Friday 30 May 2014


This book will change your life,  is  a fiction much over-used by the ghastlies of the publishing world but now and again one does change your life.  I abandoned fiction, more or less, years ago; mr verge, among others, recommends things now and again and I read them and enjoy them but he is un homme des lettres transgressif and I am not, I am a furniture polisher yet I can make up my own stories and I rebel at the proposition that somebody with nothing to polish, nothing  better to do, can, through his own edited and finessed, stylised  imaginings, lead me to an invaluable  truth or an insight, as though I was a dog at Crufts, led this way and that, prodded, tricked and finally given a treat, a treat which disappears in a moment.  I hate them, in the main, novelists and would cheerfully set them to rebuilding Yorkshire's dry stone walls, let them do one good deed before they die.

Feeling that my rejection of StoryTime was a little eccentric, though - mrs ishmael is e-voracious as well as a proper, bookshop-library bibliophile - the last time I was in hospital I tried, out of deference to the occasional mr the dyers garden, to read Homer, I tried and I tried - straight, drugged, pre-op, post-op;  did me fucking head in, the Illiad just seemed to be endless lists of shit, names of warriors, warriors' families,  warriors' dominions, names of gods, lists of feast menus.  I knew the stories from school of course but it all seemed like shopping lists of rubbish, interspersed with bestial incest and bloody combat, and so now it's back on one of the posh shelves, the Illiad, unopened for another decade, probably for ever, generating and embracing classical dust, along with the many-volumed history of English literature,  I have shitloads of that stuff, dictionarioes of everything.  I suppose it did change my life in a way, the Illiad, my envy of the classical scholar remains but I no longer wish to do anything about it. Plato can stay where he is.

Robert Persig's Zen and the Art of MotorCycle Maintainance,  an Enquiry into Values, however, did change my life, changed the way I think about things, anyway, is that the same thing?  I don't think it seasons these commentaries, I am at home here, native and to the manor born and actually, a passing  truth to tell, a Dane, myself, genetically;  a Dane, a Frog, a Rosbif, a Scot, like many people now exercising themselves over their particular, precious, historically incidental nation state,  like Mr Salmond and Mr Farage, each revving-up their slightly dodgy back-to-the-futuremobiles.  Elsewhere, though, even though I don't get out that much, I find myself less sanguine,  less confident in my language, endlessly self-correcting. I comment now and again on mrs woar's blog and contrasted with her understated lucidity and authority my comments rebuke me even as I write them and I amend and qualify and expand them as I go along;  this is Persig, the biker-philosopher, chiding me about hypotheses and evidence and  Quality.

In his book, an autobiographical post mortem, neither fact nor fiction yet both,  Persig scattered many of Reason's  jewels; I am sure I could recall and display them from here to Eternity but the one which has come to mind relates to a period, before he suffered state-ordered personality annihilation, when he taught English at Montana State College.  Write me an essay about the USA,  five hundred words, he instructed his students and one girl, after failing to hand anything in, said she was flummoxed;  OK, make it about this town, Bozeman; nothing doing; OK, make it about the college; again she could produce nothing;  OK, make it about a room, a lecture hall;  same again;  eventually  he said, forget about the United States, forget about the college, write me an essay about a brick, one brick.  Thus directed, she couldn't stop writing, she handed in a five- thousand word brick essay, her writer's block was overcome; once she looked at things a brick at a time she saw that every supposed fact had an infinity of hypotheses which she could explore and narrate;  just in a split second, just by the way she looked at something, she had invoked a bombardment of information;  it doesn't matter if it's a brick in the wall or a grain of sand,  they are vast; the more you look, the more you see. I have since found that looking at things moreso can be wearying but once you start there's no direction home, life gets microscopic. I think these days we call that sort of meta-analysis Deconstruction; one of the ghastlies, Kirsty Wark, Mariella Frostrup, Mark Kermode, PotatoFace Lawson, one of them will have a word for it, this super-specifity. See?  See what I mean? Super specifity?  Once somebody has had the thought and done the work, a critic will come along and devise a label, telling us what whatever it is is  really all about, for  aren't they, after all, the ghastlies, aren't they great writers, themselves?

At the very first televised word of Ed Miliband's speech at Thurrock, yesterday,  I,   just like Persig's student, experienced  a  massive, multi-coloured  firework display in my  mind.   In a BigBang instant the history and background  of the unequal battles between the rich and the poor, of the struggles which distilled, briefly, into the  labour movement reprised themselves.  It was an all-at-once, 360 degree view of it all, of  the the short and simple annals of the poor,  the clearances, the enclosures, the lock-outs,  the hungry, famished and frozen;  the malnourished illness, the marches, the mining disasters,  the slums,  the unions, the banners, the galas, the working men's clubs, the credit unions, the Provident Society, the Co-Op;  the endless, uneven struggle between capital and labour,  between the haves and the have-nots, the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate;  evictions, whippings, floggings, hangings, the stocks and transportation;  health and safety, the shops and factories acts, holiday pay, sick leave, affordable council housing - all now under attack  from head-up-their-arse-rednecks, their prejudices puppeteered by belligerent billionaire larcenous press pornobarons, filth like Murdoch -  the right to vote, the old-age pension, the national health service, the minimum wage, all these things, now - despite our being one of the wealthiest nations in history- unaffordable, privatiseable, cuttable, all dowithoutable  and, as remedy to this theft, this vandalism, this trickle-up, class warfare, as remedy, this man proposes himself.

hurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy, 
hurdy gurdy gurdy, he sang.

