From Before-Before

From the ishmael archives
 
The world of retarded adolescence was in mourning, today - yes, again - over the death of popular children's entertainer, Mr Tom Toothy, at the shockingly young age of only sixty-six.

Leader of the pop group, Tom Toothy and the TeethBreakers, 
Tom's death in LA prompted  millions of the usual mawkish, infantile tributes which the Internet has permitted and encouraged; hashtaggaz1945, from Walthamsow, posted that in all them years when I wasn't growing-up  Tom's songs about girls was the only thing what kept me going,  he was a true genius, RIP Tom, keep rocking and singing songs about girls. 
At least Tom and the Teethbreakers wasn't trannies, at  least I fink they wasn't.

On children's TeeVee, hideous, tongue-tied,  greasy dwarf, 

 
 Jools Holland, 
said, yes, ladeezangennulmen, I can't believe it either, it's  twenty-five years that yours truIy has been fronting this awful show, Later, with me and a bunch of tone-deaf fuckwits, you know, viewers, people only have to appear on my show and  automatically they become legendary and doing that, ladeezangennulmen, being  a now-legendary legend-maker, has put  millions and millions of your license payers'  pounds straight into my pinstripe, faux Edwardian skyrocket, and yes, I can't frame a fucking sentence.
 Am I the biggest cunt in children's entertainment? I truly dunno, ladeezangennulmen.  But if I am I'd bet you a monkey that this bent arty-farty cocksucker would run me a close second. 
 I give you, ladeezangennulmen, straight from the disciplinary board of Companies House, the man who brought you that great Kids4Charity scandal, I give you the legend that is:
  Mr Al Gob!

 

 Al, you latched onto that crooked kids charity thing, dincha,

 with that mad woman in the curtains; wotsername, Camilla Batman, zat her?

The legend that is CurtainsWoman?

 

 to enhance your own standing as a great but compassionate entertainer, just wanting to, what is it, yes, put something back, having taken so much, yourself, massive salaries and pensions and bungs and so on. And how so rock'n'roll is that? I mean, at the end of the day all of us in children's etertainment want to put something back.
 An' I must say that that's something that all of us in showbusiness would of have done, joined a crooked charity, if only we'd been as clever as you. 
 And then it all went sour, didn't it, and in a cruel twist of fate you and Batwoman was barred from being a director of anything,

 never mind a charity. 

I must ask you, Al, 

 

has your shameful incompetence caused you any problems with your career, here at the PBC?

 

 Well, what do you think, Jools? 
You've been masquerading as a musician all these years, hasn't done you any harm.  No-one ever cottoned-on to you being a gibbering nincompoop, did they?

FROM THE FILTH-O-GRAPH

By Camilla Turner

11:03AM BST 24 Sep 2015

Follow

The BBC’s creative director accused the journalists who exposed the corporation’s cover-up of Jimmy Savile’s crimes of being “traitors”, the former Newsnight investigations head claims.

According to Meirion Jones, Alan Yentob made the alleged comment about him and Liz MacKean to a colleague after they contributed to the Panorama exposé “Savile – What The BBC Knew”.

And anyway, Jools, as you know, 
 Tony Blackburn, he takes the fall for all these misunderstandings, doesn't he ?

Savile? 
  All down to Tony Blackburn, that was.
 So, no, not a scrap of difference to my career, being banned by Companies House and the Charity Commissioners. 

And as a matter of fact I am planning a ninety-minute, serious documentary on the career of the late Mr Tooth, Tommy, Tommy Toothy as he was known to us in the business, we gilded ones.

Yes, I shall be talking about his guitars, Fenders and Gibsons, things like that.

Yes, Al, that's  kinda your trademark, isn't it?
 Do you play guitar, yourself? Fancy sittin' in with me and my Great Rythmn and Blues Orchestra?
Alan?
Alan?
Anyone seen Sir Alan Yentob? Seems to've disappeared.

Never mind. On with the show. An' what a truly fantabulous show we have for you tonight, ladeezangennulmen, a veritable glitterama of kiddies entertainment, a cornucopia of popular song. 
And our next guest joins us by the miracles of modern science from downtown Vegas.

sings and clicks fingers: 
Seventy-seven  Sunset Strip, 
click-click, 
Seventy-seven Sunset Strip. 

 Ladeezangennulmen, give it up for the top cop in Las Vegas Sheriff of Clark County, Nevada, lesshearit for Sheriff Joseph Lombardo.
 
Sheriff Joe, great to have you on the show.

No problem, Jeremy,  
good  to be here, 
me an my fellow lawnforcement operatives are great fans of the show, watch it every week, 
love that bit with the Stig, drivin' them automobiles at high speed around your track there.
 'Course,  get him shot it would, here, in Nevada, probably causing a rapid deceleration of the ve-hicle and the loss of its operator's life, that is to say were he not already riddled with high-velocity rounds form my fellow lawnforcement agents.  Shoot first and don't answer any questions later, that's the very essence of Protect and Serve. Especially with Mexicans, you'd agree with that, right?
 But no, Jeremy, my fellow public servants are great fans of Top Gear and it's an honour and a privilege to be on the show; d 'ya wanna ask me about my car history? 
My first was a Chevvy Impala ........

