The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
would have fared against a fit
Rafa Nadal, Andy Mutant or Novak Jabberwock,
they might have given him a game, a bit of a
contest, one to justify the ultimately rather shame-faced euphoria surrounding his eighth
This really was a
poor game, one which made Federer look considerably more formidable than he
is. There is no question about Federer's
abilities or his ancien regime sportsmanship; his talent, his application and
his grace are now legendary and I wish more were like him. If, as is said, he is worth a billion dollars - one hundred millions in prize money and ten times that in sponsorship, well, better him than the repulsive John McSneer
the oldest baby in the world or the cock-waving Boris Becker;
ifthere is anyone in modern sport who deserves these astronomical rewards it is Roger Federer, an athlete and an entertainer without equal; even so, Sunday's was a fucking awful Wimbledon final.
I don't think I had noticed Cilic before but then I watch very little tennis these days, especially since the rise of Andy Mutant, his creepy MummyDarling and his ugly, neanderthal petulance but it should be safe to assume that anyone, familiar or not, who reaches the Wimbledon Men's Singles Final is a player of some capability, not just in serve-and-volleying but in self-control; Cilic, though, was a tosser who should have been weeded-out by the tournament itself. Outplayed by Federer in almost every game the Croatian, instead of counting his blessings at being in the Final, being beaten by the greatest player ever and being about to receive a cheque for over a million pounds cried like a baby,
he cried for his inadequacy,
he cried for his doctor,
for his sore foot;
he strung-out two injury breaks quite shamelessly and even after all that hysterical hustling lacked the grace to congratulate the victor, it was a regrettably familiar display of inept, fuckwit, self-obsessed celebrity bitching about its own thwarted ambition; he should've been booed-off but instead we sat - well, I didn't - sat enthralled by his repulsive, whining self-pity, with the permanent adolescent, Bozo Becker, wittering-on like an Agony Aunt about Centre Court being the loneliest place in the world, Look, it's like I alvays say, zis iss real life und death stuff at Cenner Cawt, ve are all true gladiators out zare, fighting for our life.
as though even Wimbledon, like everything else, had encamped itself in the Big Brother House.
It seemed that between every point the PBC's Wimbledon director distractingly chose to show us some grimy, oiled-up nobody - Oh, fuck me, look viewers, isn't this wonderful, so-and-so's come here to be seen at Wimbledon. What? Tennis? No, I shouldn't think he understands it at all, but being seen, that's what it's all about, there is no business like showbusiness, and it's what we're bringing you, the tennis simply isn't enough, so we're bringing you pictures of absolutely everybody who's nobody. Look! Look! Here's Ruritanian Prince Gormless and his doxy Yah, free seats, Yah, free everything. OK, Yah, but y'know, I dowannit; it's more about duty, like my bro' says, all about duty, having all this free stuff.
And here we can spot ghastly, overdressed imbecile wannabe, Dave Simpers, a man who gas done so very, very much for himself, I mean, you only have to think of all hist tattooss, the stuipid inky cunt, and his beards and hairstyles, this is the stuff of sporting greatness 'Ey, Willie, Ya gorra Knighthood for me yet? Only I do deserve one, fer all the fings worravdone, the cloves, an' the cosmetics an' everyfing. Patient and punctilious in his seemingly endless round of post-match celebrity greeting it was telling that Roger Federer spent the absolute minimum amount of time with the Ruritanian parasites, hugging Princess Coke briefly and swiftly shaking hands with the grinning Prince Gormless, the oaf who would be king. Even in snubbing the worthless, Federer was a lesson in grace and style.
A ruined final, a worthless opponent, a cliche-drenched commentariat, a gang of slimeballs basking in his moment and yet, by his presence, redeeming the whole grisly crew, he carries it all off like a Saint walking among sinners. Worth every penny, Roger Federer.
I knew these words long before I heard them set to music and they changed my life; from Kahlil Gilbran's The Prophet, they are part of a set of Sufi beatitudes, answers given to questions asked of the Prophet; Speak to us on Children, they said and this was his reply:
Your children are not your children,
they are the sons and the daughters of Life's longing for itself.........
I think I first heard this setting - an extract - by Sweet Honey In The Rock, a 1980s, black, right-on, feminist, issues-driven a capella group;
anything of Grievance or Lamentation, they'd run-up an arrangement, record it and tour it.
