Tuesday 29 May 2012



Aside from the clearly despised-by-all ordinary person jeering at him,


Charles Antony Lytton Moneygrubbing Fuckpig Blair may as well have been having a walk in the park at his appearance down Leveson, yesterday.  

We are all Friends of Israel here, Mr ben Blair,  and  I am deeply sorry that someone was able to speak the truth to you, in my court, of all places. This must never happen again.

Maybe if Education Seckatry and Murdoch bumboy, Michael Spit, had been present he might have chided the former prime minister for his frightful, Look, you know, I mean, I simply say diction, his non-existent grammar and the overall  poverty of his language and mind.


 No, Hymie, you  listen to me.  Mr Murdoch is a great man, a democrat, a libertarian, a modern thinker,  who should be able to do just what the fuck he wants, as, largely, he still is. And without him I'd be skint.  The former Mr Blair may well be a Godfather to one of Mr Murdoch's blessed children but did you know that the Bible was dedicated to me, Jewboy?  I am not kidding.  Just examine a Schools Issue Bible and you'll see my name, right there on the front page, along with God's.

At one point his Lordship pronounced himself depressed by Blair's evidence, not as depressed, one ventures, as anyone outside the charmed circle of MediaMinster mediocrity, looking-in, bewildered  by the laborious shadow-boxing of criminals, slags, pimps, ponces and degenerates, bowing and scraping and simpering at  one another. In a very real sense.

Meanwhile, far away in another part of town, things proceed normally - as direly predicted here - among the torturable classes.

New Britons emoting for the meeja, as they have been taught to do by their betters.

It may well be that this pair are culpable of murder, hard to know, these days, with Old Bill, his reputation, such as it was, in tatters.  As we know, Chief Superintendent Gob is interested only in convictions, guilt or innocence is nuffink to do wiv 'im and it may well be that the cops are just running this up the mast to see if the CPS will salute it.  And the CPS, as we know, is good for fuck all.

If these two were the Brookses or the McCanns, or the expenses shredding Blairs, even, they'd be employing  spinners, journalists  and bent cops, smokescreening the whole matter with clouds of indignation and self-importance.  These two wretches can only stew in some grimy cell and contemplate a hopeless life with everyone's hand against them;  caged scum, as Kelvin McCunt would say.

We felt that there was something wrong with this bloke, I think we put it as at the very least contributory negligence; and  I believe that mrs woar suggested  that an incendiary stunt may have gone rapidly out of control, with awful consequences. However it pans out, the Philpotts are unikley to be offered Croesus-like remuneration by JP Morgan or any other division of WarCorp, we will not be providing them with lifetime round the clock security and lavish travel and accommodation.

Mr Blair's incendiary stunt,  of course, wholesale arson, torture  and murder, carried out with our troops and our money, was of a wholly different order,  the sort of distinguished conduct which  should result in an earldom, and if the Leveson show is anything to go by, may yet do so.

I simply say
Steal a little and they throw you in jail
Steal a lot and they make you a king

Aberdeen Royal Infirmary may permit me to blog from its cardiac unit, which I enter tomorrow for about ten days. But I doubt it. Thanks to all for their participation  over the years in the commentaries  of my  friend, stanislav, a young polish plumber and myself.  We hope to see you all, further on up the road.

Tuesday 22 May 2012


Mme Christine LaVache, Head of the IMF. 

Scrawny old cow,  Christine LaVache, by the wildest good fortune head of the IMF and not sent packing with the  dwarf pimp, Sarkozy, is, along with M'sieu Hollandaise Sauce, below, among  the luckiest people in the world.

Cherchez le Jackal, Apres moi, le deluge, Vive la France

 Both owe their positions  to the hobby-rapist's antics of M'sieu Dominic  Strauss-Cock, below.

 Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir?
An' even eef you don't, ma cherie,  I weel make you.

Dom the  socialist Raper was head of the IMF but was also the favourite presidential candidate to kick Sarkozy's scabby  arse up and down the Champs Elysee; alas and beaucoup de merde, a petit contretemps malhereux  with a chambermaid in a New York hotel  and a period banged-up on remand on Rikers Island  put paid to both DomBoy's career in the IMF and his hopes to be Rapist in Chief of la Belle France.

As  it turned out, the case against M'sieu le Cock collapsed but that made no difference either to la dame vieux et manque  nor to M'sieu Hollande. I weel be a fucking Dutchman eef I geev-up my candidacy, said  the one, now zat I 'ave got eet off of ze noncing raping bastard and

 I weel be fucked eef I geev up my job for life,'ere at ze IMF and go back in zat crummy govament weeth ze man in ze raised shoes an' get my arse belle kicked, along weeth hees, down ze Champs Elysee, fuck me, do zey sink I am stupid,  'ave zey seen ze size of my pension, said the other.

So, it was merde baguettes for Dominic's breakfast.  He didn't get his job back and he never got to be le President.  Quite the Greek tragedy. Only not quite as tragic as the real Greek tragedy. But fuck them, the Greeks, sponging off the hard-working Hermans.  Good job they have Mr Cameron to advise them as to what they should do.   Otherwise they'd be fucked six ways to Christmas.

Carrier-launched Mirage jets perform a tricoleur manouvre.
We can't do this in Britain because Mr Cameron and Dr Mr Fox-RentBoy were much too clever.

