I hate to be such a bore, with all this health stuff but it would be impolite not to mention that I am in the local hospital with a Mycardial Infarction and expect to be flown to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, tomorrow, for an angiogram, maybe a stenting, maybe a medication change and maybe surgery. I walked into hospital, here, and I am just on a simple monitor and would expect and prefer either of the first two options.
This has happened a couple of times, this year, this chest pain, but has proved to be a referred pain, from the surgery on my neck, although impossible, without ecg and blood tests, to distinguish from heart attack; this time, the second blood test revealed an elevation of the heart attack enzyme and so the plumbing needs to be explored. Orkney is notorious for shuffling-off even a hint of an emergency to Aberdeen, no-one has told me the extent of the elevation and it may be that ARI consider it insignificant or easily remedied. The entire health hierarchy, between junior and senior doctors, small and larger hospitals is, of course, impenetrable and I am merely being processed and told relatively little. Aside from a residual twinge of pain in my chest I feel as right as rain, strange to think that these events could, any moment, prove fatal; pointless, however, to assume a portentous, one foot in the grave dignity, a pretend clarity of purpose and vision.
I will report back as and when I can and am sorry that our discussions are once more interrupted. I am conscious that I am long overdrawn in Sympathy's Account and only mention this business so's not to appear indifferent to others' curiosity about my absences but there is no need to dredge-up more expressions of care and concern, with which you have already enriched me.
This has happened a couple of times, this year, this chest pain, but has proved to be a referred pain, from the surgery on my neck, although impossible, without ecg and blood tests, to distinguish from heart attack; this time, the second blood test revealed an elevation of the heart attack enzyme and so the plumbing needs to be explored. Orkney is notorious for shuffling-off even a hint of an emergency to Aberdeen, no-one has told me the extent of the elevation and it may be that ARI consider it insignificant or easily remedied. The entire health hierarchy, between junior and senior doctors, small and larger hospitals is, of course, impenetrable and I am merely being processed and told relatively little. Aside from a residual twinge of pain in my chest I feel as right as rain, strange to think that these events could, any moment, prove fatal; pointless, however, to assume a portentous, one foot in the grave dignity, a pretend clarity of purpose and vision.
I will report back as and when I can and am sorry that our discussions are once more interrupted. I am conscious that I am long overdrawn in Sympathy's Account and only mention this business so's not to appear indifferent to others' curiosity about my absences but there is no need to dredge-up more expressions of care and concern, with which you have already enriched me.
87 comments:
You may not read this, but should you do so, I wish you all the best for a speedy recovery and a more permanent cure this time round.
Thank you, m'sieu alohons
Good grief, Mr I. Good luck with it all - but you get out of that hospital as soon as. The damn places are full of sick people, you know.
Well, the worst outcome is death, mr mongoose, the second worst is ten days or so for surgery and the best is 72 hours for a stent. Still replying to you, further back up the road.
I could've avoided this, just by taking a slug of morphine at home, this morning, and getting an investigation in my own time but I was trying to be the good sensible patient, bollocks.
We'll be waiting; you are, as ever, courteous and lucid. No platitudes but I will keep you in my thoughts.
No expressions of concern, eh? OK, then - "a slight hiatus" anagrams to "I laugh at shits", which you do, rather well, quite a lot. Back at it soon, if you please...
v.//
Thank you, mr bungalow bill, a change from youtube, where I was described as a nasty human being, merely for decrying a syrupy, incongruous, over-orchestrated mutilation of a favourite song, just heartfelt, honest criticism, how very dare I?
I hope to continue the discussions, here, without constructing one of those awful, luvvie illness diaries.
I had been joking with mrs ishmael, about a Bunbury, a faked illness, in order to avoid making a speech at her daughter's imminent wedding, I do hope I can still make it; rituals and obligation, as you often mention.
Thanks, mr verge, as I said to mr bungalow bill, I will try to continue, hospital wi-fi permitting. Whilst I am among experts I will consult widely, seeking remedy for your piteous, fecal anagram condition.
Yes, fucking awful things those speeches. I've always thought about getting a Hawking voice synth. More often, I have just got stoned which takes the edge off.
Bach and Amadeus is what you need on the YouTube machine.
Hope all goes well Mr Ishmael. You are missed when away. Look forward to reading your thoughts as and when you're fully recovered.
I have had two of those damned infarction things, the first one in 2000, the Docs just pumped me full of GTN for a fortnight then sent me home, never felt so ill after that. The second one in 2009, the Docs at Harefield gave me three stents, adjusted the medication, insisted I not get stressed and packed me off; never felt better, although age is getting the better of me now.
Good luck with it, be back soon.
We will miss you, but best you lay quietly and concentrate on getting better. Best wishes.
Good luck with it all Mr Ish.
Best Wishes from the west coast of the best part of England.
Good luck
-richard
Hi, Ishmael. As one of many, many thousands of a quad bypass experience the idea of this event is far worse than the actuality. Were it to be the case you really do become a more likely person to enjoy longevity than otherwise! Recovery is slow but always as successful as you wish it to be. Long walks, eventually, the best and most pleasurable therapy, rounded off with a moderate tot of whatever is your tipple, if any!
