Friday 4 December 2015



Well, I would just say to  this house that as your prime minister and commander-in-chief it is my foremost duty to  start wars, wherever and whenever and upon whomever it whomever, whose ever?  upon whoandwhomsoever I can.  And thus invite retaliation, here, at home. Not exactly here, in the Palace of Westminster, sewn-up tighter'n  nun's knickers, this place, but generally, among people who travel on the buses, and walk down the streets.

(Torybastards cheering )

Wosssat? Win them? Win the wars? Good God, no, we don't win them.  Didn't win in Egypt, did we; didn't win in Malaya,  certainly didn't win in Northern Ireland; Iraq, didn't win there. Afghanistan, we never, ever win there.  
Libya?  What's to win? 

And actually, d'you know what, none of these are actually our wars....whose are they?  Fucked if I know.  Israel's, America's ? We just tag along, so's not to be left out. But as the great Shakespeare said, They also serve, who only stand and lose. And that's what we do so well, lose. Lost in Ulster, lost in Iraq, lost magnificently in Afghanistan.  And do you know what, when I visit our servicemen and women abroad, that's what I say to them:  We can rely on you chaps to lose for us, and since that's what's gonna happen,  there's no point in the Chancellor spending good money on supplying you with proper gear, y'know, boots, that sort of thing, the right toothpaste, carrier air support, we needed that money for the bankers' bonuses.  I mean, lessbeclear, if it wasn't for the army you'd probly all be in Mrs May's young offender institutions.
As it is, keep your nose clean, lose your legs, and you might get to shake hands with Prince Harry Hooligan. Just the once, he's a busy man.


 And Syria, no, we haven't a snowball's chance in Hell. 
Not against hundreds of Russian Migs or whatever they are and hundreds of Uncle Sam's  stealth fighters  and attack helicopters and what have you.  No, no, they won't actually be shooting at our Spitfires and Hurricanes, not as such,  but there's always Friendly Fire, at which Uncle Sam is most proficient.  And Mr Putin does seem to have his arse in his hands, just because a few hundred of his citizens were blown out of the sky.  That's the thing, with the Russians.  I mean, the French, they lost far fewer citizens than were in the Russian aircraft and they're hardly making any fuss at all, are they? Apart from demanding that everybody join them in World War Three, which we are happy to do. Let me inform the house, it beats the arse, this WarLording,  off negotiating a new Euro-treaty. Not that we will,  because we can't, but a good world war'll take people's minds off that, I should think.

 But at the end of the day, as we used to say at Eton, it doesn't matter how you play the game as long as somebody else loses and the right people make a fortune. 

(cheers, Tory benches and some Labour benches  erupt in song, Give us Money, that's, whatwewant, that's whatwewant, that's what we wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nt, yeah, that's what we want .)

I mean, I simply say, Mr Tiny Speaker, in reponse to my honourable friends, that all of us in this house have had to make do with a miserly eleven per cent pay rise, whilst those whom we were quite proply elected to rule over are clamouring for what they call a living fucking wage, if you please. I hesitate to call that Treachery in Time of War but I shall, in a week or two. Older members may recall a previous prime minister, the Earl of Haliburton, who has been such an inspiration to us all, when he helped invade Iraq, he lost no time in calling the striking firefighters the Enemy Within.

Strikers?  Yes. Time of War, we can shoot them.
Doctors? Any bastard.
But yes, whether you win or lose doesn't matter because for a certain type of person it is simply impossible to lose.
  Just look at Mr Grant Schitts, 

and wossisname, Lord Somebody, 

His Grace, the Lord Bully. 

the cunt  in charge of the Conservatives. 

No? No, that's me, isn't it. 

I'm the cunt in charge of the Conservatives. 
Well, me and Mr Murdoch, and my dear neighbour in Chipping Sodom, Mrs Rebeka Witch. No, no, 'snot as if they want a war at the Sun, but it does always sell a few more copies.  Yes, that's right, the good people of Royal Wootton Gruesome, them, too.

No, I mean the chap who chairs the party, and sells the peerages,  Lord Wossaname,  yes, and squashes those, in my view quite improper claims that the Tory party is full of nonces. I mean, quite clearly, Mr Tiny Speaker,  they should all be in prison, not the nonces,  him -  Mr Lordy and Mr Schitts - but they're just not the sort of people to go to prison, are they, and so they won't.  
And that's as it should be.  If we were to start jailing politicians for committing criminal offences, well, very shortly there'd be no-one left to make the laws

(from all sides: hear-hear, hear-hear.)

Who's Mr Schitts?  Oh, come on now, honourable and right honourable members must know him,  the oily little bastard,

he's also known as Mickey Green, the PonziMan,  yes, that's him, Schitts the crook, yes, that's true, he was a minister.  But lessbeclear, if we didn't have crooks in the cabinet, who would we have?  'Snot like there's any honest people in parliament, is it?

Chance would be a fine thing.

