Sunday 20 September 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 20th September 2020

Gorgeous, pouting Sasha Swire has written a  book. Apparently, she is Lady Swire, a title that is an affectation of Ruritania. As my dear departed dad - a Yorkshireman - would have said:
That one? Tha's no lady - Tha's no bettern' she should be 
a puzzling phrase, which should be interpreted as condemnation of sexual incontinence. Apparently just bursting with barely contained sexuality, setting afire Oxbridge graduates with her looks, charm, sexual effrontery and perfume

(either typical journalistic exageration or a sad commentary on  the totty available to Oxbridge graduates - okay, just taking my bitch for a walk), this book gaily breaches confidences and conventions and is designed to produce sufficient publicity to get the Lady's back catalogue of unpublished novels onto the printing presses. Enough of that - the interesting thing is that today on Broadcastimg House, gorgeous pouting Edwina Currie,
former mistress of former Prime Minister John Major and herself a diarist, was  wheeled out to support the intelligence, probity, responsibility and general seriousness of the Conservatives, in particular her chum, David Cameron, who would never have been so inflamed by a Lady's perfume that he threatened to drag her into the bushes for the purposes of fragrant delight (or flagrante delicto, as we say in Court). Further, this David, a man of towering intellect, who, together with his Cabinet, could have earned mega-billions as City Bankers, which, of course, is their right, having attended the Right Schools and Universities, are so imbued with the spirit of Public Service, that they prefer to exist on relatively small MP's salaries in order to serve their country. Aye, right. It's all in that "relatively" word. £24,000 is the average salary for a care worker. An MP's salary is £81,932 plus allowances and expenses. The Prime Minister's salary is £158,754. Boris is reported as worrying about money, his salary having shrunk from £350,000, as he sacrificed his newspaper column and speaking arrangements to run the country at our time of national crisis. Gary Linekar, by the way, the crisp man, has a BBC salary of a mere £1.35 million.
Braodcasting House's Paddy O'Connell somehow slid Edwina onto the topic of  Michael Gove and Boris Johnson. Delightfully, her opinion of the current Tory leadership? "They are two ducks off the back of which water will always slip."

Looking good, boys

So, today we'll read mr ishmael's opinion of Gove and Johnson -

As for the cock-waving cokehead, bicycling BoJo, he simply trusts that his fourth-form bluster will carry all before him - as it has, so far - and that the sclerotic, redneck, masturbating horde at the Filth-O-Graph will annoint him Tory leader anytime he feels like it, anytime he grows fed-up with his part-time job as Mayor of Londonistan. He should, actually, read the responses to his hugely lucrative schoolboy rants in the Filth-O-Graph, where  readers are cunt-calling him by a ratio of a hundred-to-one, cursing his hanged-by-the-neck Turkish grand-dad, cursing his gobby dad  and calling Bojo, himself, an anti-British, foreign-devil wog, a walking miscarriage who disgraces the office of Mayor, selling us out to his bosses in Europastan.  Anybody but Livingstone would've seen BorisKen's vanity, of course, wouldn't be  bicycling back, wobbling,  to Rich CokeHead Paradise.  A fence post would've beaten BoJo; Livingstone, however, was just ahead of him in the Oh-fer-fucks-sake-not-this-cunt-again stakes. Ken's vanity, of course, was insurmountable;  had he been concerned more with keeping Boris out than he was with getting Ken in he would've stood down, in favour of the fence post, or a paving slab;  typically, what used to be the Labour Party, a gang of warring shitbags,  was too frightened to tackle Livingstone. And now BoJo, the man Labour should've beaten, wants to be prime minister.  I read somewhere that we are two heartbeats away from having White Powders Johnson as prime minister and Harry Ginger as King. Would that make shit  any worse than it already is? Probably, I suppose; things always get worse.       


