Tuesday, 21 June 2022

The Solstice Launch!

 Now Available

mr mike, who kindly agreed to be a beta tester, said: 

"Ishmael’s Blues was a great read and brought back memories of happier times, when we could laugh at stuff as if it wasn’t really important – although I can now see it was leading us to where we are today, in a much darker place. It is an excellent anthology."
 Ishmael’s Blues is now published, in both paperback and hardback editions; readers who have copies of Honest, Not Invent or Vent Stack will know that our chosen POD firm is pretty reliable when it comes to production quality. 356 pages, each essay dated in the list of contents. The vast majority of material in this book is in the voice of ishmael smith – we hope to return to stanislav in a companion volume to Vent Stack, possibly later this year. 

 Both editions are immediately available from lulu.com. No one’s billing or delivery address, nor any payment info, will be disclosed to the creator of the book; all this is securely handled by the publishing platform (and Paypal, if used). The paperback is listed on amazon. (HB may follow – for some reason the HB of Honest, Not Invent never appeared on amazon, so maybe the same will happen with Ishmael’s Blues.)

Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps :

 Unless you’ve done this already, 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. 

The book’s full title is "Ishmael’s Blues – further Chronicles of Ruin", and the cover you'll see is red with white titles and a picture of blogdog Buster retiring from the fray, cat gloating from a safe distance. The cover is the same for both editions.

Link for Hardcover : 



Link for Paperback : 


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.



Sunday, 19 June 2022

The Sunday Ishmael: 19/06/2022


Pictured on their home world of Planet Sauros

Hiding in plain sight - the grandheir to Britain's throne has released this picture of his spawn clustered around him, baring their horrid little sharks' teeths at us, all the better to gobble us up. That one on the left has quite the piranha look about her.

A Happy Father's Day to the fathers of our nation, wishing you foi gras, champagne and black caviar, with a side of truffles. Or at least a bacon sandwich.

Looks like the Conservative Leaders have declared open war on the working class, provoking a summer of strikes and riots, as major distraction from the Lockdown Blues - Lockdown Fucked the Economy, I Got no Job, and I never got to say goodbye, the Partygate Tango - While you bastards were living it high and the Inflation Quickstep - them bread prices have done reached the sky.

Here in Smart, Successful Scotland, where the electorate has no clue that the Scots Nats are spending way far more than they raise in taxation, because Gnasher has told them that the Westminster thieves, bandits and philanderers have lied, obfuscated the statistics, and kept the whisky revenues, the public sector pay offer for 2022 reveals the pecking order of preferred occupational groups: the NHS has been offered 5% and local authority workers 2%. 
The rail workers have been offered 5%. We've got Grant Shapps, Secretary of State for Transport and not short of a bob or two with his salary of £71,673 plus £84,144 MP's salary, plus expenses, complaining that rail workers have got a fucking cheek asking for a pay rise to match inflation when they already earn more than nurses (who we all know are angels). With inflation running at 10% and predicted to quickly reach 11%, any pay settlement less than that is  effectively a pay cut. Pay people enough to maintain their standard of living and inflation spirals upwards. Johnson and his chums are happy to have the labouring classes take the hit in the interests of the nation's economic health because they can go to Food Banks. And Community Fridges. And Charity Shops. It's not as if the Johnsonians could - infra dignitatem. 
Keir Starmer, himself not short of a bob or two, has got the Johnsonians bang to rights: "But here's the truth, Boris Johnson and Grant Shapps want the strikes to go ahead. They want the country to grind to a halt so they can feed off the division. Instead of spending their time this week around the negotiating table, they are designing attack ads. Instead of grown-up conversations to take the heat out of the situation, they are pouring petrol on the fire. Instead of bringing people together in the national interest, they are stoking division in their political interest."
It is going to be Boris' Margaret Thatcher summer.
Thank you for coming.
And why couldn't he pick up the phone and just call the belligerent, oops, brave and beleaguered dwarf  Zelensky? 
Shorty Zelensky with a chum