In an instant,  yesterday, maybe blinded by the light,  maybe by an  enhanced  recognition triggered by chronic pain, this welter of  affection and respect  for  centuries of struggle collided with the startling realisation, the full bucket-of-shit-in-the-face realisation, that this man presents himself as the Keeper of Decency's flame. And in an instant I left the room, fled the image and the voice. It was one of those, we all have them, one of those OH, FOR FUCKS SAKE, NO moments.

I was genuinely upset, it wasn't my inbred cynicism about these people, it was the opposite, I was hurt, naively; I was hurt for countless generations of struggle;  I was hurt by the fact that while Goodness hides behind its gates, people like this force their way front and centre.  I could've cried. 

 It's not that I was ever a member of the Labour party, or any party, or any union, it's just that my instincts draw me always to what used to be called the Left.  I am a bit old to have an Animal Farm moment and have, anyway, known for  as long as I have known anything, that politicians and political parties  are vermin, all of them; now and again, though, as in my Thurrock moment, yesterday, something reinforces anew the shocking truth.

I was so shocked by my sudden forbidding realisation that I just dashed into another room without turning off the telly and I could hear that he still droned on,  that  whining, adolescent, adenoidal voice, a voice which invites its own strangulation; doesn't matter what he's  saying, he could be reciting the Sermon in the Mount, his are the cadences of discomfort, he is a pain in the neck.  The correct would say it is unfair, he obviously  can't help the way he speaks, but  he can, we all can. Even Whisky Maggie Thatcher, strident and shrill as a shrew on speed, managed to take some simple voice coaching, never harmonised her own discordant demons, nothing would, this side of the grave but at least she recognised the ugliness of her timbre;  but even if Miliband cultivated the oratorical fluency of Laurence Olivier  what he said would still be intolerable.

I heard the odd phrase and quickly got the message. Mr Miliband had come among the ordinary people, whose ills he could diagnose and cure. His repeated use of this fucking miserly phrase, ordinary people,  indicated that while he might be with them, he was certainly not of them.  To be fair to him he never actually said that he, too, was ordinary for how could he, ordinary people cannot divine their own situation,  that's why they're ordinary, but he could, he could tell ordinary people how they were wrong about things, like, in voting for Mr UKIP, he understood why they did that, it was understandable, because they just didn't understand things very well. Because of being ordinary.  But not to worry, he was there to explain their ordinariness to them, explain its shortcomings. He was ordinary but in an extraordinary way. And as everybody knows, extra just means more, so, in fact, he was more ordinary than ordinary people.  His years at Oxbridge and in the States and in MediaMinster made him more ordinary than ordinary people who have to go to work, doing things. But his downbeat, teacherly, preacherly syntax, his calm and patient identification of ordinary people's lack of understanding, failures of judgement, need for gentle patient correction didn't quite camouflage the bivouac of concet from which he sallied forth, at times like these.

Listen, he might have said, I am ordinary and my friends are ordinary.  Take me and my brother, it was entirely ordinary how a pair of worthless tossers like us became foreign seckatry and energy seckatry;  it was dead ordinary, it was just that our leader, Mr Gordon Snot, was less scared of us than he was of other ordinary people in the govament.  And while I'm here, let me just make clear that when we all spoke collegiately about the end of boom and bust you must all have misunderstood us, what we really meant was end of boom and permanent bust.  What was the real policy was that we would just borrow money into existence.  You don't have to actually have anything, you just borrow it into existence and then give it to the bankers who will lend it to you,  the ordinary people;  the money doesn't exist but your debt to them does.  And then, just to oil the wheels of commerce, our friends in the banks can lend this borrowed into existence money to people who cannot repay it, award themselves bonuses on the strength of what we call subprime loans and on top of that we can give them knighthoods, in exchange for our own directorships in the banks, after we retire from serving you, the ordinary people.  Ordinary people like you might wonder what happens when the loans aren't repaid.  That's simple,  they are sold on again to some other bankers who obviously give themselves bonuses, too and then, eventually, although that is someway down the line, eventually,  when  not even a filthy money-laundering gangster will touch these loans Mr Snot pays them all off with your money.  What could be more ordinary than that?  And that's why we are the party of ordinary people.

I even have ordinary people in my shadow cabinet.  An ordinary hard-working family like Mr and Mrs Balls, for instance, followed a quite ordinary career trajectory, from Oxford to MediaMinster and then into a safe ordinary Labour seat and then into Mr Snot's ordinary circle of blackmailing ministers. Like any ordinary couple they claim for, and flip, a second home,  they claim for food - everybody has to eat, don't they -  they claim for anything they can, even though their joint salary is huge  Like I say, we know how hard it can be, being ordinary ourselves, but not exactly.

Miliband's blatantly offensive hypocrisies, piled up, would reach the sky, in this he is no different from many, from most in his grimy trade.  But even in the short period since Mr Snot was thrown out that trade has become  more image-conscious, more yoof-ful;  Cameron and Clegg, empty, shallow clowns, thieves and arseholes, recognise this change and represent it, empty heads, shiny faces in shiny suits.  Miliband's nauseating Day Of The Ordinary Man may have been his attempt at rebranding for the New People. Even in that feeble endeavour, he failed.