Author of the Bible,  former education supremo, Murdoch slag and submissive gimp,  Michael Spit, has vowed massive reform if he and his Tory masters are returned to power.  With my master, the prime minister's permission, we will put an end to cabinet ministers' wives not being able to read and write by the age of fifty, said Mr Spit. It is simply not good enough, in the twenty-first century, for cabinet ministers to be married to cabinet ministers' wives who can't string together a fucking sentence, even for the readership of the Daily fucking Mail,
is it, fatso?

Speaking at the Toby Young Free Scool for the brats of greedy, pushy arsehole parents.

Tory pin-up and Gove praise-singer struts his stuff.

My children are rather special, like myself, really; that's why the govament takes money from ordinary schools, for ordinary children, and gives it to mine, and other ghastly spoiled brats.
One nation Toryism, we call it.

I used to watch Micky Gove, Oh, I think it may have been in the last century; before he was an MP he did a late-night discussion show with people's Tribune, Dame Polyp Toynbee of Majorca. It was called a discussion show,  between so-called Left and so-called Right but it was a rant, Gove, visibly entranced by the sound of his own voice, captivated by the erudition, conviction and persuasion of his arguments - generally on the delights of  usury and the unregulated market -  couldn't stop himself, Yes, I know Polly, but it is very important that I finish this point which, I assure you, will deal, rather more than adequately, with the one you are hinting at and which will, I am confident, demonstrate, even to you,  that the bankruptcy, indeed the vacuity of your position is indicative of the failure of intellectual rigour of those on what we call the Left but which is in fact something entirely different, something truly iniquitous and as a matter of fact much more ignoble even than that archaic and oppressive denial of the human spirit which characterises all attempts at a state-regulated economy, such as those of Chairman Mao Tse Tung or the successive elderly oligarchs in the Soviet Praesideum, now defunct thanks to Mrs Thatcher's far-sighted and valiant  demolition of the Berlin Wall but as even Marx himself said, many are  cold but few are frozen and it is only radical, radical but compassionate, compassionate but determinedly free market economics mediated by the truly and precisely calibrated compassionate conservatism which offers not just this country but indeed, if I may so boldly  vouchsafe, the whole, polyglot tide of humanity the opportunity to ameliorate its ills and reach its true potential. But forgive me the digression, Polly, and to return to the properly intended  burden of my subject.......

I used to sit open-mouthed, watching  Gove; he simply wouldn't allow Toynbee a word in-edgeways;  he was a bizarrely seeming-courteous gabshite, a pseudo-polite bully who spoke so fervently that the spit gathered in the corners of his mouth, a site which must have distressed any who witnessed it - those people who now, these days, I guess, sit glued, ashamed of themselves,  to the sneery, torpid ennui of Andy Neil and his bumsuckers, Portillo and Co. I found myself doing it for a moment last night, until I realised that I was watching and listening to the cultural and ethical desert which is called Alan Johnson. God help his poor, errant wife, faced with a lifetime of evenings spent with this smug, empty-headed, semi-literate hypocrite, rehearsing his wasteland repertoire of gossip, spite and IKnowBestism.  Christ, you would forgive  her infidelity with the entire Metropolitan Police Force, wouldn't you, the maddest Sharia court in the world would order Alan Johnson stoned, not his poor Mrs.   There is, among my generation, anyway,  a dark appetite for a late-night, political junky fix but like smoking and drinking and meat-eating it is an appetite which grows duller the more it is fed.  I don't think the NewPeople have it at all. It afflicts just we lonesome insomniacs, up all night, leaning on the windowsill, muttering.
 For most of my life I have staunchly advocated the rights of people to fuck and fondle  as they choose or are impelled to do by events and influences far beyond their ken. Life is brief and hard enough without having lawnforcement in the bedroom, I've always thought, just as long as people are acting within whatever is the current law. 
I am mindful that such a posture can be seen as endorsing an over-reach of the criminal law, already pernicious and invasive, and that the NewPeople urge us to  assume goodness on the part of all and leave people to do as they please;  there is, however, a host of reasons for us policing sexual conduct and behaviours, we need only look to the Harriet Harman paedophile scandal, a time in recent memory when cynical men found - were given - opportunity to romanticise and dignify cruel perversion, to bring it under the Rights banner, to have its cause championed by a squalid elite,  that there should have been permitted to exist an organisation called the Paedophile Information Exchange is now almost unbelieveable - but that it now seems monstrous is not due to legislators, some - at least some - of whom were and remain fellow-travellers but to victims and campaigners on their behalf;  Harriet Harman, Patricia Hewitt, then head of what was grandly-titled the National Council for Civil Liberties - later Ms Chakrawotsit's Liberty -  would both have seen all the children buggered, the ghastly, hideous Leon Brittan would lose the evidence; Margaret Thatcher and the Prince of Wales would cuddle the perpetrators;  the Churches would - and still do - protect the culprit and slander the victim.