Ah, but we were all so much older then.
I don't know who these performers are and they are not terribly good but I find this non-showbiz version much more agreeable.
by Kahlil Gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make
them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with
You are the bows from which your children as living
arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
loves also the bow that is stable.
have taken a few companion animals to the vetbastards' for euthanising,
it has never been straightforward, nearly all of them have had more life left
to live - before I have put them in the car they have mostly been
catting or dogging as before - but I had been aware that they were also
suffering pain; I suffer pain nearly all the time but I understand it
and as far as I'm concerned it is infinitely preferable to being dead.
guess is that animals don't - can't - understand and compartmentalise
pain but even so I have a lingering thought that it is not their
suffering that I choose to end, just my sight of it;
the suffering of others is - what? - not harder to bear than our own but more disagreeable.
There's that phrase, I couldn't bear to see him suffering, it is the I that counts. I
like to think that most of are uncomfortable with the suffering of
others although I remember reading of the Shogun who composed a haiku to the screams of a man he was having boiled in oil.
That's the Japs and the Germans, for you, they occupy a unique place on Cruelty's glistening spectrum, you might even say thay've fallen over the edge.
is only good fortune but it has never been the case that I couldn't
afford the ongoing medication for sick animals, these were quality of
life decisions which I was making because they couldn't.
so pompous, doesn't it? I have always been a bit uneasy about that, I
wouldn't want anyone making a quality of life decision about me, I'd
fucking kill them but there it is, it isn't the animals' world, hasn't
been since we arrived and invented our tools and weapons and as I have
said previously, if all the animals in the world got together and
formed a religion we would be its Devil; for fun, sport, for cosmetics
and medicines and for dinner, they are ours to torture and kill, even
We know a couple who are just perfectly ethical.
they portray themselves as ethical, their judgements as considered and
themselves as informed-into-Virtue in everything they do; they are
Which magazine personified;
They had a lovely little dog, anyway, as bright as a button - friendly, funny, intelligent - he
knew the names of all of his toys - he'd make you lol-out-loud;
spirited, playful, loving, the perfect companion, he would brighten the
greyest of days.
one day, despite them, in every waking second, taking punctilious care
over every single thing they did - they made you participate in a tea
ceremony every time you had a cuppa round there, all consumeriste discernant et superieur; yes, ishmael, it's about so much more than just drinking, we strive to savour and appreciate the fragrance;
with a clean palate you can detect the blossom, things are so much better when you take a little care, aren't they?
Now, I like tea, I drink loads of fancy stuff, even, sometimes, in warmed cups, from a warmed pot, with the hot water just-so, and with real tea leaves, and with no milk and no sugar;
this shit, however, always tasted like floor-sweepings from the Ty-Phoo tea factory, down Birmingham way.
This couple's game wasn't about discernment and certainly not about sharing an experience with others, fuck no,
even just plain old-fashioned snobbery, it was something darker than
that, a kind of feverish and remoresless, psychopathic and countereit didacticism, even though they had nothing to teach anyone,
they should shut the fuck up and listen quietly to their betters,
like I do.
remember once delivering some furniture to a lovely country house in
Kinver or Clent, one of those nice, wee Worcestershire hamlets,
anyway, from which Birmingham and the Black Country are easily
commutable; popular with lawyers, senior health professionals and the
ghastly TeeVee people but this guy was a Black Country engineer, had
prospered in a small business making widgets and washers, he and his
wife were really, really pleasant and they became repeat customers.
And I remember looking at his new BMW and his lovely home and thinking
You don't know a line of Shakespeare nor a bar of Beethoven yet you
live here and I don't, how's that happen?
learned in that instant that enjoying the sound of my own voice was a
mug's game, that I had more to learn from others than they from me; everybody's story is better than mine,
if they are permited to tell it.
Back with Mr'n'Ms Perfect there was also the BMW 1100 escapade.
Although naturally they drove an eco-friendly car they also bought a
superbike, for the thrill of the open road, and, you know, just to get
away from it all, in the fresh air.
