Friday 2 December 2011


Aydriyun Choyles, he was the face of the One Show, the man with a voice like kidney pain, Brummying-away on the sofa with some simpering, shitbrain Ulster bint; why on Earth would anyone watch that awful programme?  Surely it's for those, farting and dribbling,  gathered around the telly in a   carehome, having their thighs  pinched black and blue by Polish care assisants. But uncaptive people do   watch it and thousands of them apparently felt that it was demeaned by the   presence of  the noisesome, bloated  dingleberry Clarkson, floundering around in a beerbellyfull of faux provocation, and all  for a bit of publicity  - you know, as if the One Show and Top Gear were made by different networks.  Fuck him and fuck them.  I don't care that thousands of nurses' and teachers' children went to bed and dreamt of  Mummy and partner being stood up in front of a firing squad consisting of Michael Spit-Gove, Jacob ReesMogg and  Francis Maude,  the one with the receding bouffant.  Even though they didn't.

Poor old Clarkson, though, got no friends apart from Rebekka Brookes and David Cameron.  And himself.  Jeans and trainers, eh, waytogo Jerry.

Wonder if the boldly outspoken one will take the piss out of the  Chinks,  the worthless, fat cunt.


yardarm said...

Clarkson will never say anything to jeopardise his BBC contract. He`s never going to come out with one that goes " The Prophet Mohammed, a Jew and a poof walked into a bar... ".

I somethimes wonder if Clarkson sometimes haunts these pages, raising his rugby ball shaped head over the parapet to blow raspberries...just wondered.

Jacob Rees Mogg was actually a junior member of Baldwin`s last government who fell through a warp in the time space continuum to plop into our era.

mongoose said...

The Rees-Moggs are what is wrong with he world. Back in the days when I bought newspapers I used to read the dad's column in the Times. He'd prattle on about their patch of Somerset as if he was king of it. Jacob, alas, is a poor follow up to his mad dad. I can't remember if the daughter got elected but she too stood and has a fine silly name like Ecclesiastica Burbage Rees-Moog. Poor lass.

call me ishmael said...

William ReesMogg it was, too, who, twenty years ago, was banging-on about the End of Capitalism As We Know It; he must be thrilled now that we are all subjects of GlobaCorp. I think the late Auberon Waugh did that Squire of Somerset thing a good deal more entertainingly, unlike his pestitlential spawn who are good for fuck all. Yes, it is something like Ecclesiastica, her name. I will wikify her ass.

The facetiousness of his recent remarks and the screeching from union bosses are unimportant; Clarkson is just such a complete symbol of Ruin, mr yardarm - a vain, stupid, greedy, vulgar one-trick pony with a huge following of the like-minded - that it is foolish to dismiss his fortunes as irrelevant; as long as he and his fantasywank product are popular we are all fucked.

I like cars, I have three of them, the Smart convertible, the
Citroen C4VTS and a four-litre Ford Explorer,for use in hurricanes and blizzards but using half million pound motors as a stick to beat the poor, that's shit, that is, and Clarkson's moronic studio audience should be taken out behind the hangar and shot, along with the families who bred them.

jgm2 said...

Her name is Annunciata I believe. Spelling may be awry.

Rees-Mogg is accidentally hilarious in that, whereas Clarkson was clearly taking the piss out of the BBC's alleged desire to provide balanced output, young Rees-Mogg sincerely would fire the whole two million or two dozen or whoever actually went on strike on Wednesday as opposed to showing their desire to crush the capitalist, consumerist society by mobbing every out-of-town superstore in the UK.

I like Clarkson. There are not nearly enough dissenting voices on TV to the prissy we-know-best, its-for-your-own-good wankers who want to tell you where you can go, what you can say and how you should travel in order to get there. Whether he believes what he's saying or is, like Toynbee, just taking the piss by goading on his rabid supporters he is entertaining. And Top Gears effort to send a Reliant Robin into space and return it safely to Earth was surely a highlight - a concept of utter genius. Or insanity. Too bad about the explosive bolts.

call me ishmael said...

I don't like Clarkson, mr jgm2, but I like you.

I think you confuse his weary, and worn-out boysincars schtick and his purported support for purported causes - such as smoking yourself to death to enrich the shareholders of BAT, the ability to drive at criminally dangerous speeds whilst, as a matter of fact, on public roads, talking to a camera, an activity which would see you or I nicked and banned, his encouragement of- if I was poor and living in the NorthEast, I'd steal cars, too and trash them - dangerous juvenile crime and that's not to mention his studio panoply of utterly worthless celebrity freaks, drunks and pimps, what is it he calls Ronnie Wood, surely not a nonce in a reasonably priced car, nor his membership of the Cotswolds Mafia - I think you confuse all that with dissent proper. Gabshitery is what it is, mr jgm2, not dissent. The man's a cunt.