I look forward to further good news and superb posts!
All the best and speedy recovery!
You seem to bear what are clearly some very challenging health issues with great fortitude Mr I. I wish you all the best for a swift recovery so that you may be returned to your vantage point to continue your observations in relation to the body politic and other aspects of the sorry state that we seem to be in at present!
A speedy recovery Mr Ishmael, a quick breakaway from the doctorbastards and back to your Orcadian fastness.
Good Grief, Mr. I, I shall be importuning the gods for your speedy recovery at the very least. On the matter of stents - they are not to be feared. My younger brother, having been diagnosed as the proud possessor of a giant aneurism in the brain, was told that he might have to have two or three stents. He had thirty-two of the little buggers and here we are ten years later still batting him around the left ear'ole to dislodge a couple to cash them in - they're made of platinum you know ...
I had the by-pass, a few years ago, and I am less sanguine about another one, mr old rightie, than are you and would, I think, resist surgery unless absolutely unavoidable. I still await an interpretation of tests from Aberdeen and may know something tomorrow.
I have several chronic conditions, mr sg, but if you saw me on the street you might think, hmmm, that bloke has a bit of a limp and you might not even think that, others, it is true, are kilo for kilo healthier than I but many are much, much sicker and my observations are always so uniformly good that I must be the healthiest sick person in Scotland.
I will see what's on offer, mr yardarm, and might just do that, make a run for my shore and front it out.
I have platinum in my groin, king caratacus, sharkskin in my heel and titanium in my neck, your brother is a post-surgical pauper.
At least you're missing Question Time, I hope. As Mrs Woar says, rest yourself.
I winced through some of it, last week, mr bungalow bill, and I swear I will pluck out mine eyes before watching it again. Everytime I go there the well is dry, it is a passage to desolation, it's pilgrims smirking and applauding themselves, a window into the asylum's tearoom, the fucking PG Tips chimpanzees made more sense.
I began a wind down of visits to question time a number of years back. Nick Griffin was on the panel, one time, and was being berated by an audience member for being against the islamification of Britain.
Here was a leader of a political party who couldn’t even deal a scathing riposte to what was a clear opportunity.
The PBC programming is so agenda driven as to be laughable…watch it? …I’d rather chew tinfoil.
All the best Mr Smith - I hope it's nothing serious.
Thanks, mr dick, me too.
It leads one to conclude, mr doug, that all this talk of reforming the PBC is no more than pantomime, never has a collective political elite had such an obedient propaganda ministry as the PBC; property shows, pie shows, tat shows and satire in the hands of warriors Ian Hislop, Mark Steele and Jeremy Hardy, current affairs run by two elderly, royalist, Dimbleby Bullingdon Boys, Goebbels would've died for such an apparatus.
Best Wishes for a speedy recovery, Mr. I - take care of yourself. We need you....
Mereological as that might sound, the key thing is your brain is fine; heart is merely plumbing, to be sorted out one way or another.
What Mr tdg said! Maybe Stanislav can assist with the plumbing Mr I? Plus, I think we're all rootin' for ya! In a reasoned sort of way - of course...
Rest and recuperate Mr Ishmael. Prayers and good wishes!
Listening on earphones, so's not to disturb the performace of every pestilential physiotherapist, nurse, cleaner and dogsbody who sees this ward as a gobby performance space, I have been youtubing Beethoven's late quartets, mr tdg, just a couple of movements a day, lest I weep myself dry, and I can't help but wonder - given that these works were composed in illness and sorrow - if dying isn't the best part of living.
Your whoreson critic will excise with superlatives these bits of connective emotional tissue, necrotising them with erudition but thet don't need to be wriiten of, just heard, in order to know Death, brought to Life.
The Late Quartets, mr bungalow bill, I've been putting them off, the Bach and Mozart I know, passing well.
I do wonder, mr sg, watching Organised Crime dominate the EuRef, who, if anyone, will hose them down with caustic soda. Back in the days of Snotty nepotistically moral-compassing the country towards NewPresbyteria, to ninety-day internment, ID cards, Stalinism and the lifting of every child out of poverty into perpetual debt there did seem to be a popular Underground, a movement which cyber-garlanded its tormentors with dead flowers, strewed their path with broken glass and pissed in their skinny lattes, now every arsehole commentator peddles nuance and sophistry, spit-roasting themselves, as though in some PremierShip GangRapists' League night-out, on the twin cheesy cocks of Murdochism and the Paedophile Broadcasting Corporation; where is the voice of he who crieth in the wilderness, Up, ye, against the wall, motherfuckers?
Thank you, ms juliet and mr alexis and dr y, for your thoughts and prayers.
I have little room for manoeuvre on this occasion and must do as they say, in Aberdeen, when they send for me.
You're right, Mr I, the Quartets are fathomless. Where does it come from, for him and the other real ones? A mystery, a consolation and a hope.
I may have mentioned that my introduction to classical music proper, in my late teens, was courtesy of another autodidact, who played me, on his B&O stereo, the von Karajan Sixth and Ninth Beethoven symphonies and for a long time thereafter I thought the symphony the one true God. For some years, now.........no, I'll tell you this story, first, or instead.
