Here comes RepoMan and BaillifsUlike, but not very much, helping force through the cuts to your living standards, grinning that We Are All In This Together, even though we are not. Here comes honorary PC Bouncer, to give you a good kicking for daring to assemble in groups,  complaining, here comes the Parish Doormen's Militia,  here to slap you around on behalf of their owners.  Here goes the pension you worked for all your life,  it is necessary that we take it from you and give it to the markets, and you don't deserve it, anyway, you're, actually, when the deal goes down, working class and not middle class like they've been telling you,  and you are shit, you are the enemy within, you must be brought to heel, corrected and chastised, dragooned,  harangued, corraled and bullied until you know your place, why did you ever imagine it was different?

We'll keep Big Brother and Simon Cowell and wotsisname, the stupid little fucker who couldn't spot a rigged photo but could smell a good insider deal a mile away, Morgan, the celebrities' best friend and confidante, keeper of everything they want you to believe about them, the Sir Michael Biro-Parkinson de nos jours, you know their smiles, their frowns, their ups, their downs but not their vileness, their greed, their cruelty;  for as we all know, Piers wouldn't be friends with them if they were actually all cunts, like him. We'll keep all of them, they do a good job, distracting the  citizen-debtor, keeping him on the straight and narrow path of obedience and consumer-longing.

And of course we'll keep those poignant, final  moments of Brownism, a decent bloke, really, like all who dedicate themselves to public service, when they could all earn so much more, down at B&fuckingQ, or in MacDonalds . All the things he's done to  make things better, like 50 fucking pee on the old age pension. And his kids, don't they look nice, nicer than those Iraqi kids, with their arms all blown off and their skin all burned?

Mark Oaten, former LibDem wannabee Home Seckatry didn't eat all that shit in vain, he set an example to the party, if I can do it, you can, and so they are, the parliamentarians at least, although up and down the land, even in the dire, wife-beating Western and Northern Isles, the ghost of the ghastly, sanctimoniuos Liberal fart,  Jo Grimond,  will be at the table, or  the creepy, bent  Old Etonian priapist and dog murderer, Jeremy Thorpe, Here, taste this Tory shit, it's not too bad, you can get to quite like it, Mmmm, yum-yum, eat it all up, don't spill any, this is what power tastes like.

But this is Labour's gigantic soiled nappy; its leaders have spent more than a decade, more like two, actually, fellating the rich, shitting on the poor  managing to achieve the greatest transfer, ever,  of wealth from hard-working people to the idle rich; bartering our troops bodies for Haliburton gold, funneled through the so-called lecture circuit, Tony and Imelda, slagging around the world and whoring the office of prime minister like none, absolutely none in history; invasion, occupation, torture, kidnap, concentration camps, kids eviscerated and incinerated, teens gangraped, wedding parties strafed, just for the crack, eh, lads? Bonny yankee crewcut psychobastard mommasboy  nazis, gorged on porn  and freeze-freighted hamburgers, filthy, murdering, neanderthal  shithead fuckpigs, rally round the flag y'all, George Chimp, cokehead, drunk, and wifebeater, is a great friend to our nation, pronounces the Fife spastic, pompously, like his father, as if from the pulpit, stuttering, gibbering,  criminal fucking lunatic, as though we were lost sheep, parishioners in his own private Kirk, the horrible fucking bastard;  the NewLabourFascist movement, aligning my country with rapists, torturers and monsters, Brown the impudent, bloated faggot, moralising, sanctifying  the obscene, latterly with his sour, bearded lady beside him and we must suspect, happier alone.

They Came From Outer Space

Yes, the hospitals, let me finish, burn them down, no, blow them up, that's it blow them up, no, let me finish, I am very clever, shut up and listen to me. Blow them up, y'see, it's actually the best thing to do with them. If you have hospitals people'll go in 'em, see , when they're ill, and that costs money, and that's money we could be spending on other things, private schools for instance,  and people expect not just to go in the hospitals but to get treated in 'em, y'see, and get better, and probably come home and want sickness benefit, which we must scrap. Because we 're all in this together. We can save the money the hospitals cost and give it to wealth creating  demolition companies, instead, or as well as, doesn't matter, just as long as we wreck things for ordinary people. Who don't know any better. And the best thing of all is we can blame it on thepartyopposite, who are every bit as bad as us but worse.  Health service, no, absolutely ring fenced, best Tory invention ever.
Now I don't suggest for a moment that we are gonna target the poor and defenceless but that's exactly what we're gonna do, after we talk to them about it, or, not really talk to them, just talk about talking to them about it - as if - and getting them to agree that  them losing their benefit is the best thing since sliced bread, not that they'll be getting much of that down at the very necessary soup kitchens which we are tasking the private sector with establishing.
It's tough times ahead all around and I for one am going to enjoy them hugely, that's what I came to Earth, sorry, into politics for.

