The Sunday Ishmael 10/05/20

Stanislav tackles question of sexual ethics:

Is nothing wrong with poof.  Well, might be. What stanislav mean is to say that being poof not against law is. Is  many right bastard poof, just the same.  Can't turn on fucking television set is without smirking fucking poof bastard  pooping up - or is popping up, probaby on second thinking, is pooping up, since is arsebandit and obsessed is with rectum of other bloke or blokes, and everybody know what  is core business in fucking rectumCorp, innit,  and cock too, is not just arse, is cock which is fascination for poof, either way is not for stanislav, meat and two veg is best not for plumber but for bloke who good with colour is, and know all about curtain and day-caw and Judy Garland, and fish off from other bank.

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What was on Telly?

As I believe you now call yourself and nothing wrong with that, perhaps you’d recite one of your very clever, if I may say so, poems.

 

The Michael Parkinson Show, along with the A Life In The Day feature, in the back of the Sunday Times Colour Supplement, these were the dawn of celebrity culture,  these were the somewhat shocking days when showbiz Gods stepped down from screen and stage and shared their wonderful lives with us,  American stars, coyly baring their arses for media 's energetic tongue; Cleo Laine, writing, or having ghost-written, a page of snooty, self-serving drivel about life in the Laine-Dankworth household -  I remember that the vastly over-rated  chanteuse had trouble with staff, couldn't get them, it seems.

Parky's journalistic raison d'etre fecal was that he was from Up North, and in some imaginary childhood of deprivation his woeful, jambutty and rickets,  British way of life, had been transformed by Hollywood stars, larger than life, in some flickering Odeon or Gaumont and By 'Eck, now that he had a chance to lick them arses nowt'd stop him.  How we watched from the other side of the screen as Yul Brynner, for instance,  boasted of his innumerable achievements, his mastery of languages, of dance, of athletics, of the guitar, of remorseless self-promotion;  we thought this was true grit, unaware that like dinner plates on sticks in an ailing Variety act, we were being fervently spun by the infotainment industry.  Others soon followed, chat-showing, Des O'Connor, Swinging London's Simon Dee, Terry Wogan,   eventually the format reinvented itself in the form of poor, mad,  loony witch, Caroline Ahearn,  Mrs Merton her nightmare baggage, Coronation Street on bad brown acid,  and then  that awful motormouthing lawyer, Clive Davis, what a cunt.  The essence remained the same, though, promotion of the latest book or record or film, in exchange, generally,  for a wee bit of banal chitchat.  There is also, of course, a gaggle of  presenters, skilled in the cheap black art of goading the inept, Jerry Springer was the leader of the pack, followed by the sanctimonious, simpering Trisha, dangerous if employed as Community Psychiatric Nurse, apocalyptic on National TeeVee and then  there's the  monstrous Jeremy Kyle - regular readers will know that we are opposed to capital and corporal punishment, but I could suspend my judgement to watch this man beaten to death, over, say seventy-two  hours;  hard not to think that he's an agent of skymadeupnewsandfilth, engaged  in the ruination and capitulation  to ShitCorp of the entire nation.  The States has studiosfull of chatarses, notably our own Mr Piers Moron, who manages, nevertheless, to get in deep with the stars every week or so, here, in Blighty, a true moron for our times.

Back then, though, we thought all this stinky, watery shit was truly revelatory, well, I did, anyway, as it splattered around the toiletbowl of my consciousness. And I remember watching Mohamed Ali on Parky.  A great man, I thought, bold, witty  and intelligent.  When he described the white man as his enemy, I almost cheered, that's how dumb I was.  Wasn't he a draft dodger, too? And the way he danced around in the ring, that was magic, that was, for a negro to do all that.  That was showing them.

And that, I am ashamed to say, has, remained, more or less, my opinion of the young Cassius  Clay.  At least it was, until Joe Frazier died and I became, belatedly,  refreshed by the truth of the matter.  Ali  never did a day's proper work in his life, he was groomed for the Olympics and after winning there he just moved from one huge paycheck to another; Frazier, on the other hand, was nigger trash from Carolina, who started working in the fields at the age of seven.

