Sunday 21 December 2014


GOD GAVE ROCK'N'ROLL TO YOU. HANDEL: MESSIAH - Last two choruses -  Worthy is the Lamb & Amen.


Filmed in Dublin, this is Harry Christophers and his early music gang, loosely known as The Sixteen, the scene of the first performance of Messiah in 1742.

Blessing and honour, glory and power be unto Him.

The entire perfomance, near perfect, in my opinion, is on the cyber ouija-board and - if you like this sort of thing- a rewarding use of a couple of Christmas hours.

Even though the daffodils are long risen and the gladioli come again, out of turn, it is still winter. It has been dark here and Christmas, impudently colonising ancient mid-winter rejoicing, is nevertheless welcome, as is, no matter how often I hear it, Handel's joyous Messiah.
Herewith wishing us all a good health, such love as we may find and such peace as we are permitted.
I don’t begrudge them their services and I love their carols and to anyone here who is a believer I wish you a happy and a holy time, in Heaven the bells are ringing. For the rest, as mrs narcolept says, wherever you are I hope you withstand the weather, each other, the crassness of it all, and emerge safely on the other side.

Be glad, for the song has no ending.

Saturday 20 December 2014


Hard to keep up with foreign sorrow. Our thoughts and prayers, as good dwellers in the land of moral cliche, are infinitely elastic but I am temporarily suspending my thoughts  and prayers for the Ebola victims, their heroic British carers - that nurse bloke, isn't he just magic, Pope oughta make him a saint, if you ask me, if he's a catholic, even if he's not - and their political leaders and transferring them to the family, friends and team-mates of that cricketer, the one who surprisingly  had his head smashed-in by a cricket ball, Oh and at the same time I must remember to include in my thoughts and prayers the poor cunt who threw the ball at his head in the first place. Who'da thought it, eh, a speeding projectile hitting someone on the head and killing them|? 

 I mean, I was thinking about and praying my arse off for Ebola victims for just the longest time and I could still find some kneeling-time for world cricket but with those people killed and traumatised in the Cafe Lindt, down under,  I had to kinda reach for the newly imperative baton of  sanctimonious futility  which Prayer was passing me and start all over again, thinking and praying like a good 'un, only not, obviously, for the Raghead bastard who did it. And anyway, even if I was to have acted like a proper Christian and not just a smarmy fucking hypocrite, if I'd prayed for the deranged wog it wouldna worked because he was a fucking muslim, no point praying for those Godless, heathenbastard fuckpigs, is there, not with what they believe in, the God of Isaac and Abraham, I mean, what kinda Godshit is that, Abraham? 

Well, I say I was praying for the victims of Cafe Lindt, and I was, at  least I was  until those eight Aussie kids, was it eight, were killed the following day and then Fuck me, Jesus, I hadda re-prioritise my whole prayer schedule all over again. And that was before,  back here, in the land of the prayerful and thoughtful television news-watcher, that copper got topped in Liverpool and the Chief Scouse Constable asked for prayers not just for this dead bloke and his family and his mates but for the whole fucking police family.  Not sure if it was the Chief Constable or the head of the local police lodge,  the latter being the senior man it was probably him led the call for rozzer-prayer. It's like it says at the top, seems like every time you turn around there's another hard-luck story that you're gonna hear.

I was reading somewhere about news saturation, about it resulting in a condition described as Learned Helplessness.  There is  so much shit, yet there is none of it which we can influence in the slightest fashion; what is the point in knowing of it? As it comes in, from whoever deems it newsworthy, hundred grand a year newsreaders emote their empty heads off and  I would, too, for that money, Christ, I'd rend my clothers, tear my hair, weep and fucking wail and wear sackcloth and ashes for a couple of hours a day in return for two grand a week.  But I can't do it for nothing, acting.

And I don't actually care about the massacred, rich Pakistani children, probably, in the scheme of things, better the children of the rich get killed than the poor little fuckers crawling over the rubbish dumps.  I could say that I cared but I don't, I simply don't. Oh, I can think myself into others' horrors as well as the next man;  all those people being minced alive as the WTC towers collapsed in free fall, must've been fucking awful  for them; most of them, those that weren't shitting themselves and biting their own flesh, would have thought that somehow they'd be rescued, wouldn't have expected the fucking things just to collapse and that would have been a bit of a mercy, not knowing,  expecting Bruce Willis to fly in and helicoper them all to safety, yodelling WhoopeeKiYay Motherfuckers, but even so, as the floors started to fall away under them and the beams and concrete started smashing into them it would have been  a desperate, shit-spurting horrorshow. Aw, fuck, I dowanna die with my pants all fulla my own shit.  Doesn't matter son, yer getting minced-up so small nobody'll ever know. They just gonna give yer relations a box with some rubble and dust and bitsa mince.

 And the kids in Peshawar, they'd have been confused and terrified; the pain, the smell, the blood and shit; the noisy, angry men, shouting at them, shooting them, killing them;  the ghastly realisation that their own grown-ups could not save them from other grown-ups;  poor little bastards.  But I don't care about it. It was a world away. And if I did choose to feign caring then, tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow, Sorrow's emmisaries would visit other victims in other lands, demanding again my thoughts, my prayers. skymadeupnewsandfilth have us so filled now  with horror, mayhem and endless slaughter that, like Macbeth,  we are become, for our own trembling sanity,  innured to it all. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
the way to dusty death.

But even should we want it so, there's nothing special about this atrocity, no  matter what skymadeupnewsandfilth piously says. Uncle Sam does it all the time, for Freedom, y'unnerstand, gotta kill them nigger children, because God put our great republic here to do that very thing.  Never was a holier, righteouser, more freedom-lovin' nation of slave masters than the Yew-nited States;  shit, sonny, ain't you never hearda Merkan Exceptionalarityism?  All in a day's work for the US AirCorp, murdering some  nigger kids;  what, pray, Emily, Dermot and JonSox, is  different about the Talimen doing it?

And not just Uncle Sam; our last government and opposition are Macbeth-steeped in blood, not the blood of noble conflict, but the blood of atrocious warcrime, of civilian-targeted firebombings, of drive-by shooting;  they must hear the torture-shrieks of Abu Graib and Camp Guantanamo,  Miliband major and Jack Torture, the agonised cries  which they have tried so hard, on behalf of their American masters, to stifle; by comparison, the Taliban engage in child's play.

From the haughty, greedy whores, Tony and Imelda, to grubby spear carriers in the parliamentary ranks, there is no Tory or Labour member who can plead  innocence of atrocity far graver than those perpetrated by - whatever you want to call them - Mujahadein, Taliban, Baa'thist, Sunni or Shi'ite, the Ragheads, whom we must now obediently excoriate anew.

