Tuesday, 21 June 2016


I went to see the doctor. 
Hmmm, she greeted me, heart, neck, you bin in the wars. 
Got me thinking.

 My Mum used to say it, soothingly, sympatico, coddling an infant graze or a bruise, wee ishmael's been in the wars. The wars, not the war. 

Must be a saying, I thought, brought-forward  from the Sharpe Wars,  the Peninsular Wars, the Raj wars, the Hornblower wars -  events which  were maybe folkloric reality to her parents.

After finishing with the 'doc - replenishing a stock of GlobaPharm  opiate prescriptions I'll never fill  - I was puzzled enough to googleseek  and it turns out that he's been in the wars dates from the fourteenth century, hacking and chopping Crusader Wars, a time pre-Poppy, pre-Help4Heroes, pre-military pensions, from a time before PrinceHarry'sLeglessFinest  dragging themselves to icy celebrity at the North Pole; he's been in the wars dates from a time far worse than that of the Haig PoppyMakers being set to fund their own artificial limbs and white sticks and be jolly well grateful.

Oh, he's been in the wars originated  when limbless ex-servicemen, home from the Holy Wasted Land, were abandoned by monarch, lord and prelate to begging through the cesspit streets and brutish lanes, their existence explained to the curious by that phrase, Oh, he's been in the wars.
I guess that, one way and another, generally at the will of some vicious, inbred pope or prince, the wars have always been a frightful backdrop, as regular as the seasons.
What's been niggling me about those vermin, the ones extolling Bremain - funny, that, how those preferring democracy, of sorts, are christened with a baby-name, a made-up,  nursery word, Brexiteers, faintly ridiculous, while no such linguistic mockery is applied to GlobaCrime's servants, nobody calls them Bremainers, nobody but me - is their insistence that we owe recent, relative peace in Europe to the likes of Fatty Soames, Chris Patten,  Leon Brittan, Roy Jenkins, Pete Mandelstein and Mr'n'Mrs Kinnock,  our own EuroSluts, stuffing their faces,  lining their grubby pockets and greasing their poxy rectums with stolen money, aggrandising themselves with commissions and secretariats, their scabby heads going like fiddlers' elbows, furiously blow-jobbing organised crime.  This obnoxious shower of filth, singly or collectively, are the very, very worst of a very bad lot, not only unspeakably corrupt but breathtakingly incompetent, good, as the poet, stasnislav,  has it, for fuck all; greedy, idle, impudent, shameless, brazenly insolent, fraudulent, treacherous, unctuous, thieving fucking bastards, child molesters, pimps, drunks, blackmailers, extortionists and degenerates of every stripe. These people would eat bucketsful of lepershit if there was a pension at the end of it, a bauble, a sinecure. Any bastard come around here telling me that this gang have made the world a safer place, well, he better have a good dental surgeon on stand-by.

Anyone still remember Bob The Cunt Ainsworth, 

or Des The Cunt  Browne 

or Geoff The Cunt  Hoon, 

crooks, slags, pimps; war criminals, squaddy-killers, child incinerators  and war ministers to Tony Blair, Gordon Snot and the CIA?  Or Mad John Reid,  the pisshead Jock dwarf bullyboy,  who masterminded the Afghanistan fuck-up, the one which would see no dead Tommies, unless you count the five hundred dead, the useless, drunken, cock-waving Glaswegian fuckpig?  

There won't even be a shot fired, opined Wee John McClausewitz, self-styled BigMan of Labour, as he rolled-up his shirt sleeves to destroy one ministry after another, sending Tommy off to 21st century irregular warfare, in plywood-clad WW2 LandRovers, with battlefield radios that would only receive Radio 2. Fuck me, he must be the patron saint of Wootton Fucking Bassett, that drunken, murdering git, Reid.  The NewLabour front bench was spectacularly corrupt and inept and grew moreso under Snotty's insecure, raging and drooling,  psychotic imperium, worthless twins and brothers and married couples appointed to high office, the more likely to form a mutually protective bodyguard around  the mad, snot-eating lunatic. These worthless crazies, they   would've declared war on anyone they were told to, still would, given half a chance and a few quid.