But no, a very clever man, Mickey, or Grant or whatever he called himself, no names, eh, no pack drill.  It was Mr Schitts who first acquainted the nation with equine carnivorism.  Yes, at the time when our friends and donors in the supermarkets were flogging horse meat as topside, you remember, and the silly customers were falling all over themselves to buy ten top quality beefburgers for fifty-pee. And everyone was then getting their knickers in a twist?  Well, Mr Schitts went on Question Time, Mr Tiny Speaker,  and  explained to Mr Dimbleby, quite proply, in my view,  and the audience-numpties - I mean, do they really think they're going to be allowed to ask serious questions, that's not what the 

Rock the boat, don't rock the boat, baby.....
Rock the boat, don't rock the boat, baby.....

Dimblebys are paid for, promoting disobedience in the population, I mean, they're jolly sound Bullingdon chaps, too, after all -  that people didn't like eating animals, such as horses, who ate other animals. 

Well, actually David, if I might talk facts, here, and not hysteria, the issue  is that  the British people have always been averse to eating animals which eat other animals....What, you mean horses don't? You sure? No, I think you'll find that they do.
(honest, not invent. cocaine or stupidity, maybe both)

 I mean, lessbefair, whatever Mr Schitts may or may not have said, even horses have more sense than the traitor, Mr Corbyn, who only eats lentils.
 ( Tory benches erupt in song: 
That ole black magic has me in its spell....)

Wossat? Yes, and Mrs Abbott. Yes, I do believe he has a nosh on black pudding from time to time.  But let's not go there, Mr Tiny Speaker, eh, the ways of the fair sex, or in the right honourable lady from Tower Hovels case, the darker-fairer sex......

 (Hysterical Tory laughter)

......can be a mystery. 
As you, yourself, Mr Tiny Speaker,

 starring in your own soap opera,
 know only too well.

Order, orrr-derrrrrr.
The prime minister will confine himself to matters in hand, which, as far as one can see, do not contain any portion of my good lady wife's admittedly well-documented anatomy.  

Yes, yes, Mr Tiny Speaker, and I apologise to the house for suggesting that your Mrs is a slag

 even though she is, and does, in fact, give decent slags, 
like Mrs CurrieArse,

 a bad name

doing it even  with illustrated gippo criminals.

But no, it was a mistake having her in the shadow cabinet, the right honourable black lady from the slums, yes Tower Hovels or whatever it is.  Yes, my honourable friend makes a very good point, she did send her own kid to a private school, as far the fuck away from her constituency as possible, but let's face it, we all do that.

But back to Mr Schitts. And, anyway, quite unforgivably, in my view, quite a few people disagreed with him, saying some nonsense about horses being vegetarians.  Which, lessbeclear, they are not.
I must say that wisdom such as Mr Schittses will be sadly missed as we now have a pretend debate about the furtherance of World War Three.

But no, Mr Schitts won't be punished for some  little fairy having killed himself and his parents claiming that he was bullied by senior Tories.  As if my party would ever do anything like that, apart from all the time.  There'll just be a full and far-reaching cover-up, not unearthing any facts and clearing anyone of any deliberate wrongdoing. In fact, I have just announced one.  Who? Who'll be in charge?  Oh, fucked if I know, they'll find some worthless old Mr Justice Slag and bung him a few quid, maybe find him a young man, to take his notes, so to speak, and he'll do what's required of him, quite proply in my view.  I mean there's no point in having a full and far-reaching cover-up, is there, if it doesn't cover everything up? Be a waste of taxpayers' money, that.

But as to winning wars, things have moved on a bit, since the days of my namesake, Sir Winston Simple, and the point of wars, now, is that you don't win them.  I mean, take the War on Drugs.   We've been fighting that one since  Mrs President Reagan's astrologers invented it, having seen  Jupiter aligned with Mars or something, 

and she told the old boy, Ronnie,  

to declare a Mighty War on Drugs. 

Over the past four decades, federal and state governments have poured over $1 trillion into drug war spending and relied on taxpayers to foot the bill. Unfortunately, these tax dollars have gone to waste. In 1980, the United States had 50,000 people behind bars for drug law violations – now they have more than half a million. 

Here at home, we spend only 16 billion pounds a year on the War on Drugs.  

And yes, I know, half the legislature is on cocaine. 
 But they only use taxpayers' money for it.  Quite proply, in my judgement.

 Yes, I know, it is mad, isn't it, Mr Tiny Speaker, declaring war on inimitable  things. No, no, I mean indeterminate things. Wossat?  Inanimate things. OK. Woddever. But it's what we do now, declaring War with a capital doubleyou on things. Yes, War. On things.  Yes, yes, and where was I?  Yes, the War on Drugs, after having spent a fucking fortune  the fucking things've never been fucking cheaper or more fucking  plentiful. Yes,  even though we've spent - wossmore'n'a trillion, George? 