I mention this recent, mind-boggling, national, institutionalised criminality because that's what I voted against, the other day.(2016 EU referendum) I voted against Filth, historical and current; so, too, I suspect, did millions of others.   From over-censorious hypocrisy, from  police entrapment,  blackmail and queer-bashing we have moved, in a generation, almost full-circle,  to a sustained, vengeful attack on heterosexuality, marriage and the family - never as ideal as protrayed, of course, but comforting and rewarding for many, sacred for some and conducive to a progressive, rights-based society, to self-sacrifice, self-denial and co-operation.  Now we see men, dressed as nuns, brandishing dildos on the streets and call it Pride. I simply cannot abide all that fag women-hating that goes on in the name of Freedom, nor will I ever, purely on rational grounds,  call man woman

I don't give a fuck about Europe, I rarely go and even when I do I live in a land where I am no longer citizen but citizen-suspect and  so my travel to anywhere is an ordeal of suspicion and bullying and hostility at the hands of yellow-jacketed, smirking, shiny-headed unemployables, minimum-waged stormtroopers, insufficiently bright to be police constables or prison officers, drowning me in halitosis whilst they manhandle me within a millimetre of an explosive punch.  Oh but mr ishmael, it's for security. No, it fucking isn't, don't be stupid; jailing Tony Blair and George Dubya Chimp,  that would do something for security. They must love this, those who jet around,unhassled,  above our daily humiliation.   In or out of Europe my masters presume me guilty of something, to keep me in my place. Well, me and seventeen million others, we just found them guilty, in return.

The same people - the Harmans, the Straws - those who embraced the Paedophile Information Exchange - now make not just my person  suspect but my thoughts, too.  Be it Jacqui Schmidt or Tracey May, Satan's cocksuckers  demand that I relinquish my privacy to them, my thoughts, my correspondence, only that they might protect me.  The same people who nourished alien child-grooming gangs, people like Mr Jack Bribes'n'Torture and Mr Dennis the Crook McShane and the contemptible  Nick Clegg; call me reactionary and ill-informed, insist that if I have nothing to hide I have nothing to fear;  the  truth is that I have plenty to hide - what's that old, bardic line, If my thought dreams could be seen they'd probably put my head in a guillotine - and I will hide it the better outside of an inquisitorial EuroPolice state, all of its teeming magistrates able to instigate my arrest and rendition and imprisonment. I voted against that, too;  who, in their right mind wouldn't?

I don't give a fuck about trade, either. I know about trade, I have traded, I know how to make a profit;  people will do it, they always have, when its prohibited, for fuck's sake,  people smuggle.  People want goods and services, other people want to provide them, in that process value is added, taxation raised, services provided.  If the Sultans of Brussels restrict UK trade with member states, if they impede the exporting of BMWs to the UK, they'll be hung from the lamp posts, their balls in their mouths.  