Flight lieutenants Bootsie and Snudge.
 I see no ships.  
That's because we don't have any.
I'd best talk it over with Adam Werrity, he's my clever boy.
 I think you should. But after you resign.

We're a couple of swells.
Not any more, you're not.

Anyway, the laughing cow, Christine, has got the UK meeja  eejits  all in a flutter because  of her feigned Ooh-la-la shiver,  when imagining 'ow it would be for ze YooKay eef eet  'ad not decided to sheet on ze poor people and suck ze knobs of ze reech, like I do.

Ooh, merde and zut alors! I sheever all down my scrawny spine.

Fuck moi, eet makes my blood run cold. Brrrr-brrrr.

Look, regardez bien, my Eengleesh friends, 'ow Iyam sheevering my teets off at ze very thought of a socialiste govament 'ere as well as een my own country, not zat  zare ees any chance of zat 'appening' here, not weeth zee leetle prick Meelibum, non, n'est ce pas?

Emily Maitliss, on Newswank tonight,  was  wetting herself in  shock, berating some Labour harpy about old Lagrande shivering.  She was actually shivering, screeched Ems, at the thought of you lot being in power;  shivering she was, actually shivering.

It's all gone apeshit. That fucking chump, Cameron, lecturing the Greeks, like he was Head of School; the Germans lecturing everybody; Hillary Dogbreath,  lecturing the Syrians but not the Bah-rainians, Fat Alec Salmond lecturing anyone who even looks at him and Tom fucking Jones blethering like an epsilon sub-moron on the BBC.  And now this mangy old Frog boot making Nick Robinson hot under the collar, forced to engage  in some of his famous self-fellation. GlobaCorp, just who do they think they're kidding?

EVENSONG. Poison & Wine | The Civil Wars . This is creepily good. I think.

IDIOT WIND.........


   Don't talk to me about evidence. I don't care about the evidence.  I don't care about what the so-called victims' families say. I say that Megrahi was guilty and that's that.  The people of Britain resoundingly didn't elect me as prime minister and what I say, therefore, is what matters.  He was rightly convicted by a gang of bent Scottish judges and lawyers, acting in the very best interests of the CIA and that's what matters here.  I can promise you that there will be no further inquiry.


President Hillary Trousers, US Seckatry for the torture and  bombing of innocent people abroad.

The Merkin people are outraged that this turrist was able  to die before we could roast his nigger ass.  The very least that the new Libyan puppet regime can do is dig up the body and hand it over to us so that we can properly execute the sonofabitch  in the electric chair. My husband, Spunky Bill'd be more'n happy to throw the switch on that motherfucker'n so would I.  The United States is a great nation, a freedom-lovin' nation and it is written in our constitution that we can roast just as many niggers as is neccessary to protect the Republic. (Sings) O-oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light.....

I tried to read the Ashton book, Megrahi, you are my jury,  but I found it hard going - my fault, not his, I dunno, I didn't have much energy and it is hugely detailed - the first hundred or so pages which I managed to complete,  do, nevertheless, raise huge concerns about the tampering with evidence and about the CIA's financial coercion of the chief witness, who changed his statement countless times. Of the moral turpitude and corruptibility of Scottish judges and lawyers I was in no doubt;  but  the main plank in Mr al Megrahi's dignified pleas of innocence  has always, though, been the quiet conviction of Dr Jim Swire that Megrahi had clearly been framed for the killing of Swire's own daughter, Fiona, and two hundred and fifty others. Cameron's boorish posturing is typical of the man.  I have no real way of knowing - perhaps others here do - but I guess that in other parts of the world  CallHimDave is seen as more risible and contemptible even than the last unelected prime minister. Mr Gordon Snot, now of the Kirkcaldy Oxfam shop.

I hope that something profoundly, redemptively unpleasant happens to Cameron, the loss of his child has obviously taught him nothing of compassion or humility and he remains a Bullingdon blackguard, good for fuck all, employing thieves and footpads like Coulson and Brooks, surrounded by  angry,  redfaced stuttering, spit-flecked  incompetents like Maude and Gove and worthless tossers like Teresa DunnoWotDayItIsMay and that simpering retard, Lady Sir George Younger..  His redneck posturing on al Megrahi is inept and ridiculous, many's a wise head has counselled that things here are awry but Cameron, conceit and arrogance personified, insists that he knows best, simply because he says he does. And with every photo-opportunity, he and his verminous LibDem stooges, but mainly he, look further and further distant from Truth  and Decency, more wedded to the lies and nakedly self-interested hectoring of Yesterday's robber barons. Or, in Cambo's case, his ancestors.

 Even the Arsebridger is calling Lockerbie a crime that simply must be reinvestigated, yet just a few days after a young man, Sam Hallam,  is released from a life sentence - having been wickedly fitted up by the  filth of the Met - Cameron the Wise stutters, Nothing to see here, move on, please.

The Tory worm will turn. Flashman will not go the distance, he is a coward and a weakling, his character flaws clearly visible even below the thick panstick of happy family PR spin.  Despite all his stern Now-Lookism, the man's clearly a  cad and a bounder.  Not the sort of chap we want at the wicket. Good, as the rest of us say,  for fuck all.