A gazillion, boss.
 Chancellor ObeahMan Osborne, in charge of HM Voodoo Economics policies.

Right, right, thank you, Chancellor,  we've spent gazillions of your taxpounds on the War on Drugs, here, in this theatre of operations, and it's made  drugs easier and cheaper to come by than even when I was at Oxford. 


Not that I was. 
No, I was at Oxford, yes, getting the best degree you can buy, a double-triple, I believe it was called.  Only not taking any of TheGoodStuff, I mean cocaine. No, no, my sepsus, I was born with a perforated sepsus, and if you don't believe me I can show you an X-ray of Lady Hague's uterus, to prove I'm not gay, and sleeping with a pretty young blade, I mean aide.  I think you'll find that  was Mr Schitts, doung the coke. And no, it is simply not fair to describe the Chancellor........

An' I'm gonna be hi-i-i-igh as a kite by then.
The Regency RocketMan. a victim of the War on Drugs.

He's always had enough money to buy them, 
whatever the price. 
Not that he does.

And that, Mr Tiny Speaker, Mrs Reagan's War on Drugs, is what you call a hugely successful failure of a war. Costs the fucking Earth and makes things worse. And yes, I assure the house, we can and indeed are  doing  just the same thing with Terror, and in my view quite proply. Spending a fucking fortune and making things much worse.

But joking aside this is a serious matter, the one facing our nation.  We face a truly great peril.  Yes, worse than what the Nazis were,  or would have been, if America had not won the Battle of Britain for us. And I do think that ISIL can help me beat the right honourable terrorist opposite, Sheikh bin Jeremy Corbyn, who, lessfaceit, is a Marxist traitor and the biggest threat ever faced by this great nation of England.  What? What about Scotland? I shouldn't worry about Scotland if I were you.  I don't.
Now, I am a great believer in my enemy's enemy being, what is it? My enemy, too? No?  Right. Of course, in my friend being my enemy. Yes, like Mr Clegg, whom I have never met. Yes, Mr Coulson too, he was my true friend and enemy. And I have never met him, either.

But no, the enemy are not overseas.  I mean is not are overseas.  He are at home, here, among us. And I can see how, proply handled, the gentlemen in ISIS could help us in our gravest battle, which is to beat the Labour party.  No, it's quite true, Mr Corbyn is a terrorist.  He has a beard, he doesn't take bribes, his expenses are a joke, hardly anything in fact, and he eats lentils, as I said.   Why would a member of this house, or indeed, the other place, who can eat whatever he wants, at no cost to anyone, apart from the taxpayers, why would anyone eat lentils instead of oysters, chateaubriand, asparagus and a decent Mouton Cadet Rothschild,
followed by a line or two snorted off the arse of some pretty young researcher, yes, of any gender? 
I mean, it's what people come into politics for.

I say to the house that this cowardly, underhanded Marxist vegetarianism simply beggars belief. I mean, what're animals for, if not for serving at the best tables? And that Comrade Corbyn is,  therefore,  a very real threat to national security.  Now, you ask for reliable intelligence, well, in my view it doesn't come any more reliable than that. By his own admission, Jeremy Corbyn is a lentil-eating,  bomb-throwing menace, a threat to the way of life of all six hundred of us, here. And what we really must do is encourage our many friends in the Labour party to destabilise him.
So, by declaring war on ISIS,  and causing division between him and the many jolly decent Tories in his party, say, the members for....well, most of them, actually,  we will succeed in defeating the terrorist sympathisers, all six hundred thousand of them, outside,  who have cynically joined this once-great party of ours  in the hope of making it a voice for ordinary, working, that is to say terrorist people.

(cheers from NewLabour  former cabinet ministers and  their husbands, sitting  in the gallery)

Fatman and the IcePixie
Mr and Mrs HouseFlipper, 
shameless, money-grubbing proteges of Mr Snot, both.  

I can honestly stand before this house and promise that a vote for  bombing wog babies guarantees that terrorism won't win in the Oldham election, I personally guarantee it.  Yes, I will gladly give way to the gentleman for Spermy Underpants.

Tiny Speaker: 
I call Mr the Reverend Gay, Mr the Reverend Gay. 

Members on all sides WILL contain themselves, the right honourable exhibitionist WILL be heard......

Rt. Hon  Chris Bryant with his ministerial package.

.......once he has covered himself up  
Who DOES he think he is? Mrs Speaker?

Oooh, thanks ever s'much, Mr Tiny Speaker, 
n'I'd  just like to record  that no matter what others  say, there's at least one of us thinks you're actually quite  a BigBoy.
But no, as a gay Anglican vicar from the dark valleys, Oh,  stop it, Hilary,  not those kinda  dark valleys, and just you take your eyes off my arse,  wouldya,  I would just like to ask the prime minister if those, like little ole me, always the bridesmaid, never the bride,  who vote for him will be entitled to round-the-cock, I mean clock security.  It's just that some of my party's members are starting to demand a say in what I do, actually in what I do, here, in this place, and quite frankly, Prime Minister, I'm starting to feel a teensy-weensy bit  uneasy, if you know what I mean, dear.  They're starting to say that going to war is something that matters to everybody, acting like flamin' great queens, if you ask me, they are, demanding a say in things they don't understand. Like all of us,  I didn't join the Labour party to take any notice of what its members say....