Here's a thought.  I will change my car in a few months and have been considering a BMW 3 series Touring, a C Class Mercedes Wagon, an Audi Avant estate and a Volvo SUV.  Now, no, seriously, now I will go for a Mazda, a Nissan  or a Honda, maybe a Ford.  Fuck 'em, the Europeans, as individuals we should sanction them.

Trade is civilisation, now unelected bureaucrats and buffoons like Obama sternly threaten that very civilisation, threaten livelihoods and public services, cheeky cunts. Obama can't stop hundreds of tonnes of cocaine being shipped-in to America's rich, thousands of tonnes of hash coming over the border or being grown  at home, can't restrict Americans'  fondness for self-massacre, can't even close a torture camp in his jurisdiction and yet the  useless impertinent nincompoop  wants to punish somebody who makes widgets in West Bromwich;  somebody should punch him in his stupid, stuttering gob, kick his scrawny arse up and down Pennsylvania Avenue.  I voted against Obama, the other day, too. 

I recently  read a comment thread in the Guardian, about fragrance, they didn't call it fragrance, just perfumes and deodorant.  The NewPeople, it seems, are incensed by perfumes on the tube, in which, daily, they go about their angry lives. It's gonna kill them all, they say, people wearing scent. It should be made illegal. Walking through airport perfume retailers just quite ruins their experience.  They really were raging and drooling. (Me, I try them all, at the airport, I love fragrances, light ones, heavy ones. I like the good, old ones the most - Chanel, Guerlain, Dior - but I like some of the newer ones, too, Calvin Klein and Boss, all the various Obsessions and Poisons, quite makes my journey, it does, once I have been police-stated airside,  sniffing and testing nice smells. Not so these joyless, prohibitive bastards who read the Guardian, y'know, thinking it still is the Guardian.)  

Recently, in Aberdeen Hospital, an older, lady phlebologist came to take a blood sample, I knew her of old, I think she may be a bit deaf, has a minor speech impediment, like deaf people sometimes do,  not quite fully making her words, and I really, really like her. Gosh, I said, tentatively, that perfume's  nice, what is it?  She laughed to herself and eventually said - It's one of my husband's aftershaves, it's an expensive one, but he doesn't like it,  doesn't wear it, so I do. It's alright for pushing this trolley up and down hospital corridors.  I laughed out-loud, saying, that's the sorta thing I'd do, too, and it is.  Although I have  lots of good stuff I very rarely wear any man cologne, coupla times a year, maybe, that's it, charity shop'll get an olfactory bonanza when I die,  but I always like it when I do, nothing erotic about it, nothing seductive, I just like the smell, and the craft of the parfumier, lifts me up where I belong and if I'm there when mrs ishmael is putting some on I may have a dab on my wrists, sniff it, through the day.  Guardian readers, by a hundred to one, want perfumes banned in public places,  their train journeys are made miserable by scent.  Now, if I had to travel daily on one of those fucking diabolical subterranean cattle trains  beloved of BoJo and Kahn the Kunt then other people's perfumes would be way down my list of grievances, overcrowding, unreliability, safety and cost being of much more concern.
I am nowhere near as clever as the average Guardian reader, even so, I am hundreds of miles from the nearest subway train system and if people can't stand the trains they should move to the country and live off their wits, only they haven't got any and thus, witless,  prefer to find something which others enjoy and prohibit it. I voted against the Guardian, too, the other day, too, anyone who writes for it, anyone who supports it by occasional purchase or by subscription. Polly Toynbee, defender of the poor?  Gimme fucking  strength.

 Something happened, with the post-war expansion of the public sector and the upsurge of grammar school alumni rising through its ranks.  People who had virtually no trade skills and none of the wit derived from scratching a living in the real world found themselves in positions from which they could decide what was best for others and lecture them accordingly, others such as tenants, passengers, patients, pupils and customers.  It was the dawn of I-Know-Bestism, now a ruinous plague.

