Thursday 20 June 2013


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. 


Verge said...

Perhaps we can hope that any ultra-permissive pro-beast legislation along the lines you fear will be stumped by the difficulty of proving consent. Two woofs for yes might be ok round the back of the bike-sheds but not in the registrar's office. On the other hand I didn't notice anything specific about the various non-het ways (let me count) of consummation in the gay marriage debate, so they'll probably just find a way around again.

You're a brave man to go looking at at that shit, in any case.

call me ishmael said...

You know, mr verge, how I latched-on to, delighted in your term Transgresive Literature, well, I may have said this before, but Last Exit To Brooklyn is something I consider to be a work of aching compassion and political acuity, a vignette of genius but it's on the top shelf; I do consider it a work not likely to but liable to corrupt and deprave - not me, because I have ambled Transgression's boulevardes, stumbled down the Road of Excess and often, at the risk of repetition, been down so long it looks like up to me; a book isn't going to shape-shift me, although I have always thought that LETB might corrupt or confuse others less grounded than I, never showed it to the kids, for instance.

Moving images, though, have the impact of a pole-axe and I am really glad that I didn't see that stuff when I was younger; question is, though, what happens to the people who do see that at an impressionable age?

Woman on a Raft said...

This is the finest piece you have ever written.

Thank you.

jgm2 said...

Top stuff. I'm in no way curious to see any of the shit of which you speak and even if I was I'd be frightened of my life that I'd find myself on some register or other and suddenly find the police stopping my car more often than usual.

I have, however, in my time, been to Amsterdam and Brussels and, as you do, wandered into the sex-shops to see just what all the fuss was about. A couple of standout moments. I was thrown out of a sex-shop in Amsterdam for laughing out loud at the title of the video 'Donkey Love III' where there was this girl dressed like Dorothy from the wizard of OZ giving a donkey a blow-job on the cover. It wasn't the picture. It was the thought that there was a 'Donkey Love' and 'Donkey Love II' that did my head in.

Then, in Brussels, where the sex shops have, and I shit you not, nice plastic wipe-down booths where a gentleman on his way home from work might rent a video, crack one off, and then continue on his merry way. After all, who amongst us can't wait to get home before changing the oil? So there we (me and my mate) are looking through the titles and at the giant inflatable girls and unfeasibly large black dildos and generally being slack-jawed tourists when out of one of the booths comes a gentleman with a rottweiler on a lead.

It's a whole 'nother world out there Mr I. I would definitely be deleting my browser history and running a virus scan after looking at that shit.

What's astonishing is not just that folk would be into this kind of stuff but that they're so brazen about it as to proclaim it to the world by sticking videos of themselves where their mum, brother, sister, vicar, postmistress, Uncle Tom Cobbley et al can be directed with a link.

call me ishmael said...

There is something terribly upsetting about this stuff, mr jgm2, beyond revolting; this is pure hatred of women and anywhere I go, I might find myself sitting beside one of these men, worse, he might have some power over me or mine, or yours.

jgm2 said...

As to your point about the abusive behaviour of the likes of Ramsay. What is it with people? I shouldn't be surprised, I've seen it happen to myself. Somebody has, say, a reputation for never buying a pint and we all just put up with it. We dutifully buy them a pint when it's our round and watch him stonewall you when it's their turn. And we fucking well laugh about it. 'Ha ha, look at Colin, he's a tight git, he never buys a round.' instead of simply not buying the cunt a pint. Ever. Or talking to him. Ever. Or inviting him to the pub. Ever.

Ha ha, Gordon Ramsey, look at him, throwing a rake of fucks into those dopey cunts. Ha ha. He does it all the time. Ha ha ha. Instead of being astonished that nobody has punched him square in the mouth before five minutes are up.

Conditioning I believe it's called Mr I.

