Thursday 20 June 2013


All across the US, in casinos, brothels, justice departments, the FBI and the White House, flags were at half-mast in honour of a fat actor who wasn't really a crime boss.
  My fellow motherfuckers,  we all hurt tonight because that's who we are;  that's who I am and that's who the fat guy was, too.  Was he a crime boss, well,  perhaps we'll never know for sure but I'd bet my pension that he was as honest as I am, most of the time.
Tonight,  I am very much in my thoughts and prayers

For the Republicans, some guy with big hair and bleached teeth said I simply can't believe that this fat slob spent years pretending to be the great Tony Soprano, one of our greatest mobsters.  And got away with it.  What we, on this side f the house are gonna do, is hunt this bum down and give him the sorta justice that Tony woulda,  God rest his soul.



A while back, when the same-sex marriage nonsense was coming  to a head, I wrote something along the lines of Man Demands Right To Marry Dog, or something; you know, Rover and I love each other deeply, why should we not be allowed to confirm and declare  our love in a marriage ceremony, just like other couples do?  

It was the usual Ishmaelian reducto ad absurdum schtick, Private Eye meets William Burroughs meets Viz Magazine meets Lenny Bruce meets Bill Hicks collides with  Hamlet and winds up tangled up arse backwards in the King James Bible.  Seemed to me that  this was the internal logic of the Marriage 4 All brigade; as well as it being a demand for the right of gays to be straight, this screechy  bollocks  seemed to be a moral floodgate hanging off its hinges; inter-species sex, yes, brothers and sisters and neithers, dogfuckers must take their rightful place in the  vengeful, fucked-up cavalcade of  trannies, black trannies, pre-op trannies, gays, lesbians and tattooed, nipple-pierced, shaven-headed, sado masochisitc exhibitionists and shit-eating LibDem MPs. Animal Love, it's the real thing.  Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder, even be  they donkey and hockey mistress. Amen. And A-animals.

And there the thought lay, until quite recently when I saw some scorchingly brilliant apocalypsier who had sneaked through the barbed wire at Comment Is Free, over at the Arsebridger  and he, too, was positing the inevitable  legalisation of bestiality.  Got me thinking.

Now, I know that this shit has been going on and going on.  Those great civilisations of which mr tdg  writes,  they were all for that kind of entertainment, the Romans, anyway.  Yes,  Citizen,  that bull, over there,  the one with the huge dick, yes, him, just take him over there to that woman, get hold of his salami stick and shove it up her arse;  he'll soon get the idea;  Oh, yeah, Citizen,  that's good, look at that blood spurting out of her arse, and listen to that scream,  you just can't fake that.  No, no, don't worry she's just a wog.  And the people need a diversion while we're busy inventing Democracy and Idealism and Central Heating. Yeah,  I think she's dead, now;  yeah, get him another one, get a couple of centurions to hold her upside down this time and see if you can force his cock down her throat;  the bitch'll love it .  Pure theatre, Citizen darling. Must be part of the subtext of the history of Western Philosphy, state-sponsored bestiality.  But I never did see any, myself.

I'll have a look, I thought, there might be something on Google.  You know how the information super buyway works; it's like a 360 degree Big Bang, just more and more and more and more and more stuff; from one search term - animal sex - within seconds,  there is an infinitely expanding kaleidoscope  of, well, horror, I suppose,  is the word; it's not nightmare horror like Belsen or Hiroshima, but it sure makes you want to puke.  And then, before you know it, you're into it, not into-it into it, just deploying  your natural  good taste and discernment - Horse Sex? Dog Sex? Gorilla Sex?  Snake Sex, whaddaboutthat?  Surely not.  No, yes,  there it is,  just like you'd expect it to be, if you'd ever thought about it.  Oh, look at this shit, Monkey Sex, a threesome. 

In my little paddle through these cyber tributaries I only saw women engaging in this stuff.  Goes to show, doesn't it, we've been right about the filthy sluts all along.  Oh,  there was one guy fucking a cow  but he looked gay to me.

Ms lillith said, a while back, a propos pornography, that there was a morbid, compelling fascination about it, something outside the sexuality, ersatz or genuine, of the opus.  Something like that, anyway.  And as I scrolled through this stuff I grew not less repelled but actually more fascinated   with the process.  For a start, the female participants were clad and cosmeticised in the usual lingerie and lipstick, as though the Rotweiller co-star was just an old-fashioned lover of stocking tops, just like the rest of us, really. And he, Rotty, for his part, the lover-gallant, was kitted up with what looked like huge, padded Marigold gloves on his forelegs, so's he wouldn't rip Mandy's tits to bits, in his passionate embrace, it didn't look, however, as though anything would ameliorate the abrading of Mandy's anus with Rotty's grotesque, pointy, boney, slimy.....thing. Mandy loved it though, groaning and moaning and yessing. Or that seemed to be the idea, anyway.