Monday 21 May 2012


A while back, mrs ishmael was blessed with her first and so far only grandchild.  Bad enough, that, I suppose; who wants to be married to a grandmother? Or, I hasten to add, for fear of being stabbed with a knitting needle, a grandfather.  

Do not age gentle into that good night, fuck no, and being one of those Saga Consumerist Grandthings, wanting the best for their grandchildren is, in my raucous, overactive imagination, the equivalent of starting to take small doses of Paraquat in your organic green tea.  My dear, late friend, Dick, loved being a grandad, it wasn't that which killed him so young, but never mind, I am convinced that over-enthusiastic grandparenting can be lethal. You start off doing  a few days babysitting so's the parents can both go out to work to pay for some mad, illusory  lifestyle mortgage and the next thing you know is you're in a box on that conveyor belt down the crematorium and Frank fucking Sinatra singing My Way, the repulsive little spic arsehole, over your head.  That's where Grandfathering leads you.

The first, briefly mrs ishmael is many grandmothers and that's bad enough, too, even  having a former wife who resembles an old woman who lived in a shoe, Gosh, it does make a bloke feel his age. But there are worse things to be borne than births, such as the burdensome and vexatious  problem of  what, when you are saddled with him, for the rest of your days, does the little bugger call you? And, just as tricky, how do you stop the new parent or parents naming their poor unfortnate Beckam or Chardonnay.

I am perhaps unduly harsh on the subject of grandparenthood because though I had some -  obviously, as many as anyone else -  my own conception was a brief re-flowering of a younger passion, either that or an unaccustomed  and thus unprotected drunken tumble - Oh, to think of one's parents in lust,  the horror -  and they were long dead before I was born,  the grandparents, the parents lasted a bit longer. But not much. 

There were photographs on my childhood wall of stern-looking Edwardian gentlemen with white moustaches, dressed in waistcoats  with fobwatches, but they had disappeared from the wall long before I was old enough to identify them.  My paternal grandfather was a professional classical musician, a clarinettist and the other one, the Jock one, was a shoemaker.  That's all I know.  And probably more than I want to.  I mean, where do you stop, with that stuff, how far back do you go?

The lasting mrs ishmael's grandfolks were Belgian diplomats to the Chinese Court,  and we have some bits of porcelain, some pots, vases - some visiting Chines students looked at the mark underneath one of them and said Waaahhhh, fock me, in Beijing can buy focking Bentley for this poh, Chinee person cannoh even focking own this poh, is fohbidden to Chinee fella to own this poh, can buy focking RollRoyce with this poh;  and this jug, can buy focking JumbohJeh, seven-foh-seven - and that's probably something worth researching, but it's also something that, aside from the money,  is utterly irrelevant. So they were diplomats, so what, they might have been mass murderers, cannibals, don't make no never mind.

  If I could see a photo of my own personal ancestor, M'Ishmael, in Africa, or wherever we kicked off, from a hundred thousand years ago, scribbling satire on a  cliff face,  perhaps pictograming the legend Up against the cavewall motherfuckers, I might get excited but otherwise the reality is that whatever-it- is thing, six degrees of separation, nearly  every bastard on Earth is my cousin. What's the point of singling-out a few, for special reverence  So, emotionally and rationally I don't give a fuck about grandparents or great grandparents or any other bastard who fought at Waterloo or with the Roundheads or came over from France with the Norman Frogs, themselves descendants of the Norsemen, from whom I know, on irrefutable medical evidence, I am descended. I saw a neurologist in Aberdeen a few years back about a twisting nerve in my hand, a De Putrens Contracture.  Only people of Norse extraction have this condition, he said, you are descended from the Vikings. Oh, and Mrs Thatcher has this problem, too.  Enraptured, I dwelt for a while on the idea of changing my name to Sven.  Or Erik.  But only for a while, To Hell, anyway, with ancestors and grandparents, probably a right shower of bastards. Coming over here and raping the Venerable Bede and his brothers. I don't care about grandparents, having them or being one of them.  That's not to say though that someone can  just come along and call me their grandfather. Not  when I'm fucking well not..

 And that was the rub when mrs ishmael the everlasting's grandchild was born. What's he gonna call me?  He's obvioulsy gonna call his grandma grandma or nana or nanny or granny, one of those,  and since his maternal grandfather is long, determinedly  dead from embraced cirhossis the easy choice would be for him to call me grandad.  Bur since I'm not his grandfather I didn't want to fuck his head up any more than it's going to be fucked up by Michael Gove and company by pretending, for the sake of  convenience, that I was.  I had his best interest at heart.  

You know that stepladder axiom, you're not my real ladder, you're only my stepladder?  Well I didn't want him, in years to come, maybe researching his own ancestry online - which will probably be compulsory by then - and finding that the old bloke he called granddad wasn't really his granddad but just allowed himself to be called granddad for the sake of an easy life, I didn't want him to discover that the bloke he called granddad was, in fact,  just a luvmykidstobits,me fuckwit, because I'm not, I'm not   fearful of the truth about relationships.