Former British minister, war criminal  and common  crook, Geoff Hoon, could speak to us of atrocity.
Hoon on being biombed to democracy. From wikipedia

Shortly after the US/UK led invasion of Iraq began in 2003, following an admission by the Ministry of Defence that Britain had dropped 50 airborne cluster bombs in the south of Iraq and left behind up to 800 unexploded bomblets, it was put to Hoon in a Radio 4 interview that an Iraqi mother of a child killed by these cluster bombs would not thank the British army. He replied "One day they might." Hoon continued "I accept that in the short term the consequences are terrible. No one minimises those and I'm not seeking to do so," he said. "But what I am saying is that this is a country that has been brutalised for decades by this appalling regime and that the restoration of that country to its own people, the possibility of their deciding for themselves their future ... and indeed the way in which they go about their lives, ultimately, yes, that will be a better place for people in Iraq."[8]

  Hoon and Extraordinary Rendition

Hoon was condemned by an international delegation of European MPs for evading questions about Britain's co-operation with the CIA's so-called 'extraordinary rendition' programme.[11] Hoon, then Minister for Europe, was being quizzed in the wake of Dick Marty's Council of Europe report which found extensive involvement of European countries, including Britain, in the US kidnapping and torture programme.

Hoon and C4 Dispatches lobbyist investigation

Hoon was one of the MPs named in the 2010 sting operation on political lobbying by the Channel 4 Dispatches programme. Hoon told an undercover reporter that he wanted to translate his knowledge and contacts into something that "frankly makes money".[21] On 22 March 2010 it was announced he had been suspended from the Parliamentary Labour Party, alongside Patricia Hewitt and Stephen Byers.[22]

For a war crimnal of Hoon's untroubled conscience and dark accomplishments,  being supended from a party he was anyway leaving does not even amount to a smack on the greedy wrist.
Hoon and most of his erstwhile colleagues  are responsible for  a global cataclysm of warcrimes, atrocities, human rights violations, for a massive bilking, by GlobaCorp, of trillions of tax dollars and pounds, for setting alight the Middle East and South East Asia, for making millions refugee and for the killing and maiming of  hundreds of thousand.  At the end of his crime spree, Hoon whined that, now, the right thing, the responsible thing for him to do was make some money. For his family.

 Filth like Geoff Hoon make the Taliban look like juvenile delinquents; worse, he is cause to their effect.

Lest we forget quite how rancid  was NewLabour, its every last  parliamentary, constituency and union member, here's Geoff,  setting the record straight.

Friday 19 December 2014


A deranged, megalomaniacal political hoodlum today dismissed the news of falling oil prices as variously Scaremongering, Project Fear and The Sort Of Negative Reporting We Have Come To Expect From Those Who Dispute My Infallibility, ie everyone in the world except my successor as First Gnasher, I mean Minister, Ms McSturgeon.

Just because every single bastard in the whole fucking world says the oil price is falling doesn't make it so.  I take my cue from Nobel laureate, Professor  Jim McNumpty  and he confidently predicted that oil prices would soar.  And so they must have.
There, d'ye  ken, now?  
That's the sort of faultless logic which wins the hearts and minds of  unemployed, cross-dressing, wife-beating drunkards. Millions of whom will soon be leaving my party in droves.

The right thing for Scotland is that the oil price rises, continues to rise and that the North Sea provides secure, well-paid, highly-skilled jobs for everyone who votes for the Tribesmen's Party and provides them for thousands of years to come.  

That's what I decreed before the Referendum and that, now that I have won the Referendum and run away to London, like every other fucking Jock on the make, is exactly what will happen. 

Alexei Salmondski, 
former boss of the  Jock Praesideum
 is stark, raving mad.

Well, now letmebeclear. Coz this is very important.  As the prime minister.  Of this great country. Of many. But not enough. Hard working families.  I and my team. Are committed. In a very real sense. To telling you. Who are after all, my boss. The truth. Not about Mr Hague or Mr Clark or Mr Greer. And not about any of those supposedly murdered children.  Did I mention I had a dead child? Well, you'll know then that I won't take any lectures about paedophilia in the Tory party. But that's all in the past. If Mrs May has anything to do with it.  But apart from that, my team is committed to telling you, their bosses, the truth about things. Only not when it might help the Labour Party. And that is why.  You will not hear me.   Firing a round of fucks. Into Comrade Salmondski.
Fuck me, no. 'Sthe very last thing I'd do.

If I was to show him up for the worthless fucking chancer that he is. And is shown to be by the plummeting oil prices. If I were to do that then that would only help Mr Miliband's nutters up there, up there in Scotland. A Scotland which I am very proud to have retained as part of the United Kingdom. Even though I didn't. It was just that anyone  who had experienced a moment of sobriety in the last decade could see through Comrade Alexei and his yappy little mongrel, Gnasher.

Gnasher Sturgeon.
Head Girl of the Scottish Assembly.
She also knows fuck all about oil.
Or anything else.

Thursday 11 December 2014


I mean, obviously, as a spiritual man, I don't wanna pay any income tax.  Hare Krishna, man, Peace and like, Love, man. You know?
Flashy Scouse Hindus, don't you just fucking hate them?
Well they said you was high-classed 
but that was just a lie.

There was a series on telly, recently, about some appalling Indian hotel  which catered  to monied riff-raff like these two as well as to minor jet-set filth, it was like Claridges with Curry, every bastard bowing and  fucking scraping to rich, bejewelled  Hindi filth.  It was open-mouthed, jaw-dropping telly, people acting like Maharajahs. I wouldn't give India a penny until they hang some of these bastards and confiscate their money, their homes and their elephants.

 A couple of summers ago I saw Much Ado About Curry, I mean Nothing, at Stratford upon Avon, a cast of second-generation  immigrant Indian  luvvies mocking -  none so racist as the caste-conscious - the Goodness-Gracious Empire snobbery of those whom they had  thought of as  their great grandparents but who are in fact, people alive and well, working in and patronising this shithole of a time-warp hotel. Welcome to the Hotel Raj Britannia.  Anni and Wotsisname, the not-murderer-but-murderer-really,  would have fitted right in, stuck up their own arses, posing and poncing and dancing their seven-step Hindi vows; maybe they had their repulsive, social climbing wedding knees-up  there. The staff would all have lain down in order for bride and groom to walk on them and the guests would have pinned rupee notes to their garish costumes. It was an India far removed from the space-racing biggest democracy on the planet of popular reportage and while Mr and the late Mrs Dewani are of Ugandan origin, their religious and cultural ties are obviously to what we used to call the sub-continent;  neither would pass Norman Tebbit's Test Match test, more  jumped-up wog and buttonhead wogess than  the rich, cultured, Tory-voting European, beloved of Lord Norm of ChildBeastings.

 The sister of the murdered Mrs Dewani has appeared on the GlobaTube I don't know how many times. 
 It's not as often as Bill Roache on Coronation Street
 but she might yet give him a run for his money.
Oh, fuck me, Vishnu, if only I had of known that he was a filthy pervert, a bit of a Straight Simon Hughes,  maybe I would of talked my little sister out of marrying the filthy degenerate bastard.  And maybe she would of still been alive, to-day.