Same as Nigella Lawson being grabbed warmly by the throat by her elderly husband in public and her not filing for divorce by return of post. The fucker (and her) is clearly so used to 'laying on of hands' in private that he's forgotten the rest of us don't get up to that kind of shit. It certainly explains the 'burkini' she was so keen to model recently. Hide-the-fucking-bruises-ini more like.

And that brings us to politicians. We all laugh, 'Ho, ho, politicians, what a bunch of lying bastards, ha ha, wouldn't trust the fuckers to tell me the time, ha ha' and guess what, like Colin the freeloader, sure enough, they lie their fucking heads off, destroy people's lives and nobody gets cross enough to set fire to them in the street a la Stompie Moketse.


I am conditioned,
you are conditioned,
he/she/it is conditioned.

Mike said...

Mr I: good points forcefully made.

Here in Oz (used to be a red-blooded male - and Sheila - part of the world) the polis are now falling all over themselves to support this bollocks. And Sydney is a gay capital.

As you correctly say, for us older chaps there is something fundamentally disturbing in all this. I might have to emigrate again. But where is safe now?

DtP said...

There was a bloke, lived down our street – collected tea cards, so he did, from PG Tips I think – pretty things they were ; cars, trains, cricketers, other such shite – appealing they were. Brother and I, playing football, climbing trees – beckoned over, ‘look at these cards, lads, would you like to see some more?” Quick as a flash, Mrs Tracey – never spoken to her in my life before, never really thought anything about her – ran out of her house, older lady, probably about 60 but in those days could’ve been a hundred, ran out of her house and manhandled my brother and I and dragged us back home. “What’s your fucking game, missus, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Only mum can tell us off, none of your fucking business, capiche?” At which point mum said ‘oh, fucking thank you, thank you so fucking much, have some cake and coffee, kids – upstairs and don’t you fucking make a sound or I’ll kill the fuck out of you until you’re quite stone dead’.

Back in the day, everyone knew the nonce, the wife beater, the perv, the scum bag but these days it’s like a fucking celebration. Chatting with a taxi driver the other day, said he picked up a punter from some gay nightclub or other – bit drunk, maybe, but whaddya expect at 3am, Carmelite nuns on a frikking pilgrimage? – Anywho, dropped him off and as he was driving off, headlights caught on his back and he noticed that his pants seemed a funny colour and disgracefully realised that the lad had taken so much cock that he’d prolapsed all over his fucking seats – cracking night out, Gromit, same again next week?

Nowadays, it’s like the internet validates people’s disgusting obsessions, where once they were ostracised, victimised even, now they just nip off to some dodgy back alley in cyber space and meet ‘like minded psychos’ sat, puce faced with their undercrackers round their ankles and industrial quantities of bog roll equipped with a wrist strap all set for a quiet night in.

There seems to be a collective and ignoble passivity that ability is its own justification, a post hoc deterministic acceptance that all manners of a man, all shades of his conduct, all sadism, cruelty, hate, madness, torment and even violent, bloody murder is an expression, a guiltless mode of communication, a base and vulgar method of interaction all uploaded to YouTube as if depravity is best shared. What is this ‘dogging’ phenomena except an exhibition of debauched lasciviousness, of sick subjugation, of isolated and warped outrage forced through an audience, though a common experience, to be held in itself as art, as theatre, as showbizness, “I’ll make you a star,honey, I’ll make you famous!” It’s bloody disgusting.

Woman on a Raft said...

Your attention is respectfully drawn to your piece of 10 May, "Hate nothing at all except hatred", wherein you concluded that if Littlejohn was saying something, it must be wrong because he's a cunt.

Lj's practical point was that if someone wanted to 'transition' convincingly, they wouldn't do so via a letter to parents but would complete the process over the summer holiday and would probably go to a new school. By choosing to 'go public' - i.e. force them to acknowledge it via a public notification - Nathan Upton was acting out a personal psychodrama which had no business being in front of school children.

