HAVE MERCY, I CRY, CITY
This is no way for people to die,
it's not even a way for them to live.
The offence is one first perpetrated decades ago,
by the I-Know-Besters.
The planners and architects of these shitholes will all have lived in houses like mine, a Georgian rectory or parsonage, in the country, no near neighbours, a bit of land, some outbuildings, some trees, nature, wildlife, privacy, peace and quiet, yet they will have forced others from their communities of streets and 'pubs and schools and washhouses and extended kinship networks and rammed them into these grotesque open prisons in the sky; instead of renovating the slums they enforced alienation.
I saw the PBC hack gabshite, Kirsty Wark,
one night, in one of her many vanity pieces, enthusing about le Corbusier and his Cities in the fucking Sky, the mad frog bastard, as though he was a visionary and not a vandal, they were just the perfect solution, gushed the dire harpy, tower blocks, for ordinary people. Not a journalist, just a blowhard commentator, Kirsty, of course, lives in an Edinburgh town house and has a home in Majorca, the cheeky cunt, shoving the proles into lifeless open prisons in the sky. Every time I hear Wark talking Kultura I feel my inner Goering, rousing himself, reaching for his pistol.
I saw the PBC hack gabshite, Kirsty Wark,
one night, in one of her many vanity pieces, enthusing about le Corbusier and his Cities in the fucking Sky, the mad frog bastard, as though he was a visionary and not a vandal, they were just the perfect solution, gushed the dire harpy, tower blocks, for ordinary people. Not a journalist, just a blowhard commentator, Kirsty, of course, lives in an Edinburgh town house and has a home in Majorca, the cheeky cunt, shoving the proles into lifeless open prisons in the sky. Every time I hear Wark talking Kultura I feel my inner Goering, rousing himself, reaching for his pistol.
There is nothing good to be said about tower block living, love, and there never was.
Just look at Donald Trump.
Anyway, the news review.
Good evening, this is the six o'clock news from the PBC, with me, Huw Welshman.
And fuck me six ways to Christmas and dip me in shit, isn't it, you just dunno where to start, do you?
The country's gone fucking mad, hasn't it, you can't fucking turn around without some fresh cock-up being perpetrated by the great and the good, isn't it, look you;
prime minister's a fucking mental case; the country's a laughing stock;
the DogShooters are fucking each other up the arse with broken bottles;
LibDem peer, Lord Paddick,
displaying his principles;
if you don't celebrate my arse you are clearly homophobic, even though there is no such word, not amongst sensible people, anyway.
The DogShooters have a dozen or so MPs and two hundred peers, all collecting three hundred quid a day, eating in massively subsidised restaurants and bars and using the House of Lords as the most prestigious business address in the world.
Brian Arse, above, is a peer because he loves men's arses, and his own, obviously.
Hanging, as is often said, is too fucking good for them.
Not queers, just peers.
'fyou ask me viewers, I think Susan Farron is better off away from this bunch of cunts,
The country's gone fucking mad, hasn't it, you can't fucking turn around without some fresh cock-up being perpetrated by the great and the good, isn't it, look you;
prime minister's a fucking mental case; the country's a laughing stock;
the DogShooters are fucking each other up the arse with broken bottles;
LibDem peer, Lord Paddick,
displaying his principles;
if you don't celebrate my arse you are clearly homophobic, even though there is no such word, not amongst sensible people, anyway.
The DogShooters have a dozen or so MPs and two hundred peers, all collecting three hundred quid a day, eating in massively subsidised restaurants and bars and using the House of Lords as the most prestigious business address in the world.
Brian Arse, above, is a peer because he loves men's arses, and his own, obviously.
Hanging, as is often said, is too fucking good for them.
Not queers, just peers.
'fyou ask me viewers, I think Susan Farron is better off away from this bunch of cunts,
isn't he,
Waddawewant?
Arsehole!
Whendowewannit?
Now!
LibDems celebrate the fall of heterosexual Susan Farron.
although the main thing is that with him gone, the rest of them can go into Coalition, again, should the Ulster Undertakers Party arrangement not work out.
It'd be in the national interest of course, like last time, the people will have, as one, finely judged their votes, everyone will have consulted everyone else in every other constituency and voted precisely for a coalition of DogShooters, Tory fuckpigs and Old Etonians; the people, having made their choice so clear, must be obeyed, and that ratty old fleabitten foxtrotting nitwit, Vince Cable, or whichever specimen of crooked, child-molesting shit-eating, toilet-dwelling miscreant leads the LibDems, durst not disobey them.
Still, at least that vile piece of shit, Clegg, lost his seat. Didya hear him, cracking-on, look you, like he was some kind of noble, warrior prince
talkin' heroism, here.
- live by the sword, die by the sword? all that shit - the cowardly, worthless, Tory cocksucker; maybe they'll put both him and his fuckwit Mrs., Maria Elena Theresa Marie Louise, or whatever the fuck the dreadful idiot is called in the Lords, where they can enjoy lunch with those other thieving cunts, the Kinnocks, and deploy their wits jointly on how they can overturn the Brexit referendum, for their masters.
There's fucking loony 'slims mounting the pavement every five minutes, mowing people down, en route to Allah and an eternity of virgin raping and now a whole tower block in Kensington has gone up in smoke, torching everyone inside and every bastard responsible is keeping their heads down, like they do.
I tell you, viewers, isn't it, look you, that if a 'bus driver had run over a few pedestrians, accidentally, like, he'd be arrested, and down West End Central getting a robust interview from a squad of LGBTQ policepersons.
As it is, the culprits - here - are politicians and the businessmen who own them. That bloke, ishmael, he often says that we live in the most Northerly banana republic in the world, albeit that yes, we have no bananas.
Arrests?
Fuck me, you must be fucking joking.
The Metropololitan Police Commissioner,
It'd be in the national interest of course, like last time, the people will have, as one, finely judged their votes, everyone will have consulted everyone else in every other constituency and voted precisely for a coalition of DogShooters, Tory fuckpigs and Old Etonians; the people, having made their choice so clear, must be obeyed, and that ratty old fleabitten foxtrotting nitwit, Vince Cable, or whichever specimen of crooked, child-molesting shit-eating, toilet-dwelling miscreant leads the LibDems, durst not disobey them.
Still, at least that vile piece of shit, Clegg, lost his seat. Didya hear him, cracking-on, look you, like he was some kind of noble, warrior prince
talkin' heroism, here.
- live by the sword, die by the sword? all that shit - the cowardly, worthless, Tory cocksucker; maybe they'll put both him and his fuckwit Mrs., Maria Elena Theresa Marie Louise, or whatever the fuck the dreadful idiot is called in the Lords, where they can enjoy lunch with those other thieving cunts, the Kinnocks, and deploy their wits jointly on how they can overturn the Brexit referendum, for their masters.
There's fucking loony 'slims mounting the pavement every five minutes, mowing people down, en route to Allah and an eternity of virgin raping and now a whole tower block in Kensington has gone up in smoke, torching everyone inside and every bastard responsible is keeping their heads down, like they do.
I tell you, viewers, isn't it, look you, that if a 'bus driver had run over a few pedestrians, accidentally, like, he'd be arrested, and down West End Central getting a robust interview from a squad of LGBTQ policepersons.
As it is, the culprits - here - are politicians and the businessmen who own them. That bloke, ishmael, he often says that we live in the most Northerly banana republic in the world, albeit that yes, we have no bananas.
Arrests?
Fuck me, you must be fucking joking.
The Metropololitan Police Commissioner,
Cressida "Butch" Dick,
said today that her officers had been unable to arrest anyone in connection with the Grenfell Tower atrocity.
In any event, continued Ms Dick, what should of course happen is that never mind being arrested they should all be promoted to the very top of their professions, this is what happens in the higher echelons of human capital, as we saw when a gang of my officers so bravely emptied their magazines into the head of the determinedly defenceless and harmless Mr Jean-Charles de Wotsisname, the South American terrorist, who, although he was entirely innocent,
nevertheless posed a great threat to the people of this great city and so I had to have him killed.
Big Time.
And now I am the leader of the greatest, most incompetent and corrupt police service in the world.
In a country not owned and run by and for vermin, Butch would have been quietly retired, maybe it all was just a dreadful mistake, yet another example of what they insist on calling intelligence being flawed; maybe she did think that the poor sod had a bag of explosives but the police are always shooting innocent people, Irish people, black people, foreigners and no-one is ever brought to book. And now Butch, so clearly out of her depth, even at Commander level, is nevertheless put in charge of the Met.
In a country not owned and run by and for vermin, Butch would have been quietly retired, maybe it all was just a dreadful mistake, yet another example of what they insist on calling intelligence being flawed; maybe she did think that the poor sod had a bag of explosives but the police are always shooting innocent people, Irish people, black people, foreigners and no-one is ever brought to book. And now Butch, so clearly out of her depth, even at Commander level, is nevertheless put in charge of the Met.