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The Religious and Cookery Pages

I think we should burn all of them, really; Hubbard's Scientology rubbish,  the Book of Mormon, the Koran, the Torah,  the Bible, Old and New - apart from the Sermon on the Mount and maybe Proverbs and Psalms, of course - the birth of the Blues, by the waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, and we wept, when we remembered Zion .  Burn them all up, scriptures.  Google, now, is my rod and my staff, my comfort, my help cometh even from the Web.

 God said to Abraham, Kill me your son.

Abe said, Man, you must be puttin' me on

God said, No. 

Abe said, What?

God said,You can do what want, Abe

But the next time you see me comin', you better run.

Abe said, Where do you want this killin' done?

God said, Out on Highway Sixty-One.

 from Highway Sixty-One Revisited, by Bob Dylan, born-again Christian and Jew.

These Abrahamic religions,  they are the very fucking Devil, aren't they?  Anger and  vengeance and guilt and slaughter, idolatry and superstition, punishment and damnation. Warmongering Yids, screeching, hysterical Ragheads and  noncing Micks; Anglicans, Methodists, Godless heathen bastard, snot-eating Presbyterians;  Jovas, Christian fucking Scientists, Pentecostalists, Anabaptists, Salvationists, Plymouth Brethren and Rasta fucking Farians; Greek orthodoxes, Russian orthodoxes. Tony Blair and George Chimp, praying together, make you puke your guts up.  Jesus fucking wept, what a bunch.

Regulars here will know that we love the sacred music of the Abrahamic religions; we love the architecture of Cathedral and Mosque,  the art of the Nativity and the Passion and that we are comfortable, sort of, at least accustomed to, the Mosaic law which underpins our Norman jurisprudence, but, Oh, these fucking Christians and Jews and Moslems;  God spare us, Ghastly blood-drenched, noncing Popes and prelates and rabbis and ayatollahs.

I'd burn them all, all the holy books, especially the Torah, seeing how much trouble it's causing in the Middle East, fuck the IsraeliJews and their elastic arithmetic, insisting that any Jew ever born, anywhere, now or forevermore, can go and live, impossibly, within their borders, which won't be expanding constantly, into the lands of the Arab untermenschen; cunts they are, Israelis,  they'd see us all burnt up in a Holy NukeBonfire, just as long as they live  and die according to some rubbishy old book of superstitions and ethnic cleansings and hatreds, bastards, just as long as they go to Heaven and the rest of us get fucked;  that fucking gangster,  grunting Benjy Netanyahu, makes South African apartheid look respectable.

The Bible, old and new, full of piss and vinegar, full of guilt, Christ you only gotta think about the Bible to start sweating,  everything you do, eating, fucking, thinking for yourself - well, you better look out becuse here comes Guilt and  right behind him is Redemptions's tantalus, all you gotta do is beat yourself up and you'll be saved,  the Lord thy God is an angry God, but He'll forgive you your libido, if you're lucky, and if you kill things for him. They need burning,  all of them need  burning, those fucking Gideon things, reproaching you in hotel rooms,  the New English type, every piece of literature erased from the King James version and substituted with antiseptic bilge.  I have one of those big fuck-off Victorian family bibles with the footnotes and the gold edges,  sometimes I keep it open, on a stand, taking the piss.  Lamentations and  Leviticus and Judges are a steep price to pay for the Sermon on the Mount, I always thought.

I don't know what it's like down Washwood Heath these days but it used to be a Muslem enclave, where you feared to go,  the laws weren't enforced and courtesy was exiled, they were a hateful bunch of veiled, ill-mannered women and scowling, beardy Pakis and Afghanis who looked as though they'd  like nothing better than to saw your head off with a blunt knife .  This was before the Iranian revolution, before a global, politicised Muslem consciousness but even so, the unifying, hateful  force was  the veil, the revolting  halal butcher, the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon his name and the Koran.

But it isn't just scripture. What else is there, on the holy books shelf? Das Kapital, Chairman Mao's Little Red Book;  the Socratic dialogues, silly old fag, mincing about, fucking teenage boys, as though it was the height of sophistication; slavery and sodomy, the pinnacle of civilisation, turd-burgling made noble, so long as it took place amid disquisition, dialectic, enquiry and paradox. Douse it in petrol.  What's that Hindu nonsense, is that the Baghavad wotsit? Throw it on the fire. John Stuart Mill On Liberty ? Prolix, showy, pseudo-elitist convolutions.  Throw it on the fire.  The Wealth Of Nations?  A Shopkeepers' Handbook, burn it.