I was in this hospital a few years back and in the next bed was an ageing, deaf, blues guitar player, who had set-up an electric guitar of mine and had visited my home, he had also worked for mrs ishmael; I sort of knew him, he was like Guitar George, knew all them fancy chords, all the scales, could mimic anybody. Hi, ishmael. Hi, John howyadoin'? Oh just in here with me knee, I'm in a great band, now, young guys, they help me onto the stage and I sit down and jam with them, whachoo listening to, anythin' good? Well, actually, John, I've been listening to a lot of really early music........ Yeah, me, too, 'sixties, 'fifties, even some great stuff from the late 'forties. I'd meant sacred music, of course, Byrd and Tallis, Pallestrina and Allegri and I'd really wanted to point him towards some real soul music, but it would've bern i pertinent of me, his musical purpose lay in showing-off, not in being enfolded by the great unnameable.
Listening, this afternoon, to the third movement of the A minor quartet, op 132, I think, the first couple of bars just pissed over every symphony I have ever heard, fathomless, where'd that shit come from?
When I return I'll post an amazing animated visualisation of the score of op. 135, must be a clever software package which, like magic, portays four differently coloured streams weaving through a stave in time to the sounds of the instrument which each represents, gold and crimson for the fiddles, lilac for the viola, navy for the 'cello, gives you some idea of the composer's vision.
I can't do it from here, on my i-thing, although I am sure a NewPerson could.
I’m surprised that the unelected representatives that represent the interests of the themselves (Sorry…the UK ) are not making more vociferous attacks not the exit folks.
After all, what trough is the likes of Kinnock and his good lady…his lady wife…or is it Lordess..her worship?...going to be feeding at if there is no UK at the table?
On the exit folks....shit
In other news, Our Esteemed Leader has informed me that it would be immoral to vote Leave. The economic case is the moral case," he said. And there you have it. Dear me. Chicken out of bag and now among cats.
We're going to have to teach you to write a bit of code, Mr Ishmael. Although writing such on a tablet is a trial above and beyond the normal. It is best left for now or you'll injure somebody as you hurl the damn thing across the ward. So BTW but don't try this until you are at home, the code for that link is:
<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2016/05/23/eu-referendum-david-cameron-and-george-osborne-warn-brexit-would/#update-20160523-1205">The economic case is the moral case," he said.</a>
Oh, and who the fuck is Pete Wishart? Good grief, what a pig!
He is Tribesman nobility, mr mongoose, although whether he is a link in the daisychain banging the delectable Ms Bicycle is unknown, although if he is he will most assuredly be doing it at our expense. Time for a punitive raid across the border, led perhaps, as in times before, by the army of the Archbishop of York, which makes me wonder - some years ago, the incumbent, John Sentenyanu, did vow not to change his underpants until Bob Mugabe was deposed. I met him briefly shortly after that pledge and he was a bit riffy, even then, God knows what he's like now. God willing I'll be down his yard next week, for the mystery plays and I hope he's not stinking the place up to fuck. It was a rash promise and unfair to imflict his rank arse and foreskin odours on simple pilgrims, such as I, come to praise the Lord, not to vomit in His house, like some intoxicater, child-eating Papist, present company excepted.
It was the DIY Recession joke, made to B and Q workers, by Hamface and his Junky colleague, which convinced me that observing much less commenting upon this farce is a mug's game, Organised Crime in full flow, the Tories'll never recover from this. Oh,for an opposition.
The Vox Pop is with you, mr doug, be brave.
As if we didn't know we were in the Last Days, Angelina Jolie Pitt, the film person, has been appointed Visiting Professor at the LSE to lecture on Women, Peace and Security. Yes that's right, Professor Jolie. She will be bolstered by the presence of her fellow Professor, William Hague. They are both determined to end the culture of impunity surrounding gender violence, and I am sure they will tackle other outrages from time to time.
William should be particularly insightful on impunity, I would have thought.
I hadn't heard that one, although I did, here, predict them working together in some showbiz flim-flam or other. I hope the LSE. will provide him with a secretariat of pretty young men, to help him prepare his lectures. I saw Lord Scarman at a meeting, one time, and he had a bevy of besuited beauties, taking down his every word, passing him water, so to speak. Getting like the fucking Borgias round here, mr bungalow bill. Billy Miscarriage, the man who revealed his wife's gynaecological records to the press, the champion of gender equality.
I have now read up on Wishart. Utterly beyond parody - the swine.
It is a bit like cheekliy asking the motorway cop if he has nothing better to do. Or telling a management consultant that joke about borrowing watches. Going to B&Q and making DIY jokes? Surely, yes, they'll guffaw like the good chaps they are. Christ, what a shower. It's time to hide under the stairs for a month.
ok, one more then I'll stop:
"Angelina Jolie Pitt" scrabblemorphs to "I jilt inept anal ego." Try telling that to her pint-guzzling fellow Prof.
v.//
Thing is, according to the FilthOGraph, nobody laughed, even though they kept on telling it, as though the audience was too dumb to understand Danny Finkelstein's shitty, flatfooted excuse for a joke, and just needed time to wise-up to what the clever chaps from Oxford were saying and then they'd piss themselves in amusement and admiration, yes, and envy, at the sheer polished brilliance of Bukkake Boy, strung-out on sperm and coke and the PigFucker.