What's that? My ears? No, of course I don't breathe through them. Well, not on this planet.

May You Stay Forever Young. That's an Order
I have sat in  this room and been the only one of an adult quintet not to  be reading his or her own, freshly-purchased copy of the latest Harry Potter tripe;  y'know, wizards and spells, tiny  kids' bedtime stuff. Ah, but mr ishmael, she was a single mother.  Aye, right, but it's still tiny kids' stuff.  And she's been maried, JayKay, for ages, so it's no longer an excuse, being single, never was, actually.  What's good is being a single mother and - like nearly all of them - just getting on  with it,  not making hundreds of millions of trash-pounds;  Christ, who'd want JayKay - and her security team and her PR team and her publishers - Fuck me, Jesus,  who'd want all that shit for a mum.

A little sidebar here, with myself.  If the Labour Party was so important to her, how come she only gave them one of her hundreds of millions of pounds;  why not twenty million or a hundred million;  don't it make ya wanna rock'n'roll,  the generosity of the artist? Why not make a difference instead of a gesture.  Big people give a little and they get all the praise, little people, relatively, give a lot and they just stay little people; move along now, you're in the Celebrities' way.

Most successful marketing exercise since NewLabour, itself, I think, Rowling's mewlings and pukings. Baby-talkin' the masses, it's the new Newspeak,  Obama does it,  Blair did it;  Brown couldn't speak but only sermonise and the Coalition mobsters are all just children, themselves, spoiled children, waiting til their father gets home. But baby-talking is the New Way.

Ah but mr ishmael, she got a lot of kids reading again, did JayKay.   Fuck off, she didn't,  this is publishing industry shit; the kids who didn't read before Pottermania, still didn't read after it.  They didn't read because they didn't read, because their parents didn't read, if they had any parents, and even if they did have any parents, maybe they didn't have disposable income set aside to improve our childrens' minds,  weren't able to chose Steiner schools, because we believe in them and that our children are well, just that little bit special -why?- well, because they're ours, bless them. vanity and narcissism?  No, I don't believe so  not that reading Harry Potter improved anything, it just led to people old enough, one would have hoped, to know better, reading these awful monstrosities before their brats could get hold of them -  they call it sharing the literary experience with our children, it really  is so precious. No, it fucking isn't. Last book I read for fun with a child was The Tiger Who Came To Tea.

 I have noted previously that when I was a kid it was cool to read grown-up books.  Thanks to my big brother, I did it all the time;  I read Catch 22, The Naked and the Dead, The Loneliness of the LongDistance Runner, From Here to Eternity, Lucky Jim,  oh, shitloads of stuff, Pans and Penguins, and I also warped through a galaxyful of science fiction, short stories, novellas, novels, trilogies, anthologies and compendia;  I have a small library of 'sixties science fiction which isn't but ought to be worth a fortune.
Brian Aldiss, one of Britain's greatest sci-fiers  describes his trade as First creating a whole new world of different but credible  creatures, with credible habitats, biologies, technologies, religions, superstitions, hierarchies, creating a place into which we can extrapolate human preoccupations, such as war'n'peace, over-population, natural disaster, individuality, totalitarianism et cetera and explore them. And then writing a story in it.
Isaac Asimov, in his Foundation Trilogy scattered humanity across the galaxy, his swarming spread guided by psycho-historian  and futurist, Haro Seldon, his wars, crises  and triumphs catalogued in the Encyclopaedia Galactica.  Asimov, himself a distinguished scientist, formulated the  fictional Laws of Robotics, realised much later in the derisory film I, Robot. This stuff was proper reading for a kid.  This was proper imagination, this wasn't McDonalds-in-a-Book, the addictive,  franchised, shove-it-in-their-faces, give-em-what-they-want, fast-food drivel of Harry Potter.
In his bleak 1954 existential masterpiece, I Am Legend, Richard Matheson revived the then-retired, zombie-vampire genre, his lonely and bereft  hero, Robert Neville, first battling his neighbours-turned-vampires with garlic and stakes and later with a phlebologist's laboratory bench.  Some of my teachers would say You can't read this stuff, others'd turn a blind eye, feeling, I guess, that it was OK for me to read stuff aimed at an older readership. I am Legend, too, became grist to the Hollywood mill, milled into ashes and dust, it was, a vehicle for Will Smith's shiny white smile. Never mind, the book is there, still.

