Wednesday, 19 August 2015


Friends, Romans and yes, Tribesmen, too,
 lend me your money, 
I mean ears,

I come not to name Corbyn nor to identify him trans-pair-ently. I know all about general elections, and this person, who  I will not, have not and never shall name as Jeremy Corbyn, is in danger of winning one.


 But as it says in the Good Book of Old Father Brown: What shall it profit a man if, in the opinion of his betters,  he be unelectable and yet  win unto himself an election? 
Verily, I say unto the hard-working families whom I used to speak-to up and down the countrty, and insult.

You are an awful, stupid, racist old boot.
Vote for me.

 if  he who winneth  hath not the Vaaaahl-ewes of his forefathers then he and his tribe shall lose, even though they win.
This will not be the Right Thing For The Country.


Friends, I speak as one of those  who  having had the Vaaaaahl-ewes in abundance  hath nevertheless  losteth the elections, unto an two-fold and allowedeth into the Temple the Godlessheathenbastard  tribes of  the Gideonites, the Goveites and the Duncan-Smithites.  

A voice, which crieth in the Wilderness...

Which maketh me, thy servant, Snotty, an expert in the losing of elections. And that is why I say unto ye, a person whom I shall not name, for as a Great Prophet, I am above such things, but who is known unto ye as Jeremy Corbyn, is not the person to lead ye into the wilderness, 
as, in ancient times did I. 

......prepare ye the Way of the Lord,
but not Lord Corbyn.

Reject ye, therefore, this impostor, for he shall challenge the holy consensus of We-Know-Bestism, which hath serv-ed us so well, some of us, at any rate, especially my chosen ones: 
Edward and Yvette, 

Mr and Mrs Balls
doing the House-Flippers' Expenses Shuffle.

another Edward and his brother, David, 
Am I my brother's keeper?
For he is an smooth man and I am

an Bananaman

and Douglas and his sister, Wendy,


and brother Jim Spud 


who hath brought us such Victory, 
here, in the Promised Land of Jock, 

Lo, where we are, even in my native land of New Presbyteria,  

 having lost all but one of our seats.  

Foolhardy would be he who ignored my advice on the losing of elections and Woe and thrice Woe be unto him who dwelleth in the land of Corbyn for they shall have popularity thrust upon them for defying the holy ordinances of Mammon.

As you know, friends, my father was a minister of God and it was in his manse I learned the wise scripture that we should, - well, not us, but poor people -  should take what they  have and give it unto the rich and thus shall the Labour party be elected and an end be made of Boom and Bust.  

And, friends, I was Teddy Kennedy's best friend. 

And during our fireside chats,  he and his current young woman, whoever it was at the time, would often remind me of our sacred mission. Snotty, my dear old friend - Snotty, is a Massachussetsian term of great respect, only conferred on men of especial greatness -  you are the greatest politician since my late brother, Jack.   
Now Jack, lemmetellya,  taught me everything I know about womanising and drugtaking and murdering un-coperative sluts and lying to the police.  But I guess womanising ain't your thing, is it, Snotty, not if that beard you hang around with is anything to go by? Christ, I swear I saw her Goddamned Adam's Apple bobbin' up and down there.
And it was from millionaire whoremonger, my dear friend, Ted Kennedy, whom I caused Her Majesty to knight,  in the Noble Order of Whore-Drowning, that I learned my greatest political lesson.

The Labour party, friends, 
our Labour party,
exists to serve people who are in danger - not of being Left -  but of being left out and left behind.

But I am no mere man of scripture, neither cleric nor theologian, come here today not to name Jeremy Corbyn.
 I was also, friends,  Nelson Mandela's best friend and one night, at one of his parties, I was there, 


with Bill Clinton  and lots of other famous names from the celebrity business and he said to me, Nelson said, in his inimitable, gentle yet firm  way, Snotty, he said - Snotty is Swahili  for Great Wise and Prudent son of the Manse - Snotty, you and I are the greatest men of our time, I have been in jail for thirty years, simply for bombing some kaffir-bashing sonsafuckingbitches and now I party my remaining life away among filth from every continent 

and you, Snotty, you have spent thirty years devising ways to make rich people richer, at the expense of  the poor people,


truly, Snotty, 
 having printed billions of pretend pounds, given it to the bankers and made the people pay it all off, 
you are a giant among Christian Social Democrats. 