But I didn't come to talk about the Eurendum.  mr bob doney offered his thanks for the  endless commentary, here,  of discouragement to our enemies and I thought I should say something about that because, inasmuch as my opinion matters more than another's - which it doesn't - that is not how I see it, this cyber streetcorner.

mr tdg sometimes obliquely challenges my assertions about and support for the people. Worlds, he reminds us, they rise and fall, this is all a speck in Time's eye; art, thought and culture, that is the stuff which matters, not tribal squabbles over who bestrides the dungheap, the people, should not be my preoccupation   and I am rightly reproved, even though I do hymn, often, those other things.   

What the people want, according to any objective analysis of how Want is expressed and satisfied, is tat and pornography, bling and boobs;  the best-selling newspaper in the country succeeded because of its daily portrayal of teenage tits, the younger the better, and lies, filthy, disgusting lies, about everything, not just about Hillsbro.  Rupert Murdoch and his McKenzie sluts - Trevor Kavanagh, Larry Lamb, Adam Lard, Kay Burley, Toilets Maguire, Andrew Pierce, Cameron's playmates, Jerry Clarkson and Bekkah Brooks and notably the redneck playboy ancien, Andy Neil, have  grotesquely disfigured the nation, coarsened the public discourse, corrupted the police and ensnared the legislature. All this happened, though, because of and not despite the  people, whose rights we have sought to strengthen and protect. Why do we bother, why do we celebrate the Eurendum result when, tomorrow, those who voted for departure would also vote for hanging, for castration, will genuflect before some braindead, crooked bullyboy foreign  football manager? 

Well, my response to my episodic self-scourging is to remind myself that things, for Everyman,  at home and abroad, have grown much better than they were when I was born - people live longer and in greater comfort, the opportunities for  self-improvement are staggering, that is even said to be the case in those parts of the world which we used to call Third; maybe the urge to hang people will diminish as a result of wider access to information but I don't know how a referendum on capital punishment would pan-out, held tomorrow; maybe we would need the Europhiles to prevent us breaking, again, the necks of the guilty and the innocent.

I am fairly sure that among my fellow-leavers will be a significant number who consider their children their best friends, luv'em2bits, woulddoennyfin4'em, read the Sun,  hate and fear Otherness and are generally completely worthless arseholes, a waste of oxygen, a pollution.  I am cautious about the idea of family, even, its cruel wastelands;  I feel absolutely no kinship, fellowship or comradeship with other Leavers, present company excepted, not exactly a Man of the People, me;  the idea of the people, though, that's another thing entirely and I am overjoyed at the idea that large numbers of people, finally given the opportunity, have, acting collectively, ignoring their traditional masters, upset Greed's applecart, flung a spanner in Vice's works, put a fly in Ambition's ointment and generally pissed on Order's brogues. It is a delight to me, the idea of Everyman; he doesn't have to exist.

I take everyone's strictures, here, to heart, no point in coming, otherwise; I am grateful, content to be censured and reproved, amended and corrected and so I can embrace the suggestion that the people are not as I idealise them.  This is not, therefore, the endless commentary of discouragement noted by mr bob doney, rather,  it is as much an enquiry as a polemic
The people, therefore, their rights and needs, it is, all of it, a moot point.
There was a headline, from the Guardian, appeared, somehow, on my screen:  "Why your pet doesn't love you, but is just trapped by you." It was red mist time, again.  I didn't read it.   