Piled it up, they did, getting away from it all in Caithness. There
followed weeks in hospital, months off-sick, in recuperation. Wrecked
the bike but didn't dent their sense of superiority, not a bit of it.
on the road, or some such, absolutely freak conditions which would
compromise the skills of even the most seasoned and considerate riders,
such as they.
one day, anyway, and given the intense purity of their life choices
and the great care they took of domestic minutae, it came as a shock to
them when the wee dog was injured by a car outside the front door.
The constant vigilance required to ensure the safety of small animals was a heading absent from their otherwise comprehesive, balanced and ethical Rule Book of Life.
But they were still prepared to make the right choice.
things to me later, he said, Well, ishmael, I thought long and hard
about it and decided that in the Wild, which, let's face it, is where
he's from, he wouldn't survive an injury like that and so the ethical
thing to do was not to have him mistakenly treated by the 'vet but to
let him die...
You had him destroyed?
on balance, it was the right thing to do, it wasn't about his
survivability, it was about the higher ethics of the matter, we were- as
you know, we always are - determined to be ethical, and that was what
would happened in the Wild. He would never survive such injury in the
we must never forget that however much we love them at the end of the day the bottom line is that these are Wild
animals we're talking about here, we simply must never forget that.
There was no point in me saying;
he wasn't a wild animal, he was bred to order, just for you two and by
your own admission he was the central - sleeping in bed - part
of your family, now that your formerly lesbian daughter has -
unsurprisingly - freaked-out, run-off and married a man twenty years
older than you, her father.
Never ceases to amaze me, the number of ethical ways people find to avoid spending money.
If he'd just said that they couldn't afford it or something that would've been fine, and even though they are not skint a lie wouild've been prefereable to all that ethicsa horseshit.
the real ethical dilemma was that they didn't want a damaged dog,
limping around their OCD-clean little Palace of Madness; who wants an injured dog? I mean, what sort of ethical consumer choice would that be, having and injured dog, limping and dribbling?
daughter once told me, that if even one book was out of the bookcase
her mother thought the place a terrible mess, had an attack of the
vapours. A recuperating dog, pissing on the floor? Christ, she'd have had heart failure.
Very, very soon after this happened they acquired another dog,
a shiny new one, not from the Wild, where dogs come from, but from another expensive breeder.
Infinitely elastic, consumerist ethics,
have to be, though, considering:
“The capitalist and consumerist ethics are two sides of the same
coin, a merger of two commandments. The supreme commandment of the rich
is ‘Invest!’ The supreme commandment of the rest of us is ‘Buy!’ The
capitalist–consumerist ethic is revolutionary in another respect. Most
previous ethical systems presented people with a pretty tough deal. They
were promised paradise, but only if they cultivated compassion and
tolerance, overcame craving and anger, and restrained their selfish
interests. This was too tough for most. The history of ethics is a sad
tale of wonderful ideals that nobody can live up to. Most Christians did
not imitate Christ, most Buddhists failed to follow Buddha, and most
Confucians would have caused Confucius a temper tantrum. In contrast,
most people today successfully live up to the capitalist–consumerist
ideal. The new ethic promises paradise on condition that the rich remain
greedy and spend their time making more money and that the masses give
free reign to their cravings and passions and buy more and more. This is
the first religion in history whose followers actually do what they are
asked to do. How though do we know that we'll really get paradise in
return? We've seen it on television.”―
Yuval Noah Harari,
I'm no better, though, just because I spend that extra bit of money on companion animals.
I make the best of it, the final trip to the vetbastard's.
Yeah, I love you so much I'm gonna pay somebody to kill you, and I'm gonna just gonna have to make the best of it.
be grateful that I don't consider you a wild dog, really, cos then I'd
have to get me a gun and shoot you, like a real man does.
know what I would do in the position of Charlie Gard's parents. I like
to think that I wouldn't do as they did but I am older and stronger than
they are.. Maybe, if I was their age, in this time, I, too, would take my sad story to market Colin Parry, after losing his young teenage son to one of the late Marty Kneecaps' peace initiatives, really took his tale to market,, interviews, trips, columns, a phone-in radio show of his own, the Today Programme. His mrs left him though and who could blame her? Nobody teaches Acceptance, nobody teaches that Shit Happens so it is unsurprising that the Gards are as they are, screeching and breast-beating, ululating like Arab women after a peace-making visit from the US Air Force.
is not as though their betters don't encourage commercial public
soul-bearing; it is not as though Celebrity has Grace. Just Look at Prince Hooligan, the ginger drunk to see where the commoners are taking their cue. A trouble shared is a trouble earned-from. I saw a few
minutes of that slippery cancer, Piers Morgan, the other night, the
fearless but compassionate investigative journalist. He has a show about
women in the States who have killed.