(It is a big, big heartache to me, this Ruinous phoniness at which people clutch,  this emotional contraband, passing between witless generations, adults blinding childen to the truth, for the sake of some counterfeit, unquiet status.  My one daughter visited one Christmas  with her son,  to whom I was a real grandfather, and her new,  three-months vintage bloke.  Christmas morning and 'neath the tree was an ostentatious  and clearly extravagant pile of presents for the boy from Granma Hazel and Grandad Tony.  What the fuck is this, I flashed silently at my daughter;  who are these people who,  on three months acquaintanceship, adopt themselves as grandparents.  Who is this Tony, who assumes the same relationship as you have with me, me, from whom your life sprung?  And what of your loving mother, and what of your  generous and supportive stepmother of twenty years, what dreadful cheap bogus parity  do you here deploy,  is this your world?  Do not let me detain you, here,  with arcane notions of blood and family;  go, invent your own.)

But at the same time, although I am happy for visitors to CallMeIshmael to  call me ishmael, I didn't want a two year old calling me ishmael, or a ten year old, for that matter.  And Uncle is just too horrid;  long before Mr Peter Nose of the 'oo wrote what he grandly called his rockopera, Tommy, about some child-molesting uncle, the word Uncle already had connotations of noncehood about it, an uncle was any drunken bum to whom you would present your infant for kisses and cuddles, thus legitimising if not encouraging the idea of inappropriate physical contact beteen stranger adults and children. Uncle  makes one think of Uncle Kelvin McKenzie orchestrating the national countdown to Charlotte Church losing her virginity,  a foul, repulsive, shit-eatung bastard.  So I wasn't prepared to be called uncle and probably go on the sex offenders register for life.  I don't mind being called Uncle when I am Uncle;  in fact I am at least nine Uncles but being a pretend Uncle wasn't acceptable.

Can't be Sir, said baby's mum, can it ? Well, I don't think so, Sir's OK but I think it needs to be voluntary. I just don't want him talking to me on first name terms, like I was his mate, when what I am is his significant  Male Elder,  the Dude of Last resort.  Not his Dad, not his Granddad and definitely not his mate.  What's it to be then?  How about Nana and Mister.  Mister? Yeah, Nana and Mister,  that'll do, he doesn't have to stand up when I come in the room or anything, or salute me,  just as long as he knows that older people are different people.  I hope to live long enough to teach him how to make Molotov Cocktails and other tools of liberation.

It has worked out well, the boy calls me Mr quite happily, sometimes My Mr, and he knows that here, silently, is some differentiation, some status thing, which may yet be to his advantage.

On the other hand, this was all about four years ago, this mister-naming and what's happened is that what few friends I have, here,  now also call me mr, even those who are older than me.  Best laid plans of mice and misters, gang aft aglay.



Good evening, this is NightTime with Huw Welshman  and we have  an hour of filler for you about some singer or other.

The world of entertainment was rocked to it's foundations this morning by the news that   a strange looking man with a squeaky voice had passed away. One of the remaining members of the rock group Pinky and Perky has died in a US hospital.

Mr Barry Pinky, of the Pnky and Perky brothers.
Or is it Robin?

The BBC's resident smart-aleck, the deeply unfunny, wisecracking arsehole, Mr Clive Anderson, quipped  That'll teach him to walk out in my show, when all I was doing was my usual dreary act of being nasty. Only it's not an act of course, I really am an utter cunt, detestable and vile, that's me, can't imagine why they give me so much work, smirk, smirk.

No-no, I didn't mean it...well, I did really
 The late BeeGees, storm off Mr Anderson's grisly little show.

Lord and Lady Mr Sir Elton  John , holidaying on the Cap de Cocaine, said they were totally and utterly gutted;
Mum's the word.

 Barry or was it Robin was a towering genius and  a star has gone out of the great firmament of rock'n'roll heaven, not that I'd know anything about  rock'n'roll,  my wife, Sir David and  I, as a mark  of showbiz respect are going to change the name of our delightful little son, from Levon - whose namesake too has passed away - to Robin, or is it Maurice . Well, I know people might raise an eyebrow or two but he's ours, we bought and paid for him with our own money, I mean my own money, and we can do what we want with him.  I am too upset to think about issuing a tribute version of my great melancholy anthem Cancer  In The Wind, but if I can wipe away the tears I might manage it. First Princess Diana, then Elizabeth Taylor and now this ugly screeching bloke. My life is just all tragedy. And the feeling's gone. And I can't go on.
Fell down the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way.
 Smile an everlasting smile... second thoughts, best not.

 And we're joined now in the studio by Lady Sir Tom Jones;  Lady Sir Tom, growing up in the valleys, in the 'thirties, what did the BeeGees mean to you?

 Wretched old phony.

Well, of course I'm a blues man, meself, isn't it. Jones the Blues, they used to call me, back in the valleys, It's Not Unusual , that was a real blues tune. And What's New Pussycat? A dyed in the wool blues number, that. Thunderball, Funny Familiar Forgotten Feelings, all great blues numbers. Gotta have soul, look you, to sing the blues. And that's what he had, wossisname, the freaky-looking one, although, mind you, boyo, they were all a bit freaky.  Not saying that they fished from the other bank or anything but great, great bluesmen, all the same; we'll not look on their teeth again. I mean their like.  What? Write songs?  Meself, you mean? Fuck, no, can't even barely write me own name, me. But if I had any advice to young bluesmen starting out in showbusiness,  it would be to cultivate one of these snufflers beards, like I 'ave. All the best bluesmen 'ave, you know. Worth nearly a quarter of a billion pounds I am, you know. I know, mad, innit.

Was my good friend, Elvis, a paedo?

 Love me, tender.