Maybe, too, if the bride  hadn't  immersed herself in all this showy vulgarity, all this snooty superstition and sham, maybe if the parents hadn't all been such gaudy vulgarians, maybe if she'd married a whaddatheycallem, these oh-so-charming Hindi families, an untouchable, is that it, an unclean one?  Maybe if she'd married an untouchable, instead of some preening, neurotic  prick, maybe she'd have been alive to-day. Maybe if they'd honeymooned less pretentiously in  Paris, she'd still have been alive, maybe if she'd told her ghastly family to go and fuck themselves, she'd still have been alive. But marrying an unclean one, well,  actually, and Oh My Goodness Gracious Me, marrying out of one's own caste is so much worse than death, don't you agree, sahib?


Oh dear, oh dear.
 Crooked Tory found-out again

From the Sunday Ishmael, 23.11.2014.

" Neil and Christine Hamilton-Poundland, seen here about to film themselves having SeniorSex, Poundland-style,  for Christine's latest Channel 5 porno-documentary series, are hoping to become the Poundlanders' first husband-and-wife team of MPs. Only Mr Fruitcake won't let them......"

And nor has he. In true Poundland fashion, Mr Fruitcake, the world's leading expert in parliamentary expenses fiddles, has seen to it that the con-artist formerly known as the Tory  Cash4Questions minister, Neil Hamilton, (prop. Mr Mohamed al Fayed) has been caught robbing the donations of elderly Poundland donors, who had sent their fivers and tenners for Nigel to spend on whores and booze and hats.

This cunt, fumed Lord Poundland, has been charging the party, my party,  for staying overnight at his wife's place, who does he think he is, me?

Although he and his missus are beyond embarrassment,  Neil Hamilton has now, following scrutiny of his expenses claims,  withdrawn his application to become the Poundland PPC for the Redneck-on-Sea constituency.  I wouldn't want to be swimming in his sea of personal disappointment. After two periods  of  political expenses dishonesty, however, surely the Guardian or the PBC can find a space for a man of Mr Hamilton's quality.  

As for Lord Poundland, he just goes from strength to strength, one fuck-up after another and as with the wretched Hamiltons,  continually displays an unpleasant habit of  using vulnerable people and then shitting  all over them. His key personnel are crooks, liars, thugs, racists and misogynists or some other form of embarrassment;  his personal life is scandalous, his work record questionable, his political alliances disgraceful; his policies are non-existent and his judgement laughable. 

Universal enfranchisement, wossitlike, eh?

Wednesday 10 December 2014


Favourite books, where would you start?  They're all favourites, it's only now and again that I will  holler OhTheFuckWithThis and bin something - needs to be a spectacularly bad book for me not even to permit mrs ishmael to take it to the accursed charity shop but consign it, shreddded, to the compost heap. 

 Gutenberg and Tyndale, 
busted and burned alive
just for writing.

 the Nazi bonfires,  the obscenity trials, the voices of my early teachers,  these all tend to make me  cherish the very idea of books; to this day I cannot open wide and damage the spine of even the mangiest paperback.  I believe I have mentioned previously A Canticle For Liebowitz, a science fiction post-apocalyptic novel in which fragments of scorched shopping lists,  the only surviving written materials, are worshipped by fearful and ignorant survivors. My  judgements on the quality of books similarly become secondary to a belief in their intrinsic importance.  If the house was on fire and I could grab a couple of books probably the first among them would be How To Build Shaker Furniture, by Thos. Moser, Sterling Publishing, New York, 1977.

I remember, in the 1990s, I was enthusing about  a  then-new claw-hammer to an antique furniture trade  colleague;  it was the same configuration as a normal claw hammer

 but it was the weight of a pin hammer.

great for knocking-in a couple of pins and sinking the heads with the flat side but you cannot use it for pin removal

 I liked this hammer so much that I bought a score of them, some I have given as gifts, several I still have stashed, in my desk, just in case.  I used to make loads of bookshelves/cases and the backboards required scores  of panel pins, many of which would bend as you banged them in;  what I'd have to do was put down the ordinary pin hammer and pick-up  a pair of pincers to extract the bent pin and then start again; the ordinary pin hammer has no claw and I couldn't use a proper claw-hammer because it was too heavy, and I was delighted to find this smaller, lighter version. Hmmm, said Tony, 's'appened to you.  What's happened to me? Oh, you reach an age when you  get poetic about tools.

Tony was correct for  not only was I squeezing into my own daily reality a belated if haphazard appreciation of  tool anthropology and sociology, I was also purchasing  a more formal understanding - books about tools and procedures and one day, in Victorian Llandudno, North Wales, I came across Moser's book which was ostensibly a selection of drawings and cutting lists for the making of a slew of Shaker pieces but was more importantly  a tour-de-force in technical writing of the spiritual kind. 

I don't like Shaker furniture much 

and there would be a long, cold day in Hell before I attempted making some but Moser's writing was and remains a rare treasure;  here he is in his chapter, Materials.

A Covenenant with Wood.
A craftsman is but a handmaiden to his materials.  The inherent qualities of wood limit to a certain extent the cabinetmaker's choices.  Unlike plastic or rubber, concrete or steel, wood has a mind of its own.  It is not easily bent and when bent wants to return in time to its original form.  It is easy to break along its grain, yet it will withstand considerable shearing force.  It warps without provocation and swells and contracts with the seasons as though it had entered a conspiracy with the calendar to loosen chair rungs in the winter and swell drawers shut in the summer.  Wood cracks mindlessly, can shed a finish with disastrous effect, refuses to be cut from north to south,  yet yields submissivley from east to west. It splinters, bows, cups, shrinks, loosens, swells, dents, cracks and changes colour.  Yet to many of us wood remains the most pleasing of all natural materials, for in the richness and variety of its grain is to be found nature's texture incarnate.  Wood is a kind of a bridge between man and that organic mass of growing things he calls Mother Earth. Wood is a renewable resource which has given us warmth and shelter and provided unrivaled joy to the eye and to the touch since long before recorded time.  Along with water and stone it is our most fundamental material - without it our world would be an alien place.  In wood man fashioned his first tool, in wood he built the ladder with which he  has ascended over the millennia. It literally surrounds us from the cradle to the coffin.  Wood may well be called the foundation of civilisation.

When the craftsman commits himself to work in wood, he becomes a party in a contract.  If he sensitive to his material, he enters into a kind of covenant in which he acknowledges a certain subservience to his medium.  He agrees (1)  to come to understand, not in a cognitive way,  but through feelings, the nature of wood: (2) to admit at the very beginning that there is no such thing as perfection in wood, for in spite of all his efforts there will always be some blemish, some telltale error, recorded in the wood though known only to the builder; (3) in laying-out and forming joints, to anticipate the inevitable movement  that will occur long after the work is finished.

Although my primary school teacher would chide Moser for his failings in grammar and punctuation, these are knowings and sentiments rarely expressed  in technical books, certainly not in the current spate of appalling wordworking magazines and partworks, none of which are worth the glossy paper on which they are printed.