Wanted for questioning - although not by the police - is the infamous Bullingdon Gang:
CallHimDave,
aka the Smirking PigFucker;
George "Bukkake Boy" Osborne,
RichGangsterCocksSucked4Money.
currrently believed to be working for a member of the Russian Mafia, some cunt who ripped off the Russian people and was allowed to buy a London shitsheet with the proceeds
and Boris "BoJo the Ho-Ho" Johnson;
cogito ergo dumb
Johnson, a greedy cock-waving, speech-impaired simpleton, was Mayor and Chief Executive of London and thus bears responsibility for Grenfell Tower being covered with pretty firelighters, enhancing its appearance.
Standing, as it did, in the eye-line of wealthy Russian and Chinese property speculators, the highly combustible cladding improved the appearance of the building although doing nothing for the safety of its residents, quite the contrary, actually, enabling them to be swiftly and efficiently barbecued, almost before the firefighters could order them to stay indoors.
I dunno about you but if some cunt in a helmet ordered me to stay inside a burning building I'd break his fucking legs and kill his children.
Still, heroes, all of them.
Magnificent emergency services.
Which is why we must sell them off to US GangsterCorp.
I knew a couple of firemen when I was in the rag'n'bone trade. They all have so much free time that they do a second job, and buying and selling antiques, as they used to call bric-a-brac, attracted a fair few Firemen Freds;
angry, screeching, muscle-bound homosexuals they were, most of them, ex-coppers, ex-soldiers, all as manly as fuck; all on their third or fourth marriages, all gung-ho, grabbing each other by the balls, like real men do. Jesus, the thought of this crew telling me to stay inside a burning deathtrap.........
Why hasn't their gobby boss been interviewed or arrested?
My dog, Harris - well I call him my dog but I'm being speciesist - my little warm brown friend, Harris, he would've done a better job of getting those people out. It's all very well going up on ladders and spraying the place with water but getting the people out, pronto, that was the main thing, that's what's supposed to happen.
cogito ergo dumb
Johnson, a greedy cock-waving, speech-impaired simpleton, was Mayor and Chief Executive of London and thus bears responsibility for Grenfell Tower being covered with pretty firelighters, enhancing its appearance.
Standing, as it did, in the eye-line of wealthy Russian and Chinese property speculators, the highly combustible cladding improved the appearance of the building although doing nothing for the safety of its residents, quite the contrary, actually, enabling them to be swiftly and efficiently barbecued, almost before the firefighters could order them to stay indoors.
I dunno about you but if some cunt in a helmet ordered me to stay inside a burning building I'd break his fucking legs and kill his children.
Still, heroes, all of them.
Magnificent emergency services.
Which is why we must sell them off to US GangsterCorp.
I knew a couple of firemen when I was in the rag'n'bone trade. They all have so much free time that they do a second job, and buying and selling antiques, as they used to call bric-a-brac, attracted a fair few Firemen Freds;
angry, screeching, muscle-bound homosexuals they were, most of them, ex-coppers, ex-soldiers, all as manly as fuck; all on their third or fourth marriages, all gung-ho, grabbing each other by the balls, like real men do. Jesus, the thought of this crew telling me to stay inside a burning deathtrap.........
Why hasn't their gobby boss been interviewed or arrested?
My dog, Harris - well I call him my dog but I'm being speciesist - my little warm brown friend, Harris, he would've done a better job of getting those people out. It's all very well going up on ladders and spraying the place with water but getting the people out, pronto, that was the main thing, that's what's supposed to happen.
Osborne, anyway, is an ageing, greedy rentboy, happy to sell-off the capital city - and other cities, to foreign criminals whilst furiously fellating them, off his deranged head on cocaine and sperm.
Cameron Pig, it was, no doubt supported by all of his gang, including temporary PM, Mrs Tracey Askey, God bless her poor, ashen, tormented features plastered in unflattering make-up.....
Cameron Pig, it was, no doubt supported by all of his gang, including temporary PM, Mrs Tracey Askey, God bless her poor, ashen, tormented features plastered in unflattering make-up.....
Her face looked like something Death brought with him in his suitcase.
I try hard not to unduly criticise women's clothing choices;
nobody ever mentions Fat Eric Pickles' clothes, do they,
y'remember Eric, the expenses cheat, laughably defending his fiddles, on the grounds that he was working for a living and therefore entitled.
Anyway, Tracey Askey has always, nevertheless, attracted my comment on her dress and appearance but only because she so very asks for it; all those ostentatious Fuck-Me shoes she wears, and the perfectly hideous and unsuitable suits, collars, waisted jackets and belts; short, split skirts and that's not to mention the shovelsful of undertakers' make-up. It's as though her advisers want her to look like a crazy person, just mistakenly released from a psychiatric unit, after forty years, with a load of vouchers for Boots cosmetics and for free haute couture and she's gone in to Boots and they've given her all the shit nobody wants and said Apply Liberally, yes, dearie, with a palette knife, and the fashion shops have given her all the apprentice pieces that they were gonna put on the fire, saying, you'll look red-hot in this, darling, red hot.
There is nothing wrong with people paying attention to their appearance - I don't, much, but that in itself is a conscious and effete statement about style, equally a vanity - and if people want to wear expensive clothes and sport welded-on haircuts, well, there are worse sins.
Tracey, though, despite obviously spending a King's ransom on her appearance, always looks like shit; even going to church, with Arthur, she looked like a mad old slapper.
I try hard not to unduly criticise women's clothing choices;
nobody ever mentions Fat Eric Pickles' clothes, do they,
y'remember Eric, the expenses cheat, laughably defending his fiddles, on the grounds that he was working for a living and therefore entitled.
Anyway, Tracey Askey has always, nevertheless, attracted my comment on her dress and appearance but only because she so very asks for it; all those ostentatious Fuck-Me shoes she wears, and the perfectly hideous and unsuitable suits, collars, waisted jackets and belts; short, split skirts and that's not to mention the shovelsful of undertakers' make-up. It's as though her advisers want her to look like a crazy person, just mistakenly released from a psychiatric unit, after forty years, with a load of vouchers for Boots cosmetics and for free haute couture and she's gone in to Boots and they've given her all the shit nobody wants and said Apply Liberally, yes, dearie, with a palette knife, and the fashion shops have given her all the apprentice pieces that they were gonna put on the fire, saying, you'll look red-hot in this, darling, red hot.
There is nothing wrong with people paying attention to their appearance - I don't, much, but that in itself is a conscious and effete statement about style, equally a vanity - and if people want to wear expensive clothes and sport welded-on haircuts, well, there are worse sins.
Tracey, though, despite obviously spending a King's ransom on her appearance, always looks like shit; even going to church, with Arthur, she looked like a mad old slapper.
'Allo, playmates.
It's Tits4Jesus, here in Maidenhead.
I fang yew, I fang yew, I fang yew.
I must say that I have tried and tried to make excuses for her, as I would for anyone finding themselves so wretched, excuses for her appearance and for her inability to speak and the failure of thought which that reveals - every word is forced through a grimace, as though she were on the rack; I have found excuses for her cowardice and for her conceit but eventually they failed, her conduct is inexcusable, if she had a grain of self-awareness or decency she would resign, would have resigned on election night, would have resigned, just now, over her party's lethally crooked London housing policy.
Tracey is a mad, delusional old woman, more afflicted than was Gordon Snot, at his worst.
.........who curtailed the right to legal aid for poor people, such as the nig-nog riff-raff in Grenfell Tower; denied access to and help from the courts in making their miserable, shitty homes safe to live in and not just pleasing to wealthy eyes. Not quite Four Weddings and a Funeral, is it, Grenfell Tower? More like Four Weddings and a Funeral and a Furnace. Perhaps that gifted, luvvy film maker, wotsisname, Richard Curtiss, is it, so very talented, darling, will make a sequel, this time about real people, starring Hughie Grant and some expensive cokehag from TinselTown.
I mean, said CallHimDave, lessbeclear, these people should be grateful that we house them at all, the idea of them having access to free justice is anaesthesia to all right-thinking, offshore tax-havening people, such as I and my family of thieves and freeloaders.
Wossat?
Not anaesthesia?
Anathema?
Wossat mean?
Fucked if I know.
It's Tits4Jesus, here in Maidenhead.
I fang yew, I fang yew, I fang yew.
I must say that I have tried and tried to make excuses for her, as I would for anyone finding themselves so wretched, excuses for her appearance and for her inability to speak and the failure of thought which that reveals - every word is forced through a grimace, as though she were on the rack; I have found excuses for her cowardice and for her conceit but eventually they failed, her conduct is inexcusable, if she had a grain of self-awareness or decency she would resign, would have resigned on election night, would have resigned, just now, over her party's lethally crooked London housing policy.
Tracey is a mad, delusional old woman, more afflicted than was Gordon Snot, at his worst.
.........who curtailed the right to legal aid for poor people, such as the nig-nog riff-raff in Grenfell Tower; denied access to and help from the courts in making their miserable, shitty homes safe to live in and not just pleasing to wealthy eyes. Not quite Four Weddings and a Funeral, is it, Grenfell Tower? More like Four Weddings and a Funeral and a Furnace. Perhaps that gifted, luvvy film maker, wotsisname, Richard Curtiss, is it, so very talented, darling, will make a sequel, this time about real people, starring Hughie Grant and some expensive cokehag from TinselTown.
I mean, said CallHimDave, lessbeclear, these people should be grateful that we house them at all, the idea of them having access to free justice is anaesthesia to all right-thinking, offshore tax-havening people, such as I and my family of thieves and freeloaders.