Shorty Zelensky with another chum
Nope, Boris figured there were more votes in a Ukrainian photo opportunity than in going to a conference of Northern conservatives in Doncaster, reckoning they were going to lose in Wakefield anyway. And what has he promised now? He's going to have the British Army train 10,000 Ukrainian soldiers every 120 days, to assist them to keep fighting this proxy war against Russia, whilst simultaneously waging war on his own working class, who are being required to pay for the War of  Popular Boris.
Definitely Boris' Margaret Thatcher summer. And we know what happened to her. 
Just when you think they've gone for good, here they come again:
Here they come again - (somebody's got to bleed for them to live)

Thanks, Van. Anyway, here he comes again, like rain falling on my window pane, Baron Hague of Richmond, PC, FRSL, Life Peer, MP for Richmond (posh bit of Yorkshire) from 1989 to 2015, former  Leader of the Conservative Party, Secretary of State for Wales from 1995 to 1997, Leader of the Opposition from 1997 to 2001, serving David Cameron as First Secretary of State  from 2010 to 2015, Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs from 2010 to 2014 and Leader of the House of Commons from 2014 to 2015.  He's not short of a bob or two, either - in 2015 Hague purchased a £2.5 million country house, Cyfronydd Hall, in Powys, Wales.
Baron Hague, Remainer, ("Brexit campaigners are peddling fantasy economics"),  Cameron's chum, and opposed to Johnsonian politics,  has been putting the boot in.
 “What is going to happen now, I imagine that Boris
Johnson will say ‘it’s business as usual’ and the Cabinet will rally around... (but) more than 40 per cent decided really on their own to vote against him. That is very difficult then to proceed as party leader...... This is like trying to drive along the M1 with two flat tyres. You can say you are at the steering wheel but is it really viable, you are not going to get to the end of the motorway."

Baron Hague was quite correct - the Prime Minister told reporters in Downing Street: “I think it’s an extremely good, positive, conclusive, decisive result which enables us to move on, to unite and to focus on delivery and that is exactly what we are going to do.”
 The public widely regarded Hague as a bit of a wally, from his first embarassing speech in 1977 at the Conservative Party conference:
but the Tories loved him and he was Margaret Thatcher's darling.
At a time when it was a political disadvantage to be gay, unlike now, when it is compulsory, widespread rumours of his sexual orientation led him to refute the stories by revealing his wife's gynaecological records, thus rousing mr ishmael's ire. Even Sasha Swire in her Diary of an MP's Wife condemned him for breaching his wife's privacy and dignity to call in aid her miscarriages to prove his heterosexual credentials.
Editor mr verge has found this piece of Stanislavia from November 2007:

stanislav said...

Was Stanislav's Highland neighbour and famous Polish folksinger Dr Bob Dylan who popularise long "a" but only in song not in speech. Sometimes in song use long "a" for effect - "ay bullet from the back of ay bush... I am ay lonesome hobo ...like ay rolling stone.....etc" Bob just do long "a" for scan and metre and maybe evoke miserable Old Scotchcunt ballad from eighteenth century "I am ay man of constant sorrow," "ay question in your nerves is lit...how many seas must ay white dove sail ...blame it on ay simple twist of fate." Is just poetic license. Is fucking hundreds of example. But not always. Plenty of Bobsong with proper, short "a." If not, some song run in fucking hours not just twenty minute. Long "a" in Bob's case is not a speech impairment. Unlike some people.
Young Master Hague, from Yorkshire, drink fifteen pints of lunchtime beer with manual workers and have mystical experience and make all fucking hair fall out. Become consume with desire in being prime minister and cuntus inter pares, even if bald as coot. After fifteen pint shitsplatter, Sweet William, sitting on pile of cushion and listen to John Wesley Harding, hear Maestro Bob sing "I am ay lonesome hobo without family or friends. I have tried my hand at bribery, blackmail and deceit....." and ever since, William is uplifted that sad young mommy's boy is not alone in big bad world, in homage to Bob cannot say short "a" ever again. Is fixed in mind. Everything is long "a," deep, profound. Just hang on there ay moment, you old codgers, I will still be ay young man when you are all in ay hole in the ground, by 'eck."
 Thanks to hearing of Bob Dylan, develop confidence and go in government eventually. One night after few Glenfiddick, prime minister say This little bald arsehole, he talks like a pompous prat -ay very good day to you, prime minister; I will be making ay statement in the house - 
See the source image
sounds like Jimmy fucking Saville, not a minister in my government, fuck him off, bury him in Wales. They all talk shit over there. Dwarves and child molesters and sheep shaggers. He'll fit right in there. Right away prime minister, said Chief of Staff Powell, or Pole, as he would have it. Consider the pompous little cunt buried. In Merthyr fucking Tydfil or some other arsehole slag heap of a place.