If there's one thing in this life I can't abide it's a fussy eater. Somebody like me, now, loitering in Mr Death's anteroom, there's an excuse for me, being careful, fussy even. I recently discovered  pure Pomegranate Juice, the new, anti-oxidant superfood, and I drink about a tenner's worth a week, and since I substituted hot water for tea,  coffee and milk it sort of works out, financially. I drank twenty cups of milky coffee a day, at least,  and anyway, it wouldn't matter what it cost, if, as is reported, it clears clogged arteries.  But big healthy blokes, they  should eat what's put in front of them, clear their plates and do the washing-up, instead of gorging on food pornography, a la Jamie, Heston, Rick, Michel, Marco fucking Pierre  and  Delia, brains of a dishcloth, her, all these performing re-tards who dismiss our lives as shit,  lacking finesse and imagination, our clothes, our homes, our cars are shit; a parade of gobby morons, Fatso Spoiled Mummy's Boy Clarkson or simpering, ethical Monty Don in his woollies and braces, the cheap cunt, with his mental breakdowns,  we pay them all a fortune to make ourselves feel bad about our own decent, industrious, tax-paying, honourable mundanity,  gazing, as we do,  through Celebrity's tawdry window,  yearning for the granite-topped,  fibre optic, tasteless dwellings of playactors, sluts and footballers. No, Dad, say what you like about Jordan, least she has a really nice house. And she loveserkidstobits.

But the Jews, they take the fucking unleavened biscuit, don't they? Marching through Edgbaston of a Saturday, in their stupid hats. Large parts of our population starving to death and these fuckers are whining on about kosher food, gotta not eat this shit or that shit, because Jehova'd get his hair  off, maybe turn me into a pillar of salt, like he does, because He loves us so much,  or a burning fucking bush, Oi vay, fuck me, Hymie, anchovies for breakfast, that's the thing.

And the killing, the kosher slaughtering, gotta be done just so, my son, otherwise Jehovah, well, you know what Jehovah's like. You can't stun the animal, gotta just quickly almost saw its head off with a good sharp knife, says so in the book. Well, OK, what if many countries have banned it as barabaric, if it says in the book that its kosher, that's good enough for me. The world is always ganging-up on us Jews.

A rabbi at work.

I read some ree-surch a while back;  seems that at that time, when  those punitive old Hebrew motherfucker patriarchs were codifying all this dietary rubbish,  there were very good scientific reasons for people not eating pigs, for instance, some regional combination of  environmental adversities had made the pig then  unfit for human consumption, shellfish, too, I think, anything without scales or fins was deemed filthy.  I can't fully remember it but archaeologists and radiocarbon daters had found this blip a few thousand years  ago, in parts of the foodchain and it therefore made very good sense to dissuade people from eating pork chops and prawn cocktails and I don't know what else, lotsa stuff, but once they started on FoodSin those fuckers were not gonna give it up.  Eggs, no, you must only eat them if they have a round end and a pointy end, like so  - Gullivers Travels stuff -  they got two round ends or two pointy ends and you must sell the unclean, filthy little things to the Gentiles,  fuck them, anyway,  and you must never eat the fish and the meat at the same time, or you will die from leprosy or some other, nasty shiksa disease,  these are the rules, more shit to feel guilty about, as if they haven't got enough, nailing up our Lord and Saviour, like they did.  But these things,  these food scares,  were temporary, like John Selwyn Gummer's Mad Cow Disease, only rabbis, indeed any form of clergypersonbastard, don't do temporary,  they only do eternal, don't they, and rules and prohibitions and punishments and tut-tutting but mainly the withholding of God's red-hot angry love,  these  claimed special knowledges are what give them power;  priests, rabbis, imams, gurus, all claiming a special, knowing, interpretive intimacy, a special acquaintanceship with God and his Heavenly diets, His menus; christenings,  bar mitzvahs, marriages, funerals, confessions, penances, noncing, inquisitions and excommuni-fucking-cations,  this has always been their shit, guilt and fear, horrible, wailing, chanting  bastards.  

The old Hebe boys could have said, after a while, Okay, schmucks, maybe the pigs are cool again, maybe you can all try a bacon sandwich, now,  but just hold fast with that HP sauce, all sorts of  spicy Goyim shit in that, but no, chicken soup and flat bread,  that's the way to please Jehovah, the miserable bad-tempered fucking old git.  Says so, right here in the Book of Leviticus, as true now as it was three thousand years ago, it's right next to the bit about arsebandits like Steven Fag being an abomination in the sight of the Lord, even if he is a Jew,  and how it's cool to smite the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.