Wossat?
Not anaesthesia?
Anathema?
Wossat mean?
Fucked if I know.
You know, the reason I had the most expensive education that stolen money could buy was not to make me well educated, I'm simply too thick to be educated, it was to make me well-connected, yes, with the spoiled children of other thieving bastards. And quite proply, in my judgement. Yes, George and Boris. Education? That's for people who have to work, instead of steal. So lessbeclear you can take your anathema and stuff it up your rudimentary canal.
Wosssat?
Alimentary Canal?
When a Muslim lets rip for Allah, Butch Dick and her boys'n'girls'n gender-spectruming indeterminates immediately arrest his family and friends and try to frame them and when they are unable to are then forced to release them, without so much as a KissMyArse, Ahmed. No apology, no compensation. It is actually illegal to arrest someone without proper grounds, without legitimate, reasonable suspicion, Butch, though, like most coppers, doesn't do legal, a bad career move, doing legal. I dunno, actually, if anyone does legal any longer, certainly elections and referenda are no longer legally binding, being described as wrongly-decided or ill-informed; in Scotland referenda and elections are only valid if they produce the result wanted by the Tribesmen,
Wee, Mad Maggie.
while across the country, the Brexit referendum result is bleatingly, whingly invalid because it was won by the wrong side.
This is all just a Nigel Farage-inspired step away from anarchy. And who could blame Brexit-voting people, in a year or two, for lynching Bob Geldof and sacking his village. Or tarring and feathering the local LibDems?
Not me.
while across the country, the Brexit referendum result is bleatingly, whingly invalid because it was won by the wrong side.
This is all just a Nigel Farage-inspired step away from anarchy. And who could blame Brexit-voting people, in a year or two, for lynching Bob Geldof and sacking his village. Or tarring and feathering the local LibDems?
Not me.
There have been no arrests, however, of those directly implicated in the towering inferno of shame; instead, those responsible front it out and we are fed a tired old script which we could have written in our sleep - a full and far-reaching cover-up, tough questions will be asked and lessons will be learned; everybody is to blame, the nation itself is to blame, therefore no-one is to blame, not the Mayor, not the council, not the govament, not the cheapskate contractors, bunging money at Tories and Labour alike. No, we mustn't get into the Blame Game. Or, as CallHimDave reminded us, the Compensation Culture. We have given these people ten pounds already, haven't we? Job Done. What do they want, an MP's pension or something?
Mind you, viewers, the trouble with all this FlashMourning is the impact it is having on the economy. We are joined by Lord Digby Sweat, one of Gordon Snot's appointment, who has this for us.
Well, speaking as a businessman, I am bound to point out that all these two-minutes' silences are not good for the nation's productivity, I mean, where is it going to end? Every time a few people get topped, the whole fucking country grinds to a halt for two minutes; there are more people killed on the roads every day than die in these pissant terror attacks. And what would we do if there was a fucking war on? Christ, these maudlin, whinin' yellow-bellies'd be wanting two minutes silence every five minutes. No, I speak to businessmen all the time and quite frankly they tell me that they didn't start a business and create jobs so's their employees could stand around sniffling and snotting for two minutes, once a fucking week. They do add-up, you know, all these two minuteses, among those who can still do adding-up, that is, and before you know it they make an hour, that's quite a dent in the productivity of firms already hampered by having a workforce which can neither read nor fucking write. No,what I say, and I'm speaking as a businessman, here, is that it's fine by me if halfwits and shitbrains wanna stand around in silence mourning people they never met amd would have hated if they had, absolutely fine by me, fine by the CBI, the Federation of Small Businesses and all the Rotary clubs up and down the land, but if they do wanna do it, they should do it in their own fucking time, and not their employers'. See that apostrophe, there, that last one, the possessive, that's what you can do if you aren't educated by shitheads like Dr Vernon Bogbrush, at Oxford, the man who taught David Cameron that America won the Battle of Britain.
I mean, bad enough for businessmen like myself, with all this scare-mongering about Brexit, mainly,
I must say, orchestrated by smug middle-class gits, people with cheap Polack nannies, looking after their vile children and second homes in Brittany or greedybastard farmers who demand the right to pay slave wages; hysterics is what they are, farmers; fuck me Jesus, they've always been tight-fisted, farmers, moaning from dawn til fucking dusk, begging for subsidy; farming isn't business, it's just a complex way of drawing benefits from the rest of us. Set Aside? Whoever the fuck dreamed-up that one? Pay some worthless, scheming bastard for not doing anything. And then he walks around all righteous and po-faced, talking about the sacrifices he's making, for the fucking Environment.
And I tell you something else, Huw, these fucking Frogs, threatening us, they're all faggots, aren't they, lounging about in expensive suits and haircuts, sneering,
- apart from the businessmen Frogs, who, like all businessmen, and I speak as a businessman, myself, know what side their snails are garlic buttered -
Oh, you Brits,
you are always so obstinate, n'est ce pas, 'ad eet not been for you obstructing M'sieu 'Eetler, een 1940, all ze Jews would 'ave been, 'ow you say, tidied up, swep' under ze gas chamber, non? An' ze Gippoes, too, and ze schwarzers, and zen ve would 'ave mopped-up ze communistes in Russia and vood all be speaking German. But no, you RosBifs, you 'ad to be fucking awkward, just like now. Sacre Bleu, nobody 'ere wanted ze fucking D-Day and 'ave zat prat de Gaulle coming back here like he was fucking Charlemagne, marching down le Champs Elysee an' fucking everysing up. Mais non, mes amis, ze true French 'ero, 'e know 'ow to bend over for ze mighty German Frankfurter and take it like le patriot propre. An' now ze Greater Germany, eet ees here, at last, an' fuck Churchill and ze Battle of Britain an' ze Blitz an' ze rationing an' ze fucking Maquis and ze fucking Normandy landings and ve, ze true Franco-Germans, at last ve are going to make you pay for fucking us about, non? Vive l'Allemagne!
That's the way they go on, Huw, straight up, as we say in Bromsgrove. I mean, they would all be speaking fucking German without the Brits - nothing wrong with German businessmen, mind, I'm a businessman, myself, I am, and Volkswagen, a great company, apart from poisoning the world, but that's nit-picking and red tape, Volkswagen could teach us all a few lessons. But even so, Huw, we can't put up with the Frogs criticising and attacking and threatening us, when it was us saved their fucking jambon, can we, Huw. As a businessman, I have just two words for the rotten, ungrateful, worm-eating frog bastards: Agin Court. We done it before and we can do it again
- apart from the businessmen Frogs, who, like all businessmen, and I speak as a businessman, myself, know what side their snails are garlic buttered -
Oh, you Brits,
you are always so obstinate, n'est ce pas, 'ad eet not been for you obstructing M'sieu 'Eetler, een 1940, all ze Jews would 'ave been, 'ow you say, tidied up, swep' under ze gas chamber, non? An' ze Gippoes, too, and ze schwarzers, and zen ve would 'ave mopped-up ze communistes in Russia and vood all be speaking German. But no, you RosBifs, you 'ad to be fucking awkward, just like now. Sacre Bleu, nobody 'ere wanted ze fucking D-Day and 'ave zat prat de Gaulle coming back here like he was fucking Charlemagne, marching down le Champs Elysee an' fucking everysing up. Mais non, mes amis, ze true French 'ero, 'e know 'ow to bend over for ze mighty German Frankfurter and take it like le patriot propre. An' now ze Greater Germany, eet ees here, at last, an' fuck Churchill and ze Battle of Britain an' ze Blitz an' ze rationing an' ze fucking Maquis and ze fucking Normandy landings and ve, ze true Franco-Germans, at last ve are going to make you pay for fucking us about, non? Vive l'Allemagne!
That's the way they go on, Huw, straight up, as we say in Bromsgrove. I mean, they would all be speaking fucking German without the Brits - nothing wrong with German businessmen, mind, I'm a businessman, myself, I am, and Volkswagen, a great company, apart from poisoning the world, but that's nit-picking and red tape, Volkswagen could teach us all a few lessons. But even so, Huw, we can't put up with the Frogs criticising and attacking and threatening us, when it was us saved their fucking jambon, can we, Huw. As a businessman, I have just two words for the rotten, ungrateful, worm-eating frog bastards: Agin Court. We done it before and we can do it again
And speaking as a businessman I simply say that that smarmy cunt, wotsisname, Juncker, is it, and those simpering, Nazi-loving Paddies, over there, telling us what they will and will not tolerate borderwise, what they need is a night-time visit from the English Defence League or some such.
That was Lord Digby Sweat of Bromsgrove there for us, with his take on recent events. I'll just apologise to viewers for Digby always prefixing his remarks with: speaking as a businessman, he can't help it, but at least he did work, after a fashion, to become a businessman, of sorts. Yasmin Alibhai Muslim, on the other hand, is constantly saying,
Well, of course, I speak as a Muslim woman, as though she chose to be one, worked hard to become one; I mean, look you, she was born a fucking Muslim wasn't she? I was born a Welshman, but you don't hear me saying that at the top of every news report, do you? Anyway, Digby's fun and Yasmin's a pain in the arse and that's all there is to it. And now we join Nicholas Knobcheese, our Royal correspondent. Nick, I understand Her Gracious Majesty's been out and about, talking to folk, rather like her own mother did, at the time of the Blitz, you know, like Lord Digby was just talking about.