And so Sweet William go in Wales, and like all ambitious politician, make Brown marriage with womanperson, even if longing, deep inside, for ay very real accord with ay very nice, athletic, toned man; to make work-out in gym, make judo and karate and kung fu and share hotel room bed to save money, being, in ay very real sense, a Yorkshire-tight-bastard.

Official wife Ffffffion probably say William, you look like a cunt, try this nice baseball cap. 
transl. "I am horny"
Yes, that's right put it on backwards. You know how to do backwards, it's about the only thing you do know. But Fffffffffffion, says Sweet William, this is ay piece of gangster apparel, is it not, Mr Speaker, will not ay dark person approach me, Mister Speaker, with ay phrase not dissimilar to Yo, pussy whipped jive ass mothafucka? And me ay prime minister-in-waiting? You'll wait a long fucking time, now stop talking like a cunt and wear the fucking hat, and I am not Mr Speaker, ya mad bastard.
And so begin terrible decline of lonely young slaphead. Get ridiculed, whole nation fall over laughing at pompous Yorkshire cunt in baseball cap, pretend to be niggerbastard from ghetto on Detroit, not wimp nancy from fucking Barnsley. Get thrown from party leader's job and replaced by more slaphead, Ian and Duncan Smith, another mad cunt, The Quiet Man is TURNING UP THE VOLUME. Fuck me, is not exactly Go punk ahead, if you are lucky, and make my fucking day, is it ? Famous words of great Polish law enforcer, Filthy Harry.

Fucked up arse by party, Sweet William take long "a" pomposity show on road with Tony Cup Of Tea-Benn - father of Plagues Minister, Rosemary Benn and grandfather of Spoiled-brat Prodigy Benn - and make fortune. Both sit around and talk like fucking Moses. Do Rotary, Freemasons, Round Table, but not, after teenage experience, working mans club, fuck, no; memory still hurt after thirty years. Talk about life at top, major decisions taken as Wales Secretary, sheep, leeks, rugby, daffodils and Tom Jones, that's it. Oh, and Shirley Bassey. And Ron BadgerMan Davies only he came later. It is, Mister Speaker, ay most significant position in ay government to be ay secretary of state for sheep and vegetables or should that be ay vegetable, Mr Speaker, and it is one I commend to the House as ay small example of my towering experience in British politics, Mr Speaker.
 And now Sweet William is back on opposition cunt bench, smarting a little, surrounded by Flashman types but, nevertheless, cosied up to Mr David Two Dicks Willets - (how's that happen? Is birth defect, or surgical augment ?) - ay most distinguished foreign secretary-in-waiting, Mr Speaker.

As I said to my Spad, Sebastian, only this morning, Mr Speaker, Have ay nice day, dear one, have ay very nice day. The times, indeed Mr Speaker, they are ay changing, as we say up North. Icky thump. That'll be fifteen hundred pounds. Plus VAT.
For mr bungalow bill -
To rest my eyes on shades of green....... 
We've had a hot wind blowing these last couple of days, which has crisped leaves and withered flowers, but I captured these photos of  cow parsley and laburnum at their best last week.