 As for me, Miliband did change my life, no struggle worth the name could ever be associated with him and  nothing for me  will ever be the same again, in electing him its leader, the Labour party deleted itself, and this action cannot be undone.

 It was just a moment, loaded with horror, like waking up in a coffin; it was, I hope, this unsuspecting encounter with Ed Miliband, the closest I shall come to premature burial.

Monday 26 May 2014



Yes, well, the bounder's well and truly in the bunker, all his troops dead or dying, all hope gone and still the wretched man won't call it a day. 
Rather like that chappie, Hitler,  the one one's uncle was so find of.


Meanwhile,  the First Regiment, Clegg's Own BDSM Copraphiliacs, 
marches away to imprisonment


Another military man, Field Marshal Lord Paddy Pantsdown, had this to say

 Now just listen....I am an extremely silly idea....I am devoted to me....I am brave....I am determined....I am the best prime minister we never had. Yet.

The Deputy Prime Minister, relaxing,
 away from the hurly-burly of politics

Sunday 25 May 2014


He died doing what he loved. 

 Cold, frightened, choking, desperate and terrified.  Drowning.
 Right. Lovely.

I'd rather someone had kicked his stupid arse and he was still alive.


Not so much an earthquake, 
more a modest geoligical twitch.

 A third of those so entitled  voted in what we must call the UKIP  local elections Earthquake. Roughly, generously speaking, a third of that third voted for Mr Nigel Fruitcake's NutKippers. A third of a third is a ninth, almost one in ten.  These elections, however, were not for entire councils, just for, in most cases, a third of the council seats;  a third of a ninth, therefore, earthquaked its way into psephological history;  a third of a ninth is a twenty-seventh; of those eligible to vote, therefore, in local  elections,  less than five in a hundred, less than half-a-person in ten, rocked the Richter Scale. Never mind, on such thin fare does the commentariat dine.

It is true, of course,  that such numerical realism applies equally to the electoral brigandage, the democratic deficit  of other parties - a minority share of a minority's total  vote can enthrone a minority on the Great Latrine of State,  with a working majority,  there to enrich itself for life whilst shitting in our faces;  there is nothing new in Farage's counterfeit ebullience, nothing new in MediaMinster's hyperbolic exaggerations, locally, Mr Fruitcake's  mandate is  microscopic, but don't ruin a good story with the truth.

Messrs Cameron and Clegg and their masters in MediaMinster, insist that they were elected, insist that -  perhaps via some undiscovered form of mass, national telepathy, some effort of purposeful mass consciousness -  those who bothered to vote last time exactly calculated how each of them should vote in order to precisely elect a coalition of nutters, criminals and incompetents.  

I am not making this up, just recall for yourselves how many times Cameron has said Getting on with the job of prime minister which I was elected to do.  He wasn't.  Nobody voted for a coalition, it wasn't on the ballot paper;  it was a usurpation of such watered-down democracy as previously existed, a coup, in other words.  The poltroon, Clegg, is more grandiose even than CallHimDave, martyring himself on the altar of his obedience to the public clamour for his Deputy Premiership, as though he was dragged, kicking and screaming into his limousine.  We are told daily that we gave this job - of  cruel robbery, not of but by the banks,  to the Coalition, to get on with.  These, you recall, are people like David Laws and Chris Huhne and Maria Miller, people like Liam Fox and Peter Cruddas, filth.
 There is a vivid example of this misleading and spurious terminolgy here, in Scotland, the best part of England.  Devolution brought into being a Scottish Executive, a local parliament with restricted powers.  Upon winning an election, Alec Salmond's Tribesmen changed the name of the executive to the Scottish Government thus, logically, at a stroke, abolishing their own raison d'etre;  if they are a national government, from what are they seeking independence?  It is bollocks, of course,  there is no Scottish Government, there is merely a linguistic nonsense, reality corrupted to no other purpose than the satisfaction of Salmond's mountainous ego.  This is what they do, they say what they want and in short order the press jackals go along with it;  Elected Coalition, Scottish Goverment, take your pick, horseshit, all of it.
No, this, like Mr Snot's, is not an elected government but a cabal of cheeky opportunists, no rational person could judge Nick Clegg or David Cameron capable of any responsible task whatsoever, nothing;  even such skills as one routinely picks up through living and working are denied these two, because through privilege and nepotism they have done neither, they are good for fuck all.

What, therefore, should we make of  the equally bogus skills of Nigel Farage, as he proclaims his  tiny, flaccid  earthquake?  Well,  he is quite fluent in Man-In-The-Pub;  as a very well paid and pensioned MEP he has no need to work and receives huge  expenses, these have given him ample opportunity to prop up the bar, between visiting branches of his harem;  the very least he could do, by way of gratitude, would be to learn the Why-Oh-Why language of the half-pissed, bar room bore.  That's about it, I think; he speaks Man-In-The-Pub and he has been speaking it at a time when, thanks largely to the blogosphere, many are finally wiping MediaMinster's shit from their faces - the place, the time, the script  have been handed to him by others.  Aside from that he is overdressed, overpaid and over-confident, one of them, in other words, pretending to be one of us.  And half a person in ten loves him, probably the half that has the arse in it,  the arse they talk out of.