Unlike the essentialists (Greer, Bindel, Moore, & Burchill) Lj took the generous view that if a person wants radical surgery, we'll pay for it. The essentialist position is starker; it says that trying to treat mental illness by mutilation won't work.

The screaming outrage when a woman refuses to go along with a man's delusions tells you more about them than it does about the women who disagree. There have been concerted attempts to get at least three of the listed women sacked for daring to disagree with a man.

I'll go further than Lj. Nathan Upton was a deeply troubled soul whose suicide demonstrates that Lj was correct when he said a class room was no place to work this out.

Upton's insistence on doing so illustrated domination and control, possibly using them as a proxy for his parents with whom he had broken contact. However, his parents then died (it emerged at the inquest), going beyond his control. He pursued them over that border.

It's no accident that he acted out his confusion in a primary school - the staff in that sector are predominantly female and face legal sanction if they refuse to comply with this fantasy. He didn't just require people to go along with it, big hands, know what I mean, he wanted them to be forced to acknowledge that what Upton said defined what they were allowed to do, say and above all, think. He became Big Sister.

It is a version of "You luv it, don'tcha, Mandy", and the Mandies go along because otherwise they'll be sacked.

It’s not about the sex. It's about manipulating you in to acquiescence, preferably while you try to act in a moral fashion, so that when you see parents via the hostages of their children being forced to accept the obviously-male as female if he says so, you don't recognize the domination, the exercise of petulant power because it is wearing its pretend-to-care face.

The voice of complete subjugation was the head teacher saying "Miss Lucy Meadows enjoys my full support" when she should have had the backing of the law to say "You have my sympathy but the clinic is the place for that, not my school".

tdg said...

You presume coercion, but is it not just as surprising that a man should want to see it as that a woman should want to have it done to her? Most of sadomasochism, of which this is I suppose a superperversion, is consensual; I am not sure this must be different, even if it feels like it.

The morality that attaches to sex is refracted through the prism of conception, from which sex is now more or less divorced. It mattered whom you fucked only because a life depended on it. Now that we have control over that, why should any of it matter? Why should a woman not choose to pet her dog with her vagina rather than her hand? Yes, it is revolting, but the revolt is now atavistic.

Agatha said...

"Pornography is the graphic, sexually explicit subordination of women through pictures or words, that also includes women dehumanized as sexual objects, things or commodoties, enjoying pain or humiliation or rape, being tied up, cut up, mutilated, bruised or physically hurt, in postures of sexual submission or servility or display, reduced to body parts, penetrated by objects or animals, or presented in scenarios of degradation, injury, torture, shown as filthy or inferior, bleeding, bruised, or hurt in a context that makes these conditions sexual."
Definition originally drafted by Dworkin and MacKinnon, 1983, and quoted by Adam Jukes, psychotherapist, of the London Men's Centre, in his book: "Why Men Hate Women" (1993, but still available, and recommended)
You've opened a can of worms, Mr. Ishmael. I hope that your post radicalises your readers against pornography. Even if it does, there's no getting this genie back in the bottle - too much profit involved in international pornography, and, in essence, Western culture is not opposed to violence against women. Isn't that right, Nigella?

DtP said...

What if pornography is constant and it's just society that gets in the way with laws and stuff? What if, left to their own devices, a good proportion of people would like to live on Lord of the Flies island and engage each other in depraved behaviour? Or, perhaps as alluded to, we're moving back to the decline & fall of the Roamns?

I know the Japanesse are particularly fond of some leftfield shennanigans.

call me ishmael said...

There is much in what you say,thanks, mrs woar, but there is nothing to be said in support of Littlejohn and his bullypulpit; the man is a nasty bully and he won't have given a flying fuck about pupil welfare; tub-thumping, bigoted xenophobia is his game. His Mail colleague, Phillips, revealed the depth of her own racism, bigotry and stupidity in just one brief outburst on last night's QT. Simon Heffer is a pig for hire, snorting his outrage at this, that and the other, pawing and chewing at anything his paymasters tell him to attack, a bilious blubbermountain of false principles and invented sentiment, worse than a scoundrel, one of those cancers which are cultured on patriotism's Petri dish, the Daily Hate and its columnists seek to stupefy the nation with synchronised outrage, largely, it succeeds. With great resepct, you should not, from the vagaries of this one unhappy example, align yourself with the likes of Littlejohn.

