God knows there's no shame in being a drunk; when you think about it, why we are not all drunk is a curiosity. Kennedy, however, was no ordinary drunk, like all career politicans he held the rest of us in contempt, pretending that he stepped-down as Chief ShitEater voluntarily, to deal with his addiction, when, in fact, it was only his imminent exposure by a former close aide which prompted his crass, Doing The Right Thing resignation speech. Without the threat of exposure, Kennedy would have stumbled along, deluded and deluding, if he could have, right into Downing Street and the nation's defence, pissed as a rat. That is one of the many shameful episodes of the now defunct LibDem episode, that an entire political party lied to the nation abiout the fitness for office of its leader. Even Big Al remarked to me, at the time, that it was all hilarious.
Kennedy's toilet-stalker colleagues, as they did with ShitGobbler, Mark Oaten, with DogShooter, Jeremy Thorpe, with perverter of justice, Chris Huhne and notably with David Steel and child sexual abuser Fat Cyril Smith, all rallied around, Them against Us-ing, lying, dissembling, distorting and lying some more. More than any other filthsters, the LibDems, on the doorstep, the hustings and in the House are a pack of filthy liars, opportunists and bullies; Straight Simon Hughes or Predator Mick Hancock, take your pick, it is a party of degenerate monsters and I suppose Kennedy's being a gobby, show-off dipsomaniac was pretty small beer by comparison with most of his mates.
It is true that he opposed the Iraq war, so did most people, it is not a matter for eulogy, one right thing, in a career of wrong things. There will be no crocodile tears in my patch of the Highlands and Islands.
I was in FortWilliam just a couple of weeks ago, Kennedy's home town, a grim, poor, tatty-looking place, only the mountain walkers keeping it afloat; that might be due to the Tribesmen's perpetual freezing of council tax and slashing of jobs - most of their warriors dinnae do work; see me, benefits is m'right, cuz a yon oil, we dinna have tae work, fuck that Tory shite, eh? ... so that aspect of Tribal rule doesn't bother them - but an MPs duty is to fight for his constituency, that's what all these loathsome maiden speechers are saying at the moment, and not for a thousand-pounds-a-gig seat on the dismal Have I Got Stale News For You Show, among all the other preening sataristes faux.
FortWilliam was no testament to a hard-working local MP. Still, now they have a Tribesman at the helm, the fucking place'll collapse entirely, like everywher else they get hold of. All England's fault, ye ken.
FortWilliam was no testament to a hard-working local MP. Still, now they have a Tribesman at the helm, the fucking place'll collapse entirely, like everywher else they get hold of. All England's fault, ye ken.
Kennedy was a confirmed bachelor, until, just like fellow-bachelor, Mr Gordon snot, he thought he might find himself in Downing Street and so promptly married and bred, like normal people do. Soon, though, the marriage, along with the dreams of power, withered and died. Funny, how love can be.
Maybe the recent loss of his seat, his father and the sourness of his marriage, conspired against his mind. Doesn't matter. People die miserably every day, nothing special anout this gilded gabshite. MediaMinster, however, will force feed us like Strasbourg Geese with his oily merits and starchy achievements - youngest this, greatest that, unique contribution to the nation. We must gird our loins against an onslaught of Field Marshal Pantsdownisms, all our hopes that he'd fuck off into a hatless wilderness dashed. A second breath to Paddy's great statesmanship-of-stupidity, le morte-de Charlie.
Well, you know, Charles was my second-in-command before I was promoted Field Marshal i/c, the Balkans and when he took over he did a damn fine job, a damn fine job. In due course I shall be writing a book or two about what a fine subordinate he was, perhaps writing some articles but for now I have a full schedule of interviews to do for our colleagues in the Media part of MediaMinster, not that there's any difference between us, eh? Stand easy, there.
Never heard of him,
watch out or I'll have you on a charge
Best of all, Nutter-Gnasher is doing Charlie-mourning, too,
although yesterday she would have called him anti-Scottish, an unpatriotic Tory, a fearmonger, the whole lexicon of SNP horseshit. Maybe she'll take a day off from crucifying Alastair Carmichael's family but it is most unlikely, a one-party state, that's the new bonny Scotland she insists we need, horrid, arse-faced little mutant.