Never knew what racism meant, me.  Don't know how old the word is. Certainly it was not part of my parents' regular vocabulary. No blacks, no dogs, no Irish certainly prompted my mother's tears but I doubt that my parents saw this as racism, just as the blind hatreds of pig-ignorant, tripe-eating  Brummie trash. I didn't then and I still don't see those - still present -  attitudes as amenable to good anti-discriminatory practice, to anti-racist awareness programmes. Imposed Multi-culturalism may have caused these attitudes to take cover, find camouflage but as we see, they are alive and well, succoured by filth like Jack Tortuer and Roy Hatterjee,  their actions fertilised UKIP's flourishing, uneasy rhetoric.

 Maybe it's a creation, racism, maybe it was brought into common use by  my g-g-g-generation, not my generation in total but by the gobby ones,  the I-Know-Besters  of my generation, the pushy, censorious, accusatory ones;  quick, under the guise of rights'n'freedoms, to shackle and enslave, as quick to chain and punish, the Word-Criminologists, in their own righteous way, as the Georgia plantation owner, the Glasgow slave freighter.

(These fuckers are everywhere, incidentally;  there is no area of our lives unplagued by a pestilence of gobby, pushy, dictatorial fuckwits.  I was listenting to Gardeners' World, on PBC4, and - even there - there was a braying, pushy nitwit of a woman - I met loads of her, in the '70s, they called themselves the New Diggers, then, librarians and teachers, steeped in inexpressible grievance, with not enough proper work to do, trying to take over the allotments, turn them into  a Movement, instead of a hobby. I'm telling you, you are not safe from these people, they never go away and whatever it is you're doing they will want to reclaim it for their own higher purposes, gabshites; some of them become councillors.  Anyway, this skriking bint, probably with a masters degree in preciousness studies, wanted there to be, demanded that there be Free-Veg, community gardens all over the land, where the worthy, pseudo middle-class can plant kohl-rabi, aubergines and artichokes for any poor pleb  to come along and  pull up to take home and eat with their pizzas and doner kebabs. Stupid bitch.)

I just checked and the first recorded use of the word racist  was in 1902 by what we would now be obliged to call a right racist bastard, this guy, Richard Henry Pratt,

who felt that native American Indians would be fine human beings if only they had the Indian knocked out of them. Pratt felt that it was racism to denigrate people because of their race when their racial defects could be educated out of them.

In my young adulthood, however, the term racist became applied by clever people to those whom they considered stupider than they  and in  relation specifically to inherited societal attitudes towards specifically black people and specifically - since they were, at that time, the majority of black people - towards those who were by  then - having been called coons, niggers, jungle bunnies, wogs, darkies and blackies - called West Indians but are now called, equally racistly - or separatistly -  in my view, Afro-Caribbeans; who would want to be so denominated? My equivalent race-label would be Viking-Norman-English-Scots-Ulster-British, but there is no stopping  the linguistically gaudy anti-racists  conjuring ever newer nomenclatures,  descriptive titles  of Otherness, with fancier, more geographically and historically  precise name-clusters. Pure, shameless  cuntishness.

I am speaking here of the UK but the same paradigm shift occurred in the US where acceptable terminology moved swiftly
 from nigger to coloured folk, to black to people of colour to African-American;  still a racial differential, just differently differential;  separatism, Otherism.  They just love segregating people, those anti-racists, stupid fucking bastards, as though a geographical precision made name-calling respectable.  Oh, you are of Afro-Caribbean descent and I respect your cultural heritage; this is WordCrime-speak for Hi, nigger. Po-faced, sanctimonious hypocrite bastards. Accidents of technology and geography notwithstanding, there is only one race, isn't there? The human race.

I use the word nigger here, not mischieveously or carelessly, I quite deiberately put it in the mouths of those who, examined  by their own definitions are racist, people like the Clintons, who  fried a retarded Arkansas niggerboy to celebrate Spunky Bill's first inauguration and who subsequently presided over a massive increase in the black prison population, not only imprisonment but cruel, mediaeval, maximum security lockdown torture prison and who, like GlobaCorp's Uncle Tomming houseboys, the Obamas, were and are happy to bomb and kill people of colour all over the world, anywhere; show Obama an uppity nigger and he'll shoot him with techno-horror nightmare weapons,  burn him, drone him or bang him up and torture him in some secret illegal prison, all the time saying ain't it great for black folks, now they got us in the White House;  this is why I publish stuff like this:

Me, Barack and our girls, liddle wosstheirnames, ain't no way we ever gonna be hauled off into the bush and sold to slavers, fuck no.  

That shit's for niggers.

Whilst Blair was impertinently introducing Holocaust Day - as though we mortals needed reminding about such serious matters, as though it was the duty of our betters, like him, him, the the biggest whore ever in Downing Street, to police our morality, Fuck, I ask you - George Dubya and Tony Blair bombed and torched and tortured their way across four countries but would probably never say the nigger word in public,  just in private, all the time. Michelle's husband, 

Now, you jes be a good nigger,
 an' gwine back to yer mastah, ya hear me?
Yessir, mr president.

rejoicing in his counterfeit status as the first black president, as well as trampling on blacks at home, has Bush'n'Blaired six countries, beggared his own country in the interest of his masters, spied on all of us, the cheeky cunt, and sought to promote further lucrative and illegal conflict anywhere he can, in Syria, Ukraine and - God help us all - even in the Orient, the man is a criminal monster; America's exceptionalism, its lawlessness, its hatreds and its estrangement from  Decency exponentialise themselves with every minute that Obama is in office.   But, hey,  the main thing is we don't use the n-word, cos that's you know, just the most offensive thing.