I just finished some dreadful offering from the Book of Common Pulp, a pseudo-scholarly who-fucking-dunnit-though-I-don't-even-care, set in the 16th century French court of Catherine de Medici and her idiot-wanker son, Henri IV and I'm not kidding you our own House of Reptiles makes the grotesques of that period look like fucking Quakers.
Sixteen pints and then gangbanged by sweaty lorry drivers, I understand, mr verge, that was Billy's Indian Summer.
Air ambulance, in the morn, down to desolate and resentful Aberdeen, angiogram, maybe angioplasty, in the afternoon, and home on Wednesday, a sadder and a wiser man, that's the plan. These heart attacks, they're not what they were.
The B&Q crowd just looked as if they did not believe or want to listen to a word. It is - or should be - proof positive to those present that working somewhere the fuck else is in order, if it is achievable in this fucked up country. My God. Even poor old Mrs Fish is having to row back a bit or she'll get the right wrong answer too. Fucking people. Do they think we're all daft?
And anyway you are supposed to be all Horlicksed and asleep, and not leaning on that windowsill. Good luck with it tomorrow, whatever they decide to do, and safe home thereafter. Air ambulance indeed. What'll the neighbours?
My own drink from Celebrity's goblet, I' m gonna live the dream.
Can I suggest to you that you try to get hold of some "Arnica Montana 8" tablets/pills (the 8 can vary depending what you can acquire) This stuff will work wonders on "bruised flesh".
It is part of the reviled Homeopathy mumbojumbo, but I can assure you that I have had several occasions to use it after serious surgery and I'm still walking about at 83.
A couple of pills every 3 to 4 hours for a few days.
Good luck.
Aberdeen eh?
Horrible place.
Anyways, safe trip home Mr I.
Done and dusted in under 24 hours, en route for home, thanks. mrs ishmael is a mumbojumboiser, m. alhons, and we use Arnica, thank you.
Bravo. I'm sure all Ishmaelites will be glad to hear it and look forward to the next round of fucks (so to speak - fire at will etc.)
v.//
Fantastic news. Enjoy yourself now.
"Awesome! That was hugely satisfying!" said Liz Bonnin, collaring a Zebra. I'd spotted 'PBC' 1's "Nature's Epic Journeys" as being of potential interest given that, historically, they've made a pretty decent fist of nature programmes, if nothing else, plus having traversed the region myself some years ago. But why conflate documentary with drama? The drama of the presenter's lives? This obsession with showing the workings, what goes on inside the magician's hat... It is as though, having purchased a piece of fine furniture, one has to permanently endure, inside one's own home, the felling of the trees, the saw mill experience, the carpentry, the planing, sanding and polishing in an endlessly recurring loop. Forget the stunning vistas, majestic wildlife, nature red in tooth and claw and witness the cameras, camera crews, blokes what pitch the tents and dig the latrines and, most importantly, the banal observations of the presenters. Grrrr! I think we may have touched on this subject before Mr I. I hope you are feeling better and have returned to the comfort and sanity of your redoubt...
Well done, Mr I. I trust that it was a thoroughly boring non-adventure. For all that, put your feet up on the sofa, will you, and leave the bloody hedges and roof-tiles be for a while.
Thanks, all. Briefly - although the experience is rich in dark anecdote - what happened was that the by-pass surgery, performed four years ago, hadn't worked, the grafted arteries looking - on the sceen,just the day before yesterday - like weedy tendrils, good for fuck all, worse, probably, than those they replaced; the natural artery is now widened by stent and that may improve the older grafts but is probably adequate on its own. I am told. There is probably a challenge or a complaint to be made there but I won't make it, throughout my heart disease no effort, no expense has been spared and I remain, not just for personal reasons but generally, convinced that health care funded by taxation is an often igmored high-water mark of civilisation and that if we abandon it to the likes of Jerry Hunt, Andy Lansley and their masters we may as well abandon everything, starting with Shakespeare and Mozart and live, like dogs, in packs.
My case makes a point, I guess, for an invasive follow-up, a year or two after grafting and the angiogram seems, to me at any rate, a relatively gentle such procedure, in my case, medications, self-corrrection and discipline have masked the surgical failure and I guess I have avoided Mr Death and his Sergeants through the very bloody-mindedness which some kindly say I should eschew - the hedges support billions of life forms, feathered and furry and insectoid and ultimately our own and in this windy location require at least some maintainance; maintaining them, I maintain myself. My old friend loved this place but on his last visit said to me, ishmael, you need to make this garden low-maintainance, lotsa gravel, 'swhat y'need; he, alas, shortly afterwards, was dead and ashes, whilst I meditate, still, snipping a considered leaf here, a twig there, hour after hour, sometimes deploying the lithium-powered shears to slice off a foot from the top but mostly just snipping.