Not BigTime Murder Floozies, like Hillary Rodham Clinton
- didya see her do that Gaddafi rap she does, in that awful Arkansas whine: We Came, We Saw, He Died,
I'm so funny I could jes plumb eat ma own shit;
makes me shudder to remember it, makes me fall down and thank God for
the larcenous, gibbering, cock-waving half-wit, Donald Trump.
proven himself too fucking hideous even for US TeeVee prime time,
maladroit even at celeberity blow-jobbing, the Moron's current outing is
just a cheap, miserable series about poor dumb bitches who have
murdered someone and are never going to see a cock again, never mind the
light of day.
goes into the jail looking all perplexed and asks them some searching
questions, as only a journalist on top of his game can do. All Bob
Dylan's Like A Rolling Stone redux, Piers asks How Does It Feel, over
and over again, to be hated, to be in here, to have killed that boy? It
really is fucking disgusting; voyeuristic, parasitic, tittillating and
trite, it's enough to make you believe in the Death Penalty, better your
blood boiling and your organs jerking, better to bleed and rupture
from badly administered poison than be interviewed by Piers Morgan.
It's not as if the worthless crook didn't already deserve a good beating, is it? Here he is with Kelvin McFilth,
And we wonder why the country's ruined by filth, lust, greed, hatred and stupidity. I'd hang these two in a heartbeat.
How does it fe-e-e-e-el? But
this show, even by Piers Morgan's reptilian, infamously low standards,
is the baddest in bad taste; please, can't he be arrested for Indecency,
the horrible cunt?
Gards' child was born cruelly disabled and with no prospect of
survival, he can do nothing unaided, he can't breath and is severely
brain damaged, he is senseless and his apparent destiny is to die in
pain, perhaps horribly so and his doctors argued that his life support;
if you can call it that, should be switched-off. The parents
disagreed, promulgating some unproven treatment option in the United
States and - funded by the new breed of Internet well-wishers - took the
matter to three British courts, where they lost and finally to the
European Court, where they have also recently lost. Watching that
hearing was the first time I had ever thought seriously about the
European Court's jurisdiction; this matter had been thoroughly and
painfully aired in three tiers of our own courts and yet the Gards
asked for and were allowed the final adjudication of an alien,
supra-national, bureaucratic jurisprudence. I closed my eyes and tried to find worth in this procedure and in these arrangements and - much as I love the idea of Law - I couldn't. If,
as the anti-democracy Remaining minority say, we cannot protect our own
human rights, our own working terms and conditions, if we need,
instead, the oversight of judges drawn from nations recently fascistic,
totalitarian and holocaustal then the war fought against these forces
was lost. Imagine
me walking the ghosted shore of Scapa Flow and telling those lads, No,
you're alright, we can't trust ourselves to look after our own rights,
see, so we need the Krauts and the Frogs and the Eyeties, to keep an eye
on us, keep us right, lads, they will. I mean, they have better
judges'n ours, better laws, we'd be proper fucked without Jerry judges,
watching uz human rights laws. OK lads, simmer down, now, course you
didn't die for nothing. It's just that doing what Germany says is the
only true way to lasting peace. Well, you lads may call it cuntish, but
your betters, well, they know better'n you, obviously, that's why
they're your betters. Quiet, there, less'avesome quiet in those ghostly
Internet Camaraderie of Grief - everybody feeling for everybody else -
it's quite odious, I think, distorting and devaluing. This was a
straightforward matter, one of solemnity, modesty and forebearance. No
fucking chance, not among the New People. Unto Them A Child Was Born
but it was not to flourish and survive, these things happen. But no, it
was unfair and these parents would move mountains to make a Sad thing
Happy, probably because they're worth it.