 There are not many people who can claim to have  been so complimented by the Greatest Dead Living Human Being.
  And I am sure that Jeremy Corbyn,  whom I am not naming here today, for I am above such things, is not one of them.

It is not something of which I boast, friends -  for, having saved the world for Usury, I am a modest man -  but I am Sir Elton John's best friend, too. 
 We are both young parents,

Young parents,  Dave and Reg,

Young parents, 
Snotty and Sarah-George Beard-Brown

and both of our wives, being good for fuck all else,  are active in celebrity charity.  
Elton's wife, David, and my wife, Sarah-George Beard, often chat busily about make-up, hairdressers and those all-important charity photo-opportunities, 

Sarah-George and I showing we care by having our photograph taken where millions were murdered. 
It was a scarifice we made gladly. 
You know, friends, we great ones have the duty to be photographed at places like Auschwitz becaue without us giving our time and allowing our images to be used ordinary people wouldn't know what had happened there.
And it was probably images like this which won us the 2010 general election, an election which Mr Corbyn, whom I shall not mention by name, would have lost.

while Elton and I, both committed socialists, discuss the affairs of the world.  Sir Elton, or Sir Elton, as he allows friends like me to call him,  cares deeply about issues such as himself and that is why he sends himself a quarter of a million pounds' worth of flowers each year.  Because he's worth it. And I care deeply about myself, too, my legacy, my reputation. But not just mine. I want all people to have a legacy, but the right sort of legacy, not cash and property, but the sort of legacy  outlined by my very good friend and fellow-celebrity, Sir Mick Parkinson

 the biggest cunt in showbusiness. 

You're such poor bastards, 
we'll give you a free pen.

in which Labour voters spend their final years worrying, quite properly, friends, in my view, about their funeral costs.
I mean, let's be honest with people, now is not the time for false modesty. I was so successful as  firstly,  chancellor, then as an election-winning prime minister and now as prime minister emeritus that millions of people, in their old age, were terrified, of the cold, of starvation and of dying too poor to pay for their own funerals. And that's why I introduced the minimum wage.  Not a living wage, friends, not  a living wage,  like the one Mr I Won't Mention His Name wants to legislate for because that would ruin this great party which I have almost run into the ground. A minimum wage, which I pioneered, means that employers can put people on zero hours contracts, treat them like shit but insist that they are paying the minimum wage so everything's alright, really.
 I mean, who would vote for a living wage - and that means, friends,   enough money to live on - being paid to everyone, regardless of how clever they were or whether their father was a minister of the Manse or not.  Who could possibly want a country having  a minimum level of survivability for all?  Not me, that's for sure. I have worked all my life to ensure that the poor whom we have the honour to represent stay poor, otherwise what's the point of us? 
Didn't I, at great personal expense, raise the old poor people's hand-out by a full fifty pence, believing,

 like Lord Mandelstein, 
that we should be extremely relaxed about people growing filthy rich, only not poor people, obviously, not poor elderly people.  And the poor, friends, have paid us to do this for them, through their taxes. The labour party can be many things, friends,  but it cannot be pure, that's not what it's for.

 It is for people like Neil Kinnock 

I'm alright, I'm alright.
I'm rich, boyo, I'm rich
Thank you, Labour party, thank you.

- I am Lord Neil's best friend by the way- that the Labour Party exists.  
Neil Kinnock,  thanks to his his historic victories against my best friend - and the beasts' best friend - Mrs Thatcher,

and Mr Underpants, who  he beat equally soundly,   is the first Neil Kinnock in a thousand generations to have grown filthy rich off the backs of  poor taxpayers across Europe

I tell you, boyo,  
I'm fucking loaded,  and never done a day's work in my worthless, totallty and utterly and comprehensively and resoundingly worthless ginger life, look you, isn't it, fucking loaded,  Gordon, totally and utterly and comprehensively, staggeringly well-compensated for labouring so hard in the Fields of Janner, keeping things quiet, look you, and moving this great party comprehensively to the right.
All I ever wanted was the opportunity for the first Neil Kinnock in a thousand generations to steal, 
I mean serve.