The blessed putrid virgin, Anne Widdecombe, formerly an Anglican and now a devout Mick, a follower of his rottenness, Pope Nazi, keeps her own anti-jewishness clean, sort of;

Dancing Queen, Roman Catholic Style

once saying  of her then boss, There's something of the Yid about Michael and indeed there was.  When he was Whiskey Maggie's Trade Seckatry, My-Kull Howard 

 Oily Bastard. Prison Works. That's the Thing. And lots of it. Gimme that old time religion, an eye for an eye! No, two eyes for an eye!

shoved through the Smash the Sabbath Act, otherwise known as the Sunday Trading Act, destroying, like Tories do, anything and everything - in this case something quite special, something born of, but beyond religion, the British Sunday  - which stands in the shopkeepers' way, (Growth, they like to call it, people spending money they don't have and doing it over a longer period) and in the way of their donations to Tory HQ. Oh, come now, Jeremy, we don't want to be bound in this day and age by old superstitions, do we? lisped the ghastly Howard, indignantly.  No,of course we don't,  only if we're Jews, you see, and special.

Howard was an elder or whatever they call them, down his local synagogue and  in the very same week as he was mocking the Keep Sunday Special folks, was shown there  in a documentary, nodding his head like a numpty, wrapped in a shawl and muttering  warnings of damnation and fire from some  pretend scrolls, celebrating his Sabbath, like a mad, miserable old prophet. Don't know if he does kosher, probably not, he's a proper Tory hypocrite, probably eat a pork and stuffing and apple sauce bap with anyone who might vote for him, bung him a few quid, for his think tank, God fucking help us and anyway, he probably lost his whole family in the Death Camps, like they all did - you know that thing they do, the Jews, as if they own Sorrow, as if the Death Camps were a private matter, which only they can own and understand, cheeky fucking bastards, as though Horror and Depravity shock only them, as if they are the Keepers of the global conscience, fuck the gippoes, fuck the queers, fuck the trade unionists,  fuck the tens of millions killed by Mao, the tens of millions killed by Stalin, it's the Jews who count, because it's all written down in the Book. A sanctified sort of hypocrisy, that of Howard and his ilk. My-Kull Howard's holy books,  they'd be first on my fire.

I was trading myself, in those Howard days, and immediately had to start opening Sundays,  the whole country, aside from orthodox Jewry, being led into the mad, unsatisfying  world of 24/7, as they stupidly  call endless shopping, endless, banal, recycled infotainment;  Howard really did help make the world a worse place. Still, he only had to open his oily gob for you to know that such was his purpose. The same smirking mendacity, first aired on the Today Programme, repeated, embellished with further lies, further Aren't-I-cleverings, at Newsnight's opposite end of the day. If he had said, Let's abolish the Jewish Sabbath, while we're at it, get these po-faced, miserable gits out working all hours, too, then you could have  respected him. A bit. But the pro-Israel Jews fund many of our politicians, as many as they can,  so they need special treatment. And don't forget the Holocaust.
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What the Papers Don't Say

These people, at skymadeupnewsandfilth, that's all they print, said the Attorney General, Dominus Vobiscum,  - the geeky one, in the glasses -  made-up news and filth, apart, of course, from when they say, quite properly, in my view, Vote Tory, for a soaraway future.  I mean, Mr M is a wonderful employer and everyone in cabinet and in the police enjoys being on his payroll and more importantly we all appreciate him not printing any unfortunate stories or photographs he may have of us, indulging, perhaps in a little harmless corporal punishment or bestiality or necrophilia;  we are all menoftheworld in these matters but the public can be a little touchy so we appreciate Mr M's discretion. Blackmail?  Gosh no, I wouldn't call it that. Well, as for why he doesn't, never has, paid any tax in this country that's, a matter for my right honourable friend, the chancellor.

Stanislav and Ishmael essays:

Is Nothing Wrong with Poof                          drafted 5/03/12

As I believe you now call yourself                drafted 13/11/11
God said to Abraham we should burn          drafted  11/04/11

These People, Dominus Vobiscum                drafted 17/05/11