The Sunday Ishmael 19/04/2020

Oh, no, no, no, no, no!

So it turns out that Bo-Jo the Ho-Ho is no longer the Saviour of his Country. The beans have been spilled, the knives have been sharpened and little slices of Bo-Jo are on the Sunday lunch menu. He sleep-walked the country into disaster. Oh yes, he did. He had his photo taken with a dragon instead of a Cobra.

 Oh yes, he did. He caused the unnecessary deaths of thousands with all this sleep-walking. His Cabinet are too young, can't take decisions. But! Fear Not! There's a certain elder statesman, a former Prime Minister, with a nice new blue rinse, ready to spring forth and lead a new Govament of National Unity, just as mr ishmael predicted. 

 After all, he saved the global eckonomy, stupid, as he reminded Hard Talk's Stephen Sackur several times. And now he is going to make President Donald change his mind and give lots of money to the Who

 Former Prime Minister Blue Rinse said: "To deal with this locally in any country, we have got to act globally. If the World Health Organisation did not exist, it would have to be created" 

So that's all right, then. 

It is maybe a good time to remember mr ishmael about Snottie, back in September 2010:

She led him on  to the stage as though she was his carer, one of those useless parasites whom we must discard or die, they, far more than the political establishment shitehawks, all doing a great job, they are the ones we must seek out and punish,  they, the low-waged, it's all their fault -  but she did, lead him by the hand and in a way she always has. Look, somebody halfway normal, and a woman, too, cares for Gordon Snot, maybe she'll teach him hankythings, Ah, bless, he's been too busy, you see, ruining everything, hearing his father's dreadful, sermonising voice in his head, telling him how clever he is, far too busy to wipe his nose on a hanky and not throw phones at young women or burn all the money and give the gold away but now he's married and that'll make him a much  better bullying fuckwit, nothing like a woman to bring out the best in a chap, Sarah-George will tell him that he's not really a stone mad, immature,  snot-eating lunatic up to his neck in bribery, corruption,  deceit and blackmail, it's all the others.  It's what carers do, calm and sedate and nourish the self-esteem of their client. Not much good, though, at winning elections.

Maybe if he'd gone for a floozy, it might have been different; imagine Gordon Brown coming out of Downing Street with a sexbomb, a pouting, lipsticked bimbo in spike heels,  somebody more like Sarkozy's Parisienne bicycle, wotsername, Carla, but worse, or better, depending on your point of view, somebody whose appearance just announced, in capital letters, that she was only good for fucking and what more could you want than that; some showbizzy harlot  and not some wretchedly worthy blue-stocking, Home Counties amazon, Hell-bent  upon rearing this mad old bastard's  spawn, fathered  - like most things about Snotty,  unnaturally,  late to the point of risk - one dead and one damaged and one ok so far,  but then great men like him - and he is great,  great with a greatness so complex that few can divine it -   are not bound by the customs and practices, the survival mechanisms not only of other men but even of Mother Nature herself, in his grotesque attempts to belatedly fuck his way into perceived normality of the heterosexual kind. Yes, I'm just like any other normal young parent - he never actually said it like that, he said parent of young children which inferred the same thing, the same normalcy - and we just like to do family things together, I don't really care about this prime ministering stuff. Although, of course, I never use them for political gain, my children, just all the time, constantly, without fail.  Did I tell you how much I love my two sons, John and wotsisname? Just as all you other young parents love your children. What a fucking wretch.  A floozy and no, definitely no kids, especially not the ones who die at birth or have serious illnesses;  and he might still be there, doing that sol-you-shuns thing. Gay men and wildly attractive women, see them everywhere, you do. That's the sort of fag-haggery which wins elections, not doleful, martyred Sarah and her dead daughter. Sarah didn't help le cause Brunoise, just made him look more like angry mildew than he already did,  a miserable sexual bouillabass, squared, nightmarish in appearance, nightmarish in outcome. 