Unlike Gnasher, Kennedy was returned, to Westminster, what, six or seven times, so he obviously did something to please people. There will be gurning in the Great Glen for some time. Friends of Danny Alexander, if he has any, just down the road, may put him on suicide watch and there may be a national sympathy for the ghastly LibDems, Kennedy's death might actually do them some service; it can't, let's face it, do them much harm.
I dunno - in no way disagreeing with you but the first point is perhaps the main point - why the chuff are we not drunk all the time? I have a drinking problem, have done for ages now and am supposed to hold down a job for, yer know, beer tokens and stuff and it seems to me that one of the best forms of defence is both denial and attack; try and get to a reasonable level of seniority and promote your mates. Granted, necking a bottle of scotch a day and being in a position of publicity is gonna be a problem for all but rock stars but....
I'm not gonna eulogise the fuck - he was a dog shooter and his party are pure scumbags but they built him up so they could knock him down. As someone over at Colonel von Fawkes wisely pointed out - he outlived his party. I doubt it was suicide as Psycho Campbell or Matthew Oakshott (jeez, i'd feel sorry for the dog shit on my shoe if I had to wipe it on him) but that much booze is gonna cause a massive coronory sooner or later. I get arythmia sometimes and palpatations after decent benders but I do take the occassional few days off but for Charley boy, well, on subsidized booze with such a large amount of people you can get pissed with - well, be churlish not to.
He may have been a bit shit but over the one plain elephant in the room that was Iraq, well, it kinda makes the rest of them appear as shallow and careerist as bloody estate agents.
They had a Mike Cockerall thing on about Parliament a few months back and Charlie was on it for a bit, a little bit pissed to be sure, but he was gibbering about finding your way round the estate and he genuinely seemed wuite giggly that after 30+ years he still didn't have a clue. I got the impression too that he was nice to the staff - not a bad thing. Whatever he was, he seemed more a parliamentarian than a narcisstic power mad fuck and for that, well, i'll have a drink to the lad. Charlie vs Clegg - jeez, that would turn the soberest of Libbers to drink!
Odd, how a bus driver going to work drunk would be a national outrage but a lawmaker, well, just a warm, lovely human being; that's my gripe about Kennedy's boozing.
Even in this opportune moment, Clegg is truly, trukly repulsive, what is the matter with Sheffield?
I didn't understand drink until I was forty, when I discarded a script written for me by my father. I don't have to do this, I said, one day, just because he did it, and I stopped doing that sort of drinking and I rarely drink at all now - with thirty years Type 1 diabetes, I really shouldn't but I don't want to anyway. Even so, I would take to the barricades in support of people's absolute, inalienable human right to get off their heads by any means they choose - why are we not all drunk? - I have said to you, before, that wherever in history and geography two or three were gathered together they found something to brew, distil or cultivate and drink, chew, eat, inhale, inject or shove up their arses in order to relieve the foreknowledge of Death which is Life's major burden, Some cheeky cunt of a politician meddling in such behaviour is an intolerable over-reach of the criminal law. Your own drinking yourself to death, however, serves no-one well, mr dick; I would miss you, even if no-one else did. Mind, how you go.
Charlie was irrelevant in the scheme of things. I don't recall him ever saying anything profound - indeed I can't recall him saying anything.
However, I must say I was a little bit sad to read of his death (can't think of many others I would say that of). Maybe it was suprise he was only 55. Or maybe I felt sorry for him, for some wierd reason, as I'm sure he couldn't give a fuck about me.
But its odd that some deaths ring a bell - I felt sad when Freddie Mercury died, for example.
Yes it is very true. He will be greatly not missed.
I'd hazard a guess, mr mike, that they psych you up, in advance, some of them, for their deaths, by their conduct in life. Only a recluse would have been surprised by Mercury's lengthy, anal suicide; he gloried, quite openly, in his hideously risky sexual behaviours, a bit strong of surviving Queeners to damn people for talking about Mercury's part in his own death. Kennedy squandered his life in advance of his death, didn't he? I shouldn't think anyone was truly surprised by his passing; the feeling you describe being a resolution, a completion of a course he had embarked upon long ago. Amy WHitehouse, the Geldof brat, they flag it up, don't they, so many of them, so's that when it happens, people react appropriately. It's a bit like mr tdg's recreational martyrdom, a bit no business like showbusiness.
mrs ishmael's first husband was one of those, told a hundred times to stop drinking, didn't give a fuck about leaving his children without their father, his second wife and stepchild without him, a waste of fucking space, dead at 47 from preventable liver disease.