You are quite right, there needs to be a better, juster way of dealing with the issue of gender reassignment and you are right in that public sector management has often tied itself tightly in knots of pseudo-multi-culturalism and invented-gender politics and Lord knows what else; what makes this blanket self-deceit worse is that often in the public sector these postures are wholly insincere, just a manifestation of Careerism's kowtowing kneejerkism.

I will think on about what you have said but I am fairly sure that I will remain convinced that Nathan Upton was, for the reasons cted in the previous paragraph as much sinned against as sinning and that the paid moralist, Littlejohn, is right at the front of the long queue requiring forgiveness.

call me ishmael said...

You may well be right, mr tdg, you often are and I - I think - envy your dispassonate reaction to stuff that shorts all my circuits.

I saw no willing complicity, no joyous participation in that brief, half-hour's desecnt into the Underworld, all I saw was coercion. You can of course argue that you can only coerce the coercible but that excludes the idea of the duty of care which, I guess, you would, in other circumstances, promote and defend.

I am not inviting you to look at this stuff but what I saw was a moral and ethical universe away from the petting, by novel means, of a companion animal.

AS to why any of it matters, well, it matters because it matters, in a hard-wired way. I don't much care for children, the grosser and stupider they and their LuvEmToBits,My Kids,Me parents become, the less I care for them, it's not their fault, their parents are fucking monsters. But even so, I believe that I believe in wonen and children first, I believe that I'd run into a burning building, for the same reasons that the odd, genuine hero from AffGan saves his comrade, that's what we do, most of us, hard-wired speciesism.

This stuff that I speak of seems the antithesis of that, way beyond whatever naughty/submissive urges fuel the fantasies of those in the dungeons of S&M. I think it is different, I think it is Death, come among us, trying us on for size.

call me ishmael said...

I agree with all of that, mr dtp; this dogging thing is the end of the world, participants should get five years' jail, just because. Are Richard Desmond and all the other Filthsters setting us up for some form of JohnBullShariaLaw?

Verge said...

As I understand it paraphilia defines the phenomenon of sexual arousal caused by something that isn't primarily sexual, whether this be plastic bags, leather gloves or fairy fucking liquid. One of several alarming things about porn is the way it's turning sex itself into a further paraphilia, because in a way porn isn't really sex at all. God knows how today's 14 year old boy will (social-worker speak is the only way I can put this) negotiate intimacy in a relationship when he's supposed to be growing up a bit in his 20's & 30's. Split personalities all round, maybe...

Another thing that gives me the creeps - not least because it puts me uncomfortably in touch with my Inner Icke - is the Tibetan Book of the Dead. The old monks put in a bit, to be read to the departing soul, about avoiding the temptation of dallying around love-making couples - the idea being that you will all too easily get sucked back into the rebirthing cycle of the human comedy and miss out on the chance of enlightenment for another few turns of the wheel. After a lifetime's diet of cyberporn, what chance does our new-variant vagrant soul have of heeding this advice? And is some bastard stacking the odds like this on purpose?

Verge said...

Selby Jr was a righteous namecheck in this context, btw. Very moral, as you say, the dark filth notwithstanding. And only on the page, thanks very much.

call me ishmael said...

The fourteen year old boy, mr verge, with a hand-held device, a portal to Hell, probably knew more of, for want of a better word, the extremities of sexual bahaviour at the age of ten or twelve than I did at fifty; aside from the massively corrosive effect of this it is simply not fair on the kid.