It turns out that Moser, as well as running a respected cabinetmakers business 

taught communication at a New England university and as far as I'm concerned the drawings of Shaker furniture are as irrelevant as are now the Shakers, themselves.  Moser writes about handtools, powertools, machinery, about fixtures, adhesives, abrasives  and finishes as only an expert can, few can combine craft and communication as enthusiastically (Greek, filled with God) as does Moser. Although the book is rich in photographs of sturdy, often vintage tools and machines, Moser, as did  the late Fred Dibnah, offers pencil drawings, too, of his subjects;  maybe there were no cameras to hand,  there was no computer-aided design, maybe he just likes doing the drawings, there is something magical about drawing a project in advance and seeing how close comes the finished article.

There has been  a lot of technical writing which is excellent;  I have all sorts of compendia on how How To Run An Efficient Household, Manage A Garden and Compose A Letter of Condolence; mainly these are from before the Second World War, often Victorian, punctilious, reeking with snobbery and etiquiette  yet miracles of concision, expertise and style  but even as late as the 'sixties, publishers such as Readers Digest were producing well-written, comprehensive guides to home maintainance and the Automobile Association printed useful and understandable guides to car maintainance  but all of these  date from before before and the industrial dominance of Japan brought badly translated manuals and brochures which were no more than gibberish.  These days, finding someone who not only knows  but can also readily and pleasingly communicate that of which they speak is a rare experience.

On television, the image - or the form - always triumphs over the substance,  the presenter is King.

....and I just think it's all, well, wonderful, really,
 I mean, I've had a number one record,
 they gimme a medal, the Queen did,
and I'm never off the telly...

Be it the ghastly and over-exposed Brian Cox, 
silhouetted atop all the world's mountain peaks

or the equally ghastly Neil Oliver, ruggedly tossing his rock-star locks at the camera or be it any member of  a regiment of absurd science tarts,  from the hideous, sneering  hobgoblin,  Tony Robinson and his geriatric grave-robbers,
 to the cackling crone, 
the fearsomely well-scrubbed  Dr Ruth 

 of the Victorian this, the Georgian that, the Mediaeval other

or be it the ubiquitous media tart, Dr Lucy Lisp,
stripping-off in  Regency lingerie or bumping and grinding with that ridiculous old Len chap, off the dancing show,
'ere, missus, do fuck off, eh,
 just for a month or two?

 the pseudo-scholar presenter is slave not to science but to showbusiness, like unto which business there is no other.

And so, disappointingly, was last night's BBC4 exposition of quantum physics, or mechanics, or whatever it's called. Or not called. 

mr bungalow bill and I, at the very least, had been keenly anticipating BBC4's Secrets of Quantum Physics, presented by this fellow. 

A presenter so far up his own paradox as to be risible.

I love the camera, me, and it loves me, too, donchathink?

Dr/Professor/Guru Jim al Khalili is, it turns out,  a vain gabshite. Whether or not he was making sense of quantum physics cannot be known, can it?  That is the point of it. Or the pointlessness of it, as you will.  It almost seems heretical to even attempt to explain the inexplicable, to know the unknowable, as the scriptures have it.

  Jim, though, in his universe,  is infinitely capable and strove last night not to provoke or encourage but simply to entertain, to seduce.  I have the books he mentioned - The Dancing Wu-Li Masters and the Tao of Physics and three minutes sat on the loo, glancing at them, would be more educational than a month of Jim and his showbiz bollocks.

Knowledge, now, of course,  is digitised into little cubes of shit, Tweets and re-Tweets, people's minds too full of vanity-dribblings to tackle proper thinking, no attention span, no mental shelf-space, as I heard it termed recently, their imaginations handed-over, freely,  to slab-faced, creepy, brain-dead American mutants.  

Mr Mark Faceberg.
Trust me,
I want to own all your  lives.
Jim is right up their cyber street, his mind, like theirs, a linguistic desert, uninspired and repetitive - Einstein was at the height of his powers, Nils Bohr was at the height of his powers -  and Jim and his producers' televisual devices were corny and unimaginative, a small, candy-striped marquee on the shore, in which Jim played Aunt Sally with some vague, tin-can permutation of relativity;  a pair of spinning coins  which he claimed demonstrated quantum physics, although they only demonstrated spinning heads-or-tails coins, Oh,  and there was a leering,  metaphysical cardsharp, determined to cheat reality.

Jim rode around, fitly, on his bike, to demonstrate power fluctuations in his dynamo-driven cycle lamp and thus the discovery of the quantum photon;  Jim dived, fitly, into a wave-generating pool to demonstrate the differing powers of small and large waves. And Jim sauntered, fitly,  through what was meant to be a nineteen-twenties jazz club but which actually resembled the studio of BBC Radio Four's Loose Ends show, the one in which Clive Anderson smirks and smarms and hisses and introduces terribly intelligent musicians playing terribly unlistenable-to music.  I think it was at this jazzpoint that Jim mentioned Charlie Chaplin being at the height of his powers.  Throughout, Jim seemed to want to climb through the screen at us, so close were his close-ups, so intense his cloudy summaries. It was all dreadfully Telly.

The thread running through last night's episode was the argument between Bohr and Einstein about the nature of physical reality, about its former certainties being compromised by the discovery and understanding of particles or quantums - quanta; by the belief that the mere observation of sub-atomic particles changed them or indeed, might have called them into being.  This is a delightful conundrum, one which has enchanted me for some years, now, since I read those books, maybe before Jim did.  I do not, however, need it proving or disproving.

Unsurprisingly, Jim's analagous demonstrations and his experiments  with the tin-cans and the cardsharp - and eventually with laser beams - brought him down on the side of Bohr, a position,  among scientists, common since the nineteen-forties, when everyone, of course, was at the height of their powers and one most laboriously and archly arrived at in last night's show.

Once,  there was God, who said it was not for us to know, simply to obey.  In my lifetime it is the BigBang we have sought to know,

 to photograph, back through time. I never understand that shit, photographing stuff that isn't there, now. Clever people have told us that Stuff just came, in an instant, from nowhere, and nodding, as though we had understood, we have believed. 

We have believed that once there was no time, no space, no matter, it all just invented itself. Yes, Stuff from non-stuff, everything from nothing, as hard to believe, as God, Himself, but Hey, that's what we're good at, believing shit. 

Now, many of  those - let's call them Jims -  who once worshipped the BigBang are saying, Hang About, these Black Holes, 

and there are gazillions of the fucking things, what they tell us, the BlackHoles,  is that there's actually shitloads of universes, popping in and out of each other, in, well, in BigBang moments; so, all that stuff, which,  just like QE money, popped into existence, well, it actually just slipped-in ready-made, from next door, sort of thing, kinda. No, you don't have to believe that NoTime, NoMatter shit any more.  We gotta new one for you.