Well, of course, I speak as a Muslim woman, as though she chose to be one, worked hard to become one; I mean, look you, she was born a fucking Muslim wasn't she? I was born a Welshman, but you don't hear me saying that at the top of every news report, do you? Anyway, Digby's fun and Yasmin's a pain in the arse and that's all there is to it. And now we join Nicholas Knobcheese, our Royal correspondent. Nick, I understand Her Gracious Majesty's been out and about, talking to folk, rather like her own mother did, at the time of the Blitz, you know, like Lord Digby was just talking about.
Yes, indeed Huw, that's right, and Long To-oo Reign Over Us, I very much hope.
Christ, Huw, just between ourselves, can you imagine what'll happen when she dies, that buffoon, Brian,
Christ, Huw, just between ourselves, can you imagine what'll happen when she dies, that buffoon, Brian,
he fucking hates me, he does.
But no, for now, Good Queen Brenda has been amongst the people, exercising that common touch for which she is so famous. And now, like her sainted mother, the Queen Mum, she, too, can look the East End in the eye.
But no, for now, Good Queen Brenda has been amongst the people, exercising that common touch for which she is so famous. And now, like her sainted mother, the Queen Mum, she, too, can look the East End in the eye.
West, Nick, Kensington's in the West.....
Yeah, but, I was speaking figuratively, as one does, of the monarchy. And not only was Queen Brenda, there, but Prince Gormless, too. And I must say, that despite his vast responsibilities, he too has developed the common touch, can relate to and connect, if you will, with ordinary riff-raff, like those now so sadly toasted. Here he is earlier:
Okay, Yah? Football, eh?
David Beckham! Okay, Yah?
Pippa's arse. Okay, Yah?
David Beckham! Okay, Yah?
Pippa's arse. Okay, Yah?
Three cheers for Charlotte and George!
He was just every bit the ordinary, young father, Huw, Prince Gormless, and I was privileged to see him, working his royal magic on people who, let's face it, don't have English as a first language.
Well, Nick, you speak for yourself,
Welsh is my first language, look you, isn't it and as for parenting, well, we 'aven't got time now, but if my father had treated my mother the way his father and his granny treated his mother then I wouldn't be quite so keen to join the family business. Strikes me as a bit of a prat, actually,does Gormless.
Welsh is my first language, look you, isn't it and as for parenting, well, we 'aven't got time now, but if my father had treated my mother the way his father and his granny treated his mother then I wouldn't be quite so keen to join the family business. Strikes me as a bit of a prat, actually,does Gormless.
Yes, Huw, did I tell you I met Saint Diana several times.
Okay, she hated me too but, Hey, that's show business.
Okay, she hated me too but, Hey, that's show business.
What about Queen Brenda, though?
Oh, she was magical, really got down with the people, here she is.
Oh, I say, dearie, fucking awful, isn't it, having one's palace burn down?
Happened to me, y'know, at Windsor, I just thank fuck I had people to carry out all my art works.
I mean, Philip's no fucking good.
Probably in the garden with that ghastly creepy-crawly, Titmarsh.
Grovelling little shit.
I expect you all had help carrying out your art works, didn't you, that's the main thing, irreplaceable, they are.
I hope your servants were able to rescue your valuables,
and didn't just piss orf out of it.
It is very hard to get good staff.
Do you find that?
Well that was Queen Brenda, there,with the common touch, and now to other well, royalty, if you like, NewLabour royalty, and they don't come more uppity than NewLabour, I can tell you, proper cunts, all of them. And just let me say, wasn't it great seeing them all wrong-footed by Jerry Corbyn;
that hideous little baggage, Angie Eagle, that stuck-up Tory fuckpig, Chukka Umuna, and the Ice Pixie, Mrs Balls, that's her and her shifty old man fucked, now, for good, he'll have to look to showbusiness, not that he's much good at that, either. I mean, they were all so ridiculously wrong about Corbyn, why do they think anyone would believe them about anything else? And talking of people fiddling their expenses, at which Ed and Yvette were masterful, the royalty I referred to are the NewLabour mayors. Here's Sadiq Sticky Fingers, London's popular Muslim mayor - no, no, it's him who's always mentioning it, not me - with an army of police protection, yet still being heckled by angry Londoners who don't buy his tacky facade.
Happened to me, y'know, at Windsor, I just thank fuck I had people to carry out all my art works.
I mean, Philip's no fucking good.
Probably in the garden with that ghastly creepy-crawly, Titmarsh.
Grovelling little shit.
I expect you all had help carrying out your art works, didn't you, that's the main thing, irreplaceable, they are.
I hope your servants were able to rescue your valuables,
and didn't just piss orf out of it.
It is very hard to get good staff.
Do you find that?
Well that was Queen Brenda, there,with the common touch, and now to other well, royalty, if you like, NewLabour royalty, and they don't come more uppity than NewLabour, I can tell you, proper cunts, all of them. And just let me say, wasn't it great seeing them all wrong-footed by Jerry Corbyn;
that hideous little baggage, Angie Eagle, that stuck-up Tory fuckpig, Chukka Umuna, and the Ice Pixie, Mrs Balls, that's her and her shifty old man fucked, now, for good, he'll have to look to showbusiness, not that he's much good at that, either. I mean, they were all so ridiculously wrong about Corbyn, why do they think anyone would believe them about anything else? And talking of people fiddling their expenses, at which Ed and Yvette were masterful, the royalty I referred to are the NewLabour mayors. Here's Sadiq Sticky Fingers, London's popular Muslim mayor - no, no, it's him who's always mentioning it, not me - with an army of police protection, yet still being heckled by angry Londoners who don't buy his tacky facade.
Look, as a good British 'slim, and your mayor,
I'm only here for a photo-opportunity.
I don't give a fuck about niggers being roasted.
I'm NewLabour,
we torched Iraqi kids by the tens of thousands.
Don't fuck with me, mate.
I'll have you in Guantanamo before you know it.
You can trust me, chief, to fuck you up, big time, I'm a British Muslim, me.
Mayor Sadiq, it must be said, always paid back his wrongly-claimed expenses.
Just as soon as he was found-out.
Honest mistakes.
Just always in favour of his own pocket.
One wonders what he's up to as Mayor
Great that people, some people, now see him, as what he really is, a vain, greedy, sewer rat, stooging for the rich. I guess he'll have Cressida Butch's boys'n'girls out searching for someone to frame for arson, in order to protect his masters from scrutiny, much less arrest and imprisonment.
Mayor Andy Bubbles, of the great city of Manchester,
has had a great photo opportunity, too.
I would just like to say a big thank you to the victims of whatever it was for giving me, so early in my new career, what I call a Rudi Moment, the opportunity to stand-up in front of my fellow-Mancunians and talk sincere, meaningful shit at them, just like Mayor Rudi Wotsisname did, in New York, after the terrible events of 9/11, when those towers mysteriously fell-down in their own footprint (editor's note: funny how Grenfell Tower, far more seriously burned than the WTC buildings didn't just collpase, freefall, in its own footprint) It has been a truly humbling moment for me, sincerely gabshiting my way through whatever terrible event it was. And as a career boost it ranks along with my intervention over Hillsborough, a shrewd strategy which helped me become Mayor of this great city, home to that great band, Oasis, and, and much else, besides, sewing and stuff, yes, and Manchester United, owned by US crooks. Great city, Manchester, and I am proud of the part I played in securing myself such a great gig, once I saw that Jerry Corbyn was going to lead the party I loved, whatever it was, into oblivion.
Just think, if Bubbles had been loyal to his leader, the one voted for overwhelmingly by the members, he might've, after the upcoming election, been foreign seckaterry, could've gone and told lies to the UN, like Jack Straw. I suppose the nation is better off with him up there in Manchester, with the teenyboppers.
It's the weather now, with Jayne Tits, and over on Newsnight Giggler Davies and his guests will all be discussing how Mrs Askey will be thanking God for this white nutter who rammed the Finsbury Park 'Slims in his white van, thus taking the Towering Tory Inferno off the front pages, at least for an hour or two, whilst she hands the keys of the Bank of England to her new mates, the Ulster Undertakers.
Couldn't make it up, I know, viewers; I betcha that old bastard Ian Paisley'll be down there in Hell with Marty Kneecaps, laughing his ugly face off.
I'm only here for a photo-opportunity.
I don't give a fuck about niggers being roasted.
I'm NewLabour,
we torched Iraqi kids by the tens of thousands.
Don't fuck with me, mate.
I'll have you in Guantanamo before you know it.
You can trust me, chief, to fuck you up, big time, I'm a British Muslim, me.
Mayor Sadiq, it must be said, always paid back his wrongly-claimed expenses.
Just as soon as he was found-out.
Honest mistakes.
Just always in favour of his own pocket.
One wonders what he's up to as Mayor
Great that people, some people, now see him, as what he really is, a vain, greedy, sewer rat, stooging for the rich. I guess he'll have Cressida Butch's boys'n'girls out searching for someone to frame for arson, in order to protect his masters from scrutiny, much less arrest and imprisonment.