Honest, Not Invent
- an anthology of writing by stanislav and mr ishmael, is now available. For reviews, go to The Sunday Ishmael: Publication Announcement: Honest, Not Invent:13/09/20
The book is available as either paperback or hardback; we've had proof copies of both and the production quality is very good.  Cover design is the same for both.  340 pages, each chapter dated in the list of contents; we have stanislav from as long ago as 2007, and some of the finest ishmael essays from the present blog.  For now (there are still a few hoops to go through before it appears elsewhere, at the same price) the book is only available from   No one's billing or delivery address, nor any payment info, will be available or disclosed to the creator of the book; all this is securely handled by the publishing platform. Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy should follow these steps:

Please register an account with them first.  This will save you a couple of quid, as going straight into the links provided below seems to make paypal think it's ok to charge in dollars, and apply their own conversion rate, which will put the price up slightly for a UK buyer.  Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Honest, Not Invent" into the Lulu Bookstore search box.  If you follow a link, a pop-up box asks for age confirmation - simply set the date to (say) 1 January 1960, and proceed.  If you type the title, the anthology will not appear as a search result until the "show explicit content" box (found at the bottom left by scrolling down) has been checked.  You may also see the age verification box, as above, at this point.

The full title is "Honest, Not Invent - the best of stanislav, a young polish plumber", and the cover you'll see is red with white titles and a picture of Buster the Blog Dog.  

Link for Hard Back : 

Link for Paper Back : 

At checkout, try READ15 in the coupon box, which (for the moment) takes 15% off the price before postage.  If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for " voucher code" and see what comes up.  (ORDER10 might also work, for a 10% discount, if the 15% has expired.)
With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £14.35; HB £23.74.  

Today's essays by mr ishmael are: 
What the Papers say (an extract)                                             - drafted   2/11/13
Gove Campaign Pledge                                                           - drafted 18/04/2015
Long Ago I heard someone say something about Everyman  - drafted  6/08/16



Bungalow Bill said...

That Edwina picture is a terrible thing, Mrs I. An omen if ever there was one.

How sad that, after the Leave vote, Mr I's expression of joy in the name of Everyman has been so betrayed. We should have known, I suppose.

mrs ishmael said...

Should I apologise for posting that terrible picture of Edwina, or should she apologise for posing for it? Sorry for any distress caused, mr bungalow bill. Wasn't the picture taken at a time when mr Edwina had been given the bum's rush out of westminster, and it fell on Edwina to be the breadwinner in the age old way?
mr ishmael was of the opinion that the financial and political establishment would make damn sure that, despite the vote, Britain would never leave the EU. How's that shaping? Hasn't there been a rather convenient Covid-crisis to create some smoke and mirrors?

Mike said...

God!! There has been a shocking series of PMs since Johnny Underpants: Blair, Gordon Snot, Flashman Cameron, May, now BoJo. Each useless and dangerous. What next?

mrs ishmael said...

Michael Spit Gove is next, mr mike. It's his turn.

Anonymous said...

Edwina rang a bell...this was stanislav in November 2007 (hat-tip the plumberslogic archive)...


stanislav said...

Drag Queen and former Westminster bicycle Mr Edwin Currie said that she would lie down under (another) hundred policemen if it kept Mr Paddick out of public life and confined him to hanging around public toilets, like a good Liberal Democrat. Never mind enquiries, said Mr Currie, fluttering his eyelashes at the audience of the BBC’s popular entertainment programme, Any Old Bollocks, never mind inquests, never mind resignation, what I want is cock. And lots of it. And money. Money and cock. True Conservative values. Cock and money, money and cock; ‘swhat we stand for.

You had eighteen years of cock, Edwina, under the last prime minister, said Mr David Nutter Lammie, and we will, if you will let me finish, David, take no lectures from Mr or Mrs Currie on the subject of cock and money. Our prime minister has demonstrated his expertise in these matters for over ten years, both here and in the nightspots of New England; never have honourable and right honourable members had so much cock and money. Look at me. I’m black. And still a cunt...Interrupting, a Welsh member of the whatever-it-is, said We Welsh know a thing or two, look you, about cock, innit, bach? We have had famous badgercock man Ron (I was mugged by a fucking nigger, prime minister) Davies and we have had, surely, the biggest cock of all time in his grace the noble Earl Boyo Kinnock. His cock was so big, look you, he kept falling over; it was the weight of his cock, you see, made him fall over at the seaside; he wasn’t a stupid useless gabshite like they say, it was just his cock, that big, it was. It is time we were an independent nation and then maybe humble members like myself might get some cock, although I doubt it; Tom Jones would be nice, he has a big one, or so I am told my Mr Rhodri Morgan, who is a particular friend of Sir Tom.