My first serious experience of drama was Hamlet, the first synphony I knew intimately was Beethoven's Ninth, both at around sixteen and I'm still trying to figure them both out, If I had experienced similarly potent and mature sexual events at that age then my sexual life would have been either downhill into celibacy or downhill into the filth of which we speak. It seems so unfair on young people that they are bombarded with extremely extreme forms of sexual behaviours at such an early age - what is left for them to discover, or at least think they have discovered, through the rest of their lives? It's like stealing all their life's cherries. They know what they expect from women, they expect anything they want - even though it is a want planted in them by others, they expect everything.

I remember seeing John Betjeman interviewed in old age. Any regrets, Sir John? Yes, he chortled, not enough sex. I thought that was really cool.

As for Selby Jr, I think, in passing, it was reading that which gave me a lifelong hatred for people like Littlejohn who simply cannot help themselves, they have to bray from their shitty headlines: Prostitute Killed, never Mother Killed or Sister Killed, never former Nurse Killed, always, always, always Prostitute Killed, as though those bereaved need Littlejohn's honest illumination of the life of the dedeased; the fact that he, himself, is a prostitute of a whole different order, never crosses his rancid mind.

Anonymous said...

A woman in County Limerick died after sex with a dog, following a supposed allergic reaction to dog semen. She met a man on an internet chatroom and went to his house to conduct the canine shenanigans. Apart from a funeral which must have re-defined the phrase "awkward silence" we are given the insight that such revolting practices are not necessarily coercive. Which may be worse.

Old timer said...

I go away for a couple of days at the seaside for some fresh bracing air, clear the cobwebs a bit etc - and come back to find this extraordinary discussion! You should have put an XXX certificate at the top!

I do not especially like animals, and indeed have never owned, nor wanted to, any rabbits, budgies, chickens, cats or dogs throughout my life. But I had heard that this sort of stuff exists, but have never once even considered going hunting for it. Whatever for? There must surely be some unconnected wires in the brains of folk who pursue such activity, either as participants or merely as voyeurs, which the vast majority of folk avoid like the plague.. But as the old wives say, there's nowt as queer as folk {am I allowed to use 'old' and 'queer' on here without getting moderated by the PC Police?}.

... and, although I do not like it anyway and therefore never buy it or have it added to my pizzas, you have really put me right off salami!

call me ishmael said...

Not that extraordinary. When we were young, mr ot, homosexuality was illegal, now, although it is not compulsory, the approval of it is compulsory.

It is my belief that the formal kicking aside of the strictures and duties imposed by normal marriage may lead us anywhere.

I am not saying that homosexuality leads to bestiality or paedophilia, just that the abolition of the norm must inevitably lead to the rise of the abnormal.

Gay "marriage" is one of Ruin's stalking horses.

british bulldog said...

that's some shaggy-dog story, sir

and as for cordon ramsarse... wouldn't eat his bollocks if he served them up flame-grilled in fucking five-star funghi sauce - but you must concede, he sure can get the best-ever barbequed cow-burger out of one of those poor belittled bastards, even if he has to batter the bloody maître de greasy-spoon into a prime-chef hash first...

however, much as i deplore the commercial distribution of doggy-sex, dodo-sex, duck-billed-platypus-sex along with any other daft bloody dumb-animal-sex, i nevertheless recognize that, as described, the desperately attention-seeking acts themselves, although probably not desirable distractions to be encouraged via the due process of socially-enhancing legalization, possibly constitute a somewhat difficult area to police...

...and in light of this possibly contentious point, and the fact that it is difficult in legal terms to prove that said sordid scenes were not mocked-up with much smoke, mirrors, trick-photo-shopped ponies and the like, and notwithstanding the obvious enjoyment, nay emotional, sexual and material fulfilment, derived from participation in such dodgy-movies by my fellow creatures, who have to get at least an extra bone for their faithful services, and not forgetting that such deeply distasteful depictions could always come-in handy in the dubiously dutiful course of satirizing-up the decadent democratic excesses of our dear and deadly politicians, i duly defend to the death these dirty-diggers' right to do what-the-fuck they have to do on-line, as a matter of esoteric expressive principle vis-à-vis the eclectic freedom to pet...

