Friday 28 September 2012



 I've been in the business twenty-six  brutal years and if some supersmug git tells you that On balance he has it about right, then he's lying to you  as well as to himself and what he needs is a quick rub-down with a housebrick. I don't know how it all got started, this shit, I brought her up just as if she was one uv me own, that shit, luvemtobitsIdo, more like a favver, I wuz,  than her own Dad.  It's all bollocks.  The natural step-state is warfare; why wouldn't it be? You're not my real ladder, you're just my stepladder, you can't tell me what to do.

Children  hate their step-parents, wield nasty little uncompromising  daggers, often egged-on by the absent, supplanted parent.  I have done some,  no, lots of  egging-on, too, in my sweet time, my child honed into a lethal, heat-seeking weapon, a little Exocet, fired From Me To you.  The guy stepping her was, by common consent,  unfuckingspeakable, a deranged public schoolboy, control freakery bordering on insanity, even his widow, the person to whom I was first married,  said to me, in our once-in-thirty-years conversation that he was as mad as a hatter, unbearable. He was a sucessful merchant, import and export, his life fine-tuned between Coventry and Manhattan but he hadn't bargained for and could not deal with the implacable hostility of another man's child, resident in his life, and by proxy, therefore, me, too,  resident in his life.  It was so unfair, apart from anything else, a member of his uptight household travelling most weekends to another's.  And coming back, time after time, transformed.  Fuck him and his plans,  I thought.  And I think that it was his inability to override the natural bond between father and child that led him to die young, from alcohol poisoning, in the  Coventry Salvation Army hostel.  It was kind of poetic, except that he was about as poetic as dogshit.

My own  contemporaneous step-experience wasn't as vivid as that;  Mrs Ishmael's person to whom she was first married didn't have much interest, it was she, in fact, who facilitated and encouraged his children's access to him - see, the language of the responsible divorcee, facilitated and encouraged, a veneer of gabshitery weakly  glued and pinned over a wormy hatred.  She should have openly hated him, detested him, he was an utter cunt, no good to man nor beast.  But she put her hurts away and drove the children to their father's every week, he being too lazy or too drunk to collect them himself. And he, too, despite repeated warnings from the medics, industriously drank himself to death at only forty-seven; it wasn't that he was brokenheart maudlin, he'd married the woman for whom he had left the then yet-to-be Mrs Ishmael, he'd been paid an over-generous share of the former matrimonial home's value, but he and his new Mrs just liked being pissed on vodka, whether his children were there visiting or  not.  He was too out of his  mind to orchestrate a campaign of civil disobedience in his former wife's home  but he had his own ways-  quite rightly - of pissing on our shoes.  When he did stagger up to the great off license in the sky I was tempted to say to his  children, See, that's how much he cared about you, couldn't even be bothered to stay alive for you.   I didn't, but I might yet.

But even without any sniper fire from his world, stepping his children was a horror show. I've never seen Groundhog Day but I understand that it's about - inter alia - somebody waking up everyday and fighting exactly the same battles as he did the day before, with the same people. My life was like that for years.  Didn't matter how much you helped with the homework, didn't matter how much time you spent, didn't matter that you taught them to drive, got them cars, gave them work, didn't matter that you turned yourself inside-out trying to nurture these graceless, poisonous little fuckers;  every once in a while it would be You can't tell me what to do, you're not my real ladder, you're just my stepladder, I hate you.  And they were quite right to hate me,  I wasn't their real ladder.  Not their fault that their natural parents got together and then got untogether, not their fault at all,  they didn't even ask to get born, much less adjust, welcomingly,  to  whoever their mother or father is now fucking. And that's all there is to it, really, sometimes it's veiled, finessed, but that's what it is, the step-relationship. Hatred. Life's hard enough without having to deal with ersatz, pretend parents as well as everything else.

And, lo, now the world is full of it.  Oh, one reads and hears of special, wunderkind children, who flit gracefully between their parents' current menages, spreading light and love and of course the implication of this,  the between-the-lines-shit, is that at least one set of  pseudo parents is clever and caring beyond the capabilites of most of the rest of us poor, stupid, selfish  fuckers.  But fuck them because for every one of these supersmugs there will be thousands of people ripped to shreds,  hosting a malignant parasite or two or three, their sunny second starts eaten-away from within, that's just how it is.  It is why, I guess, that in nature - where life and death and survivalism are writ larger  -  incoming males kill the spawn of their predecessors whilst we, assailed and suborned by witless, gobby childologists  -  Fuck me sideways to Christmas, I have known some Court Welfare Officers whom you wouldn't let near your Yorkshire Terrier, much less your children - we, anyway, probably because we have to,  continue to encourage and facilitate the impossible, the dangerous, the unnatural; thoughtfully, considerately, micromanaging, we make for him, Ruin's own progress.