Anyway, I will mention this unintended failure of follow-up to those I meet and see if ripples spread but looking, on this bright, May morning, at the seals on my quiet shore, looking forward again to next week's pilgrimage to the Mystery Plays in YorkMinster, I know that remonstrance would be graceless and impudent.
Harris hears his Mum on the stairs, coming to give his GoodMorningLove, his breakfast comes and soon he'll chase around the garden, barking a big fuck off at all the other creatures whom he senses but we don't; all are back in his house who should be; Harris is relieved and content and so am I,.
Aye, mr sg, it is all greasy kids' stuff, the TeeVee. Away from the box for a week, I skipped through about eighty channels, last night, thinking there was something wrong with me, every channel bringing from me an Oh Ferfucksake, within a moment or two. It is a childish medium, peopled by contemptuous, nasty show-offs - the bint you speak of; the ghastly David Mitchell hamming his way through a fourth-form Shakespeare spoof, because, lo, though his voice grateth as harshly as doth his sneering, malform-ed face, he went to Oxbridge and his Dad, Andrew Spanker Mitchell, is political cunt-vermin. And there was, too, the yappy little oik from C4 News, Mick Crick, chewing his way through some gossipy nonsense about BoJo's and the PigFucker's days at Oxford, Christ Almighty, Family Guy fair crackled with wit and satire compared with our native luminaries. No, rubbish, all of them, best not encouraged. It's like fags, the telly, there's nothing to give up, nothing good, anyway. It is the you-thing for me, on my big, curved screen, or my books, or my guitars or my friends, distant, yet here foregathered.
Oh, and Earnest Monty Don, too, at the Chelsea Flower Show, pretending he's just a gardener, just like us. Long ago, I heard someone say something about Everyman.
Monty Don is so bad that were it to lie below ground for a million years, clad in Oxfam braces, cords and woollies his body, preserved by pure Dishonesty,would not compost. Monty don, the horror of the non-biodegradable.
Welcome back Mr Ishmael. I am reminded why I come here by your eloquent description of your return to sanctuary… quite moving. I’ve never thought about dogs huffing and shouting at stuff we don’t sense. Makes sense..much like humans ferfucksaking while flicking channels.
I have…never again… Ferfucksaked up and down the channels of an evening. I’m doing other things now and rarely watch.
Is the ferfucksaking only a reaction to our own stupidity in not knowing that a particular channel selection is not going to have Gobby poof with a unqualified sense of his own value spouting drivel about nothing?
The better half, Mrs Inmate, was watching the Mick Crick thing last night; I've never heard such language from her, "what a pair of greedy, lying, immoral fucking bastards ...perfect examples of psychopathic behaviour, the pair of them" her being a psychology teacher.
It would appear the Mainstream want us to choose between BoJo and Spamface;some kind of Cruelty TeeVee popularity contest rather than concentrate on the referendum,the merits of in/out, the corruption at the heart of Govt. and the EU, the dismantling of the NHS via TTIP whether we stay or leave.
BTW how good is it to see the inner workings of one's heart during an angiogram?
Good to hear your back sir.
The same man returned I see, Mr Ishmael. I was just cautioning gently against a mad sally up the scaffolding or similar until the stitches, holes or otherwise have had a fighting chance.
Talking of compost, and surely I am hereby nearer the grave than thee, have you seen what doesn't happen to eggshells in there. Archaeologists will marvel.
Glad to see you are "up and running" Mr Ishmael.
An old, dear, chum of about 60 years had an open heart job done about six years ago. Sadly he had a heart attack when he was "open"on the table. They saved him, but the right hand side of his body was left paralysed and he could not speak when he was brought out of his coma. He has gradually improved but he still has to spend his life either in bed or in an electric buggy if he is in a fit state to get into it and can get someone to lift him in to it. He even has to have some one feed him. His wife is riddled with Rhumatoid Arthritis and she can do very little but support him mentally.
I often think how unlucky it was that they "rescued" him.
I saw it too, Mr Inmate. Mrs Inmate wasn`t exaggerating.
Glad you`re back, Mr Ishmael, ready to enjoy summer by the Flow.
You could always stop eating eggs, mr mongoose, they are, after all, on the face of it, a gastronomic atrocity, right up there with caviar and other roes; the creatures haven't even been born yet and we boil them up, fry them, poach them, scramble them and make meringue from them. Fucking omelettes, too, Hollandaise Sauce, no end to the things we can do with the UnBorn If God is a chicken, mr mongoose, we're all fucked.
My eggshells, anyway, from chickens just up the road, seem to compost, you do smash 'em up, don't you? I have heard, though, of the rise of the non-biodegradeable eggshell, down there, in TescoLand, maybe it's just another free market mutation.