Ishmael's Blues is not yet available for purchase, but Honest Not Invent and Vent Stack, anthologies of the work of mr ishmael and stanislav, the young Polish plumber - can be purchased  from Amazon or from Lulu. 

Lulu Link for Vent Stack:


 Lulu Link for Honest, Not Invent


Link for Paper Back


At checkout, try PROWRITINGAID15, WELCOME15 or TREAT15 in the coupon box, which takes 15% off the price before postage. If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up. 
Ishmael's Blues - coming soon


Friday, 17 June 2022

Evensong: St Magnus Festival 2022

The 2022 Saint Magnus Festival opens today. This midsummer event has brought  classical music and related nonsense to the isles for 45 years.  It was the vision of the late Sir Peter Maxwell Davies, Master of the Queen's Music, who had moved to Sanday, one of the islands that make up the Orkney archipelago. In 2005 the police raided his home and removed parts of a whooper swan, a protected species, which Max had been planning to eat. A couple of years later he kicked up a fuss when the Registrar refused to go out to Sanday to conduct a civil ceremony on the Sanday Light Railway to marry Max and his partner, Colin Parkinson, a builder. Max and Colin broke up in 2012 amidst allegations of drunkenness and cruelty. Max died in 2016 aged 81. Despite all this local controversy, Max was very popular amongst the musical set and the annual Festival is a fine legacy to bequeath to Orkney.
Apart from the Covid Lockdown years, fashionable and woke musicians, their audiences and generic festival-goers have trekked to Orkney each late June, when the sun sets but it doesn't get quite entirely dark. Plays havoc with your circadian rhythms. The Royal Scottish National Orchestra and Tenebrae are here this year, which is a bit of a treat. 
The programme of the  RSNO on Saturday includes Sibelius' Rakastava. Here's Sir John Barbirolli conducting the Halle Orchestra, and a montage of images to illustrate the lovers.
Rakastava (The Lover), Op. 14, is a suite by Jean Sibelius. He completed it in 1912, scored for string orchestra, percussion and triangle. He based it on his earlier composition of the same title, a song cycle of four movements for men's chorus a cappella completed in 1894. The works are based on a Finnish text in Book 1 of the Kanteletar. Sibelius used the cycle as the basis for his orchestral suite Rakastava, completing it in 1912 and often conducted the suite together with his symphonies because, he said, the piece "captivated audiences".

Wednesday, 15 June 2022

Well, that was exciting. Will they make it into a fillum?

 See the source image
 Nail-biting tension, edge of the seat stuff. The plane ready to go, the passengers strapped in, the flight route logged in to RwandaforFuck'sSake. 
Will it go? Will the stay of execution come through at the last minute? Death row stuff.
The 200 seat Boeing was scheduled to take 130 people against their will to  RwandaforFuck'sSake. Sitting on the tarmac at Boscombe Down Air Base, the deportation flight had a reduced passenger list of just seven by Tuesday. By 10:00pm, there was only one passenger remaining, as successful legal challenges removed deportee after deportee from immediate peril. Would the plane fly out to Kigali with one passenger at a cost of £500,000? And then, amazingly, the European Court of Human Rights, working out of hours to achieve a last minute reprieve, put a stop to the whole ghastly plan - a policy so morally bereft that even Prince Brian weighed into the opposition chorus. 
They've not backed down, though - Johnson, Patel and Truss, the ghastly triumvirate: mockery, censure and appalled condemnation all water off a duck's back, as they sense votes in this so bad its almost American  policy. And they are not wrong - I've had people to whom you wouldn't immediately leap up and administer a lengthy rub-down with a house brick, so adept are they in mimicking decent liberal-ish citizens, solemnly assuring me that this is a tremendous scheme, the best way to deter economic migrants from risking the Chanel crossing and that Rwanda is a perfectly safe country. Of course, they don't want Ukrainian migrants to be sent to Rwanda, but then Ukrainians look like us, as they said. Sometimes, however, the legislature and its executive arm have to behave better than the liberal-ish citizenry. If there was a vote tomorrow on the reintroduction of the death penalty - well, you know how that one goes.
Despite international embarassment, despite the condemnation of the ECHR and despite Prince Brian's unguarded remarks, the triumvirate are already planning the next flight. They'll keep it as secret as they can.