I thought all of this in a split second when I saw this geezer, the step of Missing Megan.  And I thought Somebody in this press conference macabre will stride up there and punch him in the face.  Twenty-six years before the stepmast, as I said, and there was,  there is,  no circumstance imaginable this side of Hell in which I would say to Mrs Ishmael's daughter, Youanme, we had a date, Babes, youanme can still make that date, Sweetheart. This guy, whatever his fucking name is - I don't care - is doing all this Daddy's-little-girl- baby-talk shit, on global teevee, aimed at a young woman who is obviously mature for her years,  attractive and  sexually active; 


what bizarre impulse made him spew out this degrading shit, this Come home to stepDaddy wetdream nightmare doggerel?  And we can still go  on our Date. Can no-one  now deliver us from such stunted, tawdry mewling and puking?   There she is,  off with her adored teacher and if they'd waited - what? - less than a year, they could have done exactly as they pleased. Love and lust are a riptide but  the law is the law and Matey's gone down in the noncing flood,  only by months, but he's noncing  and will probably go to jail.  I don't much believe in jailing people but whilst we are still doing so we should certainly jail him. You just can't have teachers fucking their pupils or students or customers or stakeholders or whatever the fuck it is that Michael Spit-Gove says we should call them,  here, in the Big Society, nasty little Murdoch rodent. That she's nearly a woman, looks like a woman,  that  was the excuse of every nonce I ever heard, led me on, the little tart.   I didn't know she was twelve.

So, she's lost in France, in Love, knowing that some very adult shit is gonna fall on their two-hearts-beating-as-one and this jerk, speaking not to her but to some real or imagined constituency of  knuckleheaded Sun-reading sentimental morons, offers up  some grisly,  creepy and extremely suspect date with her fucking stepfather, as though it was  an  irresistible inducement, a temptation beyond her wildest, her stormiest hormonal dreams, an offer that would see her  abandon Romeo and rush headlong back into the arms of her wretched mother and her mother's equally wretched bloke.  No fucking wonder she ran away.


Wednesday 19 September 2012


Great, this lampooning of Mitt Wotsisname, the New Dubya.  Seems that like most rich people he doesn't know and doesn't care how most people live. Almost like a certain unelected, unintelligent and unwholesome Deputy Prime Minister who, when asked how much was the old age pension, replied, Oh, isn't it about thirty pounds a week and yet the cheeky cunt still insists on lecturing us about what is good for us.  Gosh, how the Shiteaters must regret dumping Dopey Old Ming for this gilded fuckwit.


Nick Clegg branded "out of touch" after claiming state pension is £30

Lib Dems at Bournemouth 2008
Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg was branded "out of touch" yesterday after claiming the state pension was £30.
Asked on TV to say exactly how much pensioners get a week, he replied: "I think it's about 30 quid now, isn't it?"
In fact, the basic pension is £90 while those on pension credit get £124.
The gaffe came on the eve of Mr Clegg's first speech as leader to the party conference. His themes are "fairness" and "connecting with people".
But Labour's Pensions Minister Mike O'Brien said: "If Nick Clegg thinks pensioners can live on £30 a week, he must be in an ivory tower. How does he think they can afford to live on that?"
Retired welder Wally Cotgrave, 69, asked Mr Clegg the question on an ITV regional news programme.
Mr Cotgrave, from Sidmouth, Devon, said: "How can this man be so out of touch? £30 is just a bottle of wine to him.
"People like him say the right things when they want your vote but they don't actually know anything."
Later, Mr Clegg said: "I got it wrong. I was doing 11 back-to-back interviews and I got it wrong. I'm just a human being."




Burbling  on skymadeupnewsandfilth,  today, Chief Constable Sir Peter Filth, as he announced himself, said, well it's hard to say what he said because every other word was Clearly and half of the words which weren't Clearly were As I say.  He said too much of nothing, the sort of meaningless pap which bureaucrats like him practice in front of the mirror, just in case he's ever forced to leave the golf course or the lodge and say something on the TeeVee.

 From his performance  It was safe to deduce that Sir Pete was one of those unpardonably stupid people who mysteriously fetch up as Chief  Constables, Admirals of the Fleet, Governors of the Bank of England and Deputy Prime Ministers. People like Sir Pete simply cannot be in charge of  even the petty cash, or the works do, and yet they are;  the turd floats to the top of the cream, just look at Sir Pete's  predecessors, the lunatic James Anderton, 


congratulating God for sending an arse plague on queers,  the other one, recently, I forget his name, lover-boy, who was fucking so many of his junior officers that he went and topped himself up some mountain. Just look at the Met's recent senior appointees;  not the brightest or most honest of men, are they?

No wonder, it seems to me, watching this gibbering baboon, that his officers, at an overtime cost of a hundred and fifty grand a day,  not only can't find a jumped-up, half-blind petty criminal - when half the population of Manchester, it seems, knows where he is - but are sent bollock naked into the area where he is known to have connections. And get killed.  Dearie me, a policeman's lot is not a happy one.