I am ranting about this because elderly playboy, Andy Neil,

formerly Murdoch's fellator-in-chief cum greatest living newsman - Christ, Guido Fawkes-Staines is a greater newsman than Neil, although equally down on his knees before Rupert -
 had some insufferable luvvie cunt on his dreadful show the other night,

 a black American, Clark Peters, who was sighing and swooning, stagily and repulsively clutching his bosom and Oh-the-pain-of-it-alling at the very idea of the n-word, whilst, of course, plugging his upcoming appearance on the terribly, terribly highbrow kiddy programme, Midsomer Murders.   The main thing, according to Darling Clarke,was not that Uncle Sam was furiously, crazily, savagely anti-wog, was not that  black children all over the world, even today, cannot get a drink of fucking water, no, the main challenge facing civilised people today was the eradication of a word.  I would cheerfully burn this cunt on the fiery cross.

Stooging their poxy arses off, Alan Cuckold and Micky Portillo empathised like crazy, Oh, the n-word, we would never, never, never say that, we might bomb niggers and ayrabs and ragheads by the fucking million but we would never say that dreadful word. We're not racists, it's just that black and brown people need killing and enslaving so very badly. Not obedient,  Labour-voting coons or rich, Tory voting Asians,  not Trevor Phillips, or David Lammie or our new shadow business chap, ChumbaWumba, I believe his name is, no, no, one could easily sit down and have a free dinner and a few free brandies with chaps like these, chaps who know their place.

Quite, yes, one actually could. Actually, as a matter of historical fact and to burnish my ongoing media profile I, myself, am actually half-Spanish, half-Scottish, half-American and half-nigger, Whoops, I didn't mean that, it just slipped out, rather like Mr Clarkson, I, like he, was thinking nigger, although I would obviously never, ever say it.

Michael, what you're saying is that it's OK to hate people, as, for instance, I hate poor people - did I ever tell you I went to unversity and  got a first class combined honours degree in MurdochFellating and Thatcher Cunnilinguilaling? - you hate trade unionists, Michael and Alan, a trade unionist of sorts,himself ....

that copper, by the way, the one who was knobbing your missus, was he in the Police Federation, no, only joking, it's just that they are in the news....

No, no, 'salright, Andrew, 'sall water under the pension fund, and we had 'im sacked, anyway, and as for unions, well,  I hate them now, meself,  just used mine  to get into parliament and become Chancellor of the wotsaname, yeah, I know, of the wotsaname.. as long as we don't use the n-word, which I never would, either, it's OK to hate people, unfairly discriminate against them, mistreat them through the criminal justice system and blow their countries of origin to fragments.....

Quite, Andrew, that's right. Like in Iraq, D'you know Iraq was the very cradle of civilisation - I know this because I'm half-Iraqi, myself - and we blew it to fucking smithereens. And here's me earning a crust blethering on about St Pancras station, rather like I was, Pevsner, was that his name, chappie who was an expert on English buildings? I mean, to be fair, I only pretend to be a historian, when it comes to history I'm like a whore at a hockey match, leave all that ree-surch stuff to the production team.  But no, whatever,  I would never say the word nigger, certainly not.

So there it is, Racism Incorporated; by their own definition they  can be as racist as they  like, up to and including holocaustal violence, just as long as you never, never, never say nigger. WordCrime.

And here we are, now, in this glorious Farage  weekend, in an orgy of  WeAren'tRacists-ism. So all-encompassingly, so earnestly anti-racist are those now damning Mr Fruitcake that they have invented racism where there is no race to be -ist about;  what race, pray, is Romanian, or German?   As far as I know, there's a handful of races, Asian, Caucasian, Negroid, Oriental, something like that, maybe some sub-divisions of those but Romanian isn't one of them, Romanian is a nationality. These stupid bastards don't mean racism, they mean Otherism but they dare not open that can of worms for fear that their own careers as professional Otherists would be revealed and so they stick with racism and homophobia as their default insults, even though linguistically and rationally they are meaningless. 

Oh, we may be rotten, thieving, warmongering, child-molesting, shit-eating, hypocritical degenerates, we may be a poxed-up whore rabble of money-grubbing, brutal, wickedness but at least we're not racists, like Mr Fruitcake is, even though he isn't. Being studiedly and phonily  non-racist, of course, as a badge of honour, is akin to saying that since he was a vegetarian Hitler wasn't all bad; probably never said nigger, even once. Send all zese fucking yids to ze gaschamber und experimentation wards but on no account must you call ze fucking subhuman bastards nigger, or it vill be ze Russian front for you, liebchen. And whilst we are talking of Nazi Otherism, we should remember that Mr Ian Duncan Smith and his colleagues, on all sides, forget about incoming Labour opposition, Schmidt and Co, who require that we buy and bequest them at least one luxurious home and the profits therefrom, also demand that poor, weak, defenceless disabled people be evicted from their homes in order to satisfy some braindead DailyMail redneck fuckpig horde.  IDS, of course, would never say nigger.

Being lectured about racism, from Radio Four, by Angela Eagle,

 one of NewLabour's HorseLesbians of the Iraq Apocalypse is one of Life's more surreal moments.  Mr Fruitcake, for all his arseisms has not yet launched Armageddon on millions of working class Iraqis.  But you would think he had.

Thursday 22 May 2014


 You want me to talk democracy for you, big boy?