Well, it's true that when he was in the army, in Germany like, look you, isn't it, he was the most famous star in the world, like, and could of had any woman he wanted, he was dating a thirteen-year old, Priscilla, and paying-off her parents, just like he was a catholic priest.  That doesn't necessarily mean that he was noncing her, know what I mean.  But he probly was.  Them good ole Southern boys like that sort of thing; Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry and so on. My old mate, Engelbert Numperdinck, win the Eurovision Song contest ?  Yeah, course he will, he'll piss it. Proper singer Engel, like me,  a real blues singer.  Please Release Me, Let Me Go, real blues number, that.

And joining us from her TennesseMountain Home is the Queen of Country Music, songthrush Dolly Tits'n'Wigs, Miss Dolly, what did Pinky and Perky mean to you.

 Ms Tits, Travellin' on for Jesus.

Aw shucks, them boys was just the nicest boys, warble-warble, an' I know, friends, that right now, they'll be up there in Heaven, serenadin' our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, warble-warble, with that fine harmony screeching they done and just havin' themselves a high old time.  An' it's true that country music owes them BeeGees a great debt for all them tunes they wrote, warble-warble which made us all so much money.  I don't need no money fer myself, y'unnerstand, it's just so's I can do the Lord's work for my many nieces and nephews and to maintain my li'l ole country music palace, DollyWorld, here in Tennessee, where sick people can come and get theirselves cured, an' only fer a few dollars, warble-warble. (Sings) Inbreds in the stream, that is what we are, no-one in between, how can we go wrong, sail away with me, warble-warble......

Thank you Dolly Parton.  That was country legend, Dolly Parton, there, with some of her memories of Robin or Barry or Maurice Chevalier, who died today.  And we are joined now by  Professor Sir Brian Earnest Hair and Trainers, guitarist with Queen and Astronomer Royal, who is in the Sky at Night Studios with Sir Patrick High-Trousers BrownShirt.

Well Brian,  'spect you saw quite a lot of Mr Wotsisname, the both of you being in music hall...

That's right, Patrick, often we'd gaze at the heavens together looking at distant galaxies and thinking how much we owed it all to you....

Too kind, too kind, and when you were first growing your hair and trainers, back in the 'seventies, how much of an influence was he on you and the other queens?

None at all, Patrick, none at all ...

Quite so. And I understand that you've played for the real Queen, on the roof of her own house...??

Yes, I can earnestly say I have, and what a great earnest honour it was for me, too.  You know as I often earnestly say about Freddie Mercury blah blah blah blah...

Yes, well, right, that's enough the fuck of all that.  Here's rocking at you, Brian May, whoever the fuck you are, in my studio in your earnest hair and earnest trainers.  And here's to the next ten thousand issues of the Sky at Night, hoping all you at home can join me for them, only not the late Mr Pinky, or is it Perky.

And now Paul Gambaccini,  the BBC's official mourning diva, shares his thoughts about whatever dead musician it is. Fuck me, Jesus, you think at his age he'd have better things to do.

Paul Fluffer SmarmyGitaccini

Well, of course, Huw, he was a consumnnate musician and songwriter and all round great human being, rather a cross between Albert Schweitzer and  Judy Garland, I knew them quite well, both of them and we would often meet up together and talk pretentious fucking drivel about showbusiness tossers and how utterly magical and wonderful they all are, and we are, too, Huw, (sings)   There's no business like showbusiness, like no business I know.  In my role as cocksucker to the stars, I knew Barry or Maurice or Barry quite intimately and he once came out to me, like rock stars do. But I never told anyone he was gay. And I never would. The rock'n'roll firmament has lost one of its brightest stars and we shall not look on his teeth again. I mean his like.  At a time like this all we have is words. It's only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away, dah-da-dah-da-dah-da-dah-dah-dah.

Thanks Paul, that was Gambo there, with his take on Mr Perky's  tragic death at 62 of swine fever.  You can read more of Gambo's repellent fucking fawning drivel on the BBC website.

And we were about to go to Lulu, who was once married to one of the three little pigs

Fiery Scots one-hit wonder, Lulu McBotox with her then husband, Barry or Maurice or Robin BeeGee.
This one died from a twisted intestine. And no wonder, all that high-pitched skriking.

 but her face has fallen off and she is undergoing urgent plastic surgery at the King Edward the Seventh Hospital for old bags, here in London.

And Lulu, today, singing her one hit, You Know You Make Me Wanna Bark.

But to sum-up the remarkable life and career of this remarkable man we turn to our Arts editor, mr stanislav, a young Polish plumber.