But hang on a minute, the filthsters have gone mad with this one, like they always do, forgetting, conveniently, that far more - by at least a hundredfold - innocent citizens have been  shot dead by police officers than have bobbies and bobbyesses by Joe Public; you never see Sir Pete agonising about that shit, you never see Police Federation mouth, Inspector Gob, sobbing his socks off when one of his members kicks a sick man to death, fuck no, he can't say anything which would prejudice the full and far-reaching cover-up,  launched by one bunch of coppers into another, ho-ho-ho and Evenin' all. And when diabetics, disabled people, black people and tipsy wimmen are slapped around the cells, often killed  by constable or sergeant Pig, members, let us not forget, as Sir Keith Oily-Vaz reminded us, 


of the best police service in the world, why,  is it my members' fault if the CPS says there is no possibility of a conviction, ho-ho-ho and Evenin' all ?

That is not to say that the deaths of these poor, misled women are to be dismissed, part of some double entry book-keeping system which sees police vs public shootings as some tit-fer-tat trade-off, far from it,  that's the sort of thing the police do, are doing, in fact, it's not front-and-centre, in their mewlings and pukings, that these two killings offset the Hillsborough arseholery of the police,  that they counterbalance the official letting-off of that slimeball who killed Mr Tomlinson, not front and centre, but it's there;  used to verballing suspects, making-up evidence, altering statements, they just cannot help themselves.

If he had any decency Sir Peter Filth would have resigned at lunchtime. But then, if he had any decency, he wouldn't be there in the first place.  I mean, just look at him. 


Wednesday 12 September 2012



Baroness Ain Sung Suu Warsi awarded NoJob Prize.

Sayeeda Gob, above, is widely acclaimed among Torybastards as being "the worst chairman we have ever had.  Apart from the last one. And the one before that. Even her own people pelt her with eggs, don't they?" fumed  Tory activist, sorry, arriviste, Mr Michael Gob-Fallon, MP, 

 Mr Frankie Howerd, MP, comes out to the nation.
Shut up, dearie, and listen to me.

"and they should know. I mean, these Pakis, they don't mince words among each other, or eggs. And I gather that  a few of the local ragheads fairly drenched the silly bint in TESCO's best Halal FreeRange on account of her  supporting the killing of fellow muzzies in Afghanistan  or some other wog shithole. "


" No, it's OK for David Cameron havng a token splitarse or two and even a junglebunny in his cabinet," snarled the angry spiv,  Fallon, menacingly, "but this one's taking the piss.  I mean, mixing business with pleasure, fiddling the expenses and taking the boyfriend on official business.  Who does she think she is, Liam Fox? William Hague?"

Welcoming  Lady Warsi Suu Kyi to Oxford University, Lord Chris Double Whammy, himself a former chairman of the Tories.said,

 Lord Doctor, the right honourable, His Excellency Chris Pooh Bear Patten, Chancellor of a rich folks' university, safe pair of hands;   reports written, speeches given, sinecures collected.
Arses licked, well, rich ones that can give me money, or jobs, or both.

No, the reason I am so important, as I explain in the seventh volume of my autobiography, Why I'm Still Very Important, is that I just am. It's not that I'm witty because I'm as funny as rectal cancer, not as though I'm bright because I have the IQ of a fencepost and it's certainly not that I'm dazzlingly good company because I can only talk about myself and how important I am. No, it's because after the people of Bristol or wherever it was fucked me off, old Johnny Major had to give me something to do to keep me quiet about his part in the MaggieCoup and so he sent me off to ChinkoLand.  I didn't mind, it was half a million quid a year, tax free and all the free dinners I could nosh.  Being a Governor General's not half-bad and it's where they put the potentially embarrassing  types,  that little wog, wotsisname, Boateng, for instance and that Scotch baggage, the one that got Australia, Helen McFishwife or something.  But enough about me, for a moment anyway.  This is Sayeeda's day and I for one am not going to tell her that her parliamentary career is over, fuck me, no.  Just look at that ghastly little monkeywoman, wotsername, Blears, Hazel Blears, wretched little slag in her high heels, 

waving her cheque to the taxman for thirteen grand at the electors of   some dark, satanic cesspit up North 

 and  fuck me gently didn't they go and elect her again;  alright, she's not in the govament, but nor's any of 'em and that doesn't mean they can't still get rich. So so what if Sayeeda's been taking her boyfriend off on trips, 

William Hague's the expert on that, sorry Darling Willy, but it is true, 


and what if she slipped up on the old expenses form, aboslutely no reason that she doesn't stay right at the top of politics. For as long, anyway, as David Cameron remains the unelected prime minister. Which, in my considered and scholarly  judgement,  won't be terribly long.  Burma?  Never heard of it. Do you want  me to go and work there?  I could probly fit it in, three days a week. Get your people to speak to my people. Okay, Yah? 