And I looked at this stuff and I thought, well, there's Mandy, there's the other girl she's snogging with while Rotty's buggering her,  there's a dog handler, there's at least one person filming and sounding, maybe a make-up person, a continuity person, to keep Mandy's seams straight  between shots and maybe there's a producer and/or director;  maybe half-a-dozen people, in this room, all playing their parts in this weirdness.  Here in this one little clip,  therefore, one  amongst millions, probably tens of millions, there's half-a-dozen certifiable  lunatics.   And a fucked-up Rottweiller 

And my mind exploded. I'm poorly at present so maybe that explains it.  But I thought about the sort of people who acquire Rottweillers and I thought, Is this why they have them, to fuck their girlfriends up the arse? With their horrid, boney, slimy, triangular cock-bones?  Am I walking around blind as a bat, and in very other council flat there's a dog-orgy going on?

And then there's the horses. I've never seen a horse's cock before but - with the porno horses, anyway - they are big, as big as you might expect  - if you thought about it at all -  and then double that.  They are feet long,  horse's cocks, feet.

And there's Mandy's sister or cousin,  thigh boots and halter top, trying to get Dobbin's dong, or part of it, into any of her bodily openings, moaning and yessing and BigBoying, trying to smile at the camera round a mouthful of horsecock.  Gwyneth Poultry gets an Oscar and five million dollars for crying and looking vulnerable.  Mandy's sister probably gets a hundred bucks and a free shower, afterwards, after the Moneyshot.

But the most repellingly, fascinatingly, hairstandingonendingly  grotesque and poignant animal porn I saw in that bizarre half-hour featured an American woman, wrong side of forty, maybe the wrong side of fifty, basque and fishnets and lipstick and hairspray and at first she appears just to be fellating her old man and then she snaps her fingers over her arse and Hey, presto, there's GoodBoy,  a Husky, I think and he's going at his mistress, like a piledriver, going up and down like a fiddler's elbow, she still fellating  hubby for all she's worth and when Goodboy slips out or loses interest she just does that fingersnap  thing again and he's back on the case. 

 As well as the video, there's flashlights going off in all directions, so there's an audience present, I guess;  afficianados,  the Devil's cognoscenti  And every minute or so hubby's saying You like that, bitch, sucking cock and getting fucked  by a dog at the same time? You like that?  A quick fingersnap pour encourager le garcon bon and she stopped sucking hubbys flaccid dick long enough to murmur,  obediently, from her decades of subjugation,  Mmmm, I love it baby.  I dunno, maybe she did love it.  But I didn't. Sweet, suffering Jesus, I think I howled at the bullying,  the exploitation, the helpless, incorrigible awfulness of it all. And I made my excuses and left.

As I said, I've been feverish, not sleeping, not eating, everything's an effort.  Normally I would've gone and ridden round the garden, on the mower, levels my head and eases my mind,  but I just slumped down and switched on the telly.

Just like horsey-sex, I had never seen footballer-turned-griddler, Gordon Ramsay, before that day. The teevee opened up with him, bug-eyed, his Botox face bulging, just yelling, over and over,  at the top of his voice, Fuck Off, Fuck Off, Fuck Off, just Fuck Off, go on, Fuck Off as a dozen or so New York chefs slunk away down the stairs of some jumped-up burger bar.  Oh man, they said to each other, we really fucked-up, we gotta wake up to the plate, step up and smell the coffee, get our shit together and on and on and on.  I think the crime involved was an overcooked lamb chop or something, some utterly meaningless shit, like the moron Ramsay, himself.