It's not, en passant, just Gordon. Champagne Charlie Kennedy did just the same thing, scenting power, in the 2005 election, he thought he'd better normal himself up and he wed another stodgy, glamourless breeder,  to knock out some vote-winning sprog. And look what happened to him, all over the place, his life a mixture of vomit and stagey bluster.

We are not here, though,  to bury Kennedy but to rhapsodise, in tones of darkness and cruelty, scorn and ridicule, maybe one last time,  over this malformed,  ill reared, bad mannered, scrofulous freak. A grotesque apology for a man, even by the standards of contemporary politicians, Gordon Brown lost his ever presumed leadership of the Labour Party, fair, and it must be said, square, to the ghastly Tony Blair; the party voted overwhelmingly for Blair; the early indications having shown 36% in favour of Blair, just 9% for Brown , he had no option but to withdraw from the election.  Typically, though, of this horrible fucking bastard, growling and hectoring, he would not accept the verdict of the majority, demanding, a priori, of the feeble Blair that he guarantee to step aside, soon, so that the real leader, rejected, as he was by the party electorate but never mind that, could take over the job he felt was his destiny. Mad as a fucking hatter from the start of Ruin's parliamentary dominion, Brown was able to bully and blackmail all in his malevolent orbit, having colleagues - Harriet Soursister and Dame Frank Field - removed or sidelined, when they failed to  heed his threatening voice; establishing a separate Ministry of Leader in Waiting, in which he was able to withold from his prime minister, the First Lord of the Treasury, any and all information regarding budgetary matters. The useless popinjay, Blair, was generally too concerned with his world image to trouble Brown over much, happy playing Foreign Secretary to Brown's domestic prime minister. skymadeupnewsandfilth joked about this travesty of government, about this constitutional outrage, encouraging government by tittle-tattle, encouraging the Prudence of No More Boom And Bust's Ruinous posturing until it became a running national joke that the prime minister couldn't sack his chancellor, that the chancellor and neither the prime minister nor the cabinet decided government policy. And nobody cared, voted the same gang in to power three times.

Let the work of change begin, he gobbled, caring, dopey Sarah planted at his side, as he entered Downing Street, unelected; no more this and no more that, he grunted, as though the efforts of all others, the previous ten years, had been misguided and worthless, as though his empty coup set straight a history blighted by inconvenient reality; his stitching-up of the leadership was, at last, the true, magnificent result of the May 1997 general election. Let the work of change begin. Cunt.

She was big in BGLT, Gordon's Sarah, one of the Priding, one of the  bisexual, gay, lesbian and transgender thought police just looking for a harmless, old-fashioned normal to abuse, one of Ruin's bullyboys and girls, let loose on society to insist that sodomy and bondage are the very will of God, opposition to them the work of the New AntiChrist;  for a long time now I've been wondering why can't people just be queer like they used to be  and none of this bollocks?  Blokes in chaps, with their arses hanging-out, marching down the street, where are their heads at ?  I think it's awful and  I think most of this gang, Paddick and that ghastly ladyman, Jenny, at the LibDems staged conference are just old-fashioned fucking malcontents,  they should all,  men dressing as nuns, bearded ladies with Adam's Apples and dykes in brogues, just join the Old Bill and beat-up on ordinary people officially.  And as for transgender surgery which the LibDems want made available on demand, what on Earth is all that about if its not malcontentism running riot through Ruin's consulting rooms, why don't the doctors just tell them to fuck off ?