Fuck me, Huwbloke, up here in Scotland, best part of England, can hear all sort of fucking rubbish, weep and fucking wailing, fifteen-verse song about fucking hanging three  hundred fucking year ago by redcoat bastard and nailing Jock to door of fucking crofthouse and on every street corner is band of Smirking Wee Fionas scrape fucking guts out from fiddle and fuckawful accordian, sound like fucking skeleton having Jay Arthur inside biscuit tin, scrape and fucking jangle and wheeze. Jesus, is fucking dreadful, this culture shit.  But even so, is not so bad as fucking BeeGees.  Is fucking rubbish, innit, Huw.  I mean, just because something popular is doesn't mean is fucking bad and throw in dusting bin. Take Mozart, is popular as fuck and good, too. But take skymadeupnewsandfilth of  rotten old Aussie bastard and GingerMinge and Kelvin McFuck, is popular but is fucking rubbish and whole lot of bastards rounded-up should be and  drown in fucking Thames. Anybody who read or watch, much less write skymadeupnewsandfilth should get thrown off Embankment with paving slab in gob, where teeth used to be.  No,  BeeGee music is fucking rubbish but what can expect from Mancunian criminal family transport to Australia and sneak back in under disguise of monsterteeth and hair. Is good for fuck all, anyway, BeeGee, dropping dead from this and that.  Every five fucking minute is dead fucking BeeGee on news.  Fuck me, is only one bastard left now, and then BeeGeebastards  is all fucked, gone off in showbiz purgatory and singing Gotta Get A Message To You.Only am dead as  fucking mackerel. And good job, too, fucking miserable squeaky caterwauling racket . If bloke is then should sing like bloke, and not like fucking hysterical castrati mutant bastard.  No business like showbusiness. If BeeGee was plumber would fucking starve, turn up at customer house where shit and sanitary towel and icy water flowing down stairs is   and stand on doorstep and go squeak-squeak-squeak, da-da-dah-da-da-da-da-dadada, soon would get fucking toilet seat wrap round fucking ear, BeeGee or no fucking BeeGee. No, good riddance to bad rubbish is. Light all go out in Massachusetts, thank fuck; job a good un is.

Sunday 20 May 2012


 Mr I-Know-Best, speaking in the Filth-O-Graph, reveals the extent of his illness.
 Now, look.

He cited several programmes where he is pushing for better or faster progress. He said: “Is the Green Deal delivering on time? Are our welfare reforms working? Is the free schools programme going fast enough? Are the changes to the immigration system coming in?

“That is how I spend my time, driving change from the centre, at the same time as recognising the key to good government is good ministers who have clear instructions about what needs to be done.”

Sometimes, he said, that means he has to intervene in departmental business. “No 10 does have an important role, not just in progress chasing, but in shaking things very hard to get things done quickly,” he said.


Scotland uber alles.

Ve haff vays ov making you sober.
Nicola Moustache, blabbermouth Scottish health seckatry,
 kisses the McFuhrer, Alex Fatman.

Throughout history, across the globe, wherever two or three have gathered together thay have found something to ferment, distil, evaporate, cook or blend  and then drink, chew, smoke, inhale, shove up their arses or by any other means ingest and alter the consciousness of the consumer.  A consciousness unaltered, one might say, is a consciousness wasted.

Such preparations - booze, hallucinogenics, stimulants, narcotics and such  have been  deployed to purposes sacramental, inspirational,  aphrodisiacal and martial and are inextricably linked to our  species' development. Some have fasted, others have whirled themselves into catatonia, some, even,  have flogged themselves into a painful bliss of profound religiosity. And increasingly dictatorial bureaucrats have feared and attempted to stamp-out unlicensed, and untaxed intoxication.  Since the fifties, in our world, cops, lawyers and towering social reformers like Mrs Nancy Reagan

 The Moon is in Saturn, Ronnie, with Aquarius rising, I think we should launch a War On Drugs.
If you say so sweet thing, you're the boss . Do we get to kill bad folks?  Nigras and such?

have been engaged in a formal War On (sic) Drugs;  the result of which is that drugs, as they call them, have never been so available, so cheap, so widely and regularly consumed.

Getting off one's head has been practised by priests, shamans, lovers, artists and warriors; wassailers, worshippers  and pilgrims alike  have drunk deep , responsible drinking is one of Presbyterianism's oxymorons and malt Has done more than Milton to justify God's ways to Man. Off course if it is scholars and poets, legislators and generals a-doing it, then pissheadness is infinitely justifiable but these days, here, in bonny Scotland, being wrecked is what we now call the dee-fault setting of that swelling congregation which former deputy prime minister, Prescott

Them kids in the Underclass, they just dunno 'ow to be'ave 'emselves,
says bloated, drunken,  sexual predator, John Pies. 
Keeper of NewLabour's working class conscience.

 happily calls - to his eternal shame, the rotten, bloated arsehole - the Underclass;  what the VIctorians called the Impotent Poor and what Holyrood's scurvy, noncing, pisshead politicos and hacks call NEDs - Never Employed Delinquents;  the unemployed, in other words, those entirely failed by successive generations of gibbering political stooges and arsehole financiers, and now victimised afresh  by  jive-talking, arriviste,  middle-class morality bandits, ensconced in their mortgaged granite sepulchres, sipping knowingly at their lustrous and patriotic single malts. Responsibly. As if intoxication was beneath them. Och, go on then, just another wee dram.

Life expectation in some parts of Scotland is as low as in the most backward and savage African states;  heart and liver disease stomp  across larger and younger swathes of the population and A&E units are swamped by ever younger victims of alcohol-related violence;  the courts, the jails and social servies departments are all floating-off on a tide of booze and piss; unable to arrest or ameliorate the drastic impacts of widespread alcoholism;  earnest liver surgeons appear almost weekly on JockNewsnight, each with their own ree-surch papers prophecying juvenile cirrhotic Armageddon.  It is as though the slick, sanitised, consumerist New Presbyteria is flawed, somehow, by oiks getting pissed or otherwise smashed.  Somehing must be done.