 As it is, since we wrote those words, Lady Sayeeda Redneck has, in fact,  weathered the storm. Mickey Fallon got a better job, more in keeeping with his talents - even county Tories had had enough of being lectured to by the old fruit, unlike Mr Jeremy Paxman who, confusing showbusiness with news,  seems to love it.  Both Micky and the Asian bint have gone from the Tory Chair, being replaced by some demotee - is it the indispensable Doctor Lansley?  and Sayeeda has not been sacked but  given some important job, counting paperclips in Dave's stationery cupboard.  Anybody out there know what it is that she knows? Apart from how to fiddle her exes?


Dunblane is quite a nice wee town, one of those sheltered,   prosperous Anglo-Scots market towns, even  has a nice, small  cathedral, in its nice, small centre. 


Like most of Scotland's beauty spots, it is thick with immigrant English.  The Hamilton Massacre  of a class of infants and their teacher

and the fog of secrecy which surrounds the  official enquiry -  the papers being buried until long after all concerned are dead - is what defines Dunblane for me;  the at best curious roles of the Chief Constable and of Lord George Arseface, its then MP

and his sudden, airlifting from Westminster to Brussels and the leadership of NATO, after questions were asked about his relationship with trigger-happy Thomas Hamilton.


   These are fundamentally serious, national  issues;  skymadeupnewsandfilth, however,  are all insisting that Florida resident, Andy Mummy,  has now buried all this bad stuff in the past and the town can now rejoice  in the business success of one of it's departees.  Enough to make you weep, really, for all the children and the teacher, all the parents.


Is this really all it takes to heal all that pain, a fucked-up, repulsive Mommasboy, long since expatriot, snarling his way to a coupla million dollars? 

Saturday 8 September 2012




After  a meeting with Head of the Royal Pretend Soldiers Brigade, Brigadier General Sir Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, (Eton, Sandhurst and the Chelsea VD Clinic,)  it was announced that the nation's favourite Prince, Prince Harry Knobhead, has agreed that in order to clean-up the mess left by his latest FuckTrip to LA, he has to start pretending again that he is actually a serving army officer, and not a pampered, idle playboy git, like the rest of his family.

The pretence must be maintained that His Grace, said the Brigadier, is mad keen to get his royal arse blown off by some raghead freedom fighter, that he is gagging for it, any opportunity to bounce up Everest on his arse or what's left of it, with some poor people, that's what is uppermost in His Excellency's mind. His brother?  No, I should jolly well think not.  His brother, Flight Lieutenant Gormlesss, the future king, is fully occupied rescuing commoners from the Irish Sea, when he is not unavoidably on holiday, that is, with Mrs Gormless, the former waitress.

Asked how much danger the popular young prince might find himself in, Brigardier Golightly-Jockstrap said, Not very much, hardly any, in fact, depends on how much we can mock-up in the studio and how the other young pilots co-operate.  I suppose that if we actually let him near the controls of an Apache  he might crash it, like his father would, or fall out of it  but that's not likely to happen, not without him being detoxed fully,  over about six months and  then being taught to fly the damned thing.  No, no,  there's generally someone down below the cockpit, actually operating the controls while Harry's up top, waving;  or we do it remotely.  Queen's grandson get killed in some MickyMouse war about oil?  I should Cocaine, I mean Co-Co.


The Proms've nearly been and gone, just one more evening of Yahooing and sanitised NationalFrontery and it'll be over for another year. Maybe they'll have a crowd of crippled, angry nutterbikers, limbless swimmers and sightless archers - or paralympian heroes as we now obediently call these freaks - all  competitivelyheadbutting each other to the strains of Land of Hope and Glory, dropkicking each other in the face with those evil looking blades they wear where their feet used to be.

 Douglas Bader,WW2 Spitfire pilot,  he had the right idea of cripplehood, discreet tin legs under his uniform trousers and a pair of nice brogues over his tin feet, and, Reaching for the Sky,  at least he did something useful, like sending filthybastard Nazi,  Herman the German, flaming to his death in the fields of Kent or the English Channel, I don't know what this lot are good for, other than having a very sinister impact on the approach we take, as a Coalition people, to the real facts of disability.

But it's all been bollocks, hasn't it, enough to make you writhe in embarrassment,  the Arena rules, the sponsors, the security,  the "volunteering" scam,  the indecent vanity and pumped-up pride of runners and jumpers and swimmers and fucking horsewimmen; winning the only thing that mattered, revolting Jingoism the endless commentary;  a shabby grandstanding by politicians of every stripe as the BBC, bread'n'circusing, ignored, elsewhere, the demolition of an even partially humane society.  And, pray,what place do millionaire professional  sportsmen like Federer and the mutant, Murray, have in these games? Where is the fairness, the Olympianism,  when individuals who can deploy the resources of their own global corporations pit themselves, snarling and sobbing, against amateurs.  This oaf, Murray, he has no shame at all, neither for his aberrant relationship with his loonymomma or for his psychopathic inversion of the idea of sportsmanship. Sickos, that Murray bunch.

