- Good
boardig, dis is Start de Week, wid me, Belbin Bagg de dinking
woman's Dodald Trump. As a successful playride, poed and philosopher,
myself, I joined the rest of the world of letters in mourding de death
of a great feminist writer. And wid me in de studio is Englad's answer
to William Burroughs. Burroughs wrode inderesding books, unlike my guest....Oh, did I bention dat I went to grammar school? And am
now in de House of Lords?
- Will Self,
welcome to Sdard de Week, and how would you summarise for our listeners
the career of Jackie Collins, what would you say, were her books aboud ?
-
They were about fucking, Melvyn, or should I call you your Lordship?
Did you say fucking? On de BBC? You can't just say fucking...
I only said it. I didn't fucking do it......
No, bud you can'd jusd come out and say fucking, not on the fucking BBC; my producer will dink dat I have daken leave ob my fucking senses.
- Oh,
do piss off Melvyn. Fucking and shopping, that's what she wrote
about; rich and famous people fucking and shopping. Now, just fucking
accept that or I'll get all lugubrious on your arse, start speaking
in fucking tongues, using words I only just read half an hour ago -
sitting on the loo, squeaking with constipation- in a dictionary of
never-used words.
There is a show in which a little, bald monkey-man pursues defaulting builders, cowboys as he calls them, aspirating and glottal-stoppingly threatening to threaten them just as soon as he can find 'em but actually just phoning them up.
Monkey-man's mission is to restore peace and equilibrium to the lives of some fucking idiots who have allowed themselves to be ripped-off by some other fucking idiots; he never tackles the government or the cops or the judges, in whom the rip-off is ingrained but some dork in a Transit, called Wayne or Darren, he'll follow them, well, to the ends of the road. Nor, incidentally, does he tackle the biggest cowboy builders in the country, those funding their Big Fat Gipsy Weddings out of Granny's badly tarmacked drive.
I never allowed the children to watch EastEnders.
But why not?
Because it's bad for you.
How come, how come it's bad for us?
Well, it completely misrepresents the way that ordinary people live their lives, it's hysterical, cruel, nasty and violent.
'Sjust a bitta fun.
It's mean and vicious and deeply unpleasant and you're not watching it.
But why not?
B-I-S-S.
B-I-S-S ?
Because I said so.
And
they never did watch it, not at home, anyway, although the moment they
moved-out - temporarily - I am sure they would have been immersed in
EastEnders and much worse. No matter, at least they knew that some
people rejected what many lapped-up.
It was the same with the 'papers, no Murdoch or similar filth ever came into the house.
But everybody reads the Sun.
No, everybody doesn't read the Sun.
The 'phone went the other morning.
Hello, can I speak to Ishmael Smith, or to Mrs Ishmael....?
Who the fuck are you?
Sorry, what?
I said, who the fuck are you? Who-the-fuck-are-you?
Well....well...I'm Marcus....from BT....and I'm phoning from BT, just to.....
Can you write, Marcus?
Can I what ?
Do you know how to write, words, do you know how to write?
(sounding annoyed) A course I can write.....
Well, then, write to me. Click.
I don't know how this happened, that people are employed to telephone you out of the blue and try to get money from you and just expect that you'll listen to them.
I used to feel sorry for the poor bastards making the calls, it's not their idea, they're just reading from a script but then I thought Fuck 'em, if that's the only job they can get, being impertinent and ill-mannered, relying on people's innate good manners and patience, in order to waste their time or defraud them or both; they'd be better-off robbing or burgling, doing proper crime. And these are the ones acting just about within the law. When Jason 'phones me from Karachi telling me it's about my computer and that he's from Microsoft, he is straighforwardly trying to rob me, so call me racist if you like but what I say to the bloke pretending to be Jason is, Ah, Jason, was that your mother I saw on the Internet, last night, having sex with a pig? You know it was, it was your mother fucking a pig. I must say she seemed to be enjoying it....Jason doesn't like that and finds himself departing from his script, somewhat. Sometimes I talk to them about prison. Prison, Jason, I say, in your country, it's not very nice is it? And you won't like it. But the police in my country are very angry about you pretending to be from Microsoft and they're working with the police in your country to catch you and put you in prison. Click.
The 'phone went the other morning.
Hello, can I speak to Ishmael Smith, or to Mrs Ishmael....?
Who the fuck are you?
Sorry, what?
I said, who the fuck are you? Who-the-fuck-are-you?
Well....well...I'm Marcus....from BT....and I'm phoning from BT, just to.....
Can you write, Marcus?
Can I what ?
Do you know how to write, words, do you know how to write?
(sounding annoyed) A course I can write.....