Mayor Andy Bubbles, of the great city of Manchester,
has had a great photo opportunity, too.
I would just like to say a big thank you to the victims of whatever it was for giving me, so early in my new career, what I call a Rudi Moment, the opportunity to stand-up in front of my fellow-Mancunians and talk sincere, meaningful shit at them, just like Mayor Rudi Wotsisname did, in New York, after the terrible events of 9/11, when those towers mysteriously fell-down in their own footprint (editor's note: funny how Grenfell Tower, far more seriously burned than the WTC buildings didn't just collpase, freefall, in its own footprint) It has been a truly humbling moment for me, sincerely gabshiting my way through whatever terrible event it was. And as a career boost it ranks along with my intervention over Hillsborough, a shrewd strategy which helped me become Mayor of this great city, home to that great band, Oasis, and, and much else, besides, sewing and stuff, yes, and Manchester United, owned by US crooks. Great city, Manchester, and I am proud of the part I played in securing myself such a great gig, once I saw that Jerry Corbyn was going to lead the party I loved, whatever it was, into oblivion.
Just think, if Bubbles had been loyal to his leader, the one voted for overwhelmingly by the members, he might've, after the upcoming election, been foreign seckaterry, could've gone and told lies to the UN, like Jack Straw. I suppose the nation is better off with him up there in Manchester, with the teenyboppers.
It's the weather now, with Jayne Tits, and over on Newsnight Giggler Davies and his guests will all be discussing how Mrs Askey will be thanking God for this white nutter who rammed the Finsbury Park 'Slims in his white van, thus taking the Towering Tory Inferno off the front pages, at least for an hour or two, whilst she hands the keys of the Bank of England to her new mates, the Ulster Undertakers.
Couldn't make it up, I know, viewers; I betcha that old bastard Ian Paisley'll be down there in Hell with Marty Kneecaps, laughing his ugly face off.
64 comments:
Welcome back. Please don't tell me you are part of the cult of Corbyn, though? Just Stalin reincarnated to lead the Slims to victory over the gormless white survivors. Most, like me, probably be gone before the culling and pogroms kick off, starting with anybody left born in the 1940s. My guess 20 years to a majority Caliphate.
He's a career politician, jerry, made a very handsome living. hising and tutting, but I am pleased, mr old rightie, to see him rattling the cages. I find these gobbily pompous, over-confident young Muslim men utterly infuriating, another fucking pestilence, like the Inkies and the Uglies and the Trannies and consider them, all of them, too stupid to organise anything, with or without assistance from Corbyn, although I can, occasionally, share your chilly fear of the coming Cruelty, something I have been damning - Cruelty TeeVee - for as long as I've been here, the enculturation and commodification of humiliation is everywhere, the monetising of Pain and Dissappoint, no business like showbusiness.
But I did flinch a bit at Jerry, going to evening prayers in Finsbury Park Mosque, why would he do that, either the prayers are profound and sacred - which we are told they are - or they're just a fucking knees-up, a Come All Ye. He's not a Muslim, is he? What's he doing, being a pretend one? I don't think Allah likes being a photo-opportunity. Me, a devout non-believer, I would go to any type of Christian service but I wouldn't be so rude as to attend any other type, that's all sorts of blasphemy and impertinence.
Mr Ishmael, you blighter, you looking like a saint, so you is. And not for the first time.
The idea that we would stash poor people in tower blocks in the 1960s and then wrap the aged, unsteady blocks in plastic chimney flues 40-years later as some offering to the great green ploar bear-loving god is beyond disgusting. "Ah, yes, the block has an energy blah rating after the upgrade. This equaes to seventeen chinamen not putting the kettle on." Not now it doesn't. Any fule know that buildings change, they get fucked with, they leak water - and air. Good builders and bad come by, innocent idiots too and before you know where you are you have a fiery disaster just waiting for a spark to ignite it. The poor buggers. I wwatched it 'live'. Not, as the children say. What an indictment of us all and our gullible stupidity. And as for staying in your flat wwhile the building burns, the less to block the staircases? Fuck me. Somewhere an HSE twat needs hanging.
Comrade St Jezza is reborn and unleashed upon the populace not because he is any good - because he isn't, nor because he has a decent idea in his head - because he has not, but because the Tories were slack and silly and stupid. And they were justly punished. That they got more votes than Maggie did in all but one outing is a difficult thing to work through. The truth is that two party politics may be back, and kids can vote now from their arse-scratching beds. This is a bad place to start a renewal of honour and social justice but at least it is a start. Mr Tory Blather too is remarkably quiet.
How's Gnasher? She looks finished to me - County Councilor England North.
Welcome back Mr I. On top form, so much nonsense abounds, where to start.
The interesting departure from the usual script is that white-van-man has begun to take matters into his own hands. One wonders what has taken so long. I got banned from the Filth-o-graph comments for suggesting, years ago, that this muslim gig would all end in civil war.
We aint seen nuffink yet.
A fine way to see in the summer solstice - good to have you back, Citizen-Suspect Smith.
Mr Mike - forgive me if this repeats something I already mentioned here, but there's a French novel (in translation) worth looking at, called "Submission" by Michel Houellebecq. Written a couple of years ago, it imagines a French election where fear of le Pen sees a stitch-up by the left and "moderate" slims that leads to La Caliphate nouvelle. Very funny and very bleak. (Wonder if President Macron-Gilf has read it...)
verge
Good to see you back Mr Ishmael.
I note that there is to be a Day of Rage “Demonstration” later today. The pop combo Kaiser Chiefs did a little diity “I predict a riot”…seems appropriate.
Don’t these people work?
Sorry, mr mongoose, I will explain later, down the highway, down the track, down the road to Ecstasy.
I can boast that although I was wrong about Marine le Pen -how did that toyboy slimeball get in? - I predicted exactly the outcome, down there and up here. Ruth Boy Davidson's TrannyTory party made it permissible to vote Conservative again (and notably Unionist)People here - but not me, I abstained because it didn't matter - rejected the rampant SNP of only a couple of years back, held their noses and voted for Big Fat Lyin' Al. My own close experience of National Health Scotland is that it is fatally leprous under SNP rule and many say the same, angrily, in the dime stores and 'bus stations; people are fed up with the schools turning out more idiot bairns, aan internationally respected education study group reviewed Scottish education, damned it and so Fuckwit Swinney is now opting out of thet review system and the SNP are going to do it themselves, people are sick of the cuts in college places and educationbal support, with the crumbling infrastructure and the lousy wages but Wee Mad Maggie cannae see that, insisting medaciously that she won the most votes in the election, even though the Tribesmen received half a million and the Unionist parties three quarters of a million. It is true that the SNP won the most votes of any party but that isn't what she says, instead, she says, repeatedly, that they won the most votes in Scotland. It is typical of her and people are now wise to it. I nearly opened a bottle of champagne when the FatMan got sacked, that really is a watershed, Salmond being kicked out. If there is another election shortly I expect her to lose even more seats and be replaced, I think even her own arse-bearers are tired of her mad egotism.
We shouldn't, mustn't, fall into national, self-blame over the towerblock scandal. As you know, I am a poor archivist but I'm fairly sure the iniquity of the SkyPrisons for the Poor has been addressed here, previously, and in many other places: styructures as institutionally and sociologically inhumane as these, well, it's no surprise that they are also ethally unsafe, worse, now, than when they were first erected. Imagine the boost to the economy were they to be replaced with decent homes and blown down by the spiritual sons of Fred Dibnah.
Not before time, mr mike, an uprising. Government should have seen the dangers and compelled integration and assimilation, allowing, instead, the rise of a ghettoised divergent and divisive society within a society, NewLabour, especially, preferring votes to solutions. Iss-lam seems to me to be constitutionally immoderate, racist, chauvinistic, intolerant, superstitious and cruel; post-industrial Britain has moved a long way from those positions and incomers must be prepared to blend, not necessarily to homogenise but to shut the fuck up about what Allah wants and doesn't want. Most people in the UK don't give a fuck about Allah, although I understand that we are much less racist than most of Europe. I always think of that redneck US presidential candidate, last year, Bobby Singh, saying We don't want any more hypenenated Americans, we don't want Chinese-Amricans, Irish-Americans, American-Muslims, we just want Americans, this is America and if people wanna make America like their own countries then thay should stay in their own countries, shouldn't they? No more hyphenated Britons.
It was my birthday on Saturday and a friend sent me Lady Sir Simon Jenkins' book, English Cathedrals. I don't care for Simon but he knows his stuff and these buildings, spanning a thousand years of Anglo-Christianity, even to a Godlessheathenbastard such as I, a Zen-Presbyterian-Marxist, they make your eyes fill and your heart soar. I don't want to see more alien, grubby little mosques, dedicated to some fucking headchopper. Let the 'slims visit the ancient cathedrals of the land they now wish to colonise and subvert and they will see the Love of God in the Hands of Man.
I don't need some stupid, angry, beardy, patriarchal wifebeater telling me about Peace, do I fuck.
Thanks, mr verge. I think I have heard of that book, I will have a look for it. It is kinda what mr old rightie posited about Jerry Corbyn and his friends down the mosque. I guess Marxism and Iss-lam are totalitarianisms which could bed-down to-gether, at a push.