And I remember, too, 

 when my deputy,  Tony Blair,
 said that we must find poor people to serve, the world over. 
And bomb them.

Mr Corbyn, were he the man about whom I am not speaking, would never have had the Vaaahl-ewes required to bomb working-class Iraqi voters.
Only the proper Labour party can accomplish things like this.
I could continue, friends, 
fisting people, 
I mean listing  people  who admire me and respect my judgement and most importantly, would vote for me. 
I could mention Jesus and Buddha and Mahomet and Saint Joan; Keir Hardy and Ramsay MacDonald and Clement Atlee but I am far too modest and that is why I have chosen not to speak at a proper public election meeting, where people might mistakenly disagree with me, but here at a gathering of hand-picked arselickers, like yourselves.

This is what politics is all about, the carefully managed soundbite before a hand-picked audience.  Some call it cowardly but it is how we have lost two elections in a row and how,  if I have my way, we  will  continue to lose them.
Let's face it, better Cameron and the Spivs than Corbyn.
If a Labour party came to power we'd all be fucked. 
(Cheers and applause, Readings from the Saga of Gordon the Ruiner.)

And something else, friends,  
when my young son, Donald, is it? 
Dougal? Duncan? Whatever he's called, when he asks me:  
Old Daddy, what did you do to make the world better?  
I will be able to say, Son, John or Fergus or whatever the fuck your name is, I de-regulated the banks, sold all the gold, helped set the  Middle East ablaze, sold-off the NHS,  liberalised immigration and created the Poundland Party, broke-up the Union and ushered-in and saw re-elected the most right-wing government  since the 1930s; that, son, is what Daddy did.
(Applause, chants of Anyone But Corbyn.)

So you see, friends, the choice between my sort of Labour party and the sort of Labour party led by the Man With No Name, well, it's really no choice at all, is it?

(Cheers and applause.
Audience sings: We'll not keep the red flag flying here, followed by the Eton Boating Song.) 

It is easy to mock Gordon Brown, he is Ambition brought low; he is braying Hypocrisy; he is foul, hissing, judgemental Presbyterianism;  he is a wretched, cowardly bully and even by the standards of MediaMinster, a contemptible liar.  Being at times  all of those things oneself, however, one has always sought an explanation for Brown's lifelong foulness. 

His Dad, by all accounts, was a Toby Young-style parent,  not as crass and vulgar  and stupid as Toby, who could be,  but educationally hothousing young Gordon, convincing him of his personal destiny yet there must be more to it than just being born to pushy parents.  He suffered a rugby injury, limiting his eyesight but So What? Many are injured, hampered and restricted.

Something, however, made Gordon Brown Bad, and not in a good sense.  He was a parliamentarty bully, needlessly bombastic, eternally over-egging his statistical pudding, shouting the odds so much that we called his blowhard despatch box musings tractor-production statistics, mocked his Great Clunking Fist of Doom, his shredded fingernails, his DryWank JawDrop, his infantile snot-eating and his dreadful bullying of subordinates.

Alongside his unattractive idiosyncracies,  his running of the Treasury and then the government was unwholesome.  We do not have Uncle Sam's system of presidential appointments to cabinet posts, most are filled, in the UK,  by elected politicians.  Brown, however, elevated unelected special advisor Balls to a position of huge influence, eventually parachuting him into a safe Labour seat, party-bigwigs-for-the-use-of;  Mrs Balls, too, surprise-surprise, came from nowhere into cabinet, as did the Milibands, the Eagles and wee motormouth Douglas Alexander; by the time of Tony'n'Imelda's departure to GlobaCrook the cabinet was effectively Snotty's  fiefdom, anti-democratic, non-meritocratic.  Thanks to Snotty, the Ballses, lacklustre nobodies but pleasing to Brown, need never work again, although their former master sees them, yet, in Number Ten.