(Labour cheers, waving of order papers; 
singing: For he's a jolly good fairy, for he's a jolly good fairy... )

And so I simply ask the prime minister, if I do vote for his hunky war, and all those really fit pilots and Oh, the oily groundcrews, some of them stripped to the waist, with lubricating fluid on their nipples and spanners in their hands, to just go and bomb civilians, will he protect me from the anger of my constituents and other citizens?  I mean, it's not as though we work for them or anything,  is it, dearie?

Well, yes of course and the right honourable ladyman makes a valid point which I assure the house I shall ignore, although a stern police action against terror-democrats is always an option  open to we, we blessed few, here, holding the line against Decency. But I would say that these so-called members of the Labour party are merely sending members pictures of incinerated wog babies; we on this side of the house offer the real thing.

So, we are all agreed then,
or enough of us.

(cheers, applause,  shouts of: time for some bubbly)

We shall join a war with no end, just because it is the right thing to do, for the Conservative party, to which we all belong,  against whoever we say  is the enemy at the time.  In this case, Mr Corbyn, opposite.  A war which we shall never win. Why not? Well, because  it's just fucking stupid, that's why not.  Nobody can beat these fucking lunatics. Even thick people know that, like me and the govament.

I commend myself to the house and  I rest my face, I mean case.


Over now to the White House for President Obama's take on Cameron's Puny War. 

President Obama delivers his State of the Union address.

My fellow motherfuckers.

 God Bless White America
and God Bless White England, too.
Only not quite so much. 
England ain't special, like we are, here, in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Y'know, folks often don't unnerstand quite what Uncle Sam's done in the cause of Freedom.
We are the birthplace of ethnic cleansing, slavery, extermination, segregation and we are  the ongoing flame-carrier for racial murder by lawnforcement, for arranging unlawful coups d'etat, kidnap and torture by state agencies and for financial terrorism against all the peoples of the world. Now and forevermore, so help me God. 
No wonder so many of our folks is runnin' around, shootin' each other's asses stone dead. 

Dave Cameron, on the line,
 he da Limey President, right?  

The barbecue guy, wid da hot bitch, Sammy?  That him?
Right, he can join-in, got a few bi-planes, don't he, left-overs from the Boer fuckin' War or somethin', and some mad crazy sonsafuckinbitches gonna drop hand grenades over the side, down on the niggers? 
Yeah, OK, maybe his rusty old crates'll provide target practice for the Russians, 'sabout all they're good for. 
Him, too.
D'we still own them aircraft?  
We own mosta that Limey shit, don't we?

Shit, guys, you gotta deal with him for me,

I'm whacked, need to pop me a few a them little yellow ones and  lay me down easy.

That was the leader of the free world, there, for us, suffering a touch of Osborneitis.

And joining us now, from our Westminster studio, where he has never worked,  and really has no right to be, we have Sid Poundland, founder of Poundland Cheap  Bargain Slogans And Accusations.

Lord Poundland, you've been the UK's Prime Minister-Elect for quite some time, now.  What's your take on the Oldham by-election?

Well, the first thing I would say is that it was a resounding victory for my hugely principled  decision to resign and then swiftly unresign. Look, let me put you straight on this great language what we speak, most of us, immigrants excluded, of course, no disrespect to them, something to do with their palates, I should think;  the language of Shakespeare, and of  the founder of our business, Sir Alf Garnett.  Just because someone resigns on principle, as, to be fair, I did, 
doesn't mean that he has to stop doing the handsomely-paid thing from which he is resigning on principle; y'see, that's the principled thing, about resignation on principle,  the saying of it, not the doing of it.  D'yunderstand, now, I actually did the principled thing, I resigned, but carried on in the job;  takes a bit of character, that, even if I say so, m'self, not that I would.  
But the by-election.  It was a huge victory for me, I mean us. The Poundland share of the Oldham vote went down and we didn't win the seat, again. And let's be honest, it doesn't get much better than that.

Apart from that, it was all fixed, obviously.  Look, just look at the facts, 'sall I'm asking you to do.  There were loadsa nignogs, who in any other election would have voted for us, but in this one they voted for Labour. Smells a bit, doncha think?
 Lessface it, you don't need to be a wossaname   a psephologist - not that I am one, just an ordinary merchant banker, me, doing his very best for his poorer  and not so clever fellow-Brits, and at some personal cost, did I mention that I could be earning much more than my million pounds a year and free totty, if I was still working in the City? I did? Many times? Well, the truth can stand repeating, even if it's not -    you don't need to be a genius to see that this is the most shameful and disgraceful and frankly the most crooked by-election in history.  
Right, it's nine am, fuck this, time for a pint or six. 