Charles Moore had a lovely essay in the Sunday Telegraph, about assisted dying being the ultimate control-freakery, describing a Mr Spector who, unwilling to face even the prospect of quadraplegia - and that's all it was, a possibility - opted for Dignitas,in his forties, but not before filming a Last Supper, the horrible cunt, with his wife and children, stage managing even their reaction to his on the morrow suicide. If I'da known him and he discussed that with me, maybe he wouldn't have needed Dignitas.
Maybe Kennedy needed someone to shake him warmly by the throat. Too late now.
Niot for a day or two, yet, mr alphons, MediaMinster must get its money's worth and the Sundays will be great.
Exactly true, Mr I. I was trying to illustrate the absurdity of it.
And you're right, he never said anything worth remembering, did he?
Well yeah, drinking on the job is usually problematic but certain jobs are worse to be sure. I guess the only one where it is socially acceptable remains some kind of entertainer although the buggers are hitting that too. When I used to work for the cops it was almost required from Wednesday onwards to go the boozer for lunch and local government guys always had a bottle of pop in their bottom drawer but now, no, not so much. If I go for a single beer at lunch on a Friday it’s done under cloak and dagger whereas as late as 2002 maybe, they used to have strippers on a Wednesday at lunchtimes!! Bit odd tucking into your pie and peas whilst Shirley was gyrating to the smooth rhythms on Lionel Richie.
I dunno if it’s progress or not – probably is, I suppose – we’re all professionals now, dontcha know. I’m in no way as bad as Kennedy – the only times I’ve polished off a bottle of spirits in one sitting has made me feel like shit for a few days afterwards – I think the most I’ve done is about 3 bottles in a week but there was the massive realisation may wanna calm this down a bit. In some ways I think I’ve been lucky with liking dope too so it’s pretty hard absolutely hammering it when the Wine cries Mary (hmm….taxi may be?). One of my news year’s resolutions a few years ago was ‘give up cider, it’s horrific’ and I went to the cricket this weekend and was almost forced into drinking it - £4 for a pint of 3.8% Carlsberg is Ice Cold in Alex territory and I think I’ve only ever had one can of Carling in my life and I think I didn’t finish that. Nah, I guess boozing is only problematic when it becomes a problem and jobs are pretty good at restraining people’s craven addictions. As mentioned, I’m not saying ‘bravo’ to the fella but I’ve lost so much respect for MPs that being an accurate dipso on matters of sociocide, well, I’m sorry for the guy’s family. In the litany of God awful creeps that surround that place, having something mildly in common with a few of them seems almost novel. He probably did assist in covering up some of his repugnant colleagues tho but that’s a whole different can of worms. Cheers tho Mr Smith, don’t plan on going anywhere soon!!
Mr Ish: "anal suicide" sounds like a Norwegian Death Metal band. (Can't think of a single thing Queen recorded that I'd listen to on purpose.)
Anthony Burgess wrote an essay or review once (pointing out that names like Drinkwater - French version would have been Boileau - were originally conferred out of mockery for freakish sobriety) where he said that even though the fine detail of infection was poorly understood no one in their right mind drank anything that wasn't alcoholic in the 16th century; he further wondered if Shakespeare had overdone it slightly during the writing of Antony & Cleopatra as some of the tropes were so outrageous. I'm staying dry this June but will raise a glass to that when the time comes.
Yes, small beer, of piddling strength but at least boiled, unlike water, was the customary drink, before-before, and then gin, for its similar, antiseptic properties. Anal suicide, now that you mention it, is a term rather showbizzy. Perhaps I should register it as a domain name, whatever one of those is, in Oslo.
Queen Freddie, it is told, by the oldsters, went ga-ga when he discovered the bath-house and leather bdsm communities of New Sodom and indulged himself, proudly, in barebacking (unprotected anal sex, mr mike) with serial, multiple partners. This was in the time when AIDS - then Human T-Cell Leukemia Virus - was becoming a well-known threat. His choice, of course, but made as a member of a refusenik gay underground which simply would not, on principle, practice safer sex, and his death, therefore, not a cause for national regret, this side of the pond. If only he had hung-on, until now, when, as you have remarked, the nihilism of heterosexual anal penetration is somehow become de rigeur. But he would've needed something else, wouldn't he, bestiality, maybe, to mark his Bohemianism, silly, goofy fucker.
I care nothing for the Queen canon, except that, here and there, amid its noisy bombast, it houses a heartbreakingly lyrical phrase from Brian May's guitar.