I mean, if I went into psycho-sexual counselling and said Look, Doc, can you fix it for me to have two cocks, and right big ones, one at the front and one round the back, only nowhere near the wotsaname thing, the anus, above, far enough above it so's a nice pair of balls can hang down and not get all covered in poo-poo, you know, and not get all crushed-up when I sit down, maybe cut out a new pocket or something,  you surgeons are clever......?  Say that again, Mr Ishmael, you want me to transplant an extra cock and balls onto your arse...is that it...? Yes, Doc, I'm serious., You see I'm actually a bi-phallic man trapped in a uni-phallic existence, and I am so unhappy, I've been unhappy since I first started having erections and noticing there was only one of them....There's only supposed to be one of them, Mr Ishmael.... But if a bloke is born a bloke and wants to be a woman, claims he's been, wotsaname, wrongly assigned, then you have no problem cutting his balls out and shoving his scrotum up inside like a vagina  and reducing his John Thomas to clitoris-size? That's what you do, isn't it?  It is fucking grotesque and you all oughta be up before the BMA, not that they're any good for fuck all,  the mentors of Harold Shipman. But the police, certainly, they should be talking to the surgeons mutilating folk like that, they should all be banged up.  It's almost a byword here, that scrotum sanding story, but  for newcomers, it was in England, about fifteen-twenty years ago,  there was a group of blokes met up regularly and applied Black and Decker sanders to each others Crown Jewels. The judge ruled it illegal, even among consenting blokes. You're not doing any of that shit in my jurisdiction, he said, no matter how much you like it, and banged the freaks up for a few months.  They were also nailing each others' foreskins to the workbench.  Seems relatively harmless, compared to that ladyman Sunday Roast carve-up shit.   Take a perfectly good set of meat and potatoes, hack it to bits, turn it inside out and shove it up inside where it hadn't ever oughta be......That's different...How is it different, Doc, it's worse than me wanting two cocks;  I wanna stay a man, for fucks sake, I just wanna have two cocks so's I can, y'know, so's I can entertain two ladies at the same time.  Twice the fun. And how would that BLGT gang react if they couldn't get in to have their balls scooped out of their scrotums, like they were bits of melon, or Stilton cheese,  the mad fucking bastards,  because the place was full up of normal heterosexual geezers  having penile and testicular enhancement surgery?  The size twelve stilleto'd be on the other foot then and no fucking mistake. Sarah-George Brown'd be up in fucking arms. See what Brian Paddick has to say about that, the silly LibDem fucker. Invented for the likes of Paddick, the LibDems. Married, now,  to a Norwegian bloke he is.  But only in Norway. Go down a bomb that will, with the voters of London.

Meanwhile, back in before-before, mr ishmael had a few things to say about those that do, or have, or want to, rule o'er us - and they haven't gone away:

DOWN ON TOPHAT  FARM

• 
• I   did not have sexual relations with that woman, I mean pig
•  and lessbeclear  about this:
• Tory politicians would never stoop to putting their right honourable members in pigs, not while there are children's homes full of filthy little sluts just gagging for it.
• Mrs Thatcher would never have stood for that and nor shall I.
• And while we're here, I never smoked cannabis at Oxford with James Delingpole, how could I, I am the prime minister.
• And fucking a pig, anyway, is better than fucking a dog, like Mr Corbyn did.
• At least the pig was white-ish, if there had have been a pig, which clearly there wasn't.
• That's  enough pig stories.
• Damaged my reputation?
• Yes, and that's why I must 
  
   
  take off my jacket 
  
  
  roll up my sleeves, 
  the way a bricklayer does, right up,
  above my elbows
  
  
   and stroll around making emphatic and dramatically conclusive gestures, like that chap in the theatre, very much as I am, here, today, with you,  in the theatre, Hamlet, was that him, yes,  I'm  a bit like him, but not mad, obviously. 
  
  
  To be in Europe or not to be in Europe
  
  and even now, that is the question. And we  really do face a Dickhead of Uncertainty.......wossat, not a dickhead? A decade? You sure? But he is a dickhead, my dear friend, Mr Mayor, he is a dickhead, my oldest friend, whom..... is it whom? Whoever? Yes, that, my old friend that......that's the word I was searching for, Mr Mayor, my oldest  friend that is being a dickhead. I mean, look, lessbeclear, as it says in the Bible, all the world's  a page......
  Wot? All the world's a stage?
  Alright, a stage it is.  So fucking what, as President Trousers always says when asked about a crime. 
  