And hairy Glasgow lawyer Nicola Sturgeon is just the person to Do Things.  Christ fucking help us all, she never stops doing things, announcing things, busybodying  her dwarfish little arse off. Deputy to Rupert Murdoch's  FatFriend.,  Ali Salmond,  and his undoubted successor should his own fearful gluttony carry him sclerotically away to the Great Glen in the Sky, Ms Moustache has decided that alcohol in Scotland must now cost a minimum of fifty-pee per unit. Testily explaining her possibly illegal meddling in the hallowed free market, the wee fishwife  insists that overnight thousands of people will be saved, millions of pounds will be saved and Scotland, one of whose main exports - and main tourist attractions - is the  arcane and purportedly esoteric manufacture of lethhally toxic liquids - will become a paradise of clean-living abstinence.  And Narional Socialism, of course. All,  blessed by her intervention in matters outwith her remit, will be marching to a NewPuritan drum.  She is a pestilential fucking idiot, Sturgeon, and a creeping totalitarianiste nouvelle to boot.

People need jobs, young people need jobs and arseholes like Sturgeon, for decades, now, have been micromanaging their countries and regions so spectacularly badly that the former smokestack industries have been razed to the ground with fuck all to replace them, unless you happen to be one of the insufferable I-Know-Best political arselickers whose career opportunities multiply with every passing year.

The sobriety paradigm envisaged by this grubby little hen is that unemployed, hopeless and shat-upon youngsters who can now get pissed for a fiver will somehow, when the cost rises to a tenner all run up and down Sauchiehall Street signing the fucking pledge and joining the Salvation fucking Army, as big a shower of useless meddlesome shitbrains as the Scottish National Party -  fuck me, it's the twenty-first century and these crossdressing, belligerent, whining, inebriate turdbrains are banging on about nationalism as though it was the eighteenth; fucking nationalists, go on, name me a good one, how about Hitler, how about Mao, how about Stalin, how about the joined at the arse twins, Gerry Nonce and Marty Kneecaps, Irish nationalists and conflict resolution experts. God fucking help us all, many children in the world can't get a drink of water or a fucking aspirin and Salmond and his gang of nasty, narrow-minded hypocrites are banging on about the dawn of the Rob Roy Reich.

But soft, Sturgeon , conceited and overblown by a freakish electoral victory last year, has jumped the gun, this measure is as popular  and welcome as the pox in a nunnery. Those on a fixed income deplore it, why shouldn't they drink cheap booze in their dotage, the supermarkets deplore it, how dare Sturgeon fix their prices and clearthinking ordinary citizens- of whom there are disproprtionately many in Scotland, get the whiff of the jackboot.

There will rightly be legal challenges which one would expect Sturgeon to lose.  Ordinary peopleare bewildered and angry at this I-Know-Best meddling.,  The only people apparently unmoved by this ridiculous and impertinent  measure are its target, Scotland's disenfrachised, bloootered youth and they don't give a flying fuck  about anything Sturgeon says . Maybe if she banned free booze from govament and  diplomatic  and local council and QUANGO and public sector functions, then   NED, vomiting in the gutter,  might pay her some mind, until she does then he and most of the rest of us will tell her  to away and fuck yerself ye mangy wee gabshite.


Free booze for rich people. Expensive booze for poor people.
Haste ye back.

Thursday 17 May 2012


It's almost like being blackmailed;  this arsehole, father of too many children to too many women, is, of course, entitled to some sympathy, some fellowship, from those less profligate with their seed,  from those less promiscuous, more self-reliant but Christ it's hard not to despise him, especially when people are piling garage flowers outside the scene of the crime and all our commentators are saying that the national heart goes out to him, to the children's mother and to whoever else was in his grisly menage. Well, fuck it, my heart doesn't go out to him, he's a waster and a scrounger who, after, let's just say ten children, should have had his tubes snipped. This bastard is my age and he's fathering children with a woman in her twenties,  he was a   worthless piece of shit before the fire and he's still a worthless piece of shit.


I knew a junkie, once, in Birmingham, he and the Mrs were hooked on duramphetamine, black-and-whites - then prescribed as appetite suppressants, which could be bought at eight for a pound, half-a-crown each, in the Trafalgar 'pub - to get them up and on Tuinal and Mandrax to get them down.  I was sitting in Gipsy Blake's flat one day, my fingers raw from bashing-out endless twelve-string, twelve-bar blueses to Blake's ghostly electric bottleneck when someone came in with a Birmingham Evening Mail, Three Children Dead in House Fire, wailed the front page.  A few minutes later, in came Arno, his face all blistered, Fuck, it was his house  that caught fire and his kids who'd died. The cops tried to nail him and Brenda but the inquest returned accidental death  or some such and no charges were brought.  Arno reckoned that some imaginary visitor had fallen asleep with a joint lit, or some such.  But it was the chaos that killed the kids.  They're buried in Kings Norton churchyard.

Children aren't safe in chaos. To some adults chaos is addictive and takes on a life-force of its own; okay if you're an artist or a house renovator - my friend, Dave, the ex jumbojet pilot, is constantly restoring houses and I have never seen him in anything that stops  short of what to must people would be unendurable, brain-shredding  chaos but to him is just an essential process, crates of tiles, reels of wires, mountains of plumbing goods, slates, mortar, floorboards, baths, showers, drills,  sanders, hammers, nails screws, saws, paint, filler - in either of his homes you have to negotiate mountains of this stuff just to find a place to sit down and have a cup of tea.  I do projects which  can render parts of the house unuseable but every space in Dave's two houses is like that. It's OK, he knows what he's doing. And he's rich, to boot. Main thing, though, with both of us, is that we don't have young children. And nor should we.