I do believe that the first British outbreak of IT Community Grieving came with the wretched McCanns,
very swiftly not only amassed a small fortune - from which they
paid-off their mortgage - but through which they also persuaded the gullible
Internet fuckwit that every parent was as neglectful and duplicitous as
they; that the Portuguese police were the villains of the piece and
instead of advising them to answer legitimate police questions the dodgy
govament of Gordon Snot sent the flatfoot, stuttering dimwits of the
Metropilitan police over on holiday to Portugal, almost as if to arrest
the Portugueezers for their policing failures. Even
though Gerry and Cilla McCann trashed the crime scene, delayed
reporting the child's absence until they had engaged a PR firm and
rehearsed a series of stories, all of which collapsed under scrutiny and
refused to answer any questions about the matter they were popular
Internet sensation. Not with me they weren't but with the New People.
Internet's Highway of Vicarious Sorrow was Gerry and Cilla's best -
and most generous - friend. I don't suggest that Charlie Gard's parents
are remotely as loathsome as Gerry and Cilla but they, too, have
invited rank strangers to help them thwart Propriety, and to pay for the
privilege. Their Child of Sorrow has become their platform and their cashcow.
to watch the case at the British Supreme Court, a week or ten days
ago. Counsel for the Hospital - Great Ormond Street - argued that,
well, basically she argued that the parents didn't own the child and
that while broadly speaking parents' wishes should be taken into
account, where possible, in this case they were so unreasonable that
they should be discounted. There was simply no hope for this child and the claims of the US doctor were misinformed and misleading. The parents were acting unreasonably,
firstly inasmuch as shipping the baby to the States would make
matters worse; he was in pain, his tolerance to painkillers was likely
to increase and the condition of his brain and major organs was such as
to be unimprovable by any means.
The parents countered, firstly, that the matter was not even justiceable and that it was no business of the Court what they did with their child. They knew what was best for their child. The
Court-appointed Guardian and all the doctors concerned disagreed and
two lower courts and now the UK Supreme Court dashed their unrealistic
and selfish hopes, a decision, as mentioned above, endorsed by the
This notion that parents always know best is just ludicrous, Daily Mail rabble-rousing. Mick Philpott was and is a parent, should we support his fateful arson, because he said he knew what was best for his kids?
And even if parents think and believe that they know best events can reach a pitch where the Court must do what it thinks best; Every
working day of the year Judges in Family Courts make decisions which
upset one or both parents, and all around the clock every day of the
year, social workers and child protection committees remove children to a
place of safety, temporarily or permanently. Parents, Mr and Mrs Gard, neither own nor know what is best for their children, nor should they, this isn't Pakistan or India or China, is it?
had some sympathy for these wretyched and woebegone parents, caught-up, as they were,
in Celebrity's thoughtless maelstrom, until I saw them, that is, and then I realised what - whom- the hospital
had been up against; they were an open sore of Want and Grievance.
They wanted the child flown overseas, experimented upon, they wanted the child to die at home, they wanted to bathe him, this
desperately ill infant, and have him sleep with them in their bed, they
wanted to do normal parent and family things, they wanted this and they
wanted that, they were being treated unfairly, no-one was listening to
what they wanted.
Theirs is a sad situation, alreadydrowning in an overdose of misplaced Sympathy, they don't need mine.
And I read the vox-pops:
fuck me, this is terrible; the parents' rights count for nothing; it's
just typical; Oh, this is so sad, there simply is no right and wrong in
There were thousands upon thousands of comments from the Obvious Imbecile Believers, tapping-away, enraged.. Their
opinions, of course, are no less valid than those of MediaMinster's
emotional retard, Jon Sox, at Channel Four News, nearly in tears the
"Good evening. I know nothing, we, the media, the pundits, we know nothing." Jon Snow, on Jeremy Corbyn, Channel Four News, 8th June 2017
he was interviewing a doctor, a real doctor, and clearly a very caring
doctor, Sarah Wotsaname, the Tory MP, she seemed to hypnotise Soxy, a
very calm, reassuring voice and delivery, repeating and re-emphasising
her very calm and reassuring solutions to all the ills of parliament,
indeed of the world, of Life and the Human Condition; focussing, Jon, on
what is Right but Practical and Affordable, Right but Practical and
proper tranced-out was Jonny.
ishmael used to deploy these techniques with clients, not NLP but just
mild hypnotic trance, it is very effective and Sarah Wollaston. MP, Focus on your breathing, Jon, that's right, just focus on your breathing.
played the silly old duffer, Sox, like a trout.
probably move to Doctor Sarah's constituency, just so's he can vote for
her. He was always a fool, Jon Sox but as they say, there is no fool
like an old fool.
dimwits like Jon Sox orchestrating the national tune, no wonder it is
so discordant, its chorus ready to leap on a case like baby Charlie's
and emote itself into a dissonant frenzy. But this no-right-and-wrong thing, this phony dilemma-facing-the-parents, this is so stupid, so corrosive. There is no dilemma.