Jesus fucking wept, if Jeremy MommasBoy Publicfuckingschool Clarkson is a dissenter then I'll go on a diet of ground glass and horsepiss.

I agree, incidentally, that the strikers were altogether too timid, too easily led by careerist union bosses; enough of all this good natured, well behaved bollocks, there's nothing good natured about GlobaCorpo and its servants, Cameron and Clarkson & Co. Up against the wall motherfuckers, that's what we need, a chain of blazing Tescos, beaconing the land, like in the olden days.

mongoose said...

I was in Edinburgh on Wednesday. Cold and damp as the grave it was. Blasted wind lurking around every corner ready to cut you in two. The shops and restaurants were packed though with wasters enjoying their day off. And, Christ, I thought I drank too much but these people are very professional booze-hounds. Whisky flows like bloody water. Horrible little twats dripping, and counting! - the drips of water that they ponce into it. As if it made any fucking difference - three drips rather than two or four. Twats. And "Warm water for mine, please". Oh, do fuck off, there's a good chap.

Annunziata, that's the lassie, however it is spelled. Thanks, mr jgm2. You couldn't make it up.

The Waugh dickhead lived his whole life doomed to worry about not being as good as his dad, and it was therefore terrible boring tosh that he used to write. He just didn't have the spark of lunacy that illuminated his dad's stuff, and nor did he have a tenth of the man's talent with the language.

The whole of blasted Somerset needs gassing - and Edinburgh too. That would be a start.

call me ishmael said...

We have friends in Somerset, mr mongoose, with whom you sometimes communicate......

Bron Waugh was good in the good old days of Private Eye and in the good old days of standing against - and coining the phrase, which you still deploy - the dogshooter and Old Etonian Jeremy Thorpe. So I have a soft spot for him, from the days when I, too, read a newspaper. His children, though, are an whole other thing.

I think the historic Royal Mile in Edinburgh is worth a look but Princes withnoapostrophe Street is just revolting, awash with braying Kurrrrrsty Wark types in Crombies and patterned tights. A couple of hours further on is the shining city of Inverness, which I recommend to you unreservedly, one of the nicest cities in England.

The whisky snobbery is awful up here, as bad in its own way as the Top Gear wankers arguing about Maserati versus Ferrari and all that shit. Well, not quite as bad.

jgm2 said...

The whisky snobbery is awful up here

Indeed. For a drink best used for cleaning paint-brushes it is a marketing triumph.

A cheap bottle of Jameson or a bottle of Jack Daniels is twice as good as most 'Oh-look-at-me-I'm-a-connoisseur-of-single-malts' whiskys.

Drinking Scotch is just public proclamation that one is an alcoholic.

mongoose said...

We were at supper in some nice little faux-frog restaurant - by Hanover Street but behind a way. Fine enough food and half the price it is around here. After a disastrous pud choice - stick your poached quince up your arse - one of the eegits went off and brought back a glass for everyone. Alas, my friend, I no longer sup whisky - if I ever did in the way you mean it - and so it would have been wise to ask but hey ho. The fool invited us to guess what it was. I almost died that second. A psychologist would have just butchered the arsehole with an axe. It would have been a kindness both to him and to the gene-pool. Anyway, given that there were the touristissime 250-or-whatever whiskys (sp?) on the list - well, I measured it as cunthood of the first order but remained mongoosily silent. These are after all Morningside presbys, some of them have two coathangers up their sorry arses. So one of our number offered a name. "No, but you're only about twenty miles away." If I had had a machine gun I would have erased the room. A Billy Liar moment if ever there was one.

Later we went to a wee boozer and I had a few beers. Yet they drank great freakin' tumblers of various Scotches. I wandered off at 1:30, I admit, a tad tired but they were completely obliterated. Jesus, do I really have to go and work with these fuckers?

Is it the Lilithian hippies to whom you allude, Mr I? I thought they were safe over the border in Devon. Anyway, if they are not, we will do the Somerset slaughter while they are safe away on their hols.

call me ishmael said...

Yes, them's the ones, although you make them sound like something from Gulliver's Travels. I thought it was Somerset, West Country, any road up. The whisky cognoscenti are as you say, mr mongoose, verminous.

I believe the measure up here is a larger fraction of a gill than is the practice in Old England and stonemad drunkenness is commonplace among those whom young stanislav described as, what was it, now, inbred, beetlebrowed, inebriate, cross-dressing, bone-idle,cirrhotic, child-molesting, wifebeating jailbirds.