The Jims, you see, they'll fuck you up;  NASA, the Hadron Collider, Hubble, it's all they wanna do, is fuck with your head, like priests, shamans, witch doctors, fucking Druids, they are all the same.  The Jims want you to believe, for instance,  there must be what they call intelligent Life, somewhere, and that we can find it.  The reason they say that there must be is because they want there to be, not very scientific.  A proper scientist would say, Well, fuck me, even if there were to be folks like us, maybe green, maybe with eight arms, whatever, but communicable-with, maybe there is a planet somewhere with exactly the same multiplicity  of accidental circumstances as led to Life on Earth  - y'know, a planet circling a sun  burning at just exactly the right temperature at exactly the right distance, a moon of exactly the right size and gravitational pull and all the trillions of accidental chemical and physical combinations necessary to create amoeba and then all the accidental geological, climatological and horticultural conditions necessary for the growth, survival and ascent of species, only one of which has an opposable thumb and can do technology, thinking, speech, fire, the wheel, transport and the storage and retrieval of information, and eats and tortures all the other species, even if there are all those trillions of improbabilities, even if they all do happen elsewhere, there is no reason for them to be there just now, right now,  in this infinitessimally tiny split second of time which we inhabit, is there? Pushing it a bit, don't you think? Makes more sense to just believe in God, than in all that horseshit.

Some people can do TeeVee, recently, AN Wilson has been one such;  Waldemar Jabberwocky and Matthew Collings, in the arts, engage, inform and entertain without becoming the show, without getting in the way. 

 Jabberwocky, stomping around Rome in his sandals, burbling about sculpture and painting and building is of course a confection but  one full of flavours, nuance, surprise  and juicy tit-bit, easily digested and memorable.
Jim,  for his part, was glutinous showbiz porridge.

Jabberwocky, I believe, wants people to appreciate whoever or whatever it is he's burbling about, Rembrandt or Bach or Michaelangelo, wants people to know it for themselves;  sure, he's on telly and has been for, what, twenty years to my knowledge but I trust his enthusiasm, his Godliness, the way I trust Moser's

 Let me
entertain you.

.Jim, on ther other hand,  doesn't want to share anything, wants but to impress, to show-off, to star;  wants to be the priest who,  claiming to lead us to the light, keeps us in the dark. 

Quantum physics, as far as our individual consciousnesses may perceive, is the sound of one hand clapping.

If you meet the Buddha on the Road, 
kill him!

Thursday 4 December 2014


We know that a man can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, that he can play Bach and Schubert, and go to his day's work at Auschwitz in the morning. 
George Steiner. 

I  don't know what day's work this was.
I never understood this.
 Why would anyone have their picture taken,
 posing,  at Auschwitz?

In addition to his other qualities,
Snotty was repulsively hypocritical, po-faced and sanctimonious.

 My father was a minister, he used to gob, implying that he, therefore, was better than people whose parents weren't members of that great community of Christ, Child Molester;  

 that his birth, to pushy parents, made him the keeper of a moral compass whose cardinal directions he would share with the nation. 
 It was the right thing to do.

These two arseholes, making PR from Horror,
 the defining image of the Snotty years.

Sunday 30 November 2014


In general relativity, an event horizon is a boundary in spacetime beyond which events cannot affect an outside observer. In layman's terms, it is defined as "the point of no return", i.e., the point at which the gravitational pull becomes so great as to make escape impossible. An event horizon is most commonly associated with black holes. Light emitted from beyond the event horizon can never reach the outside observer. Likewise, any object approaching the horizon from the observer's side appears to slow down and never quite pass through the horizon, with its image becoming more and more redshifted as time elapses. The traveling object, however, experiences no strange effects and does, in fact, pass through the horizon in a finite amount of proper time.

Since the days of stanislav and of the glorious, now-dissipated, diluted and devalued cyber-explosion of political cynicism - see the peurile, insipid  banality of most of the broadsheets' commentary  threads, Vote UKIP, Vote UKIP, Vote UKIP being all there is, ad fucking nauseum, it is frightfully depressing, it is  as though we ridiculed and toppled Gordon Snot that others might annoint the cheap crook, ponce and pimp, Farage and his nascent goosesteppers  - others here  and I have been conjecturing about the ultimate Coalition of Ruin.  

The other day, mr mongoose, talking about post May 2015,  posited a neurological short-circuiting in the body politic occasioned by an alliance between Cameron's and Farage's respective elements of Toryism....
.............Cameron's masterstroke is yet to come - and will be presented as weakness. A simple accommodation with UKIP to let them get half-a-dozen or so seats and a continued pledge on an EU referendum - which he will not lose - and it is over. It is the price he has to pay for keeeping Scotland. Will Farage have the wit to take his victory and his vote or will he stupidly look for his SDP-like split moment and cock the whole job up? Either way the the Tories win big in 2020.
as he posted that, I was writing this, the following. My thinking, unlike mr mongoose's,  is inevitably coloured by the recent misbehaviour of the professional tribesmen in my own lands, for both Farage and the twin fish-heads,  Salmond-Sturgeon, peddle the same dodgy, uncomprising, racist and fascistic nationalism; both   promote a simplistic Hitlerianism which beguiles those excluded from the current political process. 

 By recent,  I mean since the Edinburgh Agreement, by which Alec Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon so rigged the terms and subsequently the conduct of the Referendum that they should easily have  won it; that they were convincingly beaten, despite having jacked-up  their own side's goalposts so high that they were almost invisible,  is a mark of  how - contrary to popular journalistic opinion - inept and stupid they both are.  Now and equally contrary to popular opinion, and contrary to Salmond's equally facetious threats of MediaMinster domination, their only way is down;  their failure, however, has redrawn Westminster's territorial borders.

mr mongoose may well be correct in his premonition of Farage-Cameronism but the barriers, personal and political,  to such a union are numerous and the arithmetic presently unknown;  Farage, although a cheap crook, is savvy enough, also, to foresee his own ultimate dispensibility should he be so naively compliant.  It is possible, of course, such a coalition, for with all of the present or likely personalities we are dealing with are  filth and who knows what combinations of vice, greed and megalomania oil their shitty wheels?

Despite my affection  for mr mgoose's philosophising of Disgrace, I, nevertheless, read a different set of entrails and found therein Ruin's poison much further advanced, the body politic wholly necrotised. But first...



Nobody likes Gnasher Sturgeon. Men don't like her. Obviously. Who among us could like anyone who did what she did, did that thing, the thing that's the reason she's called Gnasher. Women don't like her.  

Those wee jackets. Always the same. Lifeless.
 Couture managerialiste.

 That wee haircut.  
That horrid wee frowny mouth.
That tinny, wee, reproving Fishwifey voice,
 unshutupable,  smugly I-Know-Besting;  harsh and  ear-bleedingly discordant.  
That voice, Fuck me, Jesus, if Benjy NetanNazi wanted to end his woes with Palestine all he need do is invite Gnasher to Tel Aviv and beam her on telly to Gaza, speaking some of her Scottish Truths and see the Palestinian population, in millions, hurling itself despairingly into the Mediterranean. 

Gnasher's voice, not Gordon Snot's, won the Referendum for we Togetherists.  Now the silly tribesmen bastards have put her in charge.

 That's how clever they are, like she was a Queen in triumph, instead of a loser, the SNP, a caravanserai of misanthropes and fuckwits her loyal liegemen. 