 And now it falls to an increasingly grimy and atrocious - one broadcasting atrocity after another - Channel Four to cover these revolting freak show games.  I thought BlindBoy Blunkett had given Disability's Otherness an all-time irredeemably bad name, but it seems that there's hundreds like him, thousands of them, pushy and oikish;  like the current urge of some gay men to be straight - via laughably bogus and grossly impertinent matrimonials - these woundmaddened souls, bred, now,  on the celebretisation of the infinitesimal, demand  that we invert our own hard-won reality into some malignant absurdity; fuming inside withered and damaged bodies  they screech, Look at Me, I'm normal really, if you squint at me, like I was one of those vanity number plates  that just about make a word, as long as the viewer squints or looks sideways or has been told what the word is meant to be by the deranged vehicular cryptographer.  Look at me, I might not have any arms or legs, but it doesn't matter, no, really it doesn't;  I can swim or contort my limbless way through the swimming pool as well and better than  that other bloke with no limbs, that's how normal I am. And even if you festooned this person from head to crotch with gold medals, he's still gonna be the very last bloke in the nightclub to score;  sat there in his chin-operated wheelchair; a Yorkshire Terrier's got more chance of pulling a woman than this poor bastard, much more.  Maybe he'll strike lucky with one of those crazies, you know, the ones who have a fiancee on Death Row in the States  or doing forty years in HMP Wakefield.  Fuck 'em, anyway, they'll soon have to find some other excuse to get their angry gobs on the telly. But no matter, they have served the Coalition well, disabled people? will be the national refrain, look, they're better off than us, they should be giving us benefits.  Well done, fuck heads.

 I blame that arsehole, Simon Weston, incidental hero-faux of the Falklands - I still don't know what it was he did which was so heroic, apart from surviving, in which enterprise we are all genetically heroic. But despite being - what was it? - terribly burned and unable to stay off the telly thereafter, the gobby fuck didn't, after all, get to be one of CallHimDave's elected - in a manner of speaking - police czars.

 We are spared, thus, an ever more public continuance of the saga of plucky Simon's wondrous bravery, although I suspect that he is too far gone in self-delusion, unable or unwilling, like so many of them, to live a life unrefracted through a TeeVee screen and that his bleating, vainglorious Welsh whine will haunt us all his days. Why doesn't he go and harangue Whisky Maggie, the true author of his malformed celebrity, let him pollute her fractious doteage, the skeins of her wickedness unravelling, before she is marched off by Sergeant Death, handbagging her way to Hell. Weston is her creature, not, try as he may, ours. The burns hospital units, Simon, are filled with people horribly burned in the line of ordinary duty and   they don't all claim celebrity heroism, it's not as though they were burned leading a charge against the enemy.  But then nor were you. How did we manage to conflate heroism with just being somewhere that shit happened?  This man debases heroism, someone should tell him he's not, actually, going to get a state funeral.

It can't just be me, who looks at wheelchairbound tennis players and thinks, Oh, do fuck off. Still, if these people are determined to be Cruelty TeeVee's latest freakshow that's their affair. And when these surreal games are over there's always the Jeremy Kyle Show, he humiliates people wholesale.

But we're here for the Art, innit. The Proms opened with Daniel Barenboim's West-Eastern Divan Orchestra, plodding its way through Mr Beethoven's symphonies, as though, in the Ninth, at any rate, the players were all dipped in glue, reeling and stumbling, each at a different tempo, in a different key,  the whole finally  falling apart, albeit to tumultuous applause from undiscriminating promsters, too pissed or too up their own arses to realise that this was actually playgroup music, children having a go;  not too bad for promising amateurs on work experience, but shit, really. And if you don't believe me just YouTube it. And there was a welter of non-Prom documentary, too, Danny and his wunderkind bringing Beethoven to the dog-eating, burglar-executing, human organ trafficking, monstrous cruel Chinks and Koreans - as though they give a fuck about anyone else - and interviews, of course, with the smirking, gilded young musos, themselves.

The ensemble, led by Barenboim junior, bless - these showbiz parents, whaddatheylike? - and Maestroed by Daddy, exists - listen to this, - to, Through music, bring peace and understanding to the Israeli occupation of Palestine, a kind of a SingalongwithLudwig approach to Uncle Sam's foreign policy in the Middle East. Maybe Obama the HeyDude President  sitting there in the Oval Office, listening to Danny's kid orchestra and saying to hisself, My fellow motherfuckers, maybe we shouldn't be giving Hymie trillions of dollars to nuke his neighbours, maybe he should learn to get along a bit better, after all, wasnt the Ayrabs roasted all them old European Jews, now, was it?  And gosh. doesn't this kiddytripe music just make you wanna ree-verse everything y'all ever was told to believe in?   Vote for Me, I'll set ya free, me an' my drones.

And look, saysDanny, artistically,  these things take time, Rome wasn't built in a day, and if the children of Ramallah get run over by Hebie bulldozers or roasted by Jehovah's mighty phosphorous bombs, isn't it better that they die to the strains of some of the finest music ever written, as performed under my direction. Danny lisps, in the way of people too clever to be bothered to speak English properly that, like Shakespeare, Beethoven belongs to the world and not just to the Hermans, nobody owns Beethoven. Unless of course, it is Danny himself.