There has been no need, however, of  a war in Europe, although there's been the odd flare-up, Srebrenica comes to mind, in which our indispensible European allies, the Dutch, so distinguished themselves, by running like fuck from the massacre of 7,000, back, no doubt, to their cheese and pornography.  There has been no need  for war in Europe because fortunes have been made,  weapons fired and re-purchased, new weapons trialled, troops trained - but mainly fortunes made - since WW2 in Indo-China, Iraq, Afghanistan and with any luck, soon, in Syria.   Those pesky ISILites, eh, if not for them Winston Cameron could even now,  be seen worshipped  by grateful Syrians.

Fortunes have similarly been made in the supply and maintainance of what we call NATO, a huge force, controlled by Uncle Sam, the operational boundaries and territorial ambitions of which are infinitely elastic.  Should, of course, Mr Putin and his crazed oligarchy rock the Ukraine boat too much, then war will once again flare in Europe, even though the Ukraine, as far as I know, is not traditionally part of Europe, no moreso than is Turkey but hey, what do I know, now that my betters tell me that gender is not specific but a spectrum, a continuum, and that any person is whatever gender it feels like being, may soon even marry its dog, and take it into whichever toilet it feels to be in accordance with its gender d'jour, heedless of outdated, oppressive and unjust concepts of  fixed genderalityism.  Yeah, you bitches in here, all prissy because you claim you was born women and you got more right to piss in here, well, lemme tell you, I chose to be a woman, so legally,  I got more rights in here than you do. AND you gotta swear on a stack of Bibles or any other book of faith, such as this week's LGBT Times,  that I actually, am more woman than you lot, else you are dissin' the whole concept of human rights. Or more man, actually if I was a woman, standing in the khazi next door but thinking I was a man, I'd be more man than the men.  'slike that Hamlet said, one of my great heroines, for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Forgive me, I know I've mentioned this before but the more I think about it the crazier it seems, although perfectly emblematic of the times. It's like there's a parallel universe of complete Absurdity, flowing into ours, from some ruinously diseased  black arsehole.
I thought I'd better make-up a word for it - polyfecalmorphy - everything turning into shit.

I had a drug vision, a few years back. 
I was briefly on OxyCodon, and like some damn fool with an over-developed hospitality gland I was at the dinner table with a trio of guests; they came up here for a free holiday most years because I kinda liked him, his folks were Windrush Jamaicans although Peter had become very white and civilised.  They were two nitwit, pushy parents with their ghastly brat of, I dunno, six, seven.  
Mum, I've mentioned previously, she was the HR graduate who thought that coal was made in a TESCO factory, Oh, in West Bromwich, somewhere like that, isn't that where the Black Country is, with all the factories that make coal? 
When I told her what coal was, where and when it came from - stored-up sunshine - she looked at me as though I was stark-raving mad, a lunatic, unhinged.  What?  They invented coal, hundreds of millions of years ago?

Anyway, at every dinner, the brat had to be the centre of attention. No question of her having her tea at five or six o'clock and going to bed, no, she had to join us and dominate the entire evening from eight o'clock onwards, beaming at her own every witticism, applauded, literally applauded by Mum and Dad.

On this occasion I had just recently had surgery and was - unusually - doped-up to my eyeballs and I only had to squint to see this trio as sitting inside a cocoon of shiny, self-generated spit, they were all speaking insect language to each other, inside the cocoon, hands waving like mandibles, 

in time to high-pitched squeaks, the child being the group leader, everything flashed-by-eye to her, for her approval, Mummybug and Daddybug, vying for her attention. It was all revolting.

I took mrs ishmael into the kitchen,  Can you see the spit, where'd all that fucking spit come from, it's like a candy floss machine, only it's spit, 'slike  a fountain of fucking spit, and they're all inside it, squeaking and wet, it's kinda green, the spit, and it's like a force field.  I think she put me to bed.  The spit-shield was real, though, I know it was, it was just the HillBilly Heroin making it visible.

I had been at the new Birmingham Science Museum  with these people just a few months previously and Peter had dragged me into the corner of a display and spent forty minutes explaining to me how his wife was insane.  And now, here he was, encased in spit with her. All greenish. Like transluscent snot. And squeaking.