  

  

  
  A stage, a page, what difference does it make?
  I'm not Stewart Lee, you know,
  
  

  

  
   being quizzed - in a cutaway - by his own full-time employed heckler, about why he did what he did and how the recording of what he did, viewed carefully, with an exhaustive debate, helps contextualise his oeuvre, for all those who aren't him.
  And about how people think he does the same thing night after night, year after year but there's actually very subtle differences in each performance, but which only he can see.  Things like, well, one night he might walk from left to right but another night he might walk right to left, or he might not, he might just stand still. And only he knows about this. Because he watches all his shows over and over again. Because he truly loves himself in a way the audience can't, even though they think they can. Another Oxbridge Wanker, masturbating up his own arse.
  Christ, if you think the Oscars are bad you should watch two minutes of Stewart Lee.
  
  
  
  I mean, he's only telling fucking jokes, isn't he, exaaggerating things for effect, like what I'm doing, just now.   Should Stewart Lee  be in the Tory party? Fucked if I know, better ask them. Nothing to do with me.
  
  
  and we're all just reading our lines on it, the stage, or the page, and mine are the best.
  
  But no, lessbeabsolutelyclear, once and for all, I have the greatest regard both personally and wotsaname, politically, for my old friend Boris Cunt, but he really is a dickhead.  Did you know for instance, that he went to a posh school, Boris,
  
  
  The young Dave  at Eton.
  
  which his parents paid for, that he went to Oxford, which his parents paid for, that he was a prominent member of a drunken yahoo spiv vandals' club, 
  
  

  

  A portrait of the pigfucker as a young man.
  
  whose rampaging criminal damage sprees  his parents paid for,  that he's never had a proper job in his life  but wants to be prime minister? 
  
  Well, I think you'll agree with me that a dickhead like that is simply not to be believed when it comes to Europe, or anything else for that matter, and that's why he's running London for the Tories, not my party, of course, the Tories, but never mind. And why he's in my cabinet, but not really in it, just drawing the salary, quite proply too, in my view.
  

  
  

  But I wanna talk about Michael Spit, Michael is also my oldest friend but lessbeclear, he fucked-up big time at Education and had to be put in charge of the govamental paper clips, no, no, a crucial task, in the cupboard, there, every day, checking the new supplies of paperclips inwards against the invoices and delivery notes and all that terribly important admin stuff and lessbefair some of you here will be engaged in highly responsible admin tasks and will know the true wotsaname of a properly regulated supply of paperclips to your colleagues, and Michael was making sure that no govament department received more than its fair share of paper clips, yes, and rubber bands, too, might not sound very important but it is truly vital to the smooth running of govament - I nearly said Gove-a-ment, there, Duh! -  that economies which can be made are made and continue to be made. A bit like public services really,  the more we economise by means of efficiency, the more we see that we don't, achelly, need them at all, most of them can be done, quite proply in my view, by volunteers.  I mean, it's not rocket science, is it,  the sooner we stop wasting money on public services which, quite frankly, people can do for themselves and jolly well should; the sooner we can transfer more money to the truly deserving, the hedge fund managers, the financiers  and the ontrapanooers, who, let's face it, some of who/whom/them/that  are actually having to pay  tax, not only on their basic income, like they were teachers or policemen, but also on the bonuses they receive for not doing their jobs proply in the first place,  the bigger their failure and incompetence, the bigger their bonuses, surely it's not right that they/he/she/whomever should be further burdened by paying tax, like  poor people do.

  
  

  And talking about poor people, that brings me to the question of Northern.