Sunday, 12 June 2022

The Sunday Ishmael 12/06/2022

In the East the corpses lie, foaming in the sun
And the Tyrant of Great Peter's throne is smiling at the fun;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
And guns and tanks and armaments have scared the feeble West.

Zelensky cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross:
The old queen of England was looking in the glass;
Whilst Olaf Scholz was speaking quite directly from his ass.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Saying "this Rwanda wheeze is far from good at all".

And the last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young,
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Bo Jo the Ho Ho is going to the war.

Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and He comes.
Bo Jo laughing at the traitorous one four eight
Spurning of old party-gate like juggerling the plates,
Holding up his head for Biden's flag of all the free.

Domino Gloria!
Love-light of Carrie show!
Death-light of Africa!
Bo Jo the Ho Ho
Will make Zelensky crow!

Putin in his paradise above the evening star,
(Bo Jo the Ho Ho is going to the war.)
He moves his mighty motions on the loyal doctor's  knees,
His poo-poos that are woven of the sunset and the seas.
He shakes the secret closets as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees.
And he saith, “Break up the cities where mine enemies do hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And hang the mercenary foes without surcease or rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the West."

Macron's in his closet with Brigitte about his neck.
(Bo Jo the Ho Ho is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
Vlad holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial, and the end of noble work,
But Bo Jo the Ho Ho has fired another clerk.

On the telly Z'lensky pleads before day or battle break,
Send Lawyers, Guns and Money - I've used up all my aid  
And should I sue for peace I do fear my own death knell
For many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell.
And he smiles, but not as Comics smile, and settles back the blade....
(Whilst Bo Jo the Ho Ho  survives one more Crusade.)

with apologies to G. K. Chesterton, Lepanto and Don John of Austria

This pastiche  business is really not at all easy, but I was inspired by a couple of things: the revelation that Prince Charles does thinking and isn't keen on sending migrants to Rwanda, For Fuck's Sake (Call Me Ishmael, 14/4/2022), no-skin-on-his-face Boris will crusade on despite 148 Members of his Parliamentary Party having no confidence in him, President Zelensky asking for yet more expensive lethal aid; and a story that the Independent is running - that when he travels abroad, President Putin's bodyguards collect his poos in specialised containers to take home to Russia. So that the West can't spy on Putin's state of health as revealed by his mighty motions. This isn't a new thing - when Vlad went to France in 2017 and to Saudi Arabia in 2019, he brought his poo back with him. Apparently, Stalin started it, by having Mao Ze Dung's dung analysed during his visit in 1949 in order to assist in psychological profiling. When Mao went to the little boys' room, he was provided with special toilets that were not connected to the sewage system, but to "secret boxes" so that his levels of potassium and amino acids could be analysed. And British spies examined the soiled toilet paper used by the Soviet soldiery in East Germany during the Cold War. This is all so preposterous that it sounds like yet more propaganda, but I really, really want it to be true -
my name is Bond, James Bond, Licensed to Look at your Poo. 
Must be a Lib Dem.
A friend asked me the other day if the world would make more sense if women did the governing and men stayed home and did the cooking. It took only a moment for this image to come to mind:
 Rapidly followed by this:
No, not really, I said.
The Jubilee Crossword Solutions:

The indefatigable editor mr verge has found some fuck-firing correspondence that he attributes to stanislav. See what you think:

Saturday, December 29, 2007

john bright said...("the finest slagging-off in internet history").
 Dear Mr Rabbie rotten
Is there anything in eternity, in the infinity of space and time which you feel would not be illuminated, amplified, clarified, altogether improved, embellished, glorified by you commenting upon it, from out of your arsehole?
Is there no occasion or event or circumstance about which you are not compelled to comment at insufferable length? Might there ever be something happen in this world without it attracting your observations ?
If someone was to write OH NO, NOT THAT CUNT AGAIN in letters as big as the Milky Way it would be a poor illustration of the effect you have on sensible people. You are as funny as rectal cancer. You have the insight of a cement mixer, although entirely lacking its utility. You know nothing of any value. You and elegance are estranged. There is better reading on a bus ticket. Nothing you say is witty, informative, provocative, original or scurrilous; nothing you write is worth reading. You are clumsy, cackhanded, plagiaristic, trivial, meaningless, insincere; unredeemed garbage. Even pored-over, analysed, the odd nugget is seen to be stolen from other postings, shabby, second-hand, grubby; you cannot even recycle with any distinction.

You are a one-man walking Daily Mail. You make Iain Dale look like a revolutionary. You are the dullest, most boring, predictable, tedious, mind-numbing gabshite on the planet. Aside from that bloke with his double rrs, and he, narcolepsy in the flesh, doesn't even merit correction. Contrasted with reading your musings, watching the grass grow is scintillating, dazzling and provocative. You are as stupid as it is possible to be and still be sentient; nay, that is a misjudgment, lumps of rock are smarter than you, a bag of sand has a better sense of humour. Living with you, even a garden gnome would hurl himself in front of a train, rather than endure one more moment of your endless, infantile commentary. You are an unspeakable cunt. Why don't you just either shut the fuck up or seek psychiatric assistance for your delusion, the one that makes you think the world cannot survive without you being its continuity announcer. Nobody on earth, not even your mother, if you have one, gives a fuck about what you think about anything. Most people would rather gouge their eyes out than read your drivel. You are an almost unassailable argument for shutting down the Internet; single-handedly you undermine the case for freedom of speech.
The Saviour himself, encountering you on the mountain, would say Fuck me, not this cunt again, does he ever, ever, ever even for a fucking second, shut the fuck up and just be? Or does he think that he spellbinds his betters, enchants his peers and renders reality herself incomplete without his tuppence worth? This is one cunt and a half, lads.
Do you really imagine that you are so perspicacious, so wise, so seasoned that your turds of wisdom, your barrel scrapings of warmed-up Daily Mail leaders, your worthless sweepings-up are indispensable to the world? Do you think people tune in to Radio Four in the morning and exclaim: I can’t wait to hear what Robbie Rotton thinks about copper smelting in Zambia; gosh I hope he posts quickly?
It may be argued in your favour, although I wouldn't, that crass as you are, your heart is in roughly the right place; your head, however, remains, inextricably, cemented up your arse.

You are unpardonably stupid so, here, for Mr Rotten, your very own, easy to understand parable:

"Omar went to the Master. He said, Master, I have been painting for years and remain unhappy with my work, can you help? Go, said the Master, and do your finest work and bring it to me. Five years later Omar returned with a painting he had slaved over and handed it to the Master, who threw it straight on the fire."
Look at your posts for something not already better said; it's not there. Is this the point of you? Cover versions?
If you would speak, first learn silence. Learn some Zen, Shithead. Learn some plumbing.
With apologies to the Buddha for the worthlessness of incarnations like Mr RR.
6:56 PM, December 28, 2007
john bright said...

Dear Senor Quixote,

Don't know the works of Mr Blackadder, I am afraid and would run a mile from little Mr Ben Elton. I understand that their joint opus was a bit like Dad's Army for Oxbridge types but I have no way of knowing as I rarely watch TV. There may be a touch of Mr Adams, off the wireless, in my jottings but it is much more likely to be a Mr Persig, whom you will not have heard of, you being an avid tv watcher, and it will be there subliminally and not a bare-faced theft.