Now, of course, GlobaCorp sells anything to anyone, creates the myth that Yes, it's Good, yes, it's Worthwhile,  Yes, parents should read kiddy fiction, listen to kiddy music.

It's JayKay Rowling's dreadful marketing triumph - the Harry Potter tripeology -  and the PBC's Doctor Who - sexy young actor and saucy jailbait  cyberminx companion which I blame for this deliberate and sinister generation-merging.Those are just two examples but global Infotainment makes little distinction between generations of consumers and if there is a cross-over product - be it interporn or smartphones or wizardy doggerel then cross-generationally-marketed it shall be.  There is almost a compulsion about it, that we must read and watch the same stuff as our kids, use the same cyber-enslavement devices - I found myself, in the nineteen-nineties, taking a mobile phone call whilst sitting on the loo;  haven't had a mobile telephone phone since, I mean a mobile, of course,  we don't waste words by saying mobile phone. I mean, that's one word wasted everytime you say mobile phone. And that adds up to a lorra wasted words. An anyway, adjective is the same thing as a noun, innit. Even though the fucking things aren't fucking mobile, they are fucking well portable, stupid fucking braindead, illiterate, uncomprehending, pigshitthick buffoons.  

Origin Story

In the beginning was the word and the word was stanislav

stanislav, the young polish plumber, was born in Inverness, in the public library to be precise. mrs ishmael was working in Inverness and we rented a wee house there, in glorious, dreamlike, mountainside suburbia;  we kept this old ruin on and both of us regularly travelled up and down, she at weekends, me  at any time I felt like it.  The dogblokes,  there were then three, sometimes commuted  with me but mostly stayed  with their Mum.
stanislav birthplace

Went to join the library one day, like a good, earnest, self-improving Radio Four type does.  Certainly, said the librarian, can you just fill-in this form ? Now, Inverness is the capital of the Highlands and Islands, that large region of Scotland over which the one per cent of Scots who speak Gaelic is scattered;  a ruse of  Salmond's Tribesmen, the promotion of this language is resented by the other ninety-nine per cent but the ones who speak it are gobby, demanding bastards, in English as well as in Gaelic.  Highland road and street signs,  therefore,  are duly in two  languages,  just  as they are in North Wales;  being aware of this cultural terrorism - Scotland is awash with such impertinences - I was unsurprised that I couldn't understand a word of the form in my hand.  But fuck me, I thought,  this is a fucking awful language;  the roadsigns all had too many Gs and Hs and CHs  in them,  the syllables so  garbled, clumsy  and unpleasing that you couldn't even attempt to pronounce them without retching involuntarily;  this form, however, was full of CKs and Js and Zs; Christ, I remember thinking, close-up it's even worse  than I thought.  Handing the form back I said I'm ever so sorry, Gaelic's too hard for me.  Oh, it's not Gaelic, she laughed.  What is it, then? It's Polish.  Polish, right.  We have a lot of Polish people here, working in the tourist industry and they.......Yes, they come in here to improve themselves, just like everybody.
My confusion had a big impact.  That night I was emailing my friend, Dick,  and  - being a close  observer of multi-culturalism - I had long since adapted my phraseology to the new demographic, one man and his elephant, for instance, ya 'aveta set a sprat to catch a redsnapper, mon; every Tom Dick and Ahmed and so on.  And in that email I spoke of how in the Highlands every Tom, Dick and Stanislav did such and such a thing.  The next morning, rambling through cyberspace, I came across Guido Fawkes's order-order.