I have lots of Anthony Burgess, unread; I won't do if, now.
Unless I take it with me, shortly, into the hyperbarric tank, whence I am bound, the better to complete my plastic surgery. Not really plastic, shark cartilage. How's that for crazy shit?
That the Shooters got rid of him just because of the booze was a bit odd at the time but I guess that they did. It was though the end of them. Only then could Clegg do his deal with the Devil and undo all that long, slow, patient three decades of building. That would be enough to push anyone over the edge - of sobriety or despair. Anyway, poor bastard. And definitely not the worst of the worst.
I see that Salmond is claiming the dead to his cause even before they are cold. Horrible, horrible bastard.
"Pie'n'peas". Fuck me. In the days of lunchtime drinking I used to have to eat pie'n'peas with the brewery lads in Burton-on-Trent. Terrible shite. Mind you, Mr DtP, lunchtime drinking in the breweries used to start at 10:30 so a bit of something was a good idea by about 1:30. I got so pissed one Friday lunchtime that I gave up the pretence of an afternoon's work and checked back into the hotel for a kip. Got back home to London almost a full 24 hours late. Ho hum.
And the draymen used to snort a coupla free pints a piece at every pub to which they delivered and then jump back in the lorry. One time, on the Ashby-Burton Road a big barrel came off the dray, killing the driver, a couple of cars in front of me, given beer lorries a wide berth, ever since.
Used to be quite respectable, lunchtime drinking.
I disagree, however, about Kennedy, mr mongoose, not blowing the whistle on Smith is unforgiveable, however amiable and pathetic the conspirator, it is as bad, in my view, as the offence, maybe worse, the colluders not necessarily suffering the same psychosis as the perpetrator.
Some of AB is hard going but the Enderby books are good and Clockwork Orange much better than its garish reputation might suggest. I enjoyed his Little Wilson/Big God books and the Shakespeare novel "Nothing Like the Sun" is another highlight. One thing of his I go back to frequently is the second half of ABBA ABBA, where he translates the filthy blasphemous sonnets of Guiseppe Belli. (ABBA ABBA is on Burgess' gravestone; the NT call for help from above but also the octet's rhyme-scheme in a Petrarchan sonnet.)
Shark cartilege? You'll have to get some trainers that play the theme from Jaws as you advance. I hope Harris accepts the new you with good grace.
an example being this: "Lot 3",
by G.Belli trans A.Burgess:
God, then, assumed the office of a cook
And baked the Soidomites like salmon trout.
Only the family of Lot got out,
Though his wife suffered for that backward look.
They camped near Zoar, in a stony nook.
Lot's dauighters, starved of love, began to pout,
Seeing no sign of penises about,
And, driven by a fleshly need, forsook
Propriety. Here at least was their father.
They gave him wine with a well-salted pasty.
When he was drunk they fucked him to a lather,
Not finding this unnatural or nasty.
No fire rained down. It seems that God is rather
Inclined to incest but hates pederasty.
The shark is long since grafted successfully and I would be woefully crippled without it, Harris is none the wiser. I have been fucked-up identity-wise since a neurologust assured me that I was of Danish extraction - the Vikings - since I learned that I am of the same Norman family as the prime minister and that now I am part-shark.
mrs ishmael says I should read A Clockwork Orange but I guess I am deterred by the vileness of the film as well by the one TeeVee interview I saw of Burgess, in which he struck me as phenomenally, authoritatively and most unfairly well-read, rather, mr verge, like yourself.
I do like the example from the filthy and blasphemous sonnets, above.
All the gods and goddesses I have ever heard of have been arse-deep in incest, mayhem and bestiality. I don't think we have this Deity thing quite right.
I tell a lie; it was the Sheffield lads who forced the pie and peas on me of a lunchtime. The memory of one brewery is much like that of another after a while. I do not understand why.
Charlie's defence would be that he was solid respectable SDP - not a Dogshooter at all really.
Pasty, nasty, pederasty. Excellent and apt for Charlie's party. Yes, Pantsdown is absurd and disgusting, I live in hope that the wretched Mrs Pantsdown may one day awaken to her torment and throttle him with one of his SBS cheesewires.
Lord Snooty does write some good stuff, underrated I think and contrarian, though his Thatcher worship is intolerable.
nSurely the longest biography gestation in history, Moore's Thatcher and I wouldn't go near it but among the dross now at the Filth-O-Graph he sparkles, a bit, twinkles, anyway. Pantsdown, wot u said.