I hesitated, here, a while back, to use the term 'slims, wondering, is it perjorative, cruel, disrespectful? But then I thought No, I'm victimising myself, calling myself racist. I guess that a 'slim would feel quite at ease calling me an infidel, a Jew would call me goyim and so on, shortening a word doesn't render it insulting, and if 'slims take offence at that useage then they really are in the wrong place, and better leave.
The idea of Work has become fluid, mr doug - unemployment, zero hours, so many non-living wage employers subsidised by our taxes, so many people frightened into running pretend businesses, but I, too, have been surprised recently by the amount of free time people seem to have. If these same Ragers had been reading here, for ten years, instead of posting pictures of their cocks on Facebook,or whatever they do on the mad media, then we might have had a riot long ago.
I always wondered, isn't Kaiser Chiefs a tautologism, like The Reason Why and Just Incredibly Unbelieveable?
How goes the hoose?
It is indeed a tautologism. I never noticed.
The hoose is coming along fine. I did mean to email you about it before but I lost your email address.
I would say there are no words, mr ishmael, except that you have found them. Long may the seals sing to you.
Like mr dtp, mr doug, I have IT problems, my ipad needs a new screen and I don't just have the strength to deal with the crazy fuckers who fix it. I will do it. My other emails are so long unused that I cannot get into them, it is a bollocks, all this Istuff. I will sort one out and let you know.
...as unbelievably incredible as "the hoi polloi".
For a long-form virtuoso, Anthony Burgess was good with a snappy soundbite and wasted no time defending the right of Satanic Verses to exist in print when the twats started burning it in Bradford and elsewhere. He pointed out that we'd developed a tolerant culture but would not tolerate intolerance. A simple effective mantra that our betters would have done well to stick to in the last thirty years or so.
Ishmaelites might wish to check their nearest corner-shop for special offers on mind-bleach. On the radio this morning was an outburst of virtue signalling orchestrated by Simon Cowell (with victims' choir palm-sundaed by Gareth Malone*) in the form of a charity single** version of Bridge Over Troubled Water. The horror, the horror...
*anag: "anal geotherm"
** "tingly arse-chi" - I think this is what happens when your kundalini is upside-down - they'll know all about that in the fancier bits of Notting Hill.
v.//
Mr I: the great cathedrals of Europe are always moving, even to an atheist such as me. I've just returned from the Camino Portugeuese - this one was hard, or maybe age is catching up on me? On the final night in Santiago, at the pilgrims mass in the cathedral, I witnessed the monks swinging the great incense urn. The 'slims will never win.
By the by, I was taught one year by a droid who considered that data is plural - and therefore that "your data, mr mongoose, are crap". He was "right" in his sandals-and-socks, nit-picking, fixin'-to-die-of-boredom way but the bastard insisted on correcting everyone - verbally, right there in the middle of the conversation. Rude fucker. Should have skinned him and had him fed him to some pigs in Connemara. It's the only language some of them understand.
I have never mentioned it previously, to anyone, it's just that that Kaiser Chiefs moniker has always irked me a bit. Generally speaking, I declared No Quarter,years ago, mr mongoose, on the Apostrophe Jihadists, who haunt cyberspace, like a mad army of nitpickers. Punctuation and grammar are important but now that so many can publish their opinions it is only to be expected that they will contain a forest of solecisms, misspellings, double negatives and tautologisms, as well, of course, as many typographical errors. I would much rather that people knew that hopefully is an adverb, that they said freely instead of for free and govament is, instead of govament are, but that's just me and I regulalry use a comma in front of but and and because I'm a coward, a conjunction doesn't need a comma, but because so many other proper writers apply one, I fall into line. Shit isn't? One day, me and Fowler's English will paint our masterpiece, everything gonna be smooth, like a rhapsody. You shoulda skinned the fucker alive, is it too late?
It is good to talk to you, all of you. Back this evening.
Age wears on us all, mr mike, although tools can help. I acquired some deWalt stuff, recently, a brushless, battery-powered second-fix nailer, which will fire a thousand 3 inch nails on one charge, is light, easy to use and smart, as well as a really gutsy drill-driver which outclasses anything I already own, mainly Makita stuff, much better, also, than the comparable Milwaukee tool, which I tried, even reduced they were a lot of money but they have transformed my life, if they had been around 25 years ago I would be a millionaire now, like you, as it is they make nonsense of my carpal tunnel syndrome and my damaged neck and I can do stuff which would otherwise cripple me or even a healthy person; with the nailer, especially, one can get into really difficult locations and just pull the trigger and stuff is fixed, like magic. I wish deWalt made tools for heart disease.
The cathedrals are something else, aren't they, worth their weight in gold, I think, if only as testament to the hands which made them; never mind the popes and the bishops and the Conquerors who just ordered them built, and the poisonous clerics who enriched themselves in their cloisters and chapels. I will review Simon Jenkins' English Cathedrals, a birthday gift, when I have read a bit more; we are planning an English cathedrals road trip, in the Autumn. I think I have said, previously, that I would go to the barricades and die for YorkMinster, for Handel's Messiah, whether the Blessed polysexual, inky youth would, is another matter.
Thank you, mrs narcolept, the seals' arrival and departure punctuate our yearly lives and their songs harmonise our days, we cannot manage Housman's cherry blossom, here, however hard we try but the seals, too, make us guess at the years and value them the more.
A fine return. The beatification of any who draw a public sector pension and wear a uniform proceeds apace. It has been the treacly script now for many a telly-tragedy that the coppers et al must be magnificent and that we should venerate them above all. Even when, manifestly, they are doing no more than the professional minimum. Or actually making a royal fuck up.
The firefighters of London looked to me as though they knew how to bear themselves best for the hero shots at the tower block and their tearful return to the scene to hug and milk was a shocker. There have been, no doubt, real acts of bravery by our boys but not in every case, every time. That's the problem, of course, with sentimentality, perhaps the most lethal curse of our days: it destroys truth and value.
Mr I, you're back and, dang me, I'm glad you're back! Not for the first time, I was worried that you were deed. This calls for a celebration...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ReLwUhNh2fU
P.S. Is that Bob Astles in the green shirt (looks a little to young - even for then...)?
Yo, mr verge, anagramming motherfucker-in-chief. I do seem to recall seeing Burgess do that schtick on some late-night arts show, sprawled in an armchair, smoking, it is a neat wordplay, an instant axiom, with which it is hard to cavil; the acceptance of Beardy Communities of Mediaeval Intolerance, however, by filth like Hatterjee and Straw and who was that other cunt, McShane, was nothing to do with a difference of opinion or principle, it was just abouit electoral and thus career advantage. Robin Cock - remember him?- I saw the gobby little mutant insist that the British national dish was not roast beef or fish'n'chips but Chicken Tikka Masala, he should have been in the SNP, shouldn't he, him and his seckaterry, licking haggis'n'curry off each others genitals. Such a shame that we don't have men of principle like him any more, spouting their hypocrisy and self-interest for our benefit and improvement.
On the matter of compassionate self-promotion Andy Mutant is hard to beat, publicly declaring his loser's winnings from the Queen's tennis game to be given to the poor people of Grenfell Tower,you just can't get more charitable than that, can you? No such thing as an anonymous donation or a quiet cheque, not for Andy. What a cunt.
I walk a crooked line on firefighters, mr bungalow bill; not for the first time I wanted to hang Blair, when he described them as the Enemy Within, for daring to strike, while he was keen to roast Iraqi children, I think, in passing that it was you who reminded us of his remark that he hoped his vile, fucked-up brats would do "something better than teaching" the fact that some of them DO run into burning building, whilst politicians set them alight prompts some admiration, recently, however, it has become as you say, anyone in a uniform is deemed heroic, this, of course, saves having to pay and resource them properly and further devalues the now fiat currency of heroism, a valueless coinage, traded in the studios of MediaMinster. The other aspect of this ethical barrel-scraping is that all can bathe in its flickering light - Cressida Butch, that imbecile fire chief and every slag and thief and child molester in the House of Commons, everyone in public life is a hero, from the drunken slut, Annie Soubry, to the vile old queen, Kenny Clark,. Virtue by Association, even whan, as in Grenfell Tower, there wasn't much Virtue to start with.
Thank you, mr sg, don't worry, if I die, which I won't, mrs ishmael will post a small notice. And the sky will fall.
That's a good one, Mr SG. I'm a Field Marshal Amin fan, ever since he offered a boatload of oranges for the deprived kids of Liverpool, lest they get scurvy/rickets as a result of some dockers strike, or some such.
He had a sense of humour and knew how to send up the West, just like Gadaffi with his photoshoped medal ribbons and his security guard of nubile females.
He was British Army boxing champ when real racism must have been rife to kick his black ass, so obviously not a wuss.
Great to see you back sir, and on such fine understated form.
Yes that arsebandit Paddick, hallelujahing the rise of the dogshooters, justifying his troughing in the Lords.Cunt.
St Jezza was out there hugging anyone who claimed to be a victim of the inferno, he'd have hugged Queen Brenda but for recognising her in the big hat.