 
Well, actually, Sheriff Joe, what we wanted to know was how're things there, on the street, in Vegas? 
 Things are pretty rock'n'roll there at the moment, aren't they? 
I mean the great Tom Toothy has passed away, the man who wrote and sang some of the greatests songs ever written and sung about girls, 
 and as if that wasn't bad enough for people to come to terms with we are hearing that there's been some kind of a massacre right there on your beat, so to speak, on your manor, as we call it London.



That's right, Jeremy, I was a great fan of Tom's music, all those years when I wasn't growing-up, just hanging-out at the drugstore, playin' the jukebox, me an' m'buddies, listening to Tom singing about girls.  
I really loved that beautiful nasal whine he had,  for  me there wasn't nobody could sing through his nose like Tom.

Yes Sheriff Joe, he was quintessentially American, was Tom Toothy, quintessentially American, rather like, I venture to suggest
 Joe - is it OK if I call you Joe, you won't shoot me? - rather like your good self

Well, what I can tell you, Jeremy, is that the primary aggressor in this scenario has expired;  that there's fifty or sixty John Does cluttering up the morgues at present but that what with the primary aggressor having also wounded five hundred of them shitkicker country music fans, having shot their asses with high-velocity rounds, well,  there's likely gonna be a whole lot more stiffs laying around in Vegas for awhile.
 I mean, Jeremy, that's not the kinda ordnance you want firin'  into your ass, nor indeed anyplace elsewhere's on you body;  the shock of one of them rounds hittin' you's generally enough to kill you. Them AK47s, Jerry, they really do inflict some heavy-duty trauma. And it's the trauma that's as likely to kill  you as the actual wound   We know that in lawnforcement because of  all them black lives that don't matter. 
I mean, you only gotta hit a nigger almost anywhere with one of them rounds and you can bet he's drawn his last welfare check.

if you could just stay with us for a moment, Sheriff Joe, there's someone here, wants to ask you a question....

Sure thing Jeremy, 'slong as its not that little guy, the Hamster guy, we hate short people in the Las Vegas Police Department, shoot 'em on sight,  'swhat we do (sings) short people got no reason, short people got n-o-o rea-son t'live

A disturbance in the night

From before-before, a not-previously published story about Mr ishmael's dogs, His Imperial Majesty, Rocky-Woo and Buster the Blog-Dog - mrs ishmael 

28^th September 2001

I have neither comment nor opinion to venture on the Imminent End of the World; other than, perhaps, hang on to your Swiss Army Knife.

It’s midnight again and the family are sleeping, apart, that is, from Buster. Buster, you may not know, can transform himself from a placid and charming individual into a one-dog death squad, and the other night, whilst I was on the loo I heard, from above, what sounded like all the souls in hell screaming in an inferno of agony – high pitched shrieks that made the hairs on my arm spring to attention; my heart pounded and my brain registered “this must be TIEOTW on which I have no opinion” or thoughts to that effect.

For many years I have urinated in a sitting position. I initiated this practice for fear, in other peoples’ homes, of them hearing my bodily functions – if you sit down the discharged liquid has less distance to travel and thus makes less impact and less noise and also, if one is a bloke, one can direct one’s urine to the side of the loo bowl and make hardly any noise at all. But, since those early sitting down to pee days I have found that the whole process produces less strain on the bladder and less piss on the toilet floor so that it is now second nature for me to sit down to pee. So, to the great good fortune of all concerned, but especially that of His Imperial Majesty, I was, the other night, only peeing and not pooing; had I been pooing I am confident that His Imperial Majesty Rocky Woo would have gone to his Heavenly Palace, Buster on one last trip to the Vet and the Sainted mrs ishmael to a mental institution, if, after the success of Care in the Community, we have any such places left.

Storming as best I could from the loo I panted up the stairs, underpants round my knees, trousers round my ankles. I found Buster’s jaws clamped tight like crocodile clips in the Royal Shoulder, Rocky Woo and the Sainted mrs ishmael shrieking not in unison but in complete demonic discord.

In diving into the murderous melee I managed to dismiss from my mind all thoughts of injury to my private parts unprotected as they were by either pants or trouserings; indeed, had I dwelt for a moment on the prospect of Buster transferring his vice-like jaws to my own meagre but familiar genitals then I, too, would have been on the landing with SMI, shrieking in terror. I, nevertheless, managed to separate Buster’s jaws from His Imperial Majesty’s flesh, albeit at a cost to His Imperial Majesty of tissue and hair and to myself of significant portions of my fingers.

When I got the Sainted mrs ishmael down from the ceiling and after we had checked the Imperial Body for more deadly wounds than were readily visible she ran through her customary list of Extreme Buster Sanctions including Termination with Prejudice and I through my Yes, Dears, No Dears, Dogs Fight Dears and This is Nobody’s Fault Dears.

I misheard something on the radio the other day. The words weren’t, but sounded like: “No reality belongs to me.” And I thought, that’s right, even if I heard it wrong it sounds right. No reality belongs to me. Nothing that happens is any more absurd than anything else that happens. Thus somewhat psychologically and emotionally fortified I was able to remedy, to bring peace to the Dog Wars by determining that Buster sleep alone in the kitchen. 