I was with Sir Ian Blair, or Ian as I call him, for lunch with him and many other very important senior policemen and very important senior lawyer friends from the Lodge, said PC Panic, and they all know I like a bit of cock when I can get some, a few tokes on the old weed and a snort or two of amyl nitrate and I’m anybody’s, as they say down the police federation, long as they have a cock attached, and some money, bit like you there, Edwina, but I definitely do not think that just because Ian has made an utter, some might, well the Brazilians might say, fatal cock-up in the matter concerning the extermination of Mr Jean-Paul whatever-his-name-is, no reason for him to resign from the Lodge. Jean-Paul was a wog, after all, wasn’t he? And though it's not Liberal Democrat policy to shoot them on sight this man has no-one to blame but himself for being there and getting in the way of some very well-aimed bullets from some highly trained, well-muscled, oiled and toned and extremely butch unaccountable psycho killers. If some dago can’t spot a gang of momma's boy psychokillers cruising in his direction he should have stayed in Brazil. With the Trannies. Doesn’t mean Ian should resign. He’s done nothing wrong. If Ian feels he can do his duties best from a sofa in a tv studio, if he feels that it's ok that nobody in the organisation tells him what’s going on, well, where's the harm in that?...are you going my way home, Mr Lammie?

4:16 PM, November 02, 2007

Doug Shoulders said...

Those pictures would suggest that you need to have some kind of self-perception removal procedure to enter politics.
Our politicians must be the laughing stock of the world.
Imagine Bad Vlad seeing all that lot. Curry is about as alluring as a vindaloo.
Even in during an intimate occasion; what the flying fuck colour is the sky in your world where standing bollock for a photo is adult behaviour?

Mike said...

BoJo's lost the plot. This is a very sobering (and credible) read.

mongoose said...

I would rather have me arse rubbed with a housebrick than even tink about the Swire woman, or Edwina for that matter. Can they not keep theirr traps shut about such matters? It is the same with the alphabet crowd - we don't care who you're shagging or not shagging. Just crack on but shut the fuck up about it. That Cameron boy BTW has a way with words, does he not? He knows how to charm the ladies. Just like Prince Chas with his epic tampon chat. Dear god.

The Great Tyranny must be either a cock-up or a conspiracy. As it is impossible to arrange such an international conspiracy, I fear that we are stuck with the effects of the bastardisation of science that has happened this last three decades. If an idiot can think that we can just make everything electric, that we can make a sensible economic case for planting the oceans thick with windmills, that the energy density of hydrocarbons can be replaced by covering the earth with solar panels - btw they're called rare metals for a reason - well, I despair. The politicians are all, of course, scientifically illiterate but those now at the top of the science tree have been so long steeped in petty deceits that they are little better. Not a one of them with a real job, with real customers who can bugger off if the price gets too high. The Precautinary Principle. Oh, do fuck off. They know nothing of what they have done to the economy. The great reset will have to include money. It will all have to become imaginary electric money.

The dead fly in the ointment is poor RBG. A turn of events so poorly timed that her passing may yet turn the SCOTUS 6-3 before the leaves have fallen. And, and ensure the re-election of the Orange Horror. It will though be a lawyer's wet dream of an election day. I will make some popcorn, fill the fridge with beer and watch it all.

Benjamin said...

Experts ! When my middle son was an infant he had a terrible dose of the shites! Doctor said starve him.. I mean have you ever starved a baby.. As luck would have it my wife had worked with a woman of gypsy extraction who upon hearing of our predicament prescribed apple juice.. The apple juice worked within an hour of administering.. so i take the word of an expert with a pinch of salt.. The romany woman died aged 83 and believe it or not she smoked up to sixty fags a day

inmate said...