The reason for the enculturated drunkenness is that poor wee Jock falls for the High Heejuns' line that all is the fault of the English, when, as we know, all is the fault of the rich; it was rich Anglo-Scots who initiated the Union as an early form of bankers' bailout, it is rich Anglo-Scots who happily see their country at the bottom of the pissed-upon league - heart attacks, cancer, cirrhosis, domestic violence, tribal sectarianism and unemployment being higher in parts of Glasgow than in some shitpoor African countries. As long as he can have I Hate The English tattooed on his pigeon chest p and he does - wee Jock will believe he is putting his world to rights, BigTime.

Further up the social strata, the kind of folks you were drinking with, disguise their alcoholism as a form of distillery scholarship. There is a discernible difference in many of the single malts, of course, and I am occassionally partial to one or two of them but I can assure you and them that, drunk in any quantity, the expensive malts have the same stupefying and poisoning impact as does a quart or two of Buckfast Tonic Wine.

It is a terrible, terrible thing, this Scottish drinking, this misplaced melancholia and very recent figures reveal an epidemic of liver failure among young Scots, that's how smart they are, the tribesmen.

mongoose said...

It was a little unsettling, Mr I, this distillery preciousness. Though I am no saint, and I can drink beer for England if required. 7-and-a-bit-stone woman of forty-something had at least six big slugs of grog on top of the wine and the couple of beers beforehand. That's toxic levels of drink for a wee thing.

I was even sneered at for having the weak session bitter. This is what I like, I thought to myself, and I have been drinking beer since before some of you were born. When you can taste the alcohol in beer above the beer itself, you may as well be drinking petrol. So please leave me be. I will walk home reasonably straight and true while you lot are blasted. Ghastliness itself. I thought they were drinking the alcohol rather than the whisky or the beer. All that pretending to taste it and savour it was just bollocks. And I am no wearer of the pioneer pin, please drink and be merry for we will all be dead soon but do not criticise me for weakness because I know that I have to be working in seven hours.

mrs mongoose was brought up in the borders and being a wee thing herself, she would often have a dram at the end of the day. She favoured Grouse as the pub blend of choice, and heresy of heresies, liked the green Bushmills as her single malt of choice. But not half a bottle at a time. And as you say, after three drinks, the tastebuds are shot and it is all the same. I am however damned to spend a year or two up there. May I be spared too many more tedious evenings like that. I am quite as happy as the next chap to get pissed but let us have it happen by accident rather than by half-pints of grog. And the sniffing and dribbling of water - oh dear. I enjoyed myself by asking on my round if any of them wanted ice. You could have cut the air with the Bruce's broadsword.

call me ishmael said...

Welcome, to the land of the Living Dead.

call me ishmael said...

I went, mr jgm2, into a hotel in Ullapool a few years back with my late friend, Dick. Can we try two of those whiskies, there, the Dalwhinnie, and two halves of beer, please?

When the barmaid told me the price I nearly fell off the stool. It was about sixteen pounds, six quid each for the malts and two quid each for the halves, coulda bought a bottle of Bells or Grouse. And so we sipped these drams, slowly, with a little water and Glory Be, after we'd finished we ordered another round of the same.

Dick and I had drunk for years in the Station Inn, in Selly Oak, or at the Dog and Partridge on the Hagley Road and hitherto would as soon have gone blind as paid six quid for a single whisky. That Dalwhinnie, however, was epiphanal.

Dick bought me a bottle before he went home to Birmingham and I've, since, always kept two or three bottles in the cupboard. I take one or two drams, oh, every six months or so, with a splash of soda water and I really enjoy it when I do. It's thirty five quid a bottle and it's not three times better than a bottle of Tesco whisky but it is nice and it is different. And the Tesco whisky is much more likely to get drunk in one sitting.

There you are, whisky snobbery, I do it myself. Although not in public, like the Scotchman.

The thing that troubles me, though, is would I, in a blind tasting, know the Dalwhinnie from, say, Teachers? And whether I did or not, would it matter? Mine is a small indulgence and I beat myself to a pulp about so many other shortcomings that I don't care if I'm fooling myself on this one.

You know the one about the Saviour having his feet washed in expensive perfume and bystanders saying, But Lord, what about the poor. The poor, He replied, the fucking poor? Those bastards are always here. My feet are fucking killing me and I'm having them washed. Just this one time, Fuck the poor, the poor ye have always with ye.

There's plenty of opportunities to drink cheap whisky.