 It is the sort of lofty purpose to which wealthy entertainers often address themselves, poor ones just wanna get drunk and fucked; the rich, though, like the preposterous Mr Sting and Mr O'Bono, need to flaunt their personal blueprints for Nirvana on Earth. Let me be a YewEnn Ambassador for something worthy, simpers some TinselTown harpy; I'll do it for nothing, well, just expenses. Let me Entertain you, I am, in truth, a rockanroll, Hollywood, Albert Hall kinda Messiah.

 It was dopey, lazy, Beatley George Harrison who started all this shit with his Concert, with Ravi Shankar - father of the unfairly talented, Ms Norah Jones - for the starving people of Bangla Desh, way back in 1971.



 All the famous junkies in the world were there, on stage at Madison Square Garden and in the audience. Then, as now, the filthy rich showed no inclination to reconcile the columns of Contemptible Excess and Avoidable Starvation, just one of those little imbalances in Life's profit and loss account. But Hey, everybody was really cool and got beautifully stoned listening to the music and thinking, now and again, about George and the Fabsters and would they ever reunite and about Eric and his heroin addiction and about Bob, would he make another record and even thinking a little bit about the starving children. Only not too much, man, didnwanna let it get in the way of the music, man. It was far out. Me, I bought the triple album when it came out and got stoned at home, next best thing. 

And Barenboim maintains that having young JewsanAyrabs jointly fucking-up Beethoven's symphonies will, you know, chill everybody out, make Hymie beat his Apache  helicopter gunships into ploughshares.  Good to see, then, that in the past few days an Israeli judge has ruled that if harmless young female peace activists get in the way of  Jehovah's bulldozers bulldozing wog houses then they shouldn't complain if the Israeli Defence Forces just kinda roll over them and grind their shiska asses to pulp, this is, after all, the Promised land, a land of ethnic cleansing and accidental summary execution.  Maybe if Danny's orchestra just played the Pastoral symphony a bit louder - or even in time - everybody'd love everybody else.


 And there wouldn't have been any need for that young Palestinian, above, second-fiddling to Maestro Barenboim, to have burnt himself to death in protest at his oppression.


  Still, fuck all those Palestinian kids, eh, for, as Colonel von Fawkes maintains,


 over at the PizzaHouseOfBlood, they're all turrists anyway and deserve shooting,before they come storming over here, taking our jobs, not that we have any, just volunteering opportunities.


Mr Alan Yentob is one of those scruffbeardy  parasites of my generation.  The BBC, that is to say us, we pay him huge amounts of our money to play groupie to showbiz folks. A hideous,  balding lovechild of Sir Michael Parkinson and  Lord Belbin Bagg, - Good bording, dis is Belbin Bagg on Start de Week, wid lots ob famous beebul - Yentob travels the world, first class, making films - films, mind, not programmes - about his favourite pop singers



Paul Simon recently issued a twenty-five year commemoration marketing opportunity of his GracelandsGracelands, Memphis Tennesse tunes - Boy in the Bubble, You Can Call Me Al, Diamonds On The Soles Of Her Shoes, Taa-na, na-na-na, Taa-na, na-na, naa- ah, that stuff;  absurdist NewYorkCity doggerel framed within a chiming, jangly Townships beat. Along with  a re-mixed, re-mastered, re-released CD  there was packaged one of those rockumentary films, made by Simon's own company, featuring Simon, some of the many braindead glitterati who adore him, because his canon is the meaningful soundtrack to their own meaningful shithead lives, or some such arseholery;  people, anyway like Oprah Winfrey, who declared that Gracelands is simply the best music of, well, ever - and whose daughter, coincidentally, was a member of the production team, one of those favours that the stars do for each other;  Paul McCartney, who has an estate in New England neighbouring Simon's, popped-up a coupla times, fabbing it up in that dire, toothachey way of his - I'm just a jobbing musician, me, fronting me own tribute band,  No, really, I'm a big Beatles fan, they were a great little group. Why doesn't he just fucking shut up and play I Wanna Hold Your Hand, that's what people want.  But no, sincere Paulyisms on every subject under the Sun, like he was God, which, I suppose, to many poor fucked-up baby boomers, he is.

Nearly all of the musicians from the original Gravelands, I mean Gracelands sessions were in this film - they had only actually contributed backing tracks and original melodies, Simon writing the songs proper back in New York, much later, with decent white folk at the desk. And there was, before a tiny, live audience, probably Sony South African employees,  a desultory run through some of the songs.  There was much of Simon hugging his former bandmates and of everybody insisting that they were all brothers under the skin, brothers in music. No business like showbusiness.

But the main thread of the film was a sporadic sofa-bound dialogue between Tiny Paul and  a hulking great  Dali Tambo,  son of ANC President Oliver.  