World Wide Words drily says this:
The originaldilemma in rhetoric was a device by which you
presented your opponent with two alternatives; it didn’t matter which
one he chose to respond to — either way he lost the argument. When you
did this to your opponent you were said to present two horns to him, as
of a bull, on either of which he might be impaled. As the scholar
Nicholas Udall said in a translation of a work by Erasmus in 1548, it
didn’t matter to which of the two points a person made a direct answer,
either way he would run on to the sharp point of the horn.
mischievously, Robert Pirsig, in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle
Maintenance, An Enquiry Into Values, posits a couple of
says you have one hand on each horn of a bull, restraining it; if you
release the left horn, you will be gored by the right and vice versa,
you can only hang-on. But, says the philosopher-mechanic, you can sing the bull to sleep, bore him, by asking endless questions about his competence. - or as in the case of the Gards endless court questions about about the justiceability of the case, should we all really be here in the first place, since we as parents own the child and his future?
then, from Pirsig, my own favourite, you can throw sand in the bull's
eyes, sharpish, though, before he realises you have released a horn.
now we have the Gards' solution, which is a combination of these: to
invite everyone else to grapple with the two dilemmic horns, ihrough a
huge vicarious, angry misery and make a lot of noise.
It is all counterfeit because there is no dilemma. Idiot
columnists may have conjured one but it is not a dilemma at all, the
lonesome death of Charlie Gard, at least it is not to me.
situation rebukes us all, this gabshite debate is not a choice between
finely balanced alternatives, this is a living horror, requiring Mercy,
nor rhetoric, doctors, not lawyers. This is not a vote on Brexit, this is a running tap of Sadness, the lights of Grief, left-on, burning bright and harsh; even
if this child could breath it will never think or see or hear or smell
or touch, there is nothing there of life, save the pain.
is only one proper course of action, not two or more; just the one, to
which the parents and their followers, including some ghastly celebrity
"funders," investing, Geldof-like, in their own caring images, cannot
reconcile themselves; that course excludes alternatives; there is no
dilemma, there are only right and wrong.
Another bovine metaphor is not about procrastination and immature philosphising;
taking the bull by the horns means that we do the only right, the least wrong thing
mr mongoose was lamenting the insufferability of the political discourse, bridling at how the ignorant commentariat would control our thoughts if they could. News reporting has metamorphosed into undiluted, full-on, hard-core Opinion, the more self-exalted the channel the more crudely it proselytizes for a minority LiberalRight and events, when they are reported at all, are shoe-horned into the WorldView According to Jon or Kirsty orNick or Eddie or Adam, although, at least with skymadeupnewsandfilth, as with proper Tories, you know where you are, they don't fuck about, skymadeupnewsandfilth, it's all about the preservation, at all costs, of le consumerisme noiuvelle et totalitairienne and the advertising revenues which it generates.
Stay tuned. Or I'll bite your fucking face off. Today, in the world of MalThought, there is a new ThoughtVillain afoot for it is now, in Scotland a criminal act to publish, whatever that means, something called Revenge Porn, whatever that is; I suspect it is the dissemination of relatively harmless domestic imagery which made the fortunes, firstly, of the Polaroid camera manufacturer,
then for the owners of the publishing phenomenon known as the Readers Wives pages
and subsequently of the entire home video/digital camera industry - people taking naughty pictures of each other, what we used to call erotica, and then one party publishing them without the other party's consent. Found guilty, under the Abusive Behaviour and Sexual Harm Act an offender can receive a sentence of up to five years imprisonment. This is heavy shit and makes a mockery of what is or should be policeable.