  Up in Northern, why shouldn't ex miners and ex-steel workers and those jolly decent chaps who grow Eccles Cakes in their allotments, why shouldn't they become hedge fund managers, why shouldn't they run their own thinktanks. People from Northern, they're as good as anybody who didn't go to Eton.
  And lessbeclear, if we vote to leave Europe, despite the deal I managed to strike  making hugely, absolutely no difference whatsoever  to our relationship vis a vis the frogs and the dagoes and the krauts, all of whom, let me be perfectly clear,  I despise and mistrust; if we do decide to leave, forcing another referendum, and another one, until we quite proply decide to stay, then the people of Northern will suffer a great deal.  First of all, since Mr Osborne and myself will have left office there will be no more Northern Powerhouse for a start.  And they won't even be able to wave from a distance as the HS2 train hurtles past, empty. I say empty becuase nobody will want to go there, to Northern,  but the trains will still have to run.  Otherwise the people who very bravely took the risk of funding this magnificent, and pioneeringly ridiculous nonsense project, well, the Bank of England having given them billions of pounds of free money, have to, quite proply, invest it in projects which, however totally fucking insane they are, have to make a profit, on top of the free money in the first place and being a responsible govament, we must guarantee the profit, this, after all is what Capitalism is all about, nobody who went to the right school facing any risk..
  
  ..And then there's all the dead children. I mean, I had one, a dead childen, so I know exactly how hard it would be  to lose all your children just because you didn't vote to stay in Europe. And lessbeunder no wotsanames, less be under no infusions with this, all your children will die, especially the children from Northern;  they'll all be dead almost before the votes're counted. Oh fuck, now what is it? What's wrong with infusions? Well, these fucking dummies, standing around in this factory or whatever it is, they don't know the difference between infusion and inclusion.  Whaddayamean it's fucking neither of them?  It has to be one of them.  People are either under an illusion or under an  inclusion.  Whaddayamean, An, An fucking who, who the fuck is An?  Is she a DeadBaby-Wanting Outer. Sounds like one, An of the Dead Babies? Y'know, sometimes I wonder if it was such a good idea to put the family jewels in the pig's gob, after all.
  
  And it isn't just me/I/myself. Other brilliant minds think we face a Dickhead of Uncertainty. Who? Well, whaddayamen Who? Do you mean whom, whom else, apart from me;  do you mean whomever, whoever, whosesosomeever?  They are very tricky questions these, entymologically speaking. What? What fucking insects?  What or whom does insects have to do with this? Etymology? That's what I said, entymology, I said entymology, the study of word things. No, not grammar, I didn't go to a grammar school, I went to Eton. I think you'll find that entymology is the study of words.  No, it's fuck all to do with insects. Well, look, lessbeclear, maybe you spell entymology without an n, maybe you're from Northern, and fuck knows how they do spelling up there - it is up, isn't it, Northern? But under this govament it is spelt with an n, and means the study of words; insectology, that's the word you're looking for , that's the study of  insects, obviously.
  
  

  

  Well, speaking as the last great Tory chancellor, I would simply say that my protege, David Cameron, is talking like a cunt.
  
  

  

  
  

  But lessbeclear, when it comes to us facing a Dickhead of Uncertainty,  people who become billionaires by evading tax and who now live abroad, these are the kind of people to which or whom we should all listen very closely, and do as they advise. I mean, the counsels of organised crime, well, we should do as they tell us.
  
  

  And let Stanislav have the last word:

  
  

  Is fucking rubbish, bastard BBC and good for fuck all. stanislav lying in bed is and have scratch at arse, maybe, and fucking radio alarm coming on is everyday with some bastard up early from swimming in thinktank - Every bastard harder must work, every bastard more tax must pay and less benfit have, is only way, work until fucking drop and get fuck all, is only way, everybody agreed is.  Every fucking morning same shit is.

  
  

  
  

  Ishmael essays:

   

  She led him                      drafted  27/09/10

  Is Fucking Rubbish          drafted 20/10/10

  TopHatters                       drafted 21/09/15

  Dickhead of Uncertainty  drafted 7/03/2016