One of those Oxbridge Africans, Dali was at the time of the preparatory Gracelands  recordings in Africa, angry, very angry,  at Simon for breaching   a UN Cultural Sanction against outsiders performing in de Clerk's South Africa. Along with his Artistes Against Apartheid mates,  Dali was pissed that the wee fella had just gone into Africa and started his jam sessions without first clearing it with his Dad's ANC goons. I suppose being a son of black African elite, is much the same as being a most honourable  son of a duke in this country, you can dabble in causes without having to worry about making a living.  Dali Tambo would be a cunt whatever his colour. And when the  GracelandsGracelands album was a global success and Simon toured it with Ladysmith Black Mambaso and the Townships jammers, well, Dali was hurt,  put him right off his mealie beer, it did, down there at the kraal, watching the wimmenfolk do  all the work.

The film was, therefore, clips of a pretend reunion concert - you would have thought something so right would've merited at least a football stadium and not the tiny cinema it was held in;  interviews with Paul Simon fans,  and a constant return to the historical dialogue, in which wee Paul and big Dali were the elegant antagonists, sitting elegantly on their elegant sofa.  

The whole thing being a Simon production the inevitable result was a big hug on that sofa, Dali, speaking for modern South Africa,  avowed that they never really meant Simon any harm, he was just caught up in all that political shit, as they all were,and now that Simon had made billions and Dali's dad had been made Mr President,  he Daliwas happy to call him, Simon, brother, everything was so much better now. For the rich, at any rate.  Simon hugged Tambo junior right back and whispered in his ear,  thanks for giving me backdated validation, we'll edit this up, showing me in a truly modest, bening light,  that's what the whole film has been about,   and your cheque'll be in the post.

The only trouble with all this is, well, it's two things.  The first thing is that in the week that the BBC broadcast this piece of puff a couple of hundred striking South African miners were charged with the murder  of thirty-seven of their comrades who were - just a detail - shot by the police;  just like in the good, old pre- GracelandsGracelands days.

I don't know what the world's greatest party animal would have made of all this,  there hasn't been a word from him.


I guess if you took any old thirty-year jailbird, whose young wife had spent his sentence gangbanging with childkillers  they'd all want to party their lives away with filth like Naomi Campbell and the Clintons and Mr O Bono and whichever trash are in this snap.  And so the exploitation and shooting of a few more kaffirs, and the attempt made, by the ANC, to frame them up, well, children, this is the price we pay for democracy.  And I must say, I am disappointed not to have heard from President Obama, I could have given him an election party he would have enjoyed, me and all my showbiz brothers and sisters. Silly old cunt.

And so, despite all the liberation hyperbole, the ANC, righteous and indignant of yore, is now either in the hands of GlobaCorp mining or sitting on its board. And Artistes Against Apartheid be damned. Meet the new boss.  I don't suppose black shit in your face tastes any different to white shit. So who was stooging whom in the Tambo-Simon love-in dialogue? Bit of both, maybe, each got what they wanted, although the mineworkers, beaten, bruised and killed by the ANC might argue that they don't want no part of this crazy love.

But the second irritation prompted by  this broadcast is that if, like me, you, months ago,  bought the GFRACELANDSGRACELANDS CDplusDVD down at Tesco's, you know upfront that this is a piece of SimonCorp propaganda.  Yentob, however, fronted this piece of tripe as an independent reappraisal of the UN Cultural  boycott embroglio.  He introduced "this film by So-and-so" not as something which came free with Paul Simon's latest record but as an objective reassessment;  I can't be too sure but I think he - and I swear I smelt the garlic through the screen -  also described post-apartheid South Africa as a land flowing with milk and honey, although not as cool as Islington, obviously, where he hangs.  Be interesting to know how much, if anything, the BBC paid Paul Simon for this tripe - tripe that you can buy down Tesco.  Rationally one would think that the biggest cost of this exercise was Yentob's limo to the studio. And a pint or two of garlic-flavoured olive oil. But if they'll pay Jonafun Arse eighteen million for his teenage smut, who knows what they'll do. Not as if it was their money.

In the space of  just a few weeks, therefore, the arty-farties at the BBC have heaped spurious validation on Daniel Barenboim's facetious vanity project, the East-meets-West - although I thought Palestine and Israel occupied exactly the same longtitude - Peace Orchestra, even as Israeli jurisprudence and political figures excuse murder and gear up for another illegal war and they have, in pretending to a significant audience that Simon's paean to himself was objective reportage, proven, if proof was needed, that despite some stunning broadcasts in science and nature and arts - although not in politics - when it comes to deploying scepticism at the claims of the great and good the BBC editors and schedulers are either hopelessly naieve or hopelesly corrupt. Maybe they're both;  like govament, they are mainly Oxbridge, after all.

Wednesday 5 September 2012


Negotiating Cyberspace's Babel of comment, rant, bile, hatred and marketing opportunity is hard for one who doesn't know what PDF and RSS and HTML mean, who simply cannot download, whatever that means, a programme, whatever that is;  that I was recently bought  - ForBeingA BraveBoy - an  I pad Three, has not advanced  my competence  and I remain a stranger in a strange land, with yet more gadgets  and gewgaws upon which to display my cackhanded infantilism.  