"Can I just conclude with a request: however you feel about all this, please vote. And, if possible, take your children to the polling station with you so that they can see how it is done, and how important you believe it to be to participate in this system for which so many people have given, or been prepared to risk, their lives."

Thus the Filth-O-Graph's shilling-a-line philosopher-battleaxe, Janet Daly, condescendingly chivvies her readers into believing that no matter what, all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds, as though she stood in a shieldwall going back to Runnymede or Agincourt  or the Normandy beaches, as though the shithole of MediaMinster was just experiencing a littte temporary difficulty, easily corrected by a thoughtful electorate, doing as it was bid.  It is your duty to vote for one of those we allow on the ballot paper.

Janet, of course, works for the secretive, anti-democratic filthsters, the Barclay Twins, who  don't believe in voting, regularly tyrannise their neighbours in the Channel Islands and would do the same here if possible and seek so to do via the mewlings and pukings of this rancid old woman.

Others, mainly NutKippers, are calling for a large turnout in order to honour the memory of Trooper Lee Rigby and his various wives when, in fact, the arrest of Tony Blair, rather than the election of even more  greedy, worthless shitheads to Brussels, would more usefully serve that memory.  Britain has been given over to nignogs, they urge,  nignogs killed poor Lee, vote, therefore, for the only truly anti-nignog party.  A vote for Nigel is a votye for Lee. We are not racist, we just hate nignogs of all colours and none, Paki nignogs, Frog nignogs, German nignogs and specially Romanian  gippo nignogs.

I said to mrs ishmael this morning that although I was not discouraging  her,  I would not be going through this voting charade.  Even before her eyebrows raised I said And don't gimme any of that people died so's you could vote shit.  It doesn't wash any more, parliamentary democracy, political parties;  they are all shit, any one of them, all of them, how many times must I say, they all have more in common with each other than with us;  this is a farce, doesn't matter who they are, Jock tribesmen, Welsh fucking nutters,  LibLabCon, those insufferable green bastards and now this limping, dimwit, Zimmerframed, sclerotic,  angry horde of dispossessed Thatcherite, National Frontsters, starching-up their brown shirts and Union Jacks,  they'll all be a long time dead before Nigel Fruitcake forms a government and even if they weren't, governents, all governments are just enforcers for global oligarchy.  Nigel Fruitcake and Nick Clegg, what's the difference, both will reinforce the gun-bristling, armour-plated barricade between the filthy rich and the rest of us, voting for one or the other is joining in the spastic shuffle of the village idiot, tormenting himself with the vague, shadowy notion that tomorrow, maybe, someone will be kind to him.
They won't.


This is the tragic news that some fuckhead who makes adverts for banks has dumped his bride-to-be.

A trio of financial experts shares its wisdom with the public.
I am just not ready to commit, said Mr Rory Prat;  I need to spend all of my time concentrating on my advertising career.  That's why I came into golf in the first place.

  Mr McPrat's colleague, Mr Lewis TaxExile, said he fully understood McPratt's greed and wouldn't run him off the road, even though he could, easily.  No, it was Britain and British fans who made me and that's why it would be seriously mad for me to live there and pay taxes.  Santander?  No, they really are a great bank, actually give people money, well, me, anyway.  And that's what counts.

No, it's cool, and I'm fine with it, said jilted fiancee, Ms Jabberwocky,  I mean, it was just getting past a joke.  He even had it tattooed on his number seven iron, knowhaddamean?  Yeah, on his cock, Bank with Santander.  In tiny letters, obviously, right? Yeah, that sickly orangey-red.  I mean, what girl wants that on her wedding night,  there's getting fucked  by the banks, I know, but that was too much.  Yeah, Lewis has it too, Jensen, all of them.

Tuesday 20 May 2014



Could this be Flight MH 370-something? 
 Or is it the missing British yacht?
 Good evening, look you and this is Huw Welshman with the six o' clock news from the PBC.  And in a dramatic day, no honestly, dramatic, in a dramatic day of twists and turns and wotsanames the search for some people is back on, thanks, in large part to you, the viewer, to the unelected prime minister, Mr Cameron, to Mr Murdoch's arselicker-in-chief, Mr Jeremy Hunt and to interest flagging in the doings of Mr Nigel Fruitcake and his  NutKipper Party.
And it's over now to our Northern correspondent, ishmael smith, ishmael what's your take on this?

Take on what?

On the search for the four missing yachtsmen.

Oh, them. 'Slike polo, isn't it?

Isn't what?

Yachting, it's like polo.  It's for layabouts, it's for people with too much money, or access to other people with too much money.  It's for people with nothing better to do.  Fuck 'em.  I don't care about them, let 'em fucking drown,  they don't give a fuck about me. why've I gotta be wound-up, all over again, about some buncha pricks who can't even sail a boat properly. What, I'm supposed to piss myself because some cunt's mummy loves him, or his sister? And anyway, the North Atlantic's no place for a fucking yacht, not unless you gotta a ten-thousand ton ship tied on the back, that you can jump into. I went across it in a six thousand ton tramp steamer and it was like a fucking rowing boat.  Ya ever see those waves, Huw, close-up?  They're like fucking cathedrals crashing down on top of you, you never seen anything so big, so fuck-off powerful. Davy Jones's locker, me 'earties, that's the place for them; full fathom five, my father lies, and his bones they are of coral made...

You what...??

It's Shakespeare, Huw, the Tempest, I think.