(an hour later) 

Christ, thank God for that, keep 'em coming, that's what we say in Poundland, keep 'em coming.
The free drinks, I mean, obviously.
Not the Pakis and the Romanians.
Pile 'em high, and then fall over in the gutter.
Whassa by-election? 


I don't suppose it matters, now, about Hilary Benn's hear-a-pin-drop speech.  I didn't see it, didn't see any of them. The Oldham result will put him back in his calculating box and is overall a good thing.  Matey, the winner, looks like one of those Gnasher folks, just switch  Oldham for Scotland and he could use her speeches, last refuge of the scoundrel stuff, never heard of a career politician, council leader who wasn't a pile of shit in a suit, 
and his Mrs looked double-dodgy, a Northern lass, come over all 'Illary Trousers, like,  bah gum. 
Like Hartlepool, returning Peter Mandelstein, Oldham electing, time after time, Michael Meacher and his property portfolio, must be one of the stupidest electorates in the country, in the world, but it doesn't matter. Politicians are rotten, greedy. self-centred, thieving, lying, child-molesting bastards and as such will have sniffed the wind and decided that they better make a pact of whatever sort with Jeremy Corbyn, he might just keep them living in luxury, after the next election.

It is a small victory over MediaMinster, which had hoped that today, Corbyn would be on the way out and one of their own on the way in.

Its Let's Go a-Bombing campaign was more successful, lying its rotten face off about events in Syria and Turkey, planting the seed of inevitability,  the fear of terror attacks at home and the unsuitability of any but their own to defend against them.  Guts will be spilt and limbs rent, abroad and probably at home, they just won't be  those of the inhabitants of the charmed circle of shite.

I trust that moves are afoot to deselect, unseat and shame those who really, really should know better.  That they witter on about their  consciences is laughable.  Joining hands with Saudi Arabia, Turkey and Israel is not an act of conscience or even pragmatism but a hop, skip and a jump closer to Armageddon.

Some argue that:
 Ring a ring a roses, 
a pocket full a posies,
 atishoo, atishho,
 we all fall down

 dates from seventeenth-century Plague-times, many of the street songs ring to a dark tuning fork

Cold War science fiction adapted and produced:
Ring-a-ring of neutrons
A pocketful of positrons. 
A fission, a fission
We all fall down.

Our masters insist that we are past the time of a possible nuclear attack but that nukes or bug bombs, with which the former USSR 'stans are littered, are not or will never  be in the hands of  Ahmed is most unlikely.  We have already seen that, over him, Death has no dominion; he is not defeatable by those means which defeat us, the more of him we kill, the more of him there will be;  there are one and a half billion muslems.  We need to find someone among his cadre with whom we can make a deal. 
Either that or we nuke every last one of them

Oily patter from sleasy, clapped-out Labour aristocracy or thicko tub-thumping from  Cameron will delight those in MediaMinster who see life and death as showbiz - darling, the house was at its very best, such oratory, it was positively Churchillian. 

No, I must say, I agree with Andrew, it was utterly, utterly, completely and totally  compelling, bewitching, in fact. 
I'd go so far as to say it was divine.
Me an' all, I agree wiv Michael, it was pure feater.
No business like showbusiness.
I can play us out wiv that, if you like; 
got me guitar.


Mike said...

Brilliant. You have to admit, Mr I, that the bastards give you plenty to work with.

Won't be long now till one of those RAF Johnny's gets shot down. Vlad has got the sky painted and will be telling them where they can fly, so I'm sure he'll be sending them somewhere unpleasant. And of course, the home game will be kicking off soon.

As far as I can tell we Down Here aren't in the Syria gig yet, but I wouldn't rule the possibility out.

SG said...

Yes - a sad state of affairs to be sure but the news that Lenny Henry is now a Knight of the Realm must have warmed the cockles of your heart Mr I! However, some poor devil over at ITV Noos may be languishing in a diversity re-education camp just now though...

I feel we should offer them our 'thoughts and prayers'...

Alphons said...

Did you get blisters on your typing fingers?
It was a mammoth effort and fair summary of the situation.

mongoose said...

I know it is satisfying to just lump them all together as a group of coke-addled, in-bred dullards but these are the cream of the crop, you know. And their enemies, Jesus, do let's have a stupidity contest between the Chancellor and his Shadow. The Mao stunt was comedy gold. "I am so clever and daring. A maverick I yam, I yam, Mr Speaker." Fucking hell what a dick. So it's not all nice and tidy.

One reads in the newspaper comment columns about how such-and-such is scared witless of Saint Jezza and his holy caravan of justice and truth, how it will carry all before it as it did in the Great Battle of Oldham for instance. And a moment's reflection, of course, revela that we have already forgotten, Jezza, haven't we, why we are here. You're burning it down, you dick, not building it up.