I have never seen them since, anyway, Peter,  his mad Mrs and his evil QueenBee brat, nor  ever want to, the image of the child-dominated spit bubble is always lurking there, just  behind my eyes, just  when I start thinking I have acquired an understanding of my fellows. And so it is with the Bremainers and their talk of peace, they are just waving their mandibles at us, all moistly together,  clicking and squeaking, inside  their spit palace, fooling us, in a manner  that results in us not quite being able to see what's going on. Or thinking we're mad and not them

All of these bastards start a war at the drop of a hat. How can anyone look at Mad Micky Fallon and not smell Carnage, the man's a fucking monster, an uneducated, ill-tempered, larcenous red-faced, braying Tory bully, an utter fuckpig. Sticky-Fingers Malcolm Shouty and the vile  Jack Torture, they are filth, they are seen to be, known to be, proven to be  filth.And yet they lecture us about Peace and Virtue,  they have had no need to dip their snouts in European blood for they have drenched the streets of Arabia in it, of North Africa, of South East Asia and of Northern Ireland.

I dunno upon whom Donald Trump has rained fire and shrapnel and other than being a spiv, a ponce  and a vengeful, Tory hypocrite I can find no fault in Nigel Poundland, either, yet I am told to see both as horsemen of the Apocalypse, when, in fact, Death's monsters are already stabled, fed  and exercised in Brussels and Washington and in MediaMinster.

Since the meeting with my doctor and the thought of the wars, the role of the recruiting sergeant has been buzzing around my mind, whether it be the ghastly Beatification of Saint Jo or the stridency of the Bremainers'  taunts, we are urged by liars and crooks to do the right thing for our country, when what we are driven to do is of benefit only to our masters; the same dogs which snapped at townsful of young men, the more eagerly to make them enlist for Flanders massacre, now roam the streets again, snarling;  the same  wistful lady arseholes send white feathers to those who object. The SpivLords of New Cotswoldia hector us as though they were Lord Kitchener, himself, whilst delivering us up to a junta of greed and corruption, to an unelected oligarchy of consumerisme totalitairienne nouvelle; to limitless immigration and to the iniquitouis European Arrest Warrant.

 The British folk song, once, like the pamphleteers,  a voice of resistance and satire,  has long been usurped by showbiz reptiles like Sir Billy Bragg, in his career, as a folk singer  and Filth-O-Graph  columnist. 
Rich Americans, like the sensitive diva, Ms Joan Baez and the incomparable artiste, Mr Bob Dylan, have grown hugely rich on the Childe ballads of  Scotland and Northern England and countless British musicians have corporatised the treasure house that is the Copper Family Songbook, the banks of the sweet primroses;  the sweet morning in  May; the hard times of old England.
The songs, however, own themselves and exist, still, to be applied as they were intended to be, as an antidote to MediaMinster, then and now.

This one, here, is an historic Anglo-Irish counterblast to the taking of the King's or Queen's poxy, one-shilling inducement.  The recorded song dates from the late 'seventies,  the joyful visualisation is much more recent but if you squint you can see that,  Redcoat or David Beckham, the recruiting sergeant would always see us march to a ruinous drumbeat,  whilst they march to none.
 Maestro Paul Brady is old, now, sourly marinaded in  vinegary showbusiness;  the song, however, a caustic and lyrical refutation of  vicious, mendacious  state charlatanry,
remains the same.
A song, now, for Europe.


SG said...

Dang me, Mr I, I'm trying to multi-task i.e. watch the hereditary broadcaster's show and read your blog simultaneously and in real-time:


Jesus! They really should conduct this sort of thing in the Colosseum.

Ruth Babe, love her to bits and all that but she needs to put the fists down.

Francis O'Grady - old lady - is she related to Janet Street-Porter I wonder?

Needless to say, no one is answering the questions.

call me ishmael said...

When it comes to this so-called debate, I have the stomach of a weak and feeble woman, mr sg. Unlike, I'm afraid, Ruth TwoBoys Davidson, who needs, for the sake of her life, to go on a diet.

SG said...

Aye, Mr I, God preserve her even if she's wronger than a wrong thing just now! I reckon out would do her good - she could surely stand the loss of 38 llbs for a week or six - I'm sure her girlfriend / wife would appreciate it - there's an upside to everything!

Bungalow Bill said...