And maybe Mr Philpott, banging-out children like he was fucking Noah or someone, populating the entire  Earth in some contra-Malthusian delusional project thought he knew what he was doing, but he didn't, he was and is a  stupid, selfish, cock-waving bastard;  nothing artistic about his fucking about, the prat.

My former nephew is a  senior claims negotiator in motor insurance, one of those stonefaced arseholes who explains to you exactly why and how his company is wriggling out of it's obligation to settle your claim as per its advertising spiel.  He says that the accident is comparatively rare,  there is always contributory negligence. And he's right, so it is with Mr Philpott.  He must've known he was pissing people off, he must've known that there are stupid and nasty people, pissed and angry,  who do not or cannot think beyond setting the fire at the letterbox, never imagine that people are going to die and that they are likely to spend twenty years inside one of skymadeupnewsandfilth's holiday camps; people whose own lives are so limited by circumstance that his bleating for a larger house in which to house his brood and his harem are like a red rag to a bull.  Around his children and his wife and girlfriend he willingly conspired in creating a miasma of resentment and hostility. And with multiple mothers, multiply pregnant, with caravans in the back garden, with overcrowding and excessive fecundity how could these lives have been other than chaotic, enslaved to an idle father's mangy, overactive cock. For some, in this sort of intolerable chaos,  the celebrity-noire of the Jeremy Kyle show - a decent society would expel Kyle -  is better than no celebrity at all;  for their dependants, however, the price of a moment's  shabby infamy is steep indeed.

Cruelty TeeVee's Mr Jeremy Kyle.
Some people WILL do anything for money.

And now this,  the final smouldering fruits of Philpott's  loins, his smoke-dead infants providing him with  a lifelong ticket, perhaps, on Grief's gravy train. And no doubt he'll be back on the nest soon enough, after the multi-funerals maybe,  his scabby arse sawing away  like a fiddler's elbow,  flooding some other poor bitch with his old man's  rank semen.  It's not just momentary, manipulated sympathy that Mr Philpott needs; it's a quick rub-down with a housebrick and a sharp, salutory kick in the testicles;  that's what he wants, what he really, really wants.

‪Band & Emmylou Harris . Evangeline‬‏ EVENSONG . Levon Helm died last month. His was not the sole but it was perhaps the most recognisable of the singing voices in The Band. A redneck shitkicker, Helm was a no-nonsense, country-rockabilly- blues singer and multi-instrumentalist - playing mandolin in this clip - who famously - after the worldwide acclaim awarded The Band's Music From Big Pink - deplored the industry's preceding mountain of druggy doggerel rock pretence thus: Pyschedelia? We just thought that was Bullshit. Perhaps less culturally adventurous than his bandmates - who were then called the Hawks - Helm declined to do the famous World Booing Tour, accompanying motormouth, speedfreak wunderkind, Bob Dylan, leaving Dylan, Robertson, Manuel, Hudson, Danko and stand-in drummer Micky Jones to, without him, speak loud, amplified amphetamine-peace unto the heathen. Helm, however, was not so reticent when it came to shacking-up with Bob in Woodstock, NY and, via the jamming sessions, which would later emerge as the Basement Tapes, honing The Band's ensemble playing until finally, for a decade, it swept all before it. The Weight, Up On Cripple Creek, Long Black Veil, Chest Fever, Stage Fright, Tears of Rage, I Shall Be Released, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (written by Robertson to Helm's Johnny Reb sensibilities), these, North American roots music, anthems, knees-ups and laments, redirected such meagre artists as were then working in what had started out as Rock'n'Roll. Despairing at his own - in my view as yet unrelieved - artistic morbidity, Eric Wogbasher Clapton, on hearing The Band, dismantled the pompous, overblown and over-rated Cream and Richard Thompson sought to craft Fairport Convention into a similar but English roots music band. Self-indulgent supergroups crumbled, slip-sliding on double and triple "concept|" albums. Roberta Plant and Mick Jagger continued waving their cocks at vast androgyne audiences but more adept musos, such as Steve Winwood got back, if not to their roots, to somebody else's. Steeleye Span, Lindisfarnne a nd countless even lesser conclaves plundered the Anglo-ethnic and celtic traditions of the Copper family and the McPeakes Of the original members of this massively influential group, Richard Manuel hanged hinself, young; Rick Danko OD'd, young;Levon Helm died more prosaically, at 71, of cancer; Robbie Robertson suffers from crippling and incurable egomania and Maestro Garth Hudson lives in relatively modest normality. Former manager, |Albert Grossman, died in his fifties and former amenuensis, Bob Dylan, 72, nightly treads the boards in his own, freakish, travelling salvation show. There are giants in US popular music, Stephen Foster, George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Leonard Bernstein, Aaron Copeland, Duke Ellington, Chuck Berry; The Band, as a creative and performing ensemble, are more difficult to place than those individuals but they're in there somewhere, Down Along The Cove, Up On Cripple Creek, Across the Great Divide.


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