Bungalow Bill said...

Do you think Winston knows where Syria actually is, if he had to point to it on a blank map? It is indeed the towering stupidity of the modern political mind which is so appalling. The first Winston might have had the odd moment of murderous lunacy himself but at least he could construct a sentence and had a good idea of who and where he was bombing. Then, of course, Professor Doctor Henry Strangelove - the father of US realpolitik by bomb - knew his way around an atlas too and even now is hailed as a geo-political maestro.

Stupid or clever, it's all blood.

Anonymous said...


walter said...

magnus opus!

Bungalow Bill said...

PS amid the excellence of this piece you have, once again, dropped the Currie bomb; these are terrible times but there are some horrors which none of us should have to witness.

call me ishmael said...

They could all be Currie, though, couldn't they, desperate, painted old tarts, their legs thrown open to catch any passing coin; if you squint, mr bungalow bill, you can see Currie in Bomber Fallon, suited-up, addle-pated and red-faced, out there, gladhanding 633 Squadron, the worthless slag.

call me ishmael said...

I know I shake, rattle'n'roll, perhaps too much, mr mongoose, about the cooaine, but it is also a metaphor - the banksters similarly go unpunished for crimes which see the rest of us behind bars. And remember Jack Straw's brat, peddling weed to give himself some status, in a family of overblown monsters, any kid on a council estate would be in court at the very least, probation, maybe, community service, maybe a few months, the cunt Straw smarmed that his son, because he was his son, was a good kid, really, going up to Oxford, after all, and he received a caution. Cocaine is the drug of the rich, Elton John, Princess Di, Dave Cameron, the worst that happens to them is rehab, or a soiree in Downing Street, the poor cunt importing it for them faces life.

I can't always take a longer and wider view; I rely on you for that.

I do believe that Corbyn had an opportunity recently, with this vote, to throw-out the Ballses and the Chukkas and maybe form a new party, or an alliance with the FatMan, or both, but to sharpen-up the differenc between Us and Them. He fucked it up.

call me ishmael said...

I do think, mr rwg and mr walter, thank you, that Mr Nuttal, Mr Farage and the lady in the mini-skirt really fell flat on their faces at the Oldham result, Nuttal, especially, he was vile, repulsive and I believe that he would've turned stomachs, even among those most oppressed by immigration, most repelled by the EuroState, and most despairing of Buggin's Turn political parties; nudging and winking like the nasty spiv that he is, Nuttal served nothing save his inflated estimate of his own rhetoric. Diane James was little better, and it was interesting to see how comfortable she now is, amongst her supposed foes, snuggled-up, punditing, for a few quid and a taxi home, for young bridegroom, Jocky Neil.

UKIP may have had a valid stance on this Bomberama but it was at best diluted by this exhibition of sour grapes. Another opportunity missed.

Times like these, we must take it where we find it, be it in Vladimir Putin or Nigel Farage and, more importantly those whose frustration he sometimes articulates. Sneering that a ten-thousand majority is as a result of vote-rigging or recent introduction of new electoral procedures was just, I dunno, a scraping from Grievance's barrel.

call me ishmael said...

My dear mr sg, I have reproved you previously, by means of this final verse from Dr Dylan's the Wicked Messenger....

Oh, the leaves began to fallin'
And the seas began to part
And the people that confronted him were many
And he was told but these few words
Which opened up his heart
"If ye cannot bring good news, then don't bring any".

Must I display the entire recording in an Evensong for you to absorb it properly?

If you camnnot bring good news then don't bring any. How many times?

I shall simply not believe a word of it, that this whining, worthless git is knighted, Enough, away with it.

call me ishmael said...

Well I'm sure that in the Outback, at Alice Springs, in the dusty streets of Calgoulie, Aussies native, staggering around swigging sherry from an Abo's Handbag, and Aussies colonial, Strewthing their was through barbied 'roo and a few tubes, will all be tearing their bleedin' hair out, in sympathy with the slain Frogs; probably be queueing-up to enlist, the New Anzacs, cobbers against the ragheads, singing Waltzing Matilda and scratching their arses.

Do you have a Wootton Basset Springs, down there, or a Brize Norton Billabong, for the phoney mourning to take place? A singiong of the national anthem: Neigh-bours, ev-rybody needs good neigh-bours, only not the fucking mus-lems, who should sling their fucking hook.........

Aye, a downed Flying Officer Kite, that'd sour Fallon's chablis.

call me ishmael said...

I read some of WSC's histories, mr bungalow bill, and he certainly could write. They were adapted, some of them, into a TeeVee series, Churchill's People, back in the golden days of British drama, people like Tom Conti and Jack Shepherd and Dinsdale Landen. He seemed to know an improbable amount of stuff, Winnie, bit like Shakespeare, or maybe Harrow, back then, actually was a good school, not a toff's flophouse. Harrow or Eton, BoJo's arsery or Cameron's thickness cannot be o'er-lampooned.