The insects, inspired. The hallucination is not ours, as you say, and though I think this nightmare field is lost, that has never been a reason to submit. If we keep looking at them straight in the eye they may, each and every one, eventually dissolve in front of us like the phantoms they are.

Anonymous said...

Faecalchemy? Coprogenesis? Whatever we call it, you're right...

all very Naked Lunch, your insect vision. Reality has a dark sense of humour when you see it sharp.


call me ishmael said...

I think her claim to having replaced Labour as Scotland's opposition has done RuthBoy no good, mr sg, made her pompous, like a proper Tory, like Gnasher, herself, no longer the NewKid on the block. And I thought BoJo wiped the floor with her, what little I saw.

call me ishmael said...

Trying to, well, trying to just guess, beyond the polls, mr bungalow bill, I would not yet cede the field to the unGodly and the Stupid.

call me ishmael said...

Thank you, mr verge, it may well have been re-imagined from Burroughs, yet it was a real enough hallucination. I really did see it.

SG said...

Yes - sadly it struck me that way too Mr I - like she was trying to out Sturgeon the Sturgeon. I seem to be clutching at straws these days.

mongoose said...

It's close - apart from the postal votes.

Cameron though has sown the wind of a split Tory party. He has won every battle and will lose the war after he has left the field.

call me ishmael said...

I am sure that her behaviour in the Eurendum will have halted any momentum she had, my guess being that the Unionists who supported her will also be, in many cases, Brexiteers, and that whatever happens, UKIP will make a breakthrough, they already have an MEP.

call me ishmael said...

I think it is close, too, mr mongoose, with the wind more strongly in the Leave sails. Should Cameron fall, of course, especially after the martrydom of Saint Jo, then the whole thing will be up in the air again,as has been the Scottish referendum, only this time, both sides will be able to claim that they were mis-vowed to, and therefore the result is the opposite of whatever it turns-out to be.

call me ishmael said...

I don't think Mayor Sadiq did himself much good, either, from what I've read. I didn't see him, but I always thought him a cunt, one of those pretend lawyers; shame there's not a mayoral honorary QC suffix for him.

mongoose said...

Ruth has no momentum in Scotland, Mr I. It is just that Labour have negative momentum. I think also that the SNP will also fall back - as a wave broken upon the shore. It is over and they know it. All else is bluster.

It is not over in England though. And a great deal of ugliness is yet to happen in Europe. If Angela had any sense she would make it her legacy to reform the EU's direction. But while she has sense, she has not the courage. She's an Osti, a system girl, a percentages girl such as the China wonks you mention above. The same as the Thirties Stalin hags. A few dead millions or a few many more millions poorer don't matter as long as we can chatter in Hampstead about The People.

Cameron otoh is a dead man walking and knows that he has fucked it up. He's a Heath not a Thatcher now. A Callaghan and not an Attlee.

mongoose said...

I would not pay Mr Sadiq to wash the hubcaps of my car. Even if it had them, which it doesn't, and which is just as fucking well, eh? Worthless, tiresome but ultimately irrelevant. As shit upon one's shoe.

call me ishmael said...

Yes, Scotland, best part of England, is interesting. RuthBoy DID, in the backwash of the Referendum, have some momentum, but she no longer has, Gnasher, on the other hand, does not lead the anticipated one-party state but has thus far managed to stifle any adverse comment on the matter of her criminal cohort in Westminster. NHS Scotland, however, must surely erupt. A clinic which I attend in Aberdeen is losing its one full-time clinincian to maternity leave, she is not being replaced because, and I'm not makihg this up, because she is still being paid, she is still considered to be working there; this is the policy of our national government. A taxi driver in Aberdeen was telling me that there used to be thirty-six helicopter flights a day in and out of the airport, there are now a dozen, and for every coupla hundred rig jobs which disappear Shell has been laying off five-hundred shore based positions, No wonder the wee monster'd rather talk about Europe than the basket case which is Scotland. Oh, tourism, also is down significantly and the housing market is stagnant, especially the bigger houses, which are, of course, owned by selfish people with broad shoulders, people like me..

I hope you are right about Cameron, better late than never. And I don't give a fuck about who replaces him.

call me ishmael said...

I watched Zac Goldsmith, trying hard to strengthen the MP Recall bill and thought to myself, well, rich kid or not, he's able and a bit radical, gotta be better than that NewLabour toad, Sadiq, Londonistan's very own Ian Paisley.

mongoose said...