Just as an aside, when I was a kid, I worked in the kitchen of a five star hotel, a proper kitchen, not a tevee kitchen, proper chefs, not teevee chefs,  I've probably forgotten more about French cuisine than Ramsay ever knew;  there was a time when I had all but totally memorised Escoffier's La repertoire de la Cuisine, I worked under internationally famous  maitre chefs de cuisine, not gobby cunts like Ramsay.  Anyway, I know, even without having seen it, that his show is not about cooking, it's more akin to pornography, bullying and humiliating people; fuck 'em though,  they queue-up to be on this shitshow,  they queue-up to be tele-prompt insulted by that other botox hag, Winky Robinson,  it is a whole new branch of programming, Humiliation.  But the point of the aside is that in any proper kitchen, even  where all seek superstardom on the strength of their rubbishy, indigestible crap, Ramsay would have had his teeth knocked out decades ago or  whilst carrying something frighteningly hot, he'd have slipped on a squirt of judiciously positioned oil or, and this is a good one, one side of a dish or plate is swiftly and ferociously heated, so swiftly that before the heat radiates all over the vessel it can be held, bare-handed, on the cool side, proferred thusly to the victim, Ramsay, who, also bare-handed, grabs the roasting-hot edge and then runs in agony to the sink to cool his damaged fingers, his meals in progress burning away to fuck on the rangetop whilst he squeals.  In the real world no-one would  tolerate Ramsay for five minutes.

In the real world no-one would associate with a man - and it will be a man - who, by one coercive stratagem or another,  induces a woman to insert a snake in her vagina, to do it on camera for Eternity to view and to moan, betimes, as if in ecstasy.  Yet there is an audience, a paying market for this stuff,  there must be, mustn't there ?

I have known since I was young, too young, that we are part-colonised by the unnatural doers,  the nonces and that they proliferate like a dense, darkening forest, unpursued, unprosecuted;  the cops Hosannahing themselves recently over the jailing of one  elderly celebrity wretch;  we have it cracked, now, said Chief Inspector Gob, Yes, and we have, too, added CPS lawyer, Mustapha Writ. Yes, lads, country owes you a huge debt.

It's the same old story, it's the same old song, a full and far-reaching cover-up which will fully cover things up.  How many prosecutions at the PBC, over Sir James ?

But I genuinely never knew - I guess I just never thought about it - the extent to which women,and thus we all, are degraded, not by erotica but by improbably complex, inventive, orchestrated    and purposefully humiliating aberration.

I still cannot quite put my finger on it, on why same-sex marriage is not only a contradiction in terms but also a green light, perhaps unintendedly, for a dash to the bottom; it is just so, I know it to be wrong.  In the second Elizabethan age, which straddles my lifetime,  we have mistaken vile Ramsayism for education and entertainment;  we have considered sex with pigs to be a fundamental and vital artistic freedom  and  we have conflated whim-driven, individual satisfaction with the public good;  like poor, red-arsed Mandy, we have said Yes more times than enough; it's time we said No. 

Saturday 8 June 2013



They call it Gitmo, now, officially,  well, as officially as Time Magazine, the in-house journal of the CIA.  Why we can't close Gitmo, or some such,  was the headline. Is it that Uncle Sam is bone-idle, can't be arsed to type an extra half dozen letters?

But you never hear yanks talking about the G-Burg Add or the Five-Am.  The Gettysburg Address and the Fifth Amendment,  these are pure American shit aren't they, sacred,  wouldnwanna go abbreviating that stuff now.  But Gitmo, that's almost a motherfucking expletive, short and nasty; Gitmo, could be a command, could be an insult, could, best of all,  be an unnatural sexual act;  I'm gonna Gitmo yo Momma, bitch.

I wonder how the US-UK-Israel lobby would react if we all started saying Ozzy, instead of Auscwhitz or Bucky's instead of Buchenwald,  they'd be shitting stone tablets of indignation and vengeance's what they'd be doing, But these niggers and arabs and other sub-humans, well Gitmo is a good word for where they are. After all aren't we feeding the filthy animals.  A-ha-ha-ha.  Whether they want to or whether they don't want to.

All sing;    Have-a your dinner,
                Have-a your dinner,
                Have-a your dinner,
                Have-a your dinner,
                You filthy wog.

Yeah, well, Mr President,  I guess its-a hard, its-a hard, its-a hard, an its-a hard, its-a ha-a-a-ard  waterboardin's a-gonna fall.
But they are only niggers, right? 
And like you say, This ain't who we are. 
It's just what we do.
Bob Zimmerman receiving his slimeball  emeritus medal from Obie


I know she's a poor mother, a rotten, timid, cowardly monarch and a shameless leech on the public purse - and you can fuck off with that tourism schtick - but this current behaviour takes the fucking biscuit.  Her old man is an old man, ninety-two, and he will die soon, maybe very soon.  What on Earth does Brenda Battenberg think she's playing at? Royal duties? Duties my arse. Nobody gives a fuck if she turns up or if it's some other old floozy in a tiara, and if they do give a fuck, they shouldn't. People who crave the odour of Ruritanian tree-planting or ribbon-cutting are morons who need disappointing, need to be stood-up by RoyalFilth, anyway.