It is a big story, mr doug, the polysexuality in TeeVee Land. The trans thing, an utter abomination, facetious and peurile, is taken by all in News, as a given, the rest of us just need to be brought up to speed, we need educating by Sophie and Evan and, well, maybe not Huw welshman, I shouldn't think he sees self-indulgent Freakery as a valid human rights campaign, and I certainly don't, yet, according to News, we are all just five minutes away from discovering our other gender and demanding the swift flurry of happy-making scalpels; stereotypical males will be sashaying down the road, in our high heels, and the wife will be togged-up in the boilersuit, wielding the sledgehammer and everybody will have expressed their true inner selves. Trans is the most cuntish thing I have ever heard, sheltering from a life-long bombardment of horseshit. Maybe if all the brown children could have a drink of clean water or an aspirin and a bite to eat, maybe then we might tolerate Graham demanding to be Susan, the worthless cunt; if he comes round here he'll get a good swift kick where his goolies used to be, right into his inverted scrotum. What are the doctors thinking about, can't they be restrained. Needs a private prosecution, I think, misuse of public funds, asault, deception, fucking blasphemy, even.
But wed digress angrily- and why the fuck not? - TeeVee has got away Scot-Free in the matter of its institutionalised paedophila and worse. A dead freak has been spat on, and his grave dug-up; Tony Blackburn's had an undeserved kicking and a bought-and-paid-for judge has cleared everyone else - Bill Cotton, Michael Grade, Alan Yentob, even the simpering oilslick, Paul Gambacinni, the man who said he knew all about it, darling, but couldn't speak, because of his careeer; if he ever shows-up, here, with David, he'll wish he hadn't, an oily, mucus-covered turd, Gambo, smirking and whispering stories about gay showbiz, how all the freaks first came-out to him, the wretched Bowie and the ghastly Freddie Mercury, crying their eyes out on Gambo's shoulders. In an insult to children everywhere he's reinstated, now, reading to us from wikipedia, as though he was a musicologist and knew stuff, not a vain, empty-headed showbiz slut.
continues......
continued
Child abuse in TeeVee? Oh, well, lessbeclear, it was all a long time ago, and quite frankly, there were some rather important people involved, people who are in a position to make trouble, even now, for other rather important people. And anyway, these witnesses and so-alled victims, they can't be relied upon, can they, I mean, most of them are jailbrids, now, they've led perfectly ghastly lives, some of them, and all they want to do is blacken the names of honourable child molesters and decent men at the PBC. No, I think you'll find there's little appetite for pursuing thoroughly decent politicians and broadcasters. And things were very different then. Wosssat? The Holocaust? That was even longer ago? Well, I think what you fail to understand here is that in the Holocaust, which was the wo0rst thing ever, after 9/11, of course, in the Holocaust, what you had was cruel, powerful people doing cruel things to vulnerable people. Which must never happen again. No-one could say that a bunch of MPs or TeeVee people passing children around between themselves and raping and murdering them is anything like the Holocaust. Because it just isn't. I mean wasn't. Not that it ever happened, anyway. And even if it did, my good friend, the noble Lord Hague investigated it all, or some of it, and it didn't happen, he said, even though it did.
How they must laugh, in the child dungeons and brothels in Belfast and London and Birmingham and Manchester, the cops and the judges and the lawyers and the councillors and the MPs. The national broadcaster, the Palace, Ten Downing Street and the parliament are exposed as the HQ of organised child vice and murder and some mangy old cunt of a crooked lawyer lets everybody off, nobody sacked, much less prosecuted, instead, Villainy's henchmen come out blustering, about the reputation of the repulsive Brittan, the man who lost the dossier on his mates. Rantzen, the sometime lover of one of the Tory nonces, gets a Damehood, for her work with children. Johnathan Swift, eat your fucking heart out.
I don't mind poofs, at the PBC, mr doug,I don't mind poofs, period, what someone needs to do is devise a new nomenclature, a new gender classification for the freaks who, for career, or just for fun will fuck anyone, let anyone fuck them and kiss bestiality warmly on the cheek, darling, so long as it furthers their careers.
It is a trouble to me, that one, m alphons, the quality of life discussion, the presumption which underpins its very airing; it is not for public debate for such is facile and stupid but for friends and lovers of the diminished to discuss and determine.
I think I am with the wretch, Dylan Thomas, inasmuch as we should not go gentle, into that good night. Money and stuff are of no value, Life is all we have or will ever have, to take it, however grim it may aappear to be is abhorrent and unnatural. If people want to make arrangements privately and in Decency and with the informed consent of the sick one, then that is their affair, for doctors to assume a determination of Life's worth, to another, is, I think, monstrous.
I don't know if your old friend is suffering such that he wouild his quietus make, maybe the ride on the buggy, in the Sun, is worth living for, maybe the sight of his wife's patient smile, should she deliver one. I dunno, fucked if I know. This in sickness and in health vow, either it means what it says or it means nothing.
If mrs ishmael ever firmly asked me to end her life I guess I would find a means and take my chance with a jury, fuck 'em, it wouldn't matter anyway, then; for the state to do it, even by professional neglect is something else.
Grim thoughts for a bright, May morning. I hope your friend gets out,today, feels the Sun and hears the birds.
it was Crick's diminution, his trivialising of the SuperState argument, into gossip about personalities and rivalries and ambition- although, God knows, neither BoJo or PigFucker have much of a personality, rather a series of cheesy, ungrammatical soundbites written for them, I swear, by a roomful of captive chimpanzees on cocaine - which, in mere seconds, enraged me. I didn't stay long enough to hear more.