I was in the cardio-catheter lab meself only yesterday, laid out as naked as the day I was born, praying, silently, that I wouldn't get exited by all the buxom nurses fussing around. Anyways, the surgeon says, 'look mr inmate there's the problem, narrowed artery, just below where the previous stents are fitted, you'll probably need at least another one. Later.'
But can't you do it now, while we are all here?
'No, sorry, no time now we're very busy'
But I'm the last patient today annit'll only take you 5 minutes.
'snot how it works sir, I have to do a report and then we'll make a decision'
So I lay in bed for another 3 hours just to make sure the hole in my groin wasn't leaking and then they sent me home. Is it just me?
That's nuthin', mr inmate, nuthin' at all. They cut me open, a few years ago, hacked an artery from my leg, chopped it up in three or four bits, stuck it to my heart and sent me home, cured. Over the next few years I presented at the local hospital about four times with chest pains. Ah, it's your neck, they said, referred pain, from your discectomy, Right. Fifth time I went in with the same pain, they put me on the air ambulance, just in case. In Aberdeen I was rushed into the stent lab. Ah, those grafts you had, he said, these little wispy strands, here on the screen, see them? they never took. So my heart bypass, was a waste of time? Looks like it. never mind, we'll just put in a big stent, under the aorta, But why didn't they do that five years ago? Beats me, chief, lie still now.
The bypass actually made things work, at least - before that- my original arteries were working a bit.
I don't mind it not taking, the surgery team struck me as highly capable, but there ought to be some follow-up, in case that happens, shouldn't there?
I had that hole leak, last time, you don't want that, they sat on it so hard that I was bruised from gropinb to knee, all tyhe colours of the rainbow.
It's like fucking Holby City, round here, sometimes.
Welcome back, just when we need you most.
Gettin' like the Orca in here...
Donald gets it. Theresa doesn't get it and doesn't even know what we're on about. Corbyn got it by accident and will surely lose it again. The Boy Macron gets it. Or maybe his mum put it out for him with his clean socks and undies. Though typically the French called it something else and, shunted to the front with the flag, the lad had it away on his toes with the prize. One more time, boys, for the ancien regime. French politics, eh? Surely the clearst of oxymorons.
Fortunately, Bandit Country actively encourages local democracy and write-in candidates are welcome. this time I wrote in "Donald, of the Great Orange Mekon Party". But then the balance of my mind had been disturnbed by a gang of Swedes from a Midsomer Murders tour bus. They were thronging about taking selfies outside, and inside, the polling station church and it all turned into a Muppet Show display of sing-song speaking bad craziness. Mongosling 2, eighteen years old and a few weeks, was voting for the first time and is now mightily confused. Unknowingly in touch with the spirit of the day though, she had voted for the Dog Shooters.
As you say mr I, can't fault the surgeon,radiographer,nurses and all the assistants, but,FFS they were all there, just get the job done; bureaucracy, doubling costs.Apparently the artery in my groin is now 'low calibre' they've been through it that often, so they will have to put the stents in through my wrist.
See the bearded prince 'arry doesn't want the the responsibilities, or any others in the firm, then fuck off and get a real job, pay your way. Parasite.
Thrashing them's no good. You must disown her, mr mongoose, it's the only thing they understand.
Funny how the Deep State is trying to topple the Orange One for his links with Russia, whilst here, the former Chancellor signs up indecently hastily to the Russian Mafia, immediately tries to destabilise the govament and nobody says Boo. Not even Jerry. I hate that bastard so bad, I hope his poxy arse falls out and he trips in his intestines. I dunno what's going to happen Stateside, they surely don't think that they can still squeeze Spunky Bill's doxy into the White House.
He does have a real job, mr inmate, Harry Hooligan, he plays footie with amputee-heroes, gets pissed and goes on holiday a lot. He's worth every penny.
Thank you, mr the noblest prospect.
Glad you`re back, Mr Ishmael: the rumble of heavy gunfire sounding out over the Flow again.
Glad you're still here, mr yardarm. The Flow is marred, now, by bits of rigs and accommodation platforms lit up with red lights like a flotilla of floating whorehouses. The oil industry contracts and parks-up its junk, all over the North East coast, a proper eyesore, it really bugs me, there oughta be a law against it. The fuckwit council will be pleased because there will be anchoring fees but it's like Blackpool illuminations round here, where once darkness wrapped the souls trapped below the waves by Gunter Prien.
Proper ships would be one thing but it's a fucking diabolical liberty, parking all this junk above the Royal Oak.
Yes, but it is surely constitutive of Ruin that twittered opinion is now instantly taken as actionable fact: the cladding was combustible so it must have been the cause of the spread of fire; the building was run by a private company so it must be further evidence of profiteering; the environment was the richest borough so it must be alien to the plight of "real" people, and so on. Reflection, naturally extended by grief, used to precede condemnation, to give time for reason to gain control over passion that is understandable but only weakly capable of understanding.
Eight hundred souls, Mr Ishmael, their mortal remains still in the old lady who engaged the Kaiser`s fleet at Jutland.
I knew Gnasher`s humiliation would make you laugh, an indictment on her shrill careerist posturing while neglecting the job the job she was being paid to do. And I laughed too at MacMugabe getting the Spanish Archer from his own constituents; still the number of pensions the fat bastard must have accumulated will continue to fuel his grotesque blubbery carcass.
Clegg too, and now we`re leaving the EU he won`t even have the consolation of an EU Commissionership. Fucking delicious at that guy over the Pizza House used to say, years ago. His wife, a ' high flying lawyer ' as some insolent, puffed up, ambulance chasing clerk is described will be bringing in the loot and no doubt letting him know about it.
Treezer is only Prime Minister because the others were so stupid they fucked their own campaigns. To entice the Fuck the Pope party we`ll see that Magic Money Tree she said didn`t exist miraculously spring to life in Northern Ireland, just as we`ll see it take root everywhere in the countryside once the agribusiness lobby, sorry, farming community, realise that in a couple of years their dole entitlement hand outs will come to an end.
I concur, mr tdg, that restraint is appropriate and I agree, also, inasmuch as every resident and neighbour whom I have seen interviewed in connection with the conglagration seems steeped, marinated in Grievance as deeply as a Glaswegian SNP voter and the fire has given voice to their all-embracing ire - perhaps the broadcasters have deliberately chosen the most whiningly inarticulate. It may be that some have thanked God for their survival and gone on their way accordingly, awaiting the comprehensve investigation which you endorse, I dunno, but I sometimes find myself thinking, unkindly, What a shame they didn't all go up.
I do, however, think that there was something so instantaneous about that cladding igniting that its installation must be suspect - it is banned in Greater Germany, the spiritual home of incendiary-bombed burning buildings - that the absence of escepeways and fire alarms and extinguishers should and do merit immediate, angry condemnation. Bad, sad stuff does happen, I know, sometimes it's just unavoidable. but this death toll far eclipses any recent terrorist attack and yet appears to have been easily reducible or preventable, just by the application of common sense. I don't know what Twitter is, as you know, I couldn't say Good Morning in a hundred and forty characters, but if its collective voice is saying heads must roll, bodies must be jailed, then I heart it, gr8ly.
I don't know if Scapa Flow is a special naval graveyard but there is something ghostly about its brooding encirclement by Hoy and the rest of our wee parishes which always moves me, and though I can see it from here, and drive along it's coast most days, it never fails to shiover me timbers. Did I tell you that in he late 'thirties some German ministers, Lutherans or some such, came to stay in this Manse of mine for the Summer, with the resident Presbyterian clerics. They were seen daily rowing up and down Holm Sound at the bottom of my garden, withourt ever catching any fish. It was only later that people caught-on that they had been plumbing the depths of the passageway from Holm Sound into Scapa Flow, for the war which they knew was coming.
Certainly an UnderTakers' Alliance with the Tories is significantly more perilous than it was before the Great Cowardice, or the Peace Proh-Cess as we are taught to call it and when this current UVF trial starts then Republican Irish tempers will understandably rise. If it is proved, as seems likely, that the RUC and the British Intelligence people conspired to murder many Republicans then this larcenous Orange/Blue collusion will be floodlit by resentment. It is a sign of her ailment that Tracey still so eagerly wants to drain this poison chalice, she should resign, for the sake of her health.
Another swift election, of course, would see Gnasher thoroughy spatch-cocked, outnumbered in Holyrood and beaten. Fingers crossed.
Apologies - will catch up later but I'm enjoying perfect Yorkshire weather. On Sunday I was at an open garden and bumped in to a local authority admin whose tongue had been loosened by fizzy wine and sunshine. He was cacking himself and being shipped back to the office on Sunday night ready for the onslaught on Monday morning.
The story is this: remember when old office blocks were hastily converted to residential, due to offices needing modern cabling etc? Well, planning were told to rubber-stamp it and building regs were told to keep their noses out of emergency housing, esp for the imports under Jack Straw.
Nobody has a clue what the builders used. Could be plaster board and rockwool, could be sponge cake and meringue. Nor is anyone very clear how many there are or how high some of them are. But the landings and stairwells are full of bikes and prams and floral arrangements on wicker stands.
Greater London is full of favellas. They only look like housing. It is a wonder we haven't yet had cholera, bubonic plague and a fire. Oh, wait, we have had the fire. We were bloody lucky it didn't take out West London.