It's a lot to forgive, a lot to be explained-away by a ruined childhood.  And if we thought that age and the time for reflection might have healed Brown's dehumanising wounds his stagey intervention at the weekend disappointed that expectation;  he is as bad as ever, speaking to a selected audience, as though, standing-in for the nation, it was a troop of gullible boy scouts and girl guides, an assembly which, through anecdote and witticism,  catechism and Value, he could lead, with his moral compass, to the award of a Sensible Voter's Badge. He'd have done better staying at home, brooding, the mad bastard, for if he had hoped, by his distortions and hoodwinkery, to have arrested the onward march of Jeremy Corbyn he actually - outside the safe world of the TeeVee studio - achieved the opposite, an acceleration away from his sort of politics and from  his sort of politicians.

Another fuck-up, then, with which he must live, although I guess that by now he and his are skilled in fabricating a Truth more kind. 
I do hope so.


SG said...

Nice work Mr I - the cylinder on the Gatling must still be white hot and spinning though....

Bungalow Bill said...

Another in the list of properly deranged retired PMs. Dark and adrift like Thatcher, his government seems like a hundred years ago. He's in the strange world where pointless statesmen go to die. I always wonder if they're real: Clinton, Major, the Bushes, the Blair lunatic, all of them when they're wheeled on to deliver some gaseous nonsense. Were they ever real? His time is like a macabre cartoon now, a weird dream albeit a damaging one.

Anonymous said...

JTFC, that photo of the doting dads with their besuited spawn is profoundly unsettling - like a publicity still from some Manbride-of-Chucky remake with a plot about a pair of mad ventriloquists...gottle-a-geer gags a-go-go...hasn't his ladyship just declared war on Venice or something?


mongoose said...

McDoom looked like a bonkers tiger pacing in a zoo cage. Poor bastard.

So my e-vote turned up today, and was duly cast for Comrade Corbyn. Later I was listening to the radio - as I was waiting for my brain to work out that I should not be operating potentially dangerous machinery with a head cold that would sink the Tirpitz - and it was all "Can you imagine Jeremy as Prime Minister?" So I gave up the ghost of the day and same inside to read all the spin. And do you know, of course not, I cannot see JC as PM. And he won't be.

But that just isn't the point. We're not going to vote for people anymore because they aren't. Especially, in England, people will not vote in sufficient numbers for people whose only medals are that they aren't Tories. This toxic positioning of New Labour has had its flourish and its day is done. Useful for sing-songs, herding the angry and beating 18-years-worn-out Tories but the Left now has to work harder. Labour in Parliament is over a hundred years old. It's time to go start anew. And they have to start to be a new are.

Corbyn is the blood sacrifice that might enable that. It will upset you, Mr Ishmael, because you care about this stuff and the old face you'll never see no more but a new Clause IV is required. The old one is gone. Employment (labour) is fragmented. The questions we asked are dust now. The new people have their own phrasing of these old problems. How is an economically-viable social justice to be delivered in the UK in this post-industrial, all-shall-have-ipads age? How does that work when the robber barons don't ride horseback anymore but have their offspring monitor City data-screens? We express a few ideas here but somebody must have better than that, and it isn't Yvette Fucking Balls. Or Andy Droid Burnham. Or Liz Who Kendall.

I do fear though that a massacre is coming. They're going to come at him so that it will make your heart bleed. And "they" will not be the Tories.

Dick the Prick said...

Quite agree, Mr Mongoose, they won't be Tories leading the charge. If Bukkake Boy Osborne is to be coronated then all shall be land grab, all shall be held to the people that he offers a New New Labour and so shall the word of Corbyn be held as possible but with certain caveats and old New Labour shall be left fuming and petulant and surly. God, it's tediously predictable.

call me ishmael said...

But the same people came at the SNP, mr mongoose, and it was self-slaughter which ensued.