I paid Mick Crick's salary and expenses and bought his stupid fucking scarves while he was at the PBC, and now I'm doing it for him at Channel Snow, how dare the shitty, gibbering, little oik come on like Evelyn Waugh, wittering about Life at Oxford and pretending to be a journalist. Everybody already knows anout private, tax-dodging schools and Bullingdon and bought degrees for useless thickos like Cameron, about sanctioned, privileged deabuchery, everybody knows that the inbred spunkfruits of the wealthy are almosr inevitably repellent, criminal and corrosive of the public good and the public discourse.
Maybe the show improved, I dunno, doesn't matter, I got m'mind made-up and it'd be a long, cold day in Hell before I required instruction from Crick, or any of his ilk.
On the bright side, it's probably great for mr inmate to hear mrs inmate unexpectedly talking dirty, although Crick is a weird stimulant, even for the broadminded.
And thanks, mr yardarm, I have just come in from the garden, looking at the water-colour ocean, still and silver, even Turner couldn't paint it; you can't photograph it, either, you need a lens as vast as God.
It’s a career thing innit? I remember Bowie’s proclamation. “I’m Bi” when it was the fashionable thing and his record sales had taken another nose dive. (If he ever sold as much as people claim…I’ve never been convinced). It was cute back then and didn’t really matter much cos’ everything on teevee is fantasy…scripted. The terrifying thing is when people believe it’s real…that the Karshidians are a real family and that their shenanigans there to aspire to. That American bloke who became a woman and they made a teevee about him. The subterfuge is what gives me the heebee jeebies. I saw a trailer..he trurns to the camera and say “I’m the new normal” it wasn’t a ferfucksake moment…it was terrifying. Because right now people are buying into it.
Who is “they” that are making these programs? Who thinks that a teevee show about a rich dysfunctional family has legs? But it’s there isn’t it? And the attendant message is there also..completely fucked up? No problem.. here..have your own show.
I don’t mind poofs either Sir. No rational person gives a flying fuck whether their neighbour is gay or no. I ain’t walked in their moccasins.
There was one on C4 News, last evening, mr doug, an ancient Man-Lady, looked and sounded like something from tne StarWars bar; an author and thinker, yes, and critic, too, and respected commentator, just not by me, fuck that, whom Krishnan Thick was pleased and honoured to welcome to the show, show being what it is. The TeeVee was only on for a minute, waiting to go to youtube and this bloke, I think he was John-turned-into-Jennifer, was there, instantly, dribbling and croaking about leDonald, before I was able to yell, OFFS, and switched the cunt off. This was before the watershed, an ugly old man, pretednding to be an even uglier woman and the presenter drooling over him. I might ring the fuckers up, they'll probably try to have me arrested and cautioned for anti-transism.
We get free, and free range, eggs around here - from the hens of the mum of the lad to whom we give a lift to swim training. So they are quite thin sometimes but seem properly and variably organic, and not those precision-dosed oblate ovoids (No3s) that indeed one gets from Mr Sainsbury's statistical guide to hen husbandry. But the breaking of them before composting did in fact have us foxed for a while. An oversight, as they say. But the shell bits themselves seem indestructible. It does make though for pleasing white triangles in the muck.
The trans crisis is just the luvviedom test crisis for today. Either you do believe that spectrum of gender has no beginning and no end, or you a fascist pig-fucking Tory-licking, BBC-hating, environmentally destructive, little Englander, a polyester-wearing, denial-denying beyond-the-M25 oik. And you can therefore be safely ignored. That these crises now arise co-ordinated on an international basis should give us pause for thought. Why is it that these so-called liberalisations happen in concentrated passages? Why did it take less than a decade to get same-sex marriages onto the statute books of over half the world when it took a hundred to get women votes?
The breaking of them helps keep the soil aerated Mr Mongoose. I used to put all manner of ex meal stuff into the soil…mainly tea bags. I had a pear tree with the best pears I ever tasted.
I’d have switched over sooner Mr Ish. I won’t have them on the screen. I won’t contemplate their fucking miserable fizogs.
I even switch over when adverts are on...who doesn't? It's not like you have to get up out your seat.
Yes, I just see them as being like grit. And they'll break down eventually, everything does, apart from plastic and Monty Don.
I put in anything organic and just try to balance the greens with lots of clean, brown, shredded Amazon cardboard. Any thoughts on a shredder? I was thinking of buying one to shred all the prunings and use the result as a mulch, otherwise I burn them and spread the ashes.
I would guess we make about half-a-ton a year but it goes nowhere. Fortunately, the local council makes what they call Up-Mak, soil conditioner, for making it up, just coarse compost, you can take as much as you want in your car, as often as you want and if you take a trailer and collect a ton, they'll scoop it in for you and charge twenty quid.
When I feel a bit dtronger I'll hire a trailer and get a couple of tons. There's limitless seaweed, just a couple of hundred metres away but it's ferociously heavy to collect and bring home, mebbe recruit some teen wasters, give 'em fifty pee per black bag. It's been used in the garden here for centuries, when labour was cheap, it was women's work, in Northern Scotland.