Well, then, write to me. Click.
I don't know how this happened, that people are employed to telephone you out of the blue and try to get money from you and just expect that you'll listen to them.
I used to feel sorry for the poor bastards making the calls, it's not their idea, they're just reading from a script but then I thought Fuck 'em, if that's the only job they can get, being impertinent and ill-mannered, relying on people's innate good manners and patience, in order to waste their time or defraud them or both; they'd be better-off robbing or burgling, doing proper crime. And these are the ones acting just about within the law. When Jason 'phones me from Karachi telling me it's about my computer and that he's from Microsoft, he is straighforwardly trying to rob me, so call me racist if you like but what I say to the bloke pretending to be Jason is, Ah, Jason, was that your mother I saw on the Internet, last night, having sex with a pig? You know it was, it was your mother fucking a pig. I must say she seemed to be enjoying it....Jason doesn't like that and finds himself departing from his script, somewhat. Sometimes I talk to them about prison. Prison, Jason, I say, in your country, it's not very nice is it? And you won't like it. But the police in my country are very angry about you pretending to be from Microsoft and they're working with the police in your country to catch you and put you in prison. Click.
Ishmael essays:
Good Boardig drafted 25/09/15
Unlike Some, mrs ishmael drafted 18/06/14
Eastenders drafted 19/05/16
The phone went drafted 8/05/16
7 comments:
The atrocious Will Self. Melv means well, I suppose, and it was good when he got pissed with Francis Bacon. But they're all just passing through and Mr I was very effective in the shooting gallery. You are mentioned, Mrs I; I trust you were consulted as to content on these occasions...
Some more gardening pics would be welcome in due course, for those of us too lazy to put down our screens.
Will Self,
on the shelf.
Let him stew :
he likes the view.
---------------
---------------
(It is Shakespeare's birthday, after all.)
v./
Hi, mr bungalow bill, we've got the freezing haar today, or I'd have popped down the garden and got some photos for you. The tulips are out in the yellow border, mingling with the daffodils, and there's bluebells everywhere. No leaves on the trees yet and no sign of the seals returning, but it won't be long. If the haar clears off tomorrow, I'll get some photos. Oh yes - haar is a thick sea fog that follows hot weather. Scottish word. And no, of course I wasn't consulted - it was all grist to mr ishmael's authorial mill and whimsical genius.
Was that a clerihew, mr verge?
Here's an anecdote for you: an eccentric couple of my acquaintance came to Sunday afternoon tea. He was well known for his views on egg sandwiches; crustless, triangular, salt but no mayo or salad cream, the egg sliced in one of those cunning little egg slicer contraptions. So I did them just so. An academic in a former life, he discoursed about various matters theatrical, musical and literary. She had a certain decided, authoritative diction and was an English lady of decided views. Following their retirement they had owned and managed a small, fairly ramshackle hotel on a wild and wind-swept island. This Sunday afternoon tea was by way of reciprocating their hospitality in having invited us to their open day during the Christmas festivities - "drop in any time, darlings". He had allowed mr ishmael to view his whisky collection, which was impressive. He had not, however, invited mr ishmael to sample any of them. mr ishmael, who, as you will recall, had been trained as a chef in the grand hotel tradition, had been revolted by the pride of place on the buffet table - a massive Stilton, hollowed, into which a bottle of port had been poured, creating a squidgy, purple, odiferous mess. However, mr ishmael had assured me that he would be as proper and gentlemanly as I could imaginably imagine. I noticed him getting restive, however, when his mild disparagement of Benjamin Britten was met with hauteur by our male guest, who exclaimed: "not interested in the High Arts, mr ishmael?", then, gently: "Ah well, they are not everyone's taste." mr ishmael followed up with a devastating critique of Will Self - you can imagine the sort of thing; which was met with a certain hurt refinement by our female guest, who informed us: "but Will is a close personal friend." Turns out that Self had stayed at their hotel whilst writing one of his High-Art-works.
Yep, what Senor Self might call onomastic doggerel, Mrs Ish.
That business with the cheese sounds perfectly grotesque. Is it a Scottish delicacy? Perhaps it was intended as a conversation piece - inedible swill concocted in honour of the unreadable
Will? Anyway, waste of good port, if it was good.
cheers
v./
Ah, the forms and wisdoms, mr verge, of the High Arts. I rushed to my dictionary and can offer up to Ishmaelia the following definition:onomastic relates to or explains names.
As for the stilton swimming in port, it's a thing, mr verge, practised by those with cloyed palates who seek to impress by the conspicuous spoiling of two expensive ingredients.
Good to hear from Belbin again, one of my favorite caricatures. Once again, read with the accent of.
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