And should he win, attempts to remove him will see a forest of legal challenges which will destabilise l'ancien regime even more than it already is, not that that matters for it is no more an opposition than am I and probably less so. With the cross-party support for welfare cuts my error is revealed - firstly, I predicted a formal Govament of National Unity, standing, bayonets fixed, against the Tribesmen and when HamFace squeezed a majority I scolded myself for having believed sufficiently in shit pollsters like Pete Kellner; recent conspiratorial efforts, however, from every quarter of MediaMinster, indicate a thriving if informal GNU, united, as we know, against the rest of us generally speaking -see the ten per cent salary rise - and specifically in the case of Corbyn, whose face, incidentally, I have long dismissed for his lame support-by-participation in the black farce of parliamentary democracy, a la Diane Abbott, a la Tony Benn, a la George Galloway, personae ad nauseum.

There is a generational shift and as ever many if not most of the New People are idiots and fools, to those who are not, however, Corbyn at least poses some valid questions about useful social administration as well as social justice. As for premierships and parties, you know my view of that racket, a weary tune it may be but one which I shall not lay down while I breath. A rotating, averagely-salaried, non-partisan, fixed-term, non-careerist Senate, drawn from the Electoral Roll; government of the electors, by the electors, for the electors.

I hope your cold gets better in time for the first legal challenge. Harriet Harman, eh, a woman impossible to underestimate. And bound to get a peerage for this fuck-up.

call me ishmael said...

mrs woar's baby farmers, the Johns, one of their Mexican livestock being named Levon, after the late Levon Helm, a musician in the Band. Levon, supremely talented on a limited musical canvas, was a no-nonsense Redneck; I wonder what he would have made of that ghastly image, me verge. It is a frightful, interlocking freakshow, CelebrityWorld, Snotty's mad, ancient spunk producing one healthy child out of three delivered. I suppose the world should be glad that he didn't fly the two survivors to Auschwitz with him to have their caring picture taken

Doug Shoulders said...

The best commentary and comments I’ve read on the thing.
Can an ordinary man sort out the debacle that labour has become? I think for that to happen he needs to be of sterner stuff. Putin could give him a lesson in that maybe. I don’t care if a leader is a cunt, as long as he’s a cunt for the people..
Thatcher could control the spivs in her cabinet, until she had no more balls….spent.
“If you don’t toe the party line…my party line…I’ll put my fist so far down your fucking throat….etc” The soundbites and “vote for me” speak and your very own one, Mr Ish…”lez be clear about this” are all used up.
Needs a new party politic. A government for the people by the people innit? Thatcher could say it like meant it but she never meant it…

call me ishmael said...

On Radio Four, the other day, I listened to an elderly Franco-American academic who had spent her life denouncing the economics around famine and hunger. Susan George, her name was, as bright, in her eighties, as a new i-thing, just out-the-box. Answering a question about CalaisGate she mocked Cameron's hamfaced, braying stupidity: if Mr Cameron is this concerned about a few economic migrants he should address himself to the question of Climate Change, for frighteningly soon it will be tens, hundreds of millions of people, on the move, because thay can no longer grow food.

Now, working for Rothschilds and for others who consider themselves immune to global upheaval, spivs like Nigel Lawson, insist that climate change is either chimerical or manageable, in Norman Tebbit's phrase, a price worth paying for the maintainance of Greed. I think he was a cunt for Thatcher, Lawson, and is now a cunt for GlobaCrook. I live on the shore, neighbour to rising sea levels, unprecedented erosion and big, bad freak storms and no worthless spiv will persuade me that the climate remains predictable for agricultural purposes, even without the terrifying rise in wasteful, predatory human populations; like Fat Uncle Sam, like the Chinks, like the superstitious Indians, the gender-hopping South Americans, like the crazy maelstrom of prehistoric, tribal Africans, dressed in loinclothes, bones in their noses, selling Rhino horn on their cellphones and like our own selves, chomping on FatStupid bars, gulping cans of FatStupid juice, drenching our FatStupid fries in bright red CancerKetchup, before defiantly waddling our fat, tattooed arses into imaginary diabetes clinics which we no longer fund and build.