Cookery Corner - Soup and Oysters

Watch Jamie Bloke on telly and copy everything just right.  Go in garden pull up handful of weeds from ground,  is ok leave some dirt on weeds, is organic soup,  innit,  go back in house and kick oven for good luck and get half kilo of garlic and smash up  with dirty old brick.  Have a break and pick nose for a minute,  tell cockney joke about My Old Mum.   Mmmm,  smell all that lovely garlic.  And then get some red hot chilli and smash with brick,  not too much,  just enough.  And then get ten pounds per litre olive oil off Sainsbury shop and pour some in jug.  Assemble all ingredients and season all up with half pound of cayenne pepper and half pound of vindaloo curry powder off Sainsburys.  Take weeds and oil and garlic and chilli and anything else you got lying about and throw in machine and give good fucking blitzing for minute or two till is right sloppy -  everything, weeds, garlic, oil and curry powder is one delicious and appetising grey-green mixture.  Wipe finger on arse of jeans and stick in soup.     Mmmm, is fucking miasma of friendly flavour  and texture,  leap up from bowl and tickle under fucking chin, eh.  Pour in bowls and serve cold with handful of weed ripped up and thrown on top.  Mmmm,  is delicious and  is guarantee family will go mad for it.  Can make six month in advance and store in garage with coal.  Season to taste.

The world's oldest creature, a 507 year-old clam known as 'Ming the mollusc', has been inadvertently killed by scientists during tests to discover its exact age. 

But no worries, as we say, now, here, in Britannia Stupidium.  The nation's greatest chef,  Maestro Heston Blumsenchidt, known to his acolytes as SquareHead, ArseBrain, Nutterchops and  SpudGeek, a member of a mutant species,  teevee presenteramus arseholeum culinaris, has graciously decided to cook the old bastard which had been crawling around Canadian waters for centuries  until some cunt decided to investigate him.

stanislav and mr ishmael's essays:

WotsonTelly (not a violent man)               drafted 9/11/13
Ranting in the Wind                                  drafted 10/5/10
They Came from Outer Space                  drafted 8/06/10
In the beginning was the word and the word was stanislav         
                                                                 drafted 26/2/14
A Feast of Jamie (extract)                        drafted 12/03/12
Telly Cooks, the wretched of the earth     drafted 26/02/14

Tuesday, 19 May 2020

Ground Control to Monty Donn

Ground Control to Monty Don
The testimonial silver's gone
The circumstance here's pretty thin
The sun comes out when I go in

On the way home from spinning class she pops into the deli for artisan gossip. He stays in the car, leafing through a high-end coffee bean catalogue. Their dream is to open up a roastery in the Kewsick Area
Get your hedge cut
Get your fuckin' hedge cut
Get your hedge cut
Get your fuckin' hedge cut
Stop meeting friends
And cut your hedge

Thank you to mr bungalow bill. Chapeau


I don't do clothes in any fashion sense. I hate the fashion industry as much as the arms or the halal meat trades. I used to do clothes, in my twenties,suits and cufflinks, ties'n'hankies, but that's long ago and far away and  I don't do them anymore.  But  I don't not do clothes in a Monty Don way.

Dadoo DonDonDon  Dadoo DonDon
from ishmaelian archives

 You know how the BBC pays production assistants to locate for him battered old linen shirts, Fred Dibnah jackets, frayed braces, old cardies and worn cord trousers, so's he can continue his poseur's existence,  worthy and sincere,

ethically photogenic, green and right-fucking-on, committed to leaving a light carbon footprint.

Wryly, chiding her about GardeningPorn,  I bought mrs ishmael one of Monty's huge, millstone doorstop books, must have been six-hundred pages and there were pictures of him on every page, bending, stretching, leaning, more bending, must be over a thousand of them, in the one book, all of them in what we country house owners call shabby-chic, except that you know Monty's get-ups will have been checked and co-ordinated by lighting cameramen, directors, fruit and vegetable stylists, continuity personnel, his publishers, BBC producers and people from the Radio Times.

adamant agronomy porn-toy
That's not not doing clothes, that's doing clothes Bigtime, image creation and consumer manipulation, Monty's just like you, really, gets his old clothes on and pops down the garden, doing some organic stuff,  for the planet and for his childen, just forget the squadrons  of writers  who script his every word, his every conscientious, planet-friendly aside; forget the storyboarders who choreograph  his every lithe step, his every wheelbarrow pushed between two epic trees or hedges or sculptural garden features, knocked-up for Oh, just a few pounds, really, and some stuff you can easily get down the local garden centre.