The Orkney police - of Police Scotland to give them their new, national socialist title - were recently warning shocked parents that their Luv'Em 2Bits, Me, Do Anyfin4'Em children were all busy using their portable telephones not to let Mum'n'Dad know that they were safely on the way home from swimming but were actually taking pictures of each others genitals and broadcasting them, the dirty little bastards. Well, not for the first time I said to myself, what the fuck did you think they would do with a personal digital camera, eh?
The Police warned that these behaviours could adversely effect the vulnerable; dirty pictures of children should only be viewed by responsible people, such as Liberal Democrat MPs, teachers and clergypersons. I do believe that the making of sexualised images of children is illegal and so shouldn't all these pervy little bastards be arrested and put on the Sex Offenders' Register, at the very least shouldn't their Luv'Em 2Bits, Me, Do Anyfin4'Em parents be hauled before the social workers and the Sheriff and have all their children placed in care, the dirty little pornographing shits? Won't they all grow up to be the dirty digicam brigade? Your fucking little horror has been taking photos of little girls tits and showing them to the whole world! Every bastard and his brother can see wee Mary's arsehole! You're a disgrace! You're not fit to be a parent, are you? All you're doing is breeding pornographers! You should both be sterilised
If anyone had ever asked me what pubescent teenagers - boys and girls - would do with 'phone cameras this is exactly what I would have predicted. Because that's exactly what I would've done. Born too late, me.
There is a social awareness advertising campaign on BBC Gnasher, telling boys that it is not cool to want to take pictures of girls' bits. Aye, right, see those hormones Jimmy, ragin' away, in your ballsack and your imagination, see them, Jimmy, them're pure bad. Och, dinnae worry aboot them bad wee bastard hormones havin' got us here, from awa' doon in the sea, among all the shite, dinnae worry aboot them we hormonin' shites being the drivin' force a humanity, nae, fuck that, wee man, what y'havetae do, Jimmy, is suppress them, and only use yer wee Smart phone fer tellin' yer Mammy where y'are or where y'say ye are, anyway. An', see this, wee man, no matter how much them wee hormones are tryin' tae persuade y'otherwise, yon camera phone isnae fer yo tae take pictures a wee Maggie suckin' on yer cock. It just pure isnae.
Aye, right, mammy, that's me told. I'll never do that again, honest I won't.
Somehow what we now call pornography - the making and viewing of it - has made cardinal sin of one of our oldest habits.
The Theft Libraries - or museums, as we call them - of the world are stuffed full of statues, friezes, paintings, prints, books and photographs, depicting people fucking other people, groups of other people
and indeed other animals:
the Vatican, acting no doubt as the font and spiritual home of pederasty,
The Biggest Dirty Books Shop In The World.
is believed to have catacombs bursting with dirty books and pictures, which only the holiest of holy noncing fathers is allowed to see and the more Classic the period, the dodgier the iconography, the whole of Greek mythology - if mr tdg will permit - seems a hymn to bestiality while the Brown Indians, I believe, those Indians who are permitted to touch one another at all, that is, - may Vishnu bless that great civilisation which makes sub-human and unTouchable so many - have regiments of deities pushing what we would call the envelope of sexual flexibility, all of them equipped with multiple arms and phalluses, all of them in an endlessly, inventive multi-sexual daisy chain
Yeah, man, Hare Krishna.
I expect it was censored out of the Sermon on the Mount but the Saviour must have said: Never mind the PeaceMakers, Blessed are the Pornographers.
Wherever two or three - or even just two, or maybe, on reflection, even just one - are gathered together in My name they will find a means - on the walls, on parchment, Yea, even unto an digital storage and retrieval system - to represent themselves fucking, even for My own name's sake. Blessed are the Pornographers, for iconised Lust is Ejaculate's handmaiden. Ye may speak unto one another of Love but an Erection seeketh unto itself only Destruction which Dirty Images and thoughts oft times Stimulate and Hasten. Verily, I say unto Ye, forsaking the Dirty Picture we mayst all have died-out, well, you mayst, My Heavenly Father and Myself enjoy Life Eternal but wouldst, even so, should our flock lose interest in fucking, due to an faminbe of Filth, find Ourselves up Shit Creek, without even an paddle.