The questions, therefore, mr doug shoulders, for a wannabe statesperson, require for their answer, that he or she be fluent in a language not yet developed; and considering that most of our politicians speak not even fluent English but some bastard soundbite gibberish one might conclude that we are fucked as long as we deploy rotten and corrupt nineteenth century mechanisms and institutions - MediaMinster, Monarchy and Nationalism - as remedies to the biggest problems in history.

Doug Shoulders said...

You’re right the language hasn’t been developed. And the concepts are beyond their ken.
Even if there were solushuns…and there are…those solutions would see them ousted and that couldn't happen.
I don’t go subscribe to the global warming business. Globacorp brought on agripoverty assisted by the likes of bono the clown and geldoff.
It’s another method of taxing.

walter said...

Mr ish , Jeremy corbyn has brother who has climate forecasting company called
he knows more about climate than a rothschild lackey, he says the climates driven by the sun
and i agree,And as for your flooded foreshore i think its more likely to grow,if the maunder sets in we will be migrating south not north, in fact two russian astrophysasists(cant spell)have bet their pension on it getting colder,snottys shot should be quite fresh its only womens eggs that age so i,m led to believe

call me ishmael said...

Yeah, mr walter, but Snotty's not just old, he's bad, too. And mad. His genes're all fucked-up. One of his issue DOA and another born with some awful disease that I don't even wanna know the name of, my money's on his sperm being shit.

As I say, he is such a fucking mess, the ManWithNoNails, that one often wants to feel sorry for him but he's just such a horrible fucking bastard. Most people, when they spend a fortune on new teeth, they look a bit better; Snotty, after he'd had his teeth Domestosed, he looked like the sort of patient who wandered for decades around the corridors of the old asylums, asking people if they heard those voices in their heads, too, telling them to kill that bloke, what's talking to them. Wot, duncha ever 'ear 'em? 'Ave 'em all the time, I do, bleedin' 'Ell, never gimme no peace they dunt.Snooty just does it in public meetings, his horrible madness.

call me ishmael said...

I am no kind of scientist but even so, it is more than nostal;gia telling me that the weather is not as agrreable as it used to be; I also think that in many parts of the world, especially in the coastal cities and the borderline deserts and the low-lying islands survival is fragile, that a couple of degrees, or a couple of inches of sea, might prove catastrophic. Doesn't matter what has happened historically, we have never had such populations, hostage to sea-level or rainfall or erosion.

call me ishmael said...

It is possible, mr doug shoulders, for both agribusiness and the runaway burning of fossil fuels, together with warmed and polluted oceans may yet see us all off. You should see, just for instance, the tonnes of blue plastic which is cleared from our wee shore, we cannot continue to overheat and pollute the planet like this. Growth is not our friend, Growth is our Destroyer.

mongoose said...

Any coup against The Holy Comrade would be hopelessly counterproductive. And the Tories have sufficient ammunition now for their next term with an increased majority regardless of any further damage the Luvvies may do to themselves. Boundary changes and the Tribesmen's rise will set the bar so high that it is a game lost already. Only a dead girl or a live boy can save them. And not even then. It is over. So the old game is up - in England anyway - and a new game must be found. It is horrible to contemplate but the best answer may be the vile Osborne doing a McDoom.

"Climate Change" BTW is largely bollocks. "Global warming" OTOH is a racing certainty. Despite the current pause, 10-thousand of the last 11-thousand years have been warmer than this. So get ready for that to become our reality once again.

BTW carbon-dioxide levels lag temperature change by many hundreds of years - the best part of a thousand. (Whoa! They what?! Fuck me. Sssh!) So warming has fuck all to do with human activity and/or carbon-dioxide, and everything to do with the great heat source you can see out of the window. The adoption of an anti-carbon agenda is interesting though and as ever one must ask why questions. Why would anyone want to restrain the economic development and wealth-creation of poor people? Is it by any chance because they are some other bastard's poor people?

The despoilation of the land and oceans is another matter upon which we can agree entirely. A good first step would be to tax (plastic-)bottled water out of existence. I would write to Jeremy about it but Hampstead would have him lynched by sun-up the next day.

call me ishmael said...