He's an ordinary guy, Monty, just like us, in his shabby old linen. Clothes maketh the man.

Up here in the best part of England, tourism, consumer tourism, is about all that’s left, shameless politicians and braindead tourism executives from visitScotland  shitmouth about branding everything, Scotland the Brand, kilts and whisky and shortbread and the home of golf, Scotland is open for foreigners to examine, to peer into our homes, as though we truly were the  Reservation of young stanislav’s imagination; it’s  as though Scotland should lie on her back, legs spread apart for visiting Japs and Yanks to perform profound gynaecological examinations of her, see what makes her tick. Scotland,   Open fer Business, they call it, Smart, Successful, Scotland. And every morning the Glasgow Herald opens, again, like McGroundhog Day, a debate about what it means to be Scotland, No, What It Really Means, Where Are We Going? Where Have We Come From? And How Do We Get Where We Want To Be, Once We Know Where That Is?  The What Is Scotland Industry is immense, jerks and arseholes and rentagob nitwits pontificating endlessly on the box and in the rags.  Meantime, for a pittance and no doubt a post-retirement seat on the board,  Wee Sir Alec Lard sells off the priceless Highlands to some malevolent conglomerate of bent, carpetbagging windmillers, sells off an Aberdonian  site of Special Scientific Interest and Outstanding Natural Beauty so’s Donald McTrump can build on it some twee, tartan golf course and some architecturally abhorrent hotel, made of breeze blocks and pebblefuckingdash.  So long as you say Scotland a lot it doesn’t matter who you’re raping, what timeless features you are destroying. Doesn't matter that this landscape is virtually unchanged since the Ice Age, stick some pylons up there, quick.

It's often argued that the South American rainforests are just too important to be left to native stewardship.  I feel the same way about Scotland's Highlands and Islands. I know that people come here from everywhere, and are renewed by the wilderness, not by what's here, but by what's not here.  Vast empty skylines, little or no signage,  absolutely no noise or light pollution, the hand of Man, where it appears at all, is, North of the Keswick Suspension Bridge at Inverness, tame, tiny and unembellished, complementary; roads are frugal but adequate.

I went around an Orkney Distillery a couple of years back. Local peat, mmm, and local water, Oh, how fucking consumer divine, local water and aged in sherry casks, just smell that sherry, smell that oak.  In fact, you can buy a bottle of Highland Park, of any age, considerably cheaper in Birmingham than you can buy it in Orkney, where it’s made but the best of it is, that for all this phoney localism, the  Highland Park distillery is owned by Grants of St James, which is in turn owned by some gigantic GlobaBooze corporation, it’s all a bit like how Mr Lard’s unofficial foreign seckatry, Lady Sir Sean Connery, the wife beater with the big magic sword, lent, hired  his sibilant stuttering voiceover and antique visual  presence to an advertising campaign for Japanese Scotch whisky, just as long as the adverts were never shown in the West; that’s how patriotic Sir Sean really is and that’s how Scottish all the branding shit is;  the real money goes abroad, there’s few cheap, minimum wage jobs created and maintained in the glens or the isles but the projects are about as local as Coca fucking Cola.

But I saw a teevee series a while back about Harris Tweed, the suit and jacket material woven in the Western Isles by local families from local  wool and it seemed different from the usual Scottish horseshit. 

The Western Isles are home to some of the strangest people in the United Kingdom.  I don't just mean the retired English people,  to whom the Isles are the New Cornwall,  the smug, know-it-alls who've come up for the Quality of Life and who bust their balls raisng a goat and driving a fucking LandRover, as though inside every former primary school teacher there was a seasoned crofter just dying to burst out into kelp harvesting, tattie growing, sheep-rearing and the singing of ancient, discordant worksongs.  No,  they are frankly intolerable and represent the New Lunatic Fringe, they're all fucking nutters and some of them, the AmDrammers and the University of the Third Age wallahs, are embarrassingly priapic, septuaganerian wifeswappers by inclination if not virility.  Oh, and they all fucking paint, and saw away at cellos and things, with all the virtuosity of the orangutang.  And they write,  unpardonably turgid memoirs and novels.