The fact that these commentaries, a fortnight after publication, require a blog administrator, that is to say me, to approve further conments, is what I considered to be a pretty suave way of preventing some interesting discussions being rounded-off, weeks later, by advertisements for penis enlargement products. 

 I had an eye, like all of us, to Posterity, to future historians, people like the RockGod/Archaeologist, Neil Oliver or the hissing, queenly Simon Schama  rummaging through these discussions - wherever the fuck it is that they exist -  and saying, on the global hologram, And this tribe, here, the Ishmaelites, however lofty their discussions on politics and art and religion,  they always descended to talking  about the size of their cocks.

Now, you and I know that these cock-expanding posts are not posts at all but just adverts which  are generated automatically and just appear, almost everywhere  but historians in the main, the teevee ones, anyway,  are vain, stupid arseholes,  peddling the tawdry and salacious,   as though they, too, like the govament, were a branch of skymadeupnewsandfilth, which of course  they are, unless we are talking about Mr Tony Robinson of the ghastly TimeTeam programme who inhabits his own entirely unique  region of unspeakability.

I have spoken before, here, about an early, gigantic work of science fiction, A Canticle for Liebowitz, in which post-apocalyptic diggers in the ruins find scraps of paper, bits of text, which they assume to be holy scripture, when, in fact, they are mere shopping lists - one tin of beans, one jar of syrup, and so on, items, like our civilisation, all long vanished -  and this book, like too many books, has extended, were it possible,  my personal infinity of paranoid possibilities to the point where it now includes my concern about being misunderstood, post mortem,  by the unfuckingborn. How fucked-up is that?

And so, at the very least, I thought, if I manage to exclude the GrowYourOwnCock brigade, then hungry people in the future, huddled in the ruins, around fires of dung, clutching sticks sharpened  against the night's terrors,   may not think too badly of me.

And that is why, mr jgm2, that two-week cut-off exists, it is to keep out the GodlessHeathenBastard bigdick merchants.

It also, however, I have learned, prevents the automatic publication of, kinder, more considered comment, such as one by mr anonymous on a previous post about Mr Francis Maude, The Pig Society, I think.

I will, if I can, remove that cut-off and instead, set a guard in the watchtower to repel the knobmen.

I have not been ill, per se, just undermined, the cocktail of delusions and anxieties which constitute the me having been o'ershaken. After heart surgery I enquired why I was on this wretched nebuliser, a hurricane of icy oxygen blowing constantly into my mouth.  Ah, it's just that we want to make sure your lungs are working OK...... But they are, look at all the readings.....Yes, but it's just a coupla days ago and  they were lying in a tray for three hours.

It's hard to visualise, that. And better not even attempted, although, of course, I do. Now,  either I'm too sensitive or else I'm getting soft but the thought of my lungs being in a tray outside my body - even for a minute, never mind three fucking hours -   well, it fair stretches the imagination.

None of this stuff registers properly for ages and ages.  Within three days I was striding around the ward like a man possessed and within a week of my lungs being in the tray I was shopping in Aberdeen.  I don't know what the painkillers were, only that they were so strong it must have taken ages for them to wear off and even then there was, is,  a sanctioned heavy doseage of lesser opiates. Concentrating on getting up and down, round and about, just doing ordinary stuff,  I think that forestalled any serious contemplation of the massive, overwhelming invasion of my body that had taken place, of our absolute  vulnerability whilst  in the hands of the people with saws, knives, needles and thread.

They took a vein from the length of my leg and put the wound back together with a large-ish staple gun. I don't know what I expected but I didn't expect that.

You know the kind of plastic tubing that you siphon petrol with, about half-inch diameter, there was a foot of that sewn deep inside my chest.  I watched it come out and thought it would never end whilst thinking, Where the fuck was all that, I didn't know there was that much space in there, thought it was all taken up.

Oh, yes, and I came around in Intensive Care to find an Indian boy, actually a very, very skilled nurse, carefully rolling white stockings up my legs, like I was in some mad, porno, transvestite charnel house;  tubes in my chest, tubes in my neck, tubes up my nose, tube in my dick, tubes in my arms, zonked out of my skull and there's this guy putting stockings on me.  They were surgical stockings, but.... you know,  they were still stockings. Christ, what a freak show.

All in all, then, one way and another, a weird time;  a time of life and death  stuff.  The physical aspects of heart surgery are relatively straightforward,  the people who do it are very good at it; it's crude and mediaeval  and one day we'll laugh at it but for all that it is - almost miraculously - very effective, its practitioners mesmerisingly adroit.

The psychological effects, though, are a different story, undermining, of  almost everything.

On the bright side, I didn't see or hear a moment of Brenda's Jubilee,  Cheap at the price.

The seals are singing still, mrs narcolept, although soon, a month's time, they'll be gone to wherever it is.  Who knows where the time goes?