Careful, mr mongoose, that you don't sound like William Hague, in his sixteen-pint, lorry-driver gangbang days.
Well, like all the LibDems, Kennedy sought to be both in the old Liberal tradition and an SDPer, something which Clegg continued shamelessy: We are new, not like the two old parties/we are, in fact, the oldest party of all the old parties.
Bletheting about Iraq was one thing, although, as we have seen with Syria, if the Toileteers had been in power they'd have murdered as many wogs as they could, owning up to Smith, that would have been proper decent. And he didn't do it.
Nothing like me, Mr Ish - he was the real deal, as you surmised from your remembered TV glimpse. The TV I remember is him getting along just fine with Andrew Dworkin on one of those windy open-ended talkfests C4 did for a while; he didn't care (or possibly even know about) the baggage and she reciprocated. Two serious people taking each other seriously and talking politely.
I'd agree with Mrs Ishmael about CO. Two tricks - the first, to see if you can get into it without recourse to the nadsat glossary; second, and most important, abjure editions that lack the final chapter. If it ends with "I was cured all right" it's the wrong version (the Americans fucked it up somehow and some other copies followed suit.) The film was all flash and dazzle; book a different matter as you'd expect, more to it anyway.
Thanks, mr verge, I am at five per cent battery and away from the other computer. Back tomorrow.
I take your point about the Smith concealment. it is not a good enough reason to say that they were all complicit and by then it was too late. Although it probably was as they held his drinking over him as a tit for tat. Nonetheless if he was the saint as painted he should have spoken.
I am not sure that there is room inside me for 16 Haguian pints, even without the pie and the peas.
Didn"t Clegg look overjoyed, mr mongoose, at the news of the Dead Kennedy, though, almost pleased by secrets and deals now being taken to the Cairn of No Return?
The last 24 hours have been appalling to watch. They are a bunch of slags. Bercow just must the worst, cheesiest snake in the whole writhing pile of them though. There is nothing he wouldn't do to ingratiate himself and cling just a few seconds longer onto his ludicrous bauble of a position. Watching him squirm and squeal his vile lies was quite stomach-churning.
Clegg, the bastard, who has of course destroyed the Liberal voice of the nation - possibly forever this time - just needs filing quietly away under a motorway bridge somewhere. I am surprised that the rough but honest burghers of Sheffield have not seen to him already one dark night. But then he probably never goes there. You are right though - the last man is Pantsdown and then they'll be free of it. Until the next poor puppy strays across the gunsights.
The whole ghastly spectacle is too disgusting for words. It was almost as grisly as Hattie's performance at PMQs. Dear me, it is a long time until 2020.
I will take the right edition with me, mr verge, into the oxygen chamber, where, I learn, today, I am to spend six weeksworth of mornings. That could be an English SteamPunk Folk Band, could it not, SixWeeksWorth Of Mornings? What, with that and Anal Suicide, I have the makings of a roster of acts to rival that of the late Mr Brian Epstein's. I doubt there will be much distraction, imprisoned within ten atmospheres. Or whatever the fuck it is.
I am native, here, mr mongoose, and to the manor born, not accustomed, through durance vile and the viewing of ablifetime's mawkish, trumped-up spectacle to be set a-retching by doings in the national shithouse but Fuck me, Jesus, yesterday tested the stomach of stouter trenchermen than I. In the real country, the yeomanry must such a tumult of jibe and catcall raised as to awaken the centuries' slumbering dead. Arselings, turdmunchers, infant-fuckers, degenerates of every stripe, squelching frantically, like a furious army of watery shitmem, one over the other, clawing the air for fresh lies to spin around the miserable deceased and by extension themselves. It is small wonder that these wretched now inpudently raise their stipend, trading their poxed souls for cash and baubles, whilst Satan is still in the market.
...and don't forget headline acts like Obama and the Fellow Muthafuckas, Wongablair and the Strapons of Scouse, and of course...ladeez angenitalmen...the greatest rocknrollbandinnaworld - Stanislav and the Housebricks of Wrath...
Housebricks of Wrath, beats Anal Suicide AND SixWeeksWorthOfMornings, lovely, thanks, mr verge.
And who would deny the PBC it's crust, when it is so willing to dispense a share of it to worthies, such as, at this moment, poor old Chris Huhne.
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