Oops! I posted this in the wrong thread! Try again!
Amidst the flames of ruin something rather wonderful:
hillforts.arch.ox.ac.uk
Also nicely previewed here by the splendidly named Welsh author - Horatio Clare:
www.ft.com/content/5c5377ba-50fd-11e7-a1f2-db19572361bb
With apologies if it is hidden behind the damn paywall (if you google 'Horatio Clare hillforts' you should be able to access it...).
I dunno - you turn your back for five minutes.
Welcome back Mr. I. And to return with such a tour de force too. When those poor souls were being burnt to death it was almost like a deleted scene from 'The Wicker Man' where the poor were being sacrificed for the betterment of the disgustingly rich. There are a few bureaucratic and corporate arseholes doing their impression of 'sixpence, half-crown, dustbin-lid" at the moment, I would suspect.
Thanks, you majesty and I am amazed that people still talk of that worthless piece shit, BoJo, as a prime minister. A decent mayor of two terms would at least have said. Well, I wish I had done more, I WAS the most powerful man in London, I wish I had set a higher bar position, but I guess I was too busy fucking and scheming.
I do find myself, however, straddling, mr tdg's position, also, some of these people whom I have seen interviewed, are, in a strange way, loving all this, angry flashmourning. I am also a bit uneasy about there having been so many non-indigents crammed into these dreadful places, maybe the authorities felt that they'd know fuck-all about Health and Safety, so why bother?
Of Cressida Butch's coppers can find a small plumbing firm to nick, that'#ll do the job but she didn't get where she is by troubling guilty people.
If Cressida
That's right, mrs woar, disease is a strong possiblity. Twenty Years ago I was in London to obtain an Irish passport from the Embassy, in Buckinghma Palace Road, I believe, and I was struck by the amazing amount of filth on the streets, piles of black bags, bursting, outside shops and eateries, puke everywhere; blues'n'twos, sounding constantly. Amsterdam, the next day, was like a place from the future - I know it's much much smaller but even so, it's just a matter of priorities, pay more tax and have better services, buildings, transport and health and safety, not to mention jobs. I was there for five days, over Christmas, and I only saw one policeman in Central Amsterdam, just the one; the streets were clean, the businesses well-run; you could enjoy street fries with mayo, pea soup or a joint if you wanted and there were free Eembrandts and Vermeeers; London, although a repository of vastly more art and culture, seemed, in comparison, like a sewer.
Bombay is felt to be the superbug capital of the world. The WHO and those sorts of bodies are terrifed by the fact that the great Indian economy as well as producing cheap, knock-off software also produces cheap, knock-off antibiotics, on which many there live - and who wouldn't, eh? with people washing, shitting and throwing corpses into the river - with the entirely predictable result that Bombay's sewer bugs are mutating to the point where they will be unstoppable.
I wonder how things are in London, plague-wise; if the same brains as permited Grenfell Tower are in charge then a Metropolitan Apocalypse may be just around the corner.
Last time I was on a Welsh Hill Fort, down in the Marches, Presteigne way, mr sg, I was scattering some ashes. I will have a look when I get a minute, I am currently bathing in mind bleach, having watched a few minutes, last night, of Glastonbury, some gabshire musical imbecile called Foo Fighter or something. It was like a huge, open-air loony bin. At least I avoided that cunt, Kristoffersonson and his new sideman, Big John Depp, As pretentious and bombastic a simpleton as Roger Waters was and remains, at least Pink Floyd used to do a good show at these events.
Good piece and nice to see you back.
Funny how people hate the DUP, well mostly because not progressive, they're anti-gay and anti-abortion.
Yet their detractors tend to be leftist ie. high tax types. And where are a goodly chunk of taxpayers of the future? In the hospital garbage or not even conceived because of wooferoonyism. It' a clear case of the ostriches hating the hen for shitting everywhere.
-richard
That was ace. Loved the 'what does legal' mean?
Hmmm, it is a conundrum, mr richard, the DUP and its paramilitary offshoots, no matter what they may have done at home, did not blow-up Birmingham or Manchester or Warrington, that ought to make them preferable, at least, to Sinn Fein, who did; neither did they shoot dead hundreds of working class British soldiers, something which, according to Alec Salmond, made Marty Kneecaps a great friend of Scotland. As one born into the clan, my own life experience of Orangemen was unpleasant and certainly their civil behaviours prior to the emergence of the Provisional IRA were cruelly undemocratic but for terror, sadism,extortion, corruption and hypocrisy they cannot hold a candle to Sinn Fein whose only discernible inclusive social policy is the worship of LGBTQ-ism and by extension - see Adams brother - the acceptance of and collusion in paedophilia. That our nation should be giving a flying fuck about whAT Sinn Fein makes of Mrs ASkey's wholly legal proposed arrangement with the Ulster Undertakers is an aspect of what Andrea Ledsom was talking about - the media as Fifth Column. If the IRA and by implication Dublin are threatening violence as a means of expressing political difference we should fucking well bomb them, shouldn't we, we devastated Iraq for much less?
Thank you, mr dick.
Worth waiting for.Thanks mate.
We mentioned back up the road a ways that Brexit means that the whole island of Ireland is once again to be a province of the UK. But in two bits - though one must be unspokenly so. Now though, the DUP angle is a godsend to the Remoaning as it offers the chance to re-engage old cunthood to a new Argument of Fear. Not only will the Brexit birds fall powverty-stricken and frozen from the wing but the Provos will put down their titles and pensions and start digging up their Lee Enfields. Err? No, they wwon't, will they? Not unless MI5 are Remainers too.
Hard border? Soft border? What fucking border? That is a far more apposite question. The South, as we call it, is so far removed from anything that might sensibly be called (economic) independence that it is almost laughable that it has raised its voice above a whisper. Sit quietly and sup thy Guinness, you daft bastards, or we won't buy any and you can all drown in it.
re The hillforts thing. The content is wonderful. Thank-you. A terrain mashup is required.
Never mind Argument of Fear, how about Argument of Queer? LGBTQ Ireland is a right can of worms, so it is.
I and I expect you, too, will Bremain via Irish passports, whilst Brexiting via our UK passports - not that there will be a Brexit, of course, but just for the purposes of discussion - and I wonder what democratic defecit denies us the vote in the Ould Country - if we are Irish citizens we should have Irish votes, do something to redress the way in which transubstantiation has been replaced by transexuality. I always thought that the Provos, especially the Torture Twins, Gerry and Marty, were sadistic arsebandits, y'know, Ireland's answer to the Krays and lo, now the whole country minces and screams from morn til night, Forty Shades of Queer.
Last time I was in Belfast I saw knots of hostile hard men - Village People style - congregating conspiratorially on Falls Road street corners, looking as bent as nine-bob notes. Now, as you say, tne Republic's economy is a basket case while the new Taesoch skips about singing I Feel Pretty and Butch Gerry and his queer army threaten violence if we don't do as they say.
Thak you, mr gary.
Afternoon Mr Ish, Glad your back, My youngest son had an iphone screen replaced for £20 in a polish shop in aberdeen so i would imagine an ipad screen wouldnt be much more, cant stand them myself prefer a desktop pc you can smash the keyboard with your fist.... lets face it everybody does, replacement cost £10... i see its cost a billion for the dup votes money well spent or what!
That's LGBTIQA+ to you, mr ishmael, and don't you forget it. Poor old Ian Paisley. Died a decade too soon, so he did.
This, so it did, was featured prominently on the BBC newspage the other day. I must confess I bailed out early when young Grant says coming out made him feel like a butterfly...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/magazine-40371193/the-small-town-drag-queen
v.//
See me, I'm an Ulster Scot, ex-army, and I would have voted for a united Ireland in a heartbeat if Ireland was free - but there is no Ireland. She's a EU satrap. Oh how terrible was the plantation, says Sinn Fein, but the new plantation of Islamist invaders is just fine.
Here's another thing, the EU said that the Republic has too many cattle which cause global warming due to their flatulence. Hence farmland is being turned over to produce the lifeless gloomy conifer plantations, paid for by the government via guaranteed recompense for converting farmland into the exact unproductive forest that had to be felled to make Ireland habitable in the first place. And that's why Brexit was a good thing, it was two fingers to the insane. Whether it comes to pass is open to doubt. If the DUP is a spanner in the Merkel works then that's fine, there are worse things than early closing on Sundays.
-richard
Is that Irish Queer Army, mr mongoose?
Yes, mr richard, and Bravo, many worse things, too, than not hanging-out the washing on a Sunday.
I watched a worse one than that, recently, mr verge. Set in Wales, it was the story of a boy-turning-girl, with the loving support of his best pal, his parents, his school's teaching staff and pupils and the BBC production team, one felt it was all a bit suss, queerly vicarious, made one fear for the national ethic.
It's not the money, mr walter, it's the interaction. Last time I spoke to these people I visualised Inkies, Uglies, all gender-indeterminate with scrap metal stapled to their faces. Either I'm too sensitive or else I'm getting soft but the New People are not for me; not as bad as the freaks at Screwfix but bad enough. It's like placing an order at MacDonalds, shopping at Screwfix.
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