Yet if you polled Scotland, asking whose voice the nation preferred, Gnasher's or Thatcher's, it would be a close-run thing which Whisky Maggie would probably win.  Tribesmen, though, think that because they adore the skriking wee rodent, Gnasher, everybody must, still don't understand  the difference between a minority and a majority, think that arithmetic is a form of cheating, that numbers mean whatever Salmond-Sturgeon say they mean;

Och, well, if you think a majority trumps a minority it just goes to show how wedded you are to Project Fear, isn't that right, wee girl?
Aye, Daddy, so it is.
Yuk,What a pair of freaks. 
If one ever sought proof of the adage that politics is showbusiness for ugly people, look no further.

if they weren't so blindingly, wilfully, proudly  stupid, you could feel sorry for them.

 Women don't like Gnasher because her look is so sterile, managed, asexual, looks like the only time she ever handled a cock she was so disgusted that she nearly bit it off. Which, so it is said, is what she did, although in a fit of dwarfish See-You-Jimmy hetero-jealousy rather than from any innate radical carpetmunchingism.  Most of the women in the Scottish parliament resemble women, whereas Gnasher looks and sounds like an android, an angry android. 

Ruth Boy Davidson 

is pretty and vivacious, looks feminine,  
looks likeable


even poor old JoLa

Just like a woman.

Johann Lamont, former Scottish Labour leader, alienated, as are most of us, by  the insufferable Milibandism of her national party,

No. no, friends, I really do know what's best.
For everybody.
No, look, I'm just getting on with the job
 of knowing what's best.

JoLa had a job before politics, was a teacher;  looked as though she sometimes smudged her lipstick, applying it in a hurry before entering the parliament or going on the telly, looked hassled, sometimes; just like a human,  just like a woman. 
And under Miliband's egotistical malignancy, she broke, just like a little girl.

Gnasher has never worked, been in the Tribesmen's party since she was sixteen;  think of  all the things which we abhor in the current careerist political shit-fest and  Gnasher is all of them, a non-stop gabshite,

looks like a construct, chilled to just above freezing-point. Women  don't like her because, like the dear, departed Alec Salmond and his Mrs,  she has nae  bairns;  

Aye, we'll jus' borra these weans, pretend we're normal folks, d'ye ken.

that may be because he or she cannot conceive but most would bet good money that  as far as the mad wee bitch is concerned  it is an informed career choice.  Women don't like her because at her Inauguration everybody had to cheer her Mum and Dad. Round of applause for the First Minister's Mum and Dad, eh? Women don't like her because she's never done anything else, for a living.  She claims to have been a lawyer but the cleaners in MediaRood and MediaMinster probably claim to be lawyers, too; everybody in politics claims to be a fucking lawyer. 

Her inaugural speech wasn't about the values of public service, no, Gnasher's speech was all about Gnasher, how great she is. Women don't like that.  Oh, of course it can seen to be part of a pro-equality agenda but it is one  to which only the fuckwits in meeja adhere. Women don't like that, their particularised objections being hijacked by more powerful women. And women don't like it that whilst they struggle with sharply declining wages not only does Gnasher draw two public salaries and pensions but  she is married, if that's the word,  to the administrative head, 

the CEO, of the Tribesmen's party, 
Mr and Mrs SNP.

women won't like that, won't like the fact that between them, Mr and Mrs Gnasher own the SNP, are effectively Scotland's Royal Family. A normal family,  a family without kids, and two six-figure salaries.   Women definitely won't like that. Mrs Gnasher, it's as though Christine Hamilton had taken charge.

Gnasher's inaugural speech wasn't about public service, it was  all about her own personal ambition, about how,  having stuck her pointed, angry wee head through the glass ceiling she is automatically a great role model  but as mr verge says, the only people who believe in role models are those who see themselves as role models. But Gnasher's achievement has been to disappoint and  now and  for evermore she is destined to disappoint.  Further disappointment, 
that, to fervent YesEnPee-ers, is what Nicola Sturgeon will prove to be, an interruption to the fervency of their collective and now never-to-be-completed hand-job; Referendum lost, orgasm denied; the SNP, now the party of national erectile dysfunction.

For they have been wanking themselves silly, the Yessers, fantasising hither and yon about a fancifully bogus historical  destiny, just about to come.  Almost there.  And then there's a knock on the door, Nicola Sturgeon, offering the same fantasy, encouraging all to start all over again, her sour, pinched  wee face, talking dirty, baby.

But even if she was likeable - which she isn't - Gnasher is not Alec. Alec had the best of it - his were the free prescriptions,  his the toll-free bridges, his the free university places and his the permafrosted-over council-tax.  Alec even, outrageously, in a farewell bribe, unilaterally cancelled the historic debts of poll-tax evaders,  now that - through their electoral roll registration to vote Yes in the Referendum  - they have been identified and rightly pursued by  the authorities. Bribes for votes,  poor Gnasher will have to weather the considerable if quiet storm of outrage now felt by those of us who did pay our lawful, if unpopular taxes - behaviour which is now deemed by the SNP's inescapable logic to be unpatriotic, unScottish, fearful and scaremongering. Always with the scaremongering, is the SNP high command.  Och no, we as the govament, as the keepers of the sovereign will a the Scottish People, we maintain that in  a sovereign nation, Scottish people should only pay the taxes they agree with, d'ye ken?  Anything else is just Project Fear.

Gnasher now has nothing left to give away in electoral bribes, not even  that Get Out Of Poll Tax Free Card. Alec stole even that from her;  under Gnasher,  people will have to start paying for stuff, maybe even demanding that council tax goes up, so's workers can have a pay rise - y'know, that economics thingy, in  which the SNP claim such expertise. 

Where I live,  there is a legislative anomaly, on the outer isles vehicles may be driven without a current MOT,  shockingly poorly paid care workers cannot afford to purchase a roadworthy car in which to visit vulnerable people in their homes so the council, cash-strapped  by the Salmond-Sturgeon council tax freeze, permits and thus encourages its  employees to travel, on official business, in dangerous vehicles, because they don't get paid enough, because of the SNP council tax freeze.  SNP dummies, 

The dizzy heights of SNP activism.

living in inner-cities, inebriate and hysterical,  don't, of course, give a fuck about this electoral betrayal because it leaves them more money to spend on body art, piercings and drinks and come to-morrow, come Independence,  they'll all be put in charge of  hospital departments, run universities and be Ambassadors, in Ibiza and posh, foreign places like that, once all they English basturds've been kicked-out.  And the traitors who voted No, voted against the sovereign will of a noisy, anti-democratic minority, they'll just disappear.  

Sadly for Gnasher,  even though  up to forty million people have joined the SNP, before we know it, their subscriptions'll be due again and her new core vote doesn't do bill-paying, why should it, when all of its oil money goes to England? Maybe Sturgeon's  Scottish Executive will devise some means to fine the No voters the total amount which it costs this rising tide of Yes-voting SNP  members to join, well, to join the SNP, it cannot be right, in this exciting climate of undemocracy to expect a minority sovereign nation to pay its own political subs, now, can it?