Look. Lessbeclearabouthbis. Across my courtyard is a a cattlebyre which also contains a dwelling, the occupant of which, in living memory, was warmed by the body heat of Jemimah and Buttercup and maybe even Dobbin. The other night I stayed in a 12th century Scottish castle-keep, a tall, square building with an inner quadrangle, these structures were common enough at the time, especially in the Borderlands which were subject to raids from the Reevers, people and beasts would hurry inside, lock up the door and throw shit on their attackers from a good height, in winter, the cattle would move-in not only to keep them safe but to warm the human occupants. Body heat is real. Body heat, for many, was the first central heating, body heat, their beasts' and their own, keot our ancestors alive, I dunno, I'm not a scientist, is symbiosis cool?

There are now, what, seven billion bodies, generating body heat, bodies which weren't here when the climatalogical exactitudes to which you refer were calculated, mr mongoose, add to that the energy generated by all of their vehicles and appliances - granted, not everyone has an Audi or a Dishwasher but more than was ever imaginable fifty years ago do - add to that the heat from their manufacturings, their mass transit systems and their energy generating systems and we have a heat output vaster and hotter than anything in the history of ourselves; add to that that these environemntal impacts do not degrade the planet incrementally but exdponentially then it doesn't really matter what scientific thermal history states, it is just too fucking hot and there are too many energy-demanding people, there is also an infinity of toxic waste - the by-product of Holy Growth - and it is not water bottles which festoon the beach but fragments of non-biodegradeable blue plastic rope, used by irresponsible bastard fucking fisherfolk, cheaper than the old hemopen sort, saves the stupid greedy fuckpigs a kroner or two but kills the fish, kills the seabirds and eventually kills us all. Thes stupid, greedy bastards, bereft of both conscience and imagination are sawing away at the links in the food chain, like the KerryMan, sawinf -away at the branch, upon which he sits, on the wrong side of the cut.

My remedy would be to hang that simpering, shit-brained public school lout, Rick Stein, from Padstow Market Cross, the fucking moron. Does he know that those lobsters he boils alive are ninety and a hundred years old? Do we have to eat every fucking thing that exists? Just so that cunts like him can be on the telly?

No, you can pragmatise all you like, mr mongoose, it's me's the apocalyptic moraliser around here,and verily, I say unto you, a culture which fills the sea with poisonous shit and fishes its species to extinction deserves to wind-up starving and roasted-alive under a merciless climatological Armageddon.

That's the trouble with you scientists, can't tell right from wrong. But just remember Father Kelly, God is not mocked.

walter said...

Upon my unkempt garden the sun doth shine maybe 900watts per square metre, and its that orange ball called the sun that doth that! no humans involved!I have even put salt on the ground ,but several species of tree grow, and as the comedian george carlin said the earth will shake us off like a flea!

mongoose said...

All of that is true, Mr Ishmael, and I will give you no argument with any of it - except for the heat bit. The sun pours down heat upon the earth at a rate which would astonish you, but most of which is reflected or radiated away into space. The supposed mechanism of CO2-heating is insulation against this out-radiation of the energy from the incident sunlight. The modle of this is a dogs breakfast guess at best, a wandering fabrication at worst, but is anyway a tiny number compared to all the rest of the numbers in a mechanism planet-wide and deeply complicated. The so-called sensitivity, the tipping point, the point of no return. All of that is posturing and politics, and not science. Give it not another thought among the rest of your environmental worries. Really. And btw almost all scientists and engineers agree on almost all of it - me included - but nay-saying the hectoring and the extremism is an Emperor's New Clothes career-breaker. And anywa,y the CO2 really does lag the damn temperature not the other way around. The dancing to make it not so would make your head spin.

And that heat out of dem cows is carrots not coal - it is a net zero for a cow to eat carrots, only to die and become carrots again, and eventually coal. Sleeping with cows - apart from the entertainment value - is sleeping with an immature and inefficient coal-fire.