Shakespeare???  What's Shakespeare gotta do with it, look you.   This a real life human drama, here, with these four blokes.  And their families.

Ah,  their families.

And what's that supposed to mean, eh, Ah, their families.  Something wrong with families, is there, boyo?

Not something.

What, then?

 Everything's wrong with families,  the cradle of racism, the family;  the crucible of insanity, mothers'n'fathers;  they fuck you up, your mum and dad.  Never mind, Huw, you wouldn't understand , you're only a filthcaster. And your chosen filth subject is Are these blokes dead or not? Well I don't know but Oscar Testosterone is in the loonybin for a month, before they let him off the charge of trollopkilling, so there's no trial,  and nobody gives a fuck, now, about the Malayan airline, so I suppose this is a good bit of filth to have happened along.  That bloke won't be able to believe his luck.

What bloke?

That bloke, professor of upturned yachtology studies, the geezer from Southampton University,  

needle-in-a-haystacking, that bloke.  I betya he thought he'd had his fifteen minutes of fame and now, less than a month later, here he is again, talking shite, currents and wind speed, like he knew something when the only reason he's there is because they need a titled talking head.  Richard Branson, he was on, too, hissing and stuttering about his various founderings and crashes.
Sir Richard Call-Me-Sir-Richard Branson, 
unusually staying afloat for a few minutes.

and some of his many rescue scenarios

Well be that as it may, ishmael, is there any sign of a liferaft up there, on your shore?

On my shore?  No, just  the seals.

But I suppose there could be, I suppose it might eventually drift up there,  they're great blokes, these sailors, everybody says so.

You mean their families say so. Not only my son but my best friend, too, was it?

Well, their families and two hundred thousand twitterers.

Yeah, exactly, two hundred thousand Twitterers. Is that how things now happen, through Twitter, is that how the US Coastguard is to manage itself?  Fuck me, Jesus, Huw, fuck me Jesus;  good thing we didn't have Twitter at the time of D-Day.

Well that was ishmael smith for us there on the Atlantic shore giving us the latest on this breaking story of the four wotsanames, missing presumed alive by their families and dead by the US Coatsguard and I'm joined now here in the studio by that well-known ventriloquism act, Drs Gerry McCann and Cilla.  Gerry, what do you and your dummy make of all this.

Well, clearly, Huw, and lessbeclear about this, clearly, we are doctors and we are  the victims here but putting that aside, Cilla and I are clearly prepared to fly down there, in the First Class(Grieving) cabin, to the Caribbean with some of our highly professional drinking companions, liars of the greatest integrity,  and trample all over the crime scene, refuse to answer any questions and blame the local police for kidnapping the yacht and sinking it.  What do you think, Cilla?

Gottle-a-geer, gottle-a-geer.

There's a good little scouse git, I mean girl. And I'd just like to mention, while I'm here, Huw, that Cilla and I are, as all right-thinking people believe, entirely innocent of neglecting liddle wotsername in any way at all and viewers can still send us just three pounds a week to keep us out of jail, I mean to help us in our search for wotsername, whatever it is.  Like those missing yachtsmen, she is out there somewhere.  Isn't that right, Cilla?

Gottle-a-geer, gottle-a-geer.


 These daily images, of eighty-year olds going into court distress me a bit.  In a way it's OK, you know, for richer for poorer, for better for worse but in another way it's a bit creepy, punitive, the walk of shame they call it on Cruelty TeeVee, it's a bit like putting people in the stocks.  There ought to be a discreet, private entrance to the courts, at least until people are convicted, especially old, old married people.

mr vincent was saying here that Rolf Harris being a beast was particularly shocking.  I know what he meant even though it doesn't shock me.  Some aspects of childhood, ephemera, really, for no readily discernible reason, remain more vivid than others, as though they happened yesterday and I remember - I cannot remember where or with whom - seeing, on a new-fangled teevee set, in 1957, a children's programme called Mick and Montmorency,  a big guy and a little guy, Charlie Drake was the little guy, I don't know the other player but there was a regular guest star, an eccentrically comic turn, he did things like draw an octopus on his hand, dangle the hand in a bowl of water, wriggle the fingers and talk like an octopus.  

The octopus impersonator was Rolf Harris and at the age of six or seven I found him distinctly creepy, if that was entertainment it was a talent I didn't want to have.

I subsequently found the rest of his skillset equally creepy - the double-tracked voicings of Sun Arise, his first pop hit;  the wobble board and the didgeridoo,  the painting,  the version of Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven, bad enough by that gang of noncing plagiarists, infinitely worse by this stage Aussie, beardy, kids entertainer.  And then there was the showbiz-veterinary shit, Animal Hospital, wasn't it?  Always gimme the heeby-jeebies, did Rolf, always.

I am not shocked, therefore, to hear that he abused his counterfeit, showbiz stature in the ways that those people do.  To digress, momentarily, from Rolfing, I have, in passing,  read, over the years that the Beatles' performing tours were, in their own words, like Fellini's Satyricon; that the Rolling Stones' tours were worse, darker, more humiliating for female fans than were the Beatles' high-jinx and that the afore-mentioned Led Zeppelin behaved in ways that the Romans would've found depraved beyond belief.  
There weas also a blatantly beastly so-called Supergroup, Blind Filth, containing at least two heroin adicts, and they displayed a frightful paedo sensitivity, but then they were brilliant musicians, like Rolf Harris.