Yah they're here, the books that is Honest not Invent. 'Kin hilarious, stuff I've not read before.
...right before your fucking eye and you with it you fucking lunatic. Is only one fucking Queen round here, matey, and it aint you.
I literally wet meself laughing. Can't put it down.

Bungalow Bill said...

Mine's on its way, I'm advised by shipping sources.

Meanwhile, hope lies in the young. News from universities suggests widespread loathing of the Covid Terror, the injustice suffered by students being unarguable. Our children and grandchildren can be furious and articulate in the cause of freedom, even if it is their own freedom.

I pray that they will also be unafraid and can get on to the streets and campuses in serious numbers to fuck up the hideous oppression visited upon them.. We, the idiot elderly, need them to save us; but not from Covid.

mrs ishmael said...

Maybe we should do a promotion, editor mr verge - free incontinence product with every copy of the book - what do you think? Sorry you wet your pants, mr inmate - makes a change, though, from red wine spurted onto monitors and keyboards. I'm glad you like it. Me too.
mr mike's link leads to an article that is very credibly - as he says - demonstrating that the EckonomyStupid has been fucked because nobody in power understood the science.
Here in FuckingScotland, I can only entertain tradespersons in my house. So, if I would like a friend to call in, I shall have to ask her to do a small, chargeable, task. Or meet her in a bar or restaurant, where we are able to doff our masks only while actually eating. In our Universities, where students are receiving their education virtually (better off with the Open University), students were required to move into University accommodation in order to maintain University rental income. These accommodations have shared kitchens and bathrooms. The kids are all testing positive and are required to isolate in their rather cramped accommodation and not allowed to go home.
It is a cock-up, mr mongoose, as usual, leavened with the profit motive.

Caratacus said...

"If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear". The last person to deliver that line to me was a polissman, condescending in tone and with nothing about him to inspire trust. I asked him if he had curtains in his house and when he replied reluctantly in the affirmative, I asked why. His slow realisation of the difference between privacy and security was pathetic to behold.

Mike said...

Mrs I: we have a similar situation down here with quarantine. First, although Australia is a vast country with remote rural outback, and over the last 200 years had plenty of experience with quarantine, where do the stupid fuckers put overseas arrivals in quarantine? Well, in central Melbourne and Sydney hotels. In reality, this was to subsidise hotels for loss of tourist income. Second, they then outsource "security" at hotels to private security firms at $100/man-hour who then promptly employ casual (possibly illegal) workers at $20/hour with no training or protective gear. You can imagine the result. A public inquiry on this is about to be published; heads will definitely roll, unlike in the UK.

Mike said...

Update: the first head rolls.

mongoose said...

In the US, mr mike, the courts are starting to act up:

One cannot just do repressive shit apparently. I do not think thta the UK state has powers to impriosn me if I fail to pay a covid trangression "fixed penalty". (Indeed on another front entirely, I do not think that fixed penalties are lawful at all as a means of administrative coercion. Alas, to test that needs v deep pockets.)

My book arrived today. I have yet to dive in but it looks very excellent work indeed, mrs i and mr verge. Well done!

Mike said...

Updated link. Never heard of the woman, but its just the first of probably many. Trying to get out while the going is good.

mrs ishmael said...

Ah mr mongoose, they have it covered. The Health Protection (Coronavirus, Restrictions) (England) Regulations 2020
paragraph 11 of the above statutory instrument states: "Proceedings for an offence under these Regulations may be brought by the Crown Prosecution Service and any person designated by the Secretary of State."
Failure to pay the fine is imprisonable.
Now, it may not be ethical, but it is certainly legal.
And, on a cheerier note, glad your copy of the book has arrived - they don't seem to be taking too long to print on demand - and I know you will enjoy it.