I grant you that in my avuncular note to Mr Rotten there is much of the King James Bible and Shakespeare but I fear that such is unavoidable in anyone with an education and can hardly be called plagiarism. Again, you will probably be unaware that both these sources somewhat predate Mr Rowan Atkinson and Mr Elton in their influence on the language.

It is touching that you spring to Mr Rotten's defence; more telling, though, that he, if not you, read my note in the spirit in which it was intended. That squiggly thing, by the way, after the word defence in the last sentence, is a semi-colon; no, Senor Quixote, it is nothing to do with the arse, which in your case seems to be located where others keep their minds and through which, no doubt, you share your wisdom, such as it is, with your unfortunate, backward children, on the, one hopes, restricted occasions on which you meet them and for whom, I regret, there can be little prospect of academic excellence, not with a dimwitted troglodyte like you for a pater. Do you still see them at all?
I would love to stay and chat with you about Mr Elton; he does musical theatre now, I believe, and jolly good luck to him. Do you perhaps envisage a career in show business yourself ? I must warn you that even in these dumbed-down days a budding entertainer requires a firmer grasp of English than that which you display and indeed even a slender acquaintanceship with irony. Fuck me, mate, there's fucking Poles round here write better stuff than you do, as it were.
As for visiting libraries, I have my own library, thank you; I am sitting in it; it is only about twelve thousand volumes, but none of them, I assure you, are by Mr Elton or any of the other celebrities you mention. If I did want an autobiography, say, of Mr Max Bygraves or Ms Kirsty Wark, then I would probably take your advice and venture to the public library; such desires, however, would be most uncharacteristic and, in any event, I would rather leave the library service exclusively to folk like yourself, who cannot afford their own books. It is, so I am told, very difficult on Incapacity Benefit these days.
I really must go but I fear I would be failing the body politic - or that snarling, resentful, libertarian portion of it which resides hereabouts - if I failed to mention that you are a fucking po-faced, humourless, sanctimonious, toilet-dwelling cocksucker. I suspect you're one of those presbyterian chaps. Only a presbyterian thinks as you do.
People rant and rave and froth and gibber on here but they are also quick and sharp and bright and funny, alert, enthusiastic and compassionate and angry and well acquainted with the dark doings of our masters; some are partisan, some anarchic; poor Dr. Moneybags, for instance, is so angry that he is dying from multiple ailments: prolixity, angry cynicism and pure hatred. You, on the other hand, are merely a prick and a dullard.

3:03 AM, December 29, 2007 Mr Shitbag
In my country, calling someone a Liberal Democrat is considered most infelicitous and can lead to a sudden catastrophic and involuntary falling incident - or, detubare deorcum shaftus Scargillitum fatalis.
You can see why folk would boast of having had a right good blogging off that stanislav, why they would have it framed and hung in their ground floor loo (what our American friends call the first floor bathroom without a bath) so all their friends can read the particular honour meted out to them.  John Bright, by the way,  was a British Radical and Liberal politician. Bright (1811 – 1889), together with Richard Cobden,  founded the Anti-Corn Law League, aimed at abolishing the Corn Laws, which kept food prices high and protected landowners' interests by imposing taxes on imported wheat. The Corn Laws were repealed in 1846. A Good Bloke.

Ishmael's Blues is not yet available for purchase, but Honest Not Invent and Vent Stack, anthologies of the work of mr ishmael and stanislav, the young Polish plumber - can be purchased  from Amazon or from Lulu. 

Lulu Link for Vent Stack:


 Lulu Link for Honest, Not Invent


Link for Paper Back


At checkout, try PROWRITINGAID15, WELCOME15 or TREAT15 in the coupon box, which takes 15% off the price before postage. If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up.
To rest my eyes on shades of green. For mr bungalow bill