She was eleven, old enough, eh?

I wonder if Time will ever stand still long enough to see if these demi-Gods, too, might have visited their starry greatness on the under-aged, might face charges; if McCartney or Jagger or Plant and members of their entoureages might, instead of being feted and soireed and honoured by pimp presidents and criminal prime ministers, find themselves in the dock.



Harris, anyway, as far as I know, has all but admitted at least one set of serious sexual offences  and faces many other, lesser ones.

  I say lesser because they are lesser in the eyes of the law, they attract lesser penalties but if you ask anyone who has been molested by a clergyperson they will tell you that the word lesser has no place in the conversation and some of those who allege assault and molestation by Harris claim that their lives were irreparably damaged, devastatingly derailed as much by the fact of the offence as by its gravity,  the beast's gross and - to the victim - truly, fundamentally, 

 That Queen Brenda, what's she like?
She gives these to any old slag.

shattering violation of trust is, in my view, deserving of as severe a penalty as are those offences of penetration, perversion and aberration which we deem more serious. The breaking of trust between the powerful and the weak can only breed delinquence in the victim.

But I am uneasy at seeing an old lady, perhaps herself image-manipulated by showbiz handlers, tottering daily into court, before the filthsters' assembled cameras.  She has few blossom times remaining to her, few, if any and her final days should not be such as these.  If Harris, himself, will not spare her this grim ritual, then he has grown creepier now than my seven-year old self could ever imagine.

Monday 12 May 2014


Well now look, lessbeclear, he's a neighbour of mine, just like Mr Clarkson and Ms Brooks and he's a really nice chap, 


does a lot for charity, that sort of thing and if the chancellor and I had our way people like him - and the jolly decent chaps at Vodafone and Google and Amazon and Oh, I dunno, all the thoroughly decent rich people in the country to whom we all owe so much, or is it the other way 'round, never too sure about the details - people like him, anyway,  wouldn't pay any tax at all.  

I know, I know we've gone some way towards that but we still have a lot to do. What, take back his OBE? 
Well, that was, I think you'll find,  given  to him for services to the country, so.....What, well, of course paying your taxes is a sort of service to the country but  Look,  let's not get into a blame culture, here, 'cos that doesn't  help, well it doesn't help those being blamed, anyway, apart from Mr Carr. And as you know, I am always happy to give people a second chance, and so should everyone be.  And Gary does make a considerable contribution to the public good by bribing me and my party. It's not as though he was caught wanking off a police officer in a public toilet. Not that there's anything wrong with that, so long as they're married.  Wossat?  No, no, George Michael is not a neighbour, are you saying that my constituency is a den of thieves and degenerates? 

In a boy band, myself ? Well, yes, I spose I was, probly, only we called it the Bullingdon Boys, and it was a Rich Boy Band;
D'ya wanna be in my gang,  my gang, my gang?

smashing time we had.
 What, play instruments, fuck me, no;  but neither did Take That.

I don't know who Gary Barlow is or what he does;  apart from the fact that he was in entertainment  and that immediately makes me think of Rolf Harris and Jimmy Saville, Max Clifford and the rest of showbusiness, Michael Jackson, that global gang of simpering hideous kiddyfiddlers.  

Well, as one old queen to another, one does agree that income tax is quite tiresome, one's inspectors seem to want to take this and - aha-ha -  take that, don't they? Are you in the same line of work as that Sir Savile fellow, whom one knighted?
Yes ma'am, one am.  I mean is. One is.
One does hear that there is no business like show business.
Quite, ma'am,  there is. Isn't. Is no. Is no business like show business.

There's a great book about all these ghastly singers, it's called Black Vinyl, White Powders, by Simon Napier Bell, chronicling the legions of predatory,druggy,  homosexual Svengali pop managers,  from Larry Parnes in the 'fifties, Epstein in the 'sixties and people like himself in the 'eighties and 'nineties;  I think that Take That and Boyzone fell outside  the scope of Bell's book but I wouldn't trust my dog, Harris, with their management, never mind an impressionable child.   Barlow will be just another talentless,  dodgy, preening piece of showbiz filth, good for fuck all, bleating about charity and ducking his tax obligations.

mr mongoose, who passed this way an hour ago, used to say, pithily, that taxation equalled civilisation.  I had never heard it put like that but of course he was right, it does.  But try telling that to those within the charmed circle of celebrity.  Who can forget the great holyman, swami, guru and  wife-sharing fuckwit, Hari Georgeson, chuntering about divinity and whining about paying  his tax, revolting Scouse git?
Oh, wow, man, income tax, it's so, so of this world, wordly, 
yeah, that's it, tax, it's just so wordly.
And, like, I shoulden 'ave to pay it. 

The reverend Georgie's modest spiritual retreat.

An artist, impoverished by the taxman, with part of his 
paltry collection of hugely expensive instruments.

We will know only the tip of the showbiz tax avoidance iceberg,  any one of them who can afford the services of the organised criminal faculty of accountancy will be up to their arses in fiddles.  There should be a review of this nonsensical lawyerly nit-picking over evasion and avoidance.  Anyone not paying what they properly owe should have  their  assets confiscated, be stripped of their citizenship and deported to anywhere that'll have them. Bangkok, perhaps, they seem to like it there, pop stars. Fuck 'em, throw them out, never mind giving them fucking medals.

Another showbiz Gary, flying the flag abroad.