She must be believing her own press cuttings, sixty years' hard work without a break, aye, right, just four or or five months holiday a year, cruises and trips all around the world, chauffeured, pampered and spoonfed by batallions of hiSsing arsewipers.  Oh, but Mr Ishmael,  we mustn't forget those pesky red boxes that she pretends to read, every day she pretends to do it,  that can't be easy.   No, must be murder, holding Thatcher and Blair and the rest to account even though she doesn't, signing-off on wars, recession, unemployment, murder, torture and now the dismantling of the welfare state - the only decent thing about her rotten reign.

She should go and sit beside her husband until he's better, I know they parented a quartet of ghastly misfits and the extended family is just as bad but life isn't, as she seems to think,  a monarchical endurance test,  her duties are, by any rational compass, meaningless pomp and circumstance;  never too late, even for one as staggeringly redundant as Brenda, to show a little human  compassion, even frailty.  If she doesn't, this hideous, inhuman, chilly reserve may blow up in her face, again.

Tuesday 4 June 2013


Mr dtp has been urging me to take an interest in the music of Ms Sinead O'Connor; it has been difficult, because normally I can't abide people who look like this.

 or this

I wouldn't want  to be in the same room as people who  have chosen to look like concentration camp inmates, I find them shit-freezingly offensive,  there's enough people look this way, have looked this way, really, as a result  of Cruelty's brutal mannerisms; to make wretchedness into  an artsy fashion statement merits a swift rubdown with a housebrick.

Tha popular music is awash with conundra, enigma and home to the most extraordinarily selfish and depraved monsters  is not news.  Nor is the fact that its giants are often, in reality, pigmies.

I long to write my rock'n'roll essays - How the Beatles' Sgt Pepper Killed Rock'n'roll;   Elvis Presley, Paedophile Momma'sBoy Made God and The Grateful Dead, Fat Junkies in Short Trousers Playing Out of Tune, So Fucking What? -  I just never had the time, but they were always on my mind,  they were always on my mind.....

O'Connor, anyway, as much an activist as an artist.  Rants about the Pope she does, bless. Got herself booed by some gang of US showbiz filthsters;  pretty easy, I would have thought.  But it made her the wee darlin' of another segment of showbiz , we know how it is,  all these creative, super-personalities, but all motivated by a genuine love of music and a basic wish just to, well, just to  teach the world to sing.

O'Connor rocketed to fame with a breathy, jerky, octave-jumping version of Prince's Nothing Compares 2 U or You, I dunno whichThe octave-jumping, stepping-up an octave in one syllable Nothing compares, No- thing, comparezzzz,  t'you,  was the the
trademark of poor, mad Joni Mitchell who, at least, wrote a couple of good songs - but only a couple - and played some interesting,  jazzy, open-tuned guitar, before she fell victim to upherownarseness-ism and a Big Yellow Taxi took away her pitifully few marbles.

I looked at O'Connor's youtube sidebar and thought, Maybe just let mr dtp's comments pass unremarked, this is shit, I don't have enough life left to look at any of this but then I thought No, he's a nice man, mr dtp, always polite, least I can do. And so I chose the unlikeliest tune,  which was the shaven one joining Roger Floyd and others onstage doing the "Mother do you think, they'll drop the bomb...." song from Roger's The Wall. I was an early devotee of The Wall but back then I thought that I knew stuff.

Roger Floyd of course didn't have the other Floyds in this performance of his major opus of juvenilia but he did have three fifths of the Band and it is Garth Hudson's moody accordion that sets the tone for the piece.  O'Connor,   front and centre, sings as she always does, as though she was hiding under the stairs, terrified,  in an abusive Irish children's home,  that is to say any of them, I suppose.  She has this device of, at the end of a phrase, dropping from high volume to the last word being almost silent, as though she'd been kicked, she wants you to think she's been kicked, she does it over and over and I suppose it's what people would call her unique phrasing.  Her slaphead waifishness, her faux vulnerability, her battered-child masquerade, her unoriginal, endlessly retreaded vocal style, all of these are offensive.  Of this concert Roger Floyd said he found O'Connor the most difficult and unpleasant person  he had ever worked with - and when you consider the posturing buffoon, Dave Floyd,  the late nutter,  Syd Floyd, the misplaced classicist,  Rick  Floyd and that awful fucking Nick Little DrummerBoy Floyd,  not to mention himself, Roger Floyd  must be a world authority on nasty bastards.