The true islanders,  the Wee Frees,  the natives,  are as weird as can be. Now a hundred and eighty quid for a sports jacket seems a lot of money to me - although probably George Osborne'd spend that on his elevenses.  I never before spent that much money on an individual garment in my entire life - but that is the going rate, and now it hangs in my wardrobe, complete with label. I'll wear it one day.

The Fashion Page drafted 1/11/2011

Sunday, 17 May 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 17/05/2020

stanislav on the disenfranchisement  of prisoners

What difference makes it if bloke in  Wormwood Scrub vote has? Can't bloody read any way and have to get bent MP, Chaytor,  to write letter home to  common-law Mrs, saying, please don't shag my best mate because I love you, I really do and that's why I beat you up so  much and every romantic Valentine's Day spent is in  fucking A and E unit, telling doctor No, mate, Mrs bang head on door, is always fucking happen, is silly cow, really,  and don't know why I put up wiv her. Not that in reading manifesto is any point because all is bollocks and anyway, Hole In Toilet Wall Gang steal bloody govament and say Oh,  fuck Me, mates, manifesto not count now because Coalition is in  and for five years, too,  so fuck off, poor bastards and some heavy lifting do. All in shit together are, only some up to fucking eyeball is and some gliding-over  in Bentley Continental. What  happen is that manifesto is written all out in detail by dogbreath cocksucker like Danny Alexander, former park-keeper in Scotland, best part of England, and now good for fuck all bloke in Treasury, under other good for fuck all Mr Spunkface, so called because of lead role in Russian mafia gay porno film shot on yacht or else is written by Mr Ed Squarehead of New but now Old-Again Labour in good old days of Mr Snot and so obviously is now rubbish, like Mr Snot, working one and half day in Oxfam Kirculdy and drive every bastard bananas, poor old biddy been working in charity shop for fucking years and now has lunatic throwing fucking phone at her, saying, I am prime fucking minister, do as I say, and have to be escorted off premises and not come back or polis called will be. Whaddayamean, I have me ain polis, here, look, says Mr Snot, pointing at  old age pensioner, retired pc come out of retirement to guard Snotty, and at least he's no' bangin ma missus, like some polis protection officers I could mention, nor ma constituency seckatry

CallHimDave anyway is useless f£cking bastard and not even understand Second f£cking World War. All that money, on private school and eton and still f£cking imbecile is, how come is f£cking prime minister and can't even find hole in own arse. If stanislav was Cameron senior - only dead now, of course, and up in rich blokes' part of Heaven - would be going down Eton with small private army of servant and f£cking tenant farmer and say, Oi! Headf£ckingMaster, down here from study come, stop beating that young man's buttocks with cane and tell to me why number one son, Thick Dave, arse cannot tell from hole in f£cking ground? Or maybe go in Oxford and see Victor Bogbrush and say What the f£ck this all about is, give this dummy First class bit of rubbish paper and still can't win election against snot-eating monster lunatic, could put f£cking Yorkshire Terrier up against nail-biting, stuttering maniac and would win  but Thick Dave in bed must get with Toilet-Creeping DogShooting Sh£tEating b£stards, good for f£ck all, Give me, please, back  my money. And stop going on Newsnight saying Oh, Yes, Kirsty, F£ck me, but David Cameron was brilliant scholar.  Not so good on history or geography or adding-up, English is shit, too, come to think of it, only adjective he knows is incredibly, This is incredibly this or incredibly that, just watch and count how many times he says incredibly, and anyway,  is f£cking adverb, is added on to doing word, and is not describing word, well, describes verb, but not fucking noun, not that govament would know what adverb is,  or noun or fucking verb, just use one where other should be, well, maybe Olver Letwin might know, is clever fucker but talks to himself, like nutter does. Go in selected committee of wankers and says Ah, yes, is very good question and now that I think about it, am not sure if I meant what I said, on previous occasion, before you ask me this fucker, and if so must apologise to committe, and indeed, to voices in fucking head, quite so, quite so, what we call in the nutter department, as it were, a shifting comprehension horizon,  thank you for asking me this question, which I am afraid I cannot answer, because I am out of my mind, so to speak, mr chairman.