Poor Gnasher, having bribed and bought a membership, she must now find regular treats to pop into its decayed mouth, lest it desert politics once more, for Smack and tonic wine; Gnasher must generate an excitement equal to that of the lost referendum, the provision of which can only come from another referendum, something which nobody in their right mind would tolerate.

Sadly for Sturgeon, the Holyrood Chalice is long poisoned;   Alec has cast her as Gordon Brown to his Tony Blair. And legged it, leaving her to dodge all the chickens' vengeful homecoming. As it did with Gordon, ambition has blinded Gnasher to the obvious truth -  after Alec, she can only disappoint. Scottish NHS is beginning to unravel in resignations and scandals; the SNP-frozen council tax has resulted in tens of thousands of sackings, demotions, pay-cuts and  the withdrawal of  many vital services, the absence of  which now results in vulnerable people squatting in hospital A&E departments. Oil prices, depite Alec's instructions to the fossil fuel world, are falling and deflation threatens the European economy with a potentially fatal contraction.  Most importantly,  it was not just the alcoholic, illiterate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting, ginger, tattooed NED and his grandchildren who were galvanised by the referendum, it was also the ordinary Scots,  those diffident and self-effacing souls who pay their bills and their taxes, cultured and respectful, industrious, conscientious and public spirited, the un-noisy ones  have now seen, close-up,  how disreputable  and dishonest is the Salmond-Sturgeon Project, have seen how, despite insistence that in the event of a Yes vote, one vote would carry the day but in the event of No, half a million votes do not,  have seen Gnasher's grubby little tantrums,  attempting to turn her unquestionable Defeat into  glorious Victory, really. 
Increasingly, Nicola Sturgeon sounds like an angry wee fart, squeaking and whistling  indignantly its malodourous complaint, sickeningly unwholesome, polluting first the room and eventually the nation; the Highlands, the Lowlands and the Road to the Isles.
Those whom she attempts thus to short-change will be as unimpressed now by her wee suit, her wee ambition, her wee haircut and her wee vision as they were in September and they will harry her as they never did Salmond. And that's not to even think about those in the parliamentary SNP - a formerly socialist party - now miffed by Gnasher's unchallenged, nepotistic Coronation. Time-served veterans will be expected to grin and bear it, as they are passed over;  they won't, her backbenches will soon resemble those of David Cameron. And women, Scottish women, many of whom are English, will see her off.

Of course the drunks and layabouts in the press will disagree, will see Gnasher as some unlikely Golden Girl, for that is the lazy narrative which they have already constructed.  The coverage of the Scottish Referendum had some of the hastily manufactured flavour of the so-called UKIP earthquake;  both are nonsensical, as rooted in reality as are the showbiz pages and  which, actually, is what they were and are; hyperbole, rhetoric, celebrity-driven rubbish.  In addition to the trashy output of overpaid, over-exposed, pisshead, dreary journalists, 
Handsome Iain McWhirter,
 of the US-owned Glasgow Herald 
poses for his  readers.

ThreeBrians Taylor, of the Scottish BBC, shares his expertise.
But not his dinners.
Fuck, no.

there is a continuing, monotonal tirade from stupid zealots, many of whom, both Jock and Poundlander, clearly spend their entire dreary lives on the message boards of newspapers, morning, noon and night, writing inane, moronic, insulting and bullying missives,  nearly always mis-spelled, nearly always in capital letters, they'd write them in red ink, if they could, directed at any who fail to worship, as the case may be,  Alec Salmond or Nigel Farage, both of whom are divinely superhuman liberators of their countries and eventually the world and for whom any intelligent person must vote; anything less than worship is, in either case, treachery. I looked at some this morning. Only total Scottish Freedom will Do, one-lined a lonely sage in response to an article of which he did not approve, as though  his was a noble, unchallengeable call to, what, exactly....: it was the Hibernian equivalent of Vote UKIP and both of these cries,  in their hatred and bile, are equivalent to Heil Hitler!

As for the apparently doomed Scottish Labour party, trashed by riff-raff like  Henry McThief, briefly First Minister,

I resigned because I had done absoluteley nothing wrong.

McLeish, caught-out  after a few months in the job, resigned on a pension of about a grand a week and was given a make-believe job by London Labour. Having suffered such a serious penalty, Henry is now considered rehabilitated and is now one of our foremost talking heads.

The  numbskull, Kilty McConnell.

Former First Minister, Jack McConnell, 
modelling Scotland in New York, honest, not invent.
Jack now sits in the Lords,  talking fucking rubbish for however many hundreds of pounds a day it is.

Wendy StickyFingers Alexander, 
Former Labour leader, with brother, Douglas, a Gordon Snot protege, resigned because she had done absolutely nothing wrong.

 Dopey Ian Gray, 
 dumbfoundingly inept, resigned  as Labour leader because he had done absolutely nothing right.

As for the Labour party, since the death of the infamous tightarse, Donald Dewar, all of Scottish Labour's leaders may as well have been on Alec Salmond's personal staff, as disgruntled former Labour voters, appalled by both the Blair-Brown sell-out and by the greedy, incompetent local filthsters, above,  have voted in large numbers, not for Nationalism but for the SNP,  for a vaguely leftish alternative to MediaMinster. 

 The referendum has now  revealed the SNP to be more right than left; it's greatest wish to appease its rich owners, cut their corporation tax and centralise all administrative power to itself.  Whilst trumpeting its own social justice credentials, the SNP has strangled local services, simultaneously vandalising the nation's greatest asset, its wilderness landscape, in  the service of billionaire rubbish like Donald Trump, Brian Souter  and various alternative energy carpetbaggers. Whoring the very nation to unbridled capitalism, Salmon-Sturgeon take cover in socialist rhetoric about the bedroom tax or NHS privatisation. Now rightly perceived as Tory-lightists, their refusal to accept the democratic verdict of the Referendum's electorate must have  tarnished Gnasher's dodgy reputation further, among the majority, at least.

This revelation of the SNP's fascistic venality now gives Scottish Labour  a slim chance of reviving itself before May;  if it votes  for Neil Findlay, MSP,

ex-teacher, union choice, radical Lefty
 and for neither of  the others -

Sarah Boyack, MSP, 
watered-down Nicola Sturgeon;

or Jim Murphy, MP, Blairite,

it can claim to be Left of  Gnasher, who, herself, claims to be Left of Alec -  I know, both of them and their party owned by billionaires like Trump and Souter and they claim to be the party of social justice, it is a joke quitessentially, blackly Scottish -  and being Left, in Scotland, is  cool;  Labour is not reviled, here,  for being too Left but for being too Right, a psephological conundrum entirely lost on Miliband and his gang.  There is a Gnasherism going about - She talks to the Left but walks to the Right. And if, anyway, Scottish Labour can show itself Leftily-rejuvenated under Findlay its losses in the UK General Election may not be as great as those wished-for by Gnasher&Co and by much of MediaRood, employees of whom never tire of the SNP's jaded wee story, so much easier is it to record than it is to  do  proper reporting.