Mike said...

If only OZ was as you describe, Mr I. Nobody goes into the bush, only Jap tourists and backpackers on a Gap year, and a few get eaten or never seen again each year.

The inner cities are metrosexualised; open spaces taken up by personal trainers. Fusion restaurants and boutique coffee shops abound. People have become lazy - I have a team of gardeners who look after my gardens, but for any conceivable job there is someone who will do it - wouldn't surprise me if you could pay a chink to come and wipe your arse.

The only discussion of France I've heard is in regard to champagne for Christmas. And as for social conscience, well my friends wife whose very "socialist", well she meets with her other socialist chums on the North Shore in their share investing club - I don't expect they discuss geo-politics too much.

However, we haven't descended to the Wooton Basset level yet. There is still a proper level of respect and decorum in these things. Some years ago I went to the dawn service at the National Memorial in Canberra. Properly done, and very moving.

SG said...

I stand justly reproved Mr I! I was going to bring you some good news, news about Botney, but then I found that it wasn't 'good' at all. As for the voting system, I predict that a few years hence ballot boxes and postal votes will be replaced by 'Strictly' style online and 'mobile' voting (only 15 pence a second...). Choose your 'job sharing' representatives from a colourful range of same sex partners... Enjoy! I normally favour 'cock-up' over conspiracy Mr I, but I begin to wonder.Those of us that have yet to be lobotomised or infantilised (the widespread phenomenon of adults consuming coffee from beakers was noted earlier by another correspondent) are to be driven to the very edge of sanity and beyond. Regarding the 'Currie Bomb', I agree with Mr BB that there are some weapons that should be put beyond use, even here in Ishmaelia. Where is General Alfred John Gardyne Drummond de Chastelain CC CMM CD CH when he's really needed?

call me ishmael said...

The team of gardeners thing is interesting, mr mike. Maybe they even do as you say. Last gardener I employed, turned-up when HE wanted, did what HE wanted and considered us fortunate to have him, which we didn't for very long; he is now shelf-stacking in the Co-op and we buy tools and machines, instead of employing people, wherever possible. It's a shame, because we both know lots of stuff and could share it. When I was in business I used to deliver to homes of the wealthy I was ever attentive to what some successful engineer or fishmonger had to say, curious as to how they got the big house, they must know something I don't. Now, people who come to my big house resent me and try to cheat me, thinking I'm stupid. Recently, I had a tattoed and goateed builder quote me two thousand pounds for plaster-boarding a ceilng and skimming a small wall, two days work at the most and maybe a hundred quid in materials, more like half that, putting him on a quarter of a million a year. Not every tradesman is like that but far too many are, in the UK, at any rate, and in Scotland especially, where Grievance is in the mother's milk. I have a Eugene Bernand engraving on the wall, one of a couple I have, depicting parables, this one is The Labourer Is Worth His Hire, and I do believe that, I wouldn't try to exploit anyone, but Oh, how they try to exploit me.

Our cities are wastelands of begging and public drunkenness, ignored, as though they were invisible, our cities are trampled-over by hordes of female Sumo-wrestlers, their arses and bellies shuddering like monstrous jellies, tattoos snaking all over their gross fleshy exposure, although you know all that from your recent time in Sheffield.

I think a pestilence of person trainers is to be preferred to Hulking Kirsty and her bloated sisterhood.

Anonymous said...

Great piece yet again. Sorry I can't wax even remotely as lyrical in reply, unlike your above respondents, but there it is.
We (ie. the RAF) are now bombing oil infrastructures to cut off Isisl/Daesh/Isil money. Who does IS sell the oil to? Among others is Turkey, a NATO partner. We can't bomb Turkey so NATO, funded by the taxpayer, stops oil being sold to itself by using taxpayers' money to avoid reducing costs to taxpayers by receiving cheap oil. Al-Quaeda is funded by Obama to fight Assad, despite the fact (ahem) that AQ destroyed the world trade centre. Is this a mess, wheels within wheels, to avoid by all means? Apparently not.
BBC always says the "so-called" Islamic State. Always. Well, it's called the Islamic State because it's the Islamic state. They never said the "so-called IRA", or the "so-called British Government." But two million Syrians are now in Europe. If 99% are peaceful it means that a mere 20,000 enemy soldiers are currently in Europe. Note that a few dozen IRA men on active service at any one time (replaced as others got shot or arrested) plus maybe a thousand support personnel, tied the British Army up for 40 years and fought to a draw.
The wisdom of declaring war on a country and at the same time allowing it's inhabitants to settle in your heartlands therefore seems unwise. Insane. I can imagine Winston's response to fit young Germans appearing in Allied countries during WW2, a response which would have been abrupt and beyond appeal.

Mike said...

Mr I, of course you are right: gardeners, and other tradespersons are the nouveau rich around here; they set their own terms and conditions. At least the gardener (not sure about his lads) knows his stuff - a rarity.