And therefore I can inform you that in true Mafia fashion order is restored and the offender punished, for Tonight Buster Sleeps with the Dishes.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN. IN SEARCH OF GOD'S HIGHWAY

From Mr. Ishmael's drafts - thought you might like this fragment -a review of his most  recent car  - Mrs. Ishmael

I love cars, always have, there is just something seeming-miraculous to me about how they work, so very many components, such precision and co-ordination - fuel, ignition, battery, high tension coil, injectors or carburettors, plugs, valves, cylinders, con-rods, bearings, a crankshaft,  belts, chains, tappets, rockers, gaskets, pumps and pipes all timed and aligned, exploding and crashing together thousands of times a minute, and that's just the engine.  There is also a gearbox, a prop shaft, at least one differential, drive shafts, hubs, brakes, wheels and tyres, hydraulics, springs, shock absorbers, lights, heaters, wipers, instruments, seats, doors and windows. Every time I start-up  a car I think This is fucking voodoo, this is. So enchanted have I always been by this magical,  marshalled inferno that the idea of  in-car entertainment seems ridiculous, there's nothing on the radio that equals driving a car.

The only thing I ever listen to in the car is Radio Three's Choral Evensong - psalms and anthems, prayers, lessons and  mad organ fugues, all strung-together by a fruity vicar,  sing-songing calls and responses, a choir and thundering organ performing the psalms  of King David, surely the Father of the Blues.  That only lasts for about forty-five minutes, once a week, should I happen to be in the car - never bother with it at home, somehow.  The rest of my driving time is leavened by my sheer wonder that this bag of bits glides along quietly, mile after mile after mile.

I was once into the Zen Purity of the motorcycle but young and heedless of Life's fleeting preciousness  I was horrifically injured, well dunno about horrific, I broke my neck and my face, bad enough, I suppose, more than  a tumble.  I often think I survived only in order to reproach myself. 
It's been cars, anyway, since then.

As well as my Citroen F111 rocket car we have a Honda CRV, iVTEC Automatic and it is brilliant, never goes wrong, goes like stink if you want to, big enough and comfortable; comfortable  but not luxurious, I started, therefore, to look at Bentleys and found that you can buy a five year old, 4 litre Flying Spur for less than twenty grand, fifteen if you're canny. Trouble is, your whoreson  Bentley is unreliable, parts are expensive and fuel economy poor. Although I've owned and enjoyed them I think there's something vulgar about Jags and Audis and BMWs,  vulgar and aggressive, especially the Audis. I am sure they are very good, I just don't like the look of them

I couldn't, however,  find a bad 

journalists' or owners' review of  the Mercedes S class; everybody loves them, ordinary people and filth - like gangsters, royals  and politicians, so I started looking for one. 

I have long known the wisdom of buying used prestige cars, those models subject to the fastest depreciation. OK you might use a bit more fuel but the overall savings are enormous, not to mention the high spec, the performance, safety and comfort,  all yours, relatively speaking, for a song.

 I looked all over the UK and eventually found one in Leicester, about 650 miles from me. 
He seemed like a nice, genuine guy and so I had a full RAC inspection done of everything, even had the oil analysed and it was ticks in all boxes.  
I sent him the money in advance, certain he wasn't a scammer and when we arrived I found he was a  Sikh.  I had forgotten how utterly gracious Sikhs could be but he was Grace made Man, polite, hospitable and helpful. What was most noticeable was that he didn't do Ban-tah, none of the  snide, insulting smartassery so common among British men. I felt really humbled and remembered my old friend,  Felix Hodcroft, decades ago, saying to me that he was disappointed in his gender, his fellow man;   I mocked him then but have come to understand what he meant and meeting Mr Singh and his family I was disappointed in my own race,  largely gobby and stupid, cock-wavimg savages.

The car was everything he had said, like this one. 

Dunno where to start describing it; everybody says it's simply the best car in the world and it sure seems like that to me. My first journey in it was following mrs ishmael from Leicester back to our hotel in Manchester, along urban motorways  at rush hour in a downpour, not knowing what the switches did or where they were, it was OK though.  There is a mass of technology on it which I will probably never use, just driving it as a normal Vee-six turbo is all I want to do. From Manchester to Glasgow at seventy miles an hour the rev counter showed 1,300, the trip analysis 55mpg.. It has a range of over 700 miles between fills, something and nothing I suppose except that stopping for rest is one thing stopping to fill up always seems to rob me of momentum - those fucking motorway garages are so dispiriting, they leech the life out of one, every square centimetre monetised; signposts on Ruin's highway, those  places.  The most we've done in the Mercedes non-stop  is 500 miles  emerging as fresh as daisies; two hundred miles in the Honda and I'm creased, just road noise and body roll and bumps on Tribesman Scotland's third world roads. It's a Humvee you need to negotiate  KrankieVille. Independence? Stupid fucking bastards couldn't run a raffle, never mind a country; BoJo should call a UK-wide referendum on Scotland remaining in the Union, they'd shit their kilts in a second.