That is a great point, mr mongoose, about the disparity between women's rights and GBLT rights, and the inner and exdtra M25 divide, one which prompted a lengthy reply, just eaten-up by blogger. Briefly reprised it was along the lines of London becoming a multi-racial city-state, owned by froeign criminals, whose money-laundering is facilitated by the British Treasury, whose mayor prays to Mecca and whose populace is more tha half alien, London no longer a traditional, patriotic capital city in the old sense, now a relatively lawless, polyglot, cosmopoiltaan shithole. I will come back to it but thank ou for the thought, most of us are outside the melting pot.
Yes, twas a pleasant surprise Mr I, been many along year since Mrs inmate spoke dirty, to me at least.
I don't believe it was the Crick creature that prompted the outburst of fucks n bastards, more likely the pigfucker, the fatblondefucker and some strange other-being, Mr David Laud, from the same mould as Mandlestien, fair made the flesh crawl.
I don’t have a garden big enough to consider the use of a shredder. I just fling the stuff into the soil and stab it a bit with a spade.
I’d have thought burning would have released the good stuff quicker.
They used to use seaweed around here when my dad were a lad. He never told me what the salt might have done to the soil though and I think I heard someone say that seaweed can be full of stuff you wouldn’t really want in your soil …seeds mainly. I don’t know really..I’m not an expert. I’d be more inclined to harvest the sheep shit.
My thoughts entirely too on London. Outside of the M25 is where my sister lives and you only have to look around to understand why Englandland was so coveted by continental invaders…stark contrast to London now. I used to frequent into the city when my sister first moved down there. Sometimes wondrous, sometimes jawdropping..exciting and bursting with life some places of quietness as well….you can keep it now.
I think what I did with the seaweed, last time, was to bring it home, hose it down thoroughly on the gravel and shred it up with the mower and then use it as a mulch. There is no knowing what is in stuff, these days, it could all be radioctive, here, from Dounreay. I have one of those incinerator dustbin things and we do burn quite a lot of stuff and spread it but I just wondered if a mulch would give a longer, slower release boost to the trees. I'm away Sooth tomorrow, to Gretna Green and York, I'll see what's available in shredderworld.
Burn it. Burn it all. Well, all of it with seeds anyway. And anything wooden, or even twig-like. This covers most things except the grass-cuttings and the kitchen stuff. Do caution your vegetable operative - me, in this case - to chop up unused veg bits or the buggers sprout and grow inside those cheap and nasty council compost bins. My grandfather, who was WWI doolally, used to make his poor wife run all that crap through the meat-mincing thing. She had this mad grinding device that clamped to the kitchen table. Fortunately for her, her grandchildren thought it a great hoot to grind up perfectly good vegetables in order to make unseemly, gunky yeck. She did have to stand over us however, reminding us every three seconds not to poke stuff in there with our little fingers.
York, eh. What larks.
My bins are wooden built, mr mongoose, two x triple compartments, three and a half metres wide, a metre deep, a metre front to back, sometimes potatoes grow and are quite nice. Close to the kitchen we have a council bin which digests cooked food, and puts it straight into the soil, below. Probably like yourself, I sometimes generate sacksful of sawdust, which also goes in the compost. I can't imagine a life without all these inter-connections, salvage and recycling, although it has only been for a fifteen-year span.
York is as much a Godlessheathenbastard's pilgrimage as it is a holiday. There is a marriage, of course, en route, at Gretna, which will be, at best, a strange affair, we know none of the other side, and I must speechify, as though a heart attack was insufficient burden.
I suppose that Mystery plays are now anathema, to you lot; I shall report them nevertheless, ecumenically.
I believe, mr inmate, that I glimpsed that impertinent cocksucker, Laws, preaching at us, the cheeky fucking bastard. I ghoope his arse falls out and he trips over his intestines, breaking his fucking neck.
Twasn't the thieving bastard Laws that turned my stomach Mr I, the creature I spoke of was some token tory black queer, David Laud or Laude, can't remember now. An effeminate simpering friend of Tophat boy, don't be looking him up until your strength has returned fully.
Just, in an unguarded moment, heard Vicky Mrs Huhne Price, on one of the Dimbleby pension vehicles, lecturing the nation on truth and facts about the EuRef, how dare those cheeky cunts at the PBC pay my money to this disgraceful, mangy old jailbird, convicted only five minutes ago of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice? This is fucking bananarepublicanism, whores, slags, pimps, thieves and degenerates dressed-up in Decency's clothes and preaching to us about how we should behave. Sometimes, mr inmate, sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
"sometimes I feel like a motherless child."
Make sure you get one that has been cooked through properly. They can give you flatulence beyond belief if eaten under done.
Thank you,m'sieu alphons, for so tender a response to my lament.
I recently heard that Northern Irish farmers get 87% of their income from EU grants, so we Paddies should vote "remain." Fuck that, Inefficient bastards. Ten sheep half way up a mountain and you dip your hand into someone else's pocket?
-richard
It does seem a laborious way of signing-on, mr richard, same round here, among the tree-haters, barbed wire replacing drystone walls, which replaced hedgerows, and the whole agri-con a basket case.
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