There are few or no votes in prison reform and little interest in the rights and responsibilities of those behind bars. One of the reasons is that prisoners themselves can't vote. The European court of human rights ruled that the UK's blanket ban on prisoners' voting is unlawful and in violation of Article 3 of the First Protocol of the European convention on human rights.For years thereafter a range of delaying tactics were employed to avoid implementing the ruling. Successive Ministers were preoccupied with political considerations and fear of adverse headlines, rather than fairness or the rule of law. Disenfranchisement is a relic from punishments of the past dating back to the Forfeiture Act of 1870. It is based on an idea of civic death and the withdrawal of citizenship rights and responsibilities.
I don't know if all coppers are gay, as well as bastards but the levels of hate which they display towards everybody else, the sneering, the contempt,  the supercilious gabshitery,  the particular, scornful venom which they reserve for women, indicate a less than happy workforce with massive problems in that - amongst other things, like institutionalised dishonesty - they react to most normal people like they want to fight them or fuck them.  It is a big question:  Is Old Bill Gay?  Does the often dispiriting and harrowing and undervalued and unrecognised work which he does make him anti-social, brutalised and brutalising?  Is he the cause of more crime than he solves? Why is his divorce rate so high? Others work shifts without that happening.  Other trades are not as stridently gay.  There is no Gay Plumbers Association, for instance. But there is a Gay Police Officers Association. Why? And should there be? Given that the so-called BLGT community, an entity which has sought to sweep-up, under one banner, a multiplicity of not automatically cohesive, what? .. perversions, conditions, minority orientations, lifestyle choices, blessings from God?...and has sought to unite them against what they perceive as the enmity of straight people and hitherto straight institutions, has invented and nurtured an impudent, unreasonable, illogical and deplorable, anti-nature heterophobia, given that the BGLT is united only insamuch as it is  fundamentally against  what it impertinently calls straight society, is it ok for Old Bill, or a section of Old Bill, given his oath to the Queen, the real one,  to march 'neath a BGLT banner?

Gardening Corner 
First Stanislav: 

Is come back on telly, nutter bloke, Monsigneur Don, priest of ethical  simpering gardening.  And was shaving close and no fucking mistake, whole career as  aloof, caring eco-gardener in danger was of going on compost fucking heap or just down in toilet. 
Can't wait to get my hands dirty
Was great Polish writer, Oscar Wildeski, was poof, like Steven Fag, and invented Bunburying  as excuse for not turning up at some shit event. Oh fuck me, Duchess, cannot come to canape party because cousin Bunbury is to Death's door at, must fly off and visit. And was same thing with Msgr. Don. Oh, fuck me, BBC, am all of fucking swoon and must go and lie down, far off from Gardeners fucking World, have mental problems, is all to do with being a cunt and get depressed,  too, being so sensitive, about flower and shit, but can't finish-off series ff;  no, no use to shout about contractual obligation  am under doctor and got sick note.

And then, mr ishmael when, most fortunately, the good monsigneur recovered and went on to make lots more really interesting gardening programmes:

The Full Monty
Manic Monty's back; spreading his legs over the cabbage patch and simpering, beguiling the nation with his dire mixture of eco-ethics and horticultural pantomime. No, we really do want to involve you, however big and appropriate to your station in life your garden is, like mine, or even if it's some two-square metre patch of dirt-over-rubble, like most of yours  are.  Massive or miniscule, we are here to help.  And to launch this new series we want you to help us with our trials of daffodils, sweet peas, potatoes, pomegranates, whatever takes your fancy, because, for my money - and incidentally, yours, too -  that's what gardening's all about; impertinent, know-it-all shithead chancers like me, talking down to the likes of you, about a load of old bollocks.

Stanislav and Ishmael essays:
Stan:  bloke in  Wormwood Scrub          drafted 25/01/11
I don't know if all coppers                      drafted 27/09/10
Nutter Back in Potting Shed is               drafted 26/03/11
Gardener's World Apart                         drafted 13/03/12