All joking aside, the hijacking of the environmental good sense of which you speak - by scoundrel, anti-human nutters - is what is standing in the way of faster progress on real sustainability because all the money is being spent on windmills and other sundry fuckwittery. (There is a new airport in India entirely solar-powered btw. Just the 45 fucking acres of solar panels.) The best part of four billion extra people in the developing world already need new answers. Most of which, by the way, and by your leave, Sir, will be made possible and delivered by scientists and, their bastard-cousins, engineers.

call me ishmael said...

Yes, of course it will, mr walter, either in irritation with us or by dint of some cosmic collision but such fatalism only gives license to the wreckers; we should stay here as long and as graciously as we can, kempt or unkempt.

call me ishmael said...

Thank you, mr mongoose. My late brother, carried away by the produce of LungDeathCorp, he used to say to me, Ah, our Ishmael, you Romantics are the true paranoics. I suppose that in my small corner, by at least raisng such conundra, I am doing what we expect of Brother Corbyn - not answers but at least sensible questions.

If I ever show you these perfectly level, invisibly suspended, five-metre shelves it may demonstrate that Art IS Science, just with fewer of those number things.

mongoose said...

I would love to see it, Mr I. I am though in mourning this week for having destroyed my father's rock-solid-flat-as-fuck router table. I buggered off to Scotland in a hurry and left a small water supply weeping a missed leak. Yes, I know, I know. For Christ's sake don't say it. Anyway we are back to building a new one tomorrow, now that my cold has gone.

I wonder now on what planet they do not laugh at a renewable airport with 45 acres of rare earth solar panels powering it all - except for the fuck-off jets hammering in and spewing burnt paraffin into the sky. Are we supposed to be stupid, do you think? Mr Soros btw is scooping up bargain basement US coal stock. And guess which of the three areas - US, Russia, Middle East - overtakes the other two as producer of carbon fuels, and now needs neither of them? The Great Game is afoot once again. The Middle East can now burn for all Washington cares. Indeed, it might be better for Uncle Sam if it does burn.

call me ishmael said...

And they have cows walking down the street, I understand, and into the house and everything and nuclear fireworks with which Lord Shiva may light-up the sky and Untouchable children -bless- dining on rubbish heaps and ghastly, snooty, Goodness Gracious Me snobs living in luxury, clanking around covered in cheap gold. Hard not to be impatient with India's noisy, servile, racist throng. And I don't actually care, I realised, for that Ravi Shankar music, played with all the wrong intervals. Fuck that old spiritual wifeswapper, George Harrison, he wasn't even that good a guitar player and how would you know, anyway, if he was any good on the Indian ukelele, with its sour, whining, tinny discord. Ravi's daughter, Norah Jones, couldn't stand him, by all accounts, and who could blame her, imagine growing up with that, Children, I am going to play you a concert and you must pay close attention and be very respectful, even though it will sound, to your ears, perfectly dreadful, it doesn't matter, it is sophisticated high Indian culture, that will be a hundred rupees, children, each, your Daddy's mistresses cost him a fucking fortune, Oh, and there must be no smoking during the concert. Not even the Beatles smoke during my concerts and they are most magnificently wealthy persons and worthy of great respect, Cor blimey.

They do say that we are from there, we caucasians, but it was long ago, and it was far away. I will put that airport on my googling list.

Dunno about the Middle East, Washington is still twinned with Tel Aviv and the Sixth Peacekeeping Fleet still needs Bahrain and the Bush crime family still serves the House of Saud and if Spunky Bill and his bitch crash back into the White House there will be fun and games, they'll make Obama look like a moderate. But I suppose, energy-wise, if they're tearing-up the States - as Winston Cameron proposes to excavate the Dales and the Fylde - in a GasRush, they might leave the Arctic alone for a while, maybe allow Rick Stein to make a show there, drilling holes in the ice, catching a seal or something, but with great respect shown to the Eskimo people, from whom we can learn so very much about cooking seafood, because that's my passion, and some of whom his producer has lined-up to shake his sweaty hand.

It is too early on a grey, cool morning to be ranting, so I will go and find something useful and do it. I have no father stuff, nothing, so I envy your use of your father's tools. I am sure you will make a better table, for the little mongoose, should they prove handy, doers of things.