We don't like it, we of the LiberalRight, don't like the idea of Dirty Pictures, because they are exploitative. The LiberalRight say this with pious finality even though sex is exploitative, how could it be anything else; lessfaceit, even Sodomy, which as we now know is the highest and purest form of Love, involves the bodily penetration of one person by another - my old friend Tasty McFadden used to say: If it needs lubing, mate, you're putting it in the wrong place but that is just so Old People - and that the disgusting practices of heteronormalcy climax in an urgent frenzy of internal organ battering. Of course it's fucking exploitative, although it is, generally, a pleasurably contradictory coincidence of Wants. No matter, that won't stop Kirsty Wark cawing and barking-out an I-Know-Best opinion on it.
The Dirty Pictures have been around forever, there is nothing new about the practice of making them, it is just that the digicam and the Smartphone, not requiring their images to be developed and printed by a third party, have made it the sport of Everyman. Jolly good thing, too, I should think. Trying to police the product is pissing in the wind, just what you would expect from MediaMinster.
Is it OK to draw a picture of Chardonnay's arse, and show that to the lads down the 'pub, or to write a vivid description? Because by the standards of this legislation it shouldn't be. Look, your honour, that pencil mark, there, that clearly indicates a mole on my client's left buttock, clearly identifying her to the entire world, causing her great personal devastation. Revenge Porn, may it please the Court, requires nothing less than a Revenge Sentence. Yes, well, my Lord, the court might argue that she should never have let the defendant see her arse, memorise its contours and at a later stage draw them in this, I must say compellingly accurate sketch; that she should, in fact be a little more careful about whom she allows to see her arse in the first place. Much less create from it a digitised image which, by its very nature is already but a click away from global distribution. But, my Lord, we are where we are. My client fell for a dirty rotter and now wants the Court to make things better for her, yes, wants the Court to Officially Pretend Retrospectively that she didn't. Even though she did. And even though no-one forced her to interact photographically with Mr Gary Knob, the defendant.
And talking about hurt feelings, is it alright to deliberately poison the mind of a child - and of the Family Court - against its father, causing life-long separation and hurt, something which happens every day of the week, without let or hindrance, much less five years' jail?
There is no other area of behaviour in which the mere prompting of hurt feelings in another can result in a five-year jail sentence.
Maybe the cops and the Courts are under-used and need to be more fully utilised by Cameron or Meadow or Jade complaining that she is being revenged upon - pictures of her titties and her arse, which she was once happy to have had taken, have now escaped her control, must be tracked-down and destroyed, lest the dimensions of her previous relationship become public knowledge, lest anyone find her carnal; anyone disseminating snaps of Meadow's pubis must, at public expense, be arrested, arraigned and jailed, money should be no object . Kurt, too, may wish us to prevent Zachary from exposing his or their conjoined penis and anus to public acclaim or ridicule and as for those photographed on the surgical journey along the gender spectrum, well, the possibilities for State-sanctioned Outrage and Retribution are almost infinite.
Cruel images of sadistic brutality and the abuse of minors abut a clear, criminal line separating them from images of domestic, consensual sex.
It is none of our business what happens to sexual imagery voluntarily generated, it doesn't matter who sees it. What's gonna happen, if someone sees someone else doing sex for the camera?
The brown children still can't get a drink of water or an aspirin, yet Mr Justice Slag is expected to adjudicate on the broadcasting of Chardonnay's blow-job. I mean, who gives a fuck? In an age when the NewPeople instantaneously broadcast every feature of their empty, knuckle-headed lives - so that advertisers may use them as sandwich boards - it seems doubly perverse that the Court intervene merely because people had no clothes on, whilst self-publicising.
The state is not the NannyKnowsBest Gatekeeper of personal relationships and should not grant Jade a Universal Super Injunction.
Even fully-clothed, my avoidance of the camera is an article of faith; if Cameron would have us post-facto correct her flawed partner-judgement and if Jeremy would have us airbrush-away his narcissism on the grounds that their publication is vengeful then he and she should exercise better judgement in the first place, keep their legs and their mouths closed. If consenting adults consentingly take images of each other engaging in consensual sex then they should beware that when they fall-out, Life being what it is, Vengeance may rear its hurt, unreasoning head.
The State, that is to say you and I, cannot and certainly should not protect people from their own horny Vanity biting them in the arse.