When I was a kid, eleven or something, I could never understand the popularity of Twiggy, the sight of her made me flinch - skin and bones, fear and vulnerability, FuckMeJesus. I thought then and I do now that there is something darkly, horribly wrong with the world of fashion.

O'Connor is an overspill of that, a merging, a homogenising of all the bodily fluids of pop culture, a singing Twiggy. 

Here it is anyway, see for yourself, nothing compares 2 O'Connor.

Monday 3 June 2013


There was a rugby player, back in the Dizzy days of Di. We do not know if he was, so to speak, HRH-ing her. Granted, he was neither muslem nor  medico  but like her husband he was  nosebleedingly, congenitally stupid, so he was in with a chance. Unfortunately for humanity, indeed the Cosmos, Diana was taken from us before this particular rugby scandal and thus robbed of her opportunity to selflessly go and rub noses with the sick and the crooked, for which, in her time with the Firm, she had developed all the  right skills.

A proper, knuckle-dragging, brawn-bound, charmless orangutang of a man, this sporty type was. DeLollypop was his name, I believe and what happened was that one of Murdoch's bumboys pretended to be a celebrity in search of Bolivian Marching powder, could DeLollypop help?  Help? I can get such good Charlie that you'll all run Hadrian's wall in about fifteen minutes, doing deals and networking and all masturbating like thirteen  year-old
boys. But sadly for thicko DeLollypop, it was a sting. 

The world of celebrity rugby,  though, soon rallied round.  Entrapment, they said it was, Good Old Lollypop didn't deal drugs.  Only when people asked him to.  And that's a whole nother thing.  A massive effort was  made to rehabilitate the involuntary dealer  and since he was a jolly good chap, a good all-rounder, enjoyed a pint or two with the lads - only not a line or two -  and had been a great national captain, the shameless, snivelling arsehole was soon back up there, doing charity work and collecting gongs. 

Decent, hardworking  proper drug dealers are still, incidentally, goung to jail, whilst their clients - people like young parent, Lady Sir Elton John, are soireed and Sirred in Downing Street by filth like Tony and Imelda.  It is only poor people or the unconnected who cause the drug problem.  Had the oaf, DeLollypop, been some oik off the street, of course, he would have got maybe seven years, theoretically fourteen but All's Well That Ends Well.  That's how it is  in the world of ShowBiz,  the world of Savile and his many chums.

Paddy Mercer must be hoping for an equally shifty disposal of his case;  he, too, claims that he was entrapped, entrapped into trousering money that he knew he shouldn't have touched and entrapped into  violating the trust placed in him by foolish voters.  But  even though these were big bads, the fact remains that he was entrapped. And that is why  he will cling on to his seat and pay and expenses, smokescreening and huffing and puffing about his great lifelong commitment to public service.  

As Cameron says, he has done the right thing, for himself. You have to wonder, actually, if one so easily bent by  a few quid, so slatternly, so contemptuous of parliament  and electorate ever once did the right thing.
I always wonder when I seee pictures like these, of some poor arab hobnail-booted to death by a gang  of screeching Tommy psycho-fairies, I wonder just what the fuck their officers were playing at?

None of these men were combatants, not as if that would have made this better. They were just unlucky enough to encounter members of HM Regiment of Sadists, getting their kicks. In the Army.
But you only need to see a few seconds of the Mercer tape to realise what their officers were up to.  I suppose that if they were any good,  their men  wouldn't have scurried out of Iraq and Aff-gan, yes and Ulster, beaten and ridiculed, yet home to a drummed-up heroes' welcome

The man's a piece of cheesy filth, Mercer. He sould lose his job immediately and have his collar felt. But seeing what happened - or didn't happen - to rogue ministers, Liam Fox and William Miscarriage - he won't.  It's almost enough to make me write to my MP but he's at least as bad, if not worse. Just like yours.

This is a bit of selective fun and mischief from the Filth-O-Graph and the PBC, as if either of them were in the position to lecture us on right and wrong.  When they expose the whole rotten shitbag of Mediaminster, well,  that'll be the day.


Saturday 1 June 2013


Sandy Denny  died young and her  work, therefore, is locked  in her time with The Strawbs and mainly with Richard Thompson and Fairport Convention.

This frail little husk of a song survives and flourishes, although it is just something and nothing;  it is much covered, my own preference being for Nina Simone's shimmering version.  This, though, demonstrates Denny's  writing, singing and picking, like nothing else before or since.