It is sad about St Jo because she is now forever ruined in death when she probably didn't doing anything knowingly wrong her whole professional life. (Such as it was.) Sadiq? FFS, as the children say. Goldsmith is an idiot cushioned by his wealth from the world but at least thinking some of his own thoughts. Slowly, and often in the wrong order. And then one must wonder just how does a new titan escape unbroken into a position of power. How can it be now?

I begin to wonder if, just if, if Cameron has really split his party, and if the vote is catastrophically tight - I mean just the "patriarchal Muslim paedo-gang Labour votes of points North" (not my quotes) frustrating the anglo-south - just if, if, will it all fall down in violence and mayhem at Dover. I mean I might be an imbecile and not a reasonably decent and informed liberalish person, even if only to a degree. It might be true that I am economically illiterate. I might have been fooled by the Renegotiation Rag. Maybe, just maybe, it will all fall down with tumbrils and everything. But we should not hold our collective breath.

Nice tune. We have passed this way before I think but not that version. Hard clouts is surely what they all need those fucking recruiting sergeants.

call me ishmael said...

I often wonder about an explosion of anger, there were hints of it, a while back, with whatever they were, the English Defence League, was it, post-Rotherham, but I guess that the majority, as I was saying regarding the failure of bystanders to defend Ms Cox, have lost their balls, the Miners' Strike being the last serious challenge to Authority, unless we count the poll tax riots, but even that was a long time ago, people have grown to consumer-maturity since those things happened and are easily suborned by Stuff and Showbiz and by the Great Apple Illusion of Connectedness.

A lot of stuff happened in Spain and Greece, which we never were allowed to see, here and we know stuff happens in France, against Muslims. I genuinely don't know if unrest is on the cards, should itn happen, though, to any great extent, I would not be surprised to see foreign troops suppressing it, a concerted NATO action against terrorism in a member state.

It used to be a choice insult, didn't it, calling someone a recruiting sergeant for le bete noire du jour, the IRA, the al Quaedans, those who recruited the dead of Iraq and Afghanistan, though, promising them a trade and travel, hard clouts should indeed be their portion.

SG said...

Hat tip to Raedwald for sign posting this:


I never thought of Scruton as an idealist, 'tis relevant to the matters at hand, but how many of our MPs conform to his Burkean ideal?

Doug Shoulders said...

If I was a PM who’d proved I couldn’t win a majority in an election by not winning a majority in a referendum that I agreed to I’d step down too.
IF I was a PM who had balls I’d stay at my post, go with the majority decision and see the fucking thing through.
Good show old chap…when the going gets tough and all that.
Then who wants a PM with less than zero conviction.

call me ishmael said...

One of those erudite, old Tories, Scruton, mr sg, always disagreed with him but liked to read him.

call me ishmael said...

Just a Bullingdon Boy, mr doug, who has been stood-up to. Fuck him, fuck 'em all. His mangy mrs should take heart from Tony'n'Imelda, the Cams'll still get the redcarpet treatment wherever they go, plus pensionj, plus servants, transport, security and acommodation. Fuck 'em.

Bungalow Bill said...

Frank Field has it right (though he's a sanctimonious one), this is a type of revolution against globalised political power. The liberal dunderheads are confused and dismayed which is always fun to watch. What of your mad friends in the north? Surely they know they'd be fucked on their own now?

My gloom was misplaced, wonderful to say.

mongoose said...

And so it begins. I said the EU would not last my lifetime and look, I have thirty or more years left to see the gig home. Will I need three? Certainly not thirteen.

A ground-shaking day. I am not sure any of us truly expected it - especially after the cheating and lying, and the death of St Jo - but here we are. And Boris for PM in the autumn. What larks.

call me ishmael said...

Gloom is Action's handmaiden, mr bungalow bill, it was Gloom brought this about.

call me ishmael said...

I didn't acrtually expect it, mr mongoose, although I hoped for it, finding some encouragement in the tsunami of contemopt on the message boards. I think that, as with the Trashing of Snotty, the blogosphere is more potent than we realise and much of this will be down to cyberplaces like order-order, a malcontents' lonely hearts club.

Great news, wodevvah. More further on up the road.