The trades professions here fall along ethnic lines. Gardeners tend to be white alnglo/saxon types, often with a surfboard in their ute as well as mower. Tiling tends to be a lebanese affair. Painting for the italians. Plasterboarding and gyprocking, the chinks. House cleaning for the chinks. Dog walking and grooming is usually young white girls.

In the morning the respective groups come in from their respective suburbs, whilst the locals (white anglos) go into the city to do a bit more robbing & stealing. I go off to golf.

call me ishmael said...

That's about it, mr richard, insane, especially pronounced in the PIRA comparison. It is hard to write it down, is it not, the wilderness of mirrors? And we cannot draw analogy with the 'thirties and 'forties; hungry, workless, unschooled, slum-dwelling, diseased with rickets and TB, our ancestors wouldn't have believed a spiv-moron like Cameron, not for a fucking spilt-second.

call me ishmael said...

That thing, mr mike, about the big house, I didn't quite mean it like that; it's not that I'm rich, I'm not, it's just that I'm older and wiser, more considerate and thus people mistake one's manners for aloofness, one's compassion for snobbery, one's very existence an affront.

If it was the case that tradespersons here set their own rate and achieved it then that would be just a market working as it should but they don't get what they demand, because they don't get regular, repeat business and erstwhile customers, like me, learn how to operate JCBs and aerial platforms for themselves; fuck 'em, if they can do it I certainly can.

call me ishmael said...

That is a racing certainty, mr sg, in Entertainment's Dystopia, Strictly Come Voting, Big Celebrity Vote-In, Votes In The Attic,Flog Votes; All-American squarehead mutant, Zuckerberg, is probably working on something right now, FaceVote.

AS I was saying to mr richard, I am drawn to the conclusion that either they are insane or I am, can't both have all our marbles, and I do find that trying to formally to make sense of current events by writing them down, they don't, make sense, not even by the twisted innternal logic of people like MPs, Lunatics, asylum.

I know but a little of Ole Garlic Breath's partial demise - he is one of those I mention in the commentary, above punishment - but I will take a frightened peep at the broadsheets.

Mike said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
call me ishmael said...

Roger, mr mike, wilco, in fact, have complied, as you see.

yardarm said...

Bang on the money, Mr Ishmael, Ham Face, replacing his top hat with a steel helmet, manages to rescue some Cold War era aircraft from Gideon`s scrap heap for his PR gesture and implement his great strategy, which no one else has thought of, of slinging some bombs into the desert.

I saw Benn`s speech, brilliant political rubbish but utter bollocks, like Call Me Winston, ignoring the real questions, because neither have a fucking clue about the answers: our pro terrorist allies Turkey and Saudi, the Iran/Saudi proxy war, the Kurds, the Iranians. How it all ends. As Mr Richard says above. And as you say about the ' War ' on Drugs, if this a war we`ll lose it. Some nutter cut loose with a knife on the Underground last night, dunno where the bombs fall for that. Leave it to Bomber Fallon, he`ll nuke Leytonstone.

And as you say Call Me Steel Helmet is facing various shit storms: Osbum`s ongoing jihad on the poor, the Top Hat Killer in his own ranks (calling in a tame ambulance chaser to tell him what went on in his own organization) and of course Europe`s told him to fuck off re his efforts to appease the sceptics, so a bit of fancy footwork in the Middle East is his desperate attempt to stave off his own backbenchers from headchopping him.

The original Winston could bollocks it up spectacularly at times, he was responsible for his own Iraq, the Russian Intervention. Obviously none of the halfwits in Westminster have studied that, Ham Face too busy playing tennis or indulging in sweaty post match vigorous manlove with Feldman in Oxford then getting stoned with the Buller to open a fucking book.

Ring a ring of Beneath the Planet of the Apes the children sang that outside buried St Patricks Cathedral where they worshipped the Doomsday Bomb. Mad Dog Fallon would love that, swinging about on the Holy Bomb, gibbering like a baboon on acid, fighting even more wars in his fucked up head, leading the Tory Mutantbastards, pulling off their top hats to reveal the mutant monstrosities beneath and singing All Thing Bright and Beautiful.

call me ishmael said...

Thank you, mr yardarm, good to see you, bitter lolling out loud, here. All things bright and beautiful. Fuck me, Jesus, the Cabinet at church, the mind bends and near breaks.

Ring a ring.........I first read, as a kid, in one of those US, sci-fi anthologies of my big brother's, brilliant, beautiful, imaginative scepticism; now, I am Legend, for instance and We Can Remember It For You Wholesale become vehicles for Will Smith and Governor Schwarzenegger, the man who broke the Bank of California.. I have a metre or so of these thin, worn anthologies and novellas on my shelves, relics from the age of dissenting enquiry, and I don't know what will happen to them.

I never did see the Ape movies, something for a rainy night, maybe, when the broadband is gale-blown.