However cynical we all may be about party politics, most would agree that a MediaMinster controlled to any real extent by grubby Alec Salmond in concert with any of the other parties is undesirable and would be detrimental to citizens North and South of the Border.

There is upcoming a PBC series about quantum physics, a subject about which I know only that the observing of something - its measurement -  alters it, in some cases moves it into or out of Existence and  I feel that something similar applies  to the observation and reporting of  the organised crime cartel which we call politics.  

UKIP, for instance, with two notional MPs, is wholly the result of, the creation of lazy and corrupt political  journalists what-iffing a fantasy story. Equally,  if enough pundits suggest a large SNP presence in Westminster, then that, in itself - as with the Butterfly in the Amazon fluttering her wings and causing a Typhoon in the Pacific - may help bring it about. It is a duty,  therefore, where one exists, to voice a different Truth.  Empirically - from evidence and precedent - a political party, having lost an erection, sorry, an election, shed its principal personality and annointed a new leader is more likely to fail than to flourish. After  the SNP's denouement, Labour is not so busted a flush as we are led to believe. The political arithmetic ain't over 'til the Fat Lady adds it up.

Given even a partial Labour revival, it is by no means certain that the tribesmen, under Salmond, will hold a balance of power or a portion thereof, in the next UK parliament; 

it is  just as likely to be the ToryPoundlanders as Kingmakers - the sclerotic elderly, the politically ignorant and naive, the White Vanzis, who could align themselves with, for instance, the Ulster Undertakers Party to wring concessions from either of the two heritage parties. 

The Tribesmen for their part, already having licked Sinn Fein's scrotum  

may easily chose to  form company with Plaid Cymru  or with however many Greens sandal their way into parliament. The only certainty about post-May 2015 coalitions is not, as mr mongoose suggests, that Farage and Cameron will lie, like Claudius and Gertrude, stewing  in the same rank, enseamed bed   but that they will not. 

 Given that Salmond and Farage seek only their  own political and financial advancement, there is no limit to the number of shifty mesalliances either or both might join. 

Farage's only MediaMinster success thus far has been with sitting Tory MPs who  claim to have defected, he is not, therefore, constrained by Decency but is, in his own words, willing to fellate the Devil, himself. Salmond, for his part, as evidenced for Southerners on the last

 This Week show, is nought but a narcissist, happy to be cozened by any and all who can endure his towering smugness,

 more Bruce Forsyth than Robert the Bruce, 
is wee, fat 'Eck;  

he might seek to bully the useless Miliband into  the destruction of the United Kingdom in exchange for his,  what do they call it, now,  confidence and supply support.  For all his Braveheartiness, the slug, Salmond, learned his trade, we should not forget, in the bars and knocking shops of Westminster. Miliband, already frightened of his own shadow, is not fool enough to hop into ben with this poxed-up old tart.

What is certain is that the more unprincipled are Farage and Salmond the more they will applauded by those who find in them some ridiculous patriotic succour.  Farage, the People's Millionaire Investment Banker or Salmond, the People's Millionaire King of Scotland;  either, many would say, are preferable to Clegg, Cameron or Miliband.  And that is exactly why there will be no Tory-UKIP, no Labour-SNP coalitions.

Most would accept that there is little to choose between the three almost-traditional parties and if we can see that, so can they.
There is, therefore,  only one coalition which could stand against all other likely or possible multi-party combinations of  opportunism. Given that there will be a significant number of Tribesmen elected, all determined to make mischief for England,  all of them opposed, in principle if not in reality to the Conservatives, there can be no Tory-Jock Coalition.

There will be a number, maybe reaching double figures, maybe more, of Poundlanders, opposed to both current  Conservativism  and comprehensively to  Labour.  To enter coalition with either traditional party, Farage would perforce  demand  a Euro-pledge to  which Labour is formally opposed, one to which, whilst he publicly voices willingness to negotiate, Cameron is also opposed.  

Conservative and Jock in Coalition is unthinkable and considering the SNP wish to destroy Scottish Labour, any coalition between them would be, at best, highly problematic. With the SNP threatening the Union and with the Poundlanders demanding Britain's exit from Europe, for the overwhelming majority of parliamentarians a massive coalition with each other would be, by far, the best resolution of a hung parliament.  

 Given the fundamentalist nature of  threats posed by both insurgent parties Miliband and Cameron could sincerely proclaim a Government of National Emergency, could carry with them their own party members,  parliamentarians and the wider public.  Government of National Unity or National Emergency, doesn't matter which. 

I could write the speech now, 

world is facing another recession; country is  facing unprecedented, head-chopping terror;  minority parties are threatening, all over again,  to tear the country apart, presenting a threat to our currency, our borders, our security.  

The right honourable gentleman and myself have decided to put country first, suspend our differences, govern in the national interest,  doing what's best for the nation, as we face these perils together. Lessbeclear, it is simply the right thing to do.

As so many bemoan, there is no difference between Labour and Tory, and the surely to be annihilated LibDems are but  an exrescence, migrating from one party anus to another, as the foetid arse-wind blows.  

 Junky George Osborne 

is indistinguishable from Ed Balls,

 both committed to the idea that bank debt be nationalised, bank profit - or state hand-outs - be privatised;  both believe that what they call Austerity - the punishment of the poor by the rich - is the only viable fiscal instrument.  Both parties oppose the nationalisation of state assets, both oppose a realistic and sensible and inevitable rise in income tax to fund decent public services;  both believe in a belligerent and entirely illegal, amoral  and unprincipled foreign policy, one dictated by whichever stooge occupies the White House; both parties insist that there is no contradiction between nation-stateism and membership of the European Union,  that we can be in Europe but not part of it or that out of it we can exert more influence than within it;  both parties believe, primarily, in their need to rule, in its unavoidability,  that there simply must be political parties comprising the very people most unsuitable to govern, bouyed up by people who either hope that, for them, Buggins' Turn will arrive or are  just too stupid to perceive how they are being exploited, party activists, I believe they are called.

Faced with threats to their monopoly from  either Fat Salmond or BarrowBoy Farage, from the Greens, the Taffies,  the Orangemen or any combinbation of such jackanapeses  what better might Cameron and Miliband do than make common cause against all and form a coalition with each other.

  They could simply take it in turns to be PM,  their mates could revolve between ministries, enjoying well-paid private appointments when out of office  but still in parliament;  rather, in fact, just as happens now. But with no need to accommodate much less embrace the likes of Salmond, 

Farage and their noisesome supporters.

An end then, to the inconstancy of an electoral cycle, an end to uncertainty, an end to the old party politics; instead, we, your representatives, your tribunes, will simply allow you to vote for us, each in our respective constituencies and return us to joint power over your affairs but with your interests very close to our hearts. Although not as close as our own.  The very best of all coalitions. And since you never elected it, you can never dismiss it.

A Government of National Unity;  makes sense and  it has a forever sort of sound.