...and if you, mister ishmael, or any of your ticky-tacking queer-sailing self-righteous shipmates, dare to mount a blog-campaign aimed at throwing cold water upon the ardent art and artifice created by these committed exponents of equal opportunities erotica, these devoted disciples, haunches and heads hard to the insatiable capstan of cinéma vérité...

...i will, as a mutter of honour, be ethically obliged, nay morally bound, to bite you big-time in the nuts.

call me ishmael said...

Trouble is, mr bulldog, that by the time you're big enough, you'll be too old.

A mutter of honour, though, I do like that. A quiet sort of chivalry, perhaps.

Anonymous said...

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To fetch her poor doggy a bone
When she bent over
Along came old Rover
And gave her a bone of his own.

british bulldog said...

no goolie-goulash?

i'd go for the ankles, but the thigh-length leather boots are a dispiriting deterrent.


training for terror said...

@woman on a raft

@21 june 2013 13:22

points well made, madam...

a less sensitive and sensible establishment would perhaps have encouraged the surgically-transitioned teacher, post-op, to change schools as well, thus avoiding undue uneasiness which might create a distraction from the important job-in-hand, learning, however, in line with general sentiment, and pre-clittlejourn intervention, the head made the judgment call that facing-up to the truth of the situation was the best course of action for all concerned, especially in those specific circumstances, where presumably the teacher in question was valued, an asset to the school, well-respected, and one who enjoyed good relationships with the pupils - in any case, why pass the buck, and consequentially condone professional lying to children in another state institution down the road? it wasn't so much a case of trying to hide something, but more one of revealing reality - unlike the frothing bile-press, the bullied teacher did not see herself as 'transitioning', but as actually obtaining the physical structure of the woman she already believed herself to be.

yes, on the face of it, this does all smack of a perverted society giving the kids a nice rounded education in preparation for the big wide wacked-out world beyond the school-gates, but in this instance, at least, i feel that those concerned - the staff, the pupils and their families - acted as a caring community.

although plausible on a purely psycho-analytical level, the argument for this being a scenario demonstrating domination and control is weakened by the fact that prior consent was obtained after consultation with all those connected to the wrongly accused person. conversely, i think it was the mal-assigned maligned schoolteacher who suffered the societal beating, and she committed suicide for fear of inflicting the same misery on others - she was not forced into sex-change surgery, she did not force anyone to carry out the operation, and she did not force anyone to be taught by her.

if malicious manipulators obsessed with domination and control are indeed operating within our schools, it is because we are forced to pay for and attend a compulsory state education system which jails parents who do not comply with the law decreeing they act as proxy government police, conscientiously corralling their lambs in the ferocious fold of a thick tome of vicious lies - this is ideological foundation for the great british institution which attracts such scholastic sadists.

training for terror said...

@training for terror

sorry, there's an error in the last paragraph - the end should read:

this is the ideological foundation for the great british institution which attracts such scholastic sadists.

terror training said...

@training for terror

although plausible on a purely psycho-analytical level, the argument for this being a scenario demonstrating domination and control is weakened by the fact that prior consent was obtained after consultation with all those connected to the wrongly accused person. conversely, i think it was the mal-assigned maligned schoolteacher who suffered the societal beating, and she committed suicide for fear of inflicting the same misery on others - she was not forced into sex-change surgery, she did not force anyone to carry out the operation, and she did not force anyone to be taught by her.

unfortunately, there probably was some subconscious element of control implicit within the actions of the teacher, and i suspect that she was desperately struggling to absolve herself of this conditioned compulsion - obviously this desire for redemption could never be truly satisfied within a compulsory state education system, hence the guilt and the tragedy. i sincerely believe the deceased to have been a committed teacher.