stanislav on the disenfranchisement of prisoners
What difference makes it if bloke in Wormwood Scrub vote has? Can't bloody read any way and have to get bent MP, Chaytor, to write letter home to common-law Mrs, saying, please don't shag my best mate because I love you, I really do and that's why I beat you up so much and every romantic Valentine's Day spent is in fucking A and E unit, telling doctor No, mate, Mrs bang head on door, is always fucking happen, is silly cow, really, and don't know why I put up wiv her. Not that in reading manifesto is any point because all is bollocks and anyway, Hole In Toilet Wall Gang steal bloody govament and say Oh, fuck Me, mates, manifesto not count now because Coalition is in and for five years, too, so fuck off, poor bastards and some heavy lifting do. All in shit together are, only some up to fucking eyeball is and some gliding-over in Bentley Continental. What happen is that manifesto is written all out in detail by dogbreath cocksucker like Danny Alexander, former park-keeper in Scotland, best part of England, and now good for fuck all bloke in Treasury, under other good for fuck all Mr Spunkface, so called because of lead role in Russian mafia gay porno film shot on yacht or else is written by Mr Ed Squarehead of New but now Old-Again Labour in good old days of Mr Snot and so obviously is now rubbish, like Mr Snot, working one and half day in Oxfam Kirculdy and drive every bastard bananas, poor old biddy been working in charity shop for fucking years and now has lunatic throwing fucking phone at her, saying, I am prime fucking minister, do as I say, and have to be escorted off premises and not come back or polis called will be. Whaddayamean, I have me ain polis, here, look, says Mr Snot, pointing at old age pensioner, retired pc come out of retirement to guard Snotty, and at least he's no' bangin ma missus, like some polis protection officers I could mention, nor ma constituency seckatry
CallHimDave anyway is useless f£cking bastard and not even understand Second f£cking World War. All that money, on private school and eton and still f£cking imbecile is, how come is f£cking prime minister and can't even find hole in own arse. If stanislav was Cameron senior - only dead now, of course, and up in rich blokes' part of Heaven - would be going down Eton with small private army of servant and f£cking tenant farmer and say, Oi! Headf£ckingMaster, down here from study come, stop beating that young man's buttocks with cane and tell to me why number one son, Thick Dave, arse cannot tell from hole in f£cking ground? Or maybe go in Oxford and see Victor Bogbrush and say What the f£ck this all about is, give this dummy First class bit of rubbish paper and still can't win election against snot-eating monster lunatic, could put f£cking Yorkshire Terrier up against nail-biting, stuttering maniac and would win but Thick Dave in bed must get with Toilet-Creeping DogShooting Sh£tEating b£stards, good for f£ck all, Give me, please, back my money. And stop going on Newsnight saying Oh, Yes, Kirsty, F£ck me, but David Cameron was brilliant scholar. Not so good on history or geography or adding-up, English is shit, too, come to think of it, only adjective he knows is incredibly, This is incredibly this or incredibly that, just watch and count how many times he says incredibly, and anyway, is f£cking adverb, is added on to doing word, and is not describing word, well, describes verb, but not fucking noun, not that govament would know what adverb is, or noun or fucking verb, just use one where other should be, well, maybe Olver Letwin might know, is clever fucker but talks to himself, like nutter does. Go in selected committee of wankers and says Ah, yes, is very good question and now that I think about it, am not sure if I meant what I said, on previous occasion, before you ask me this fucker, and if so must apologise to committe, and indeed, to voices in fucking head, quite so, quite so, what we call in the nutter department, as it were, a shifting comprehension horizon, thank you for asking me this question, which I am afraid I cannot answer, because I am out of my mind, so to speak, mr chairman.
There are few or no votes in prison reform and little interest in the rights and responsibilities of those behind bars. One of the reasons is that prisoners themselves can't vote. The European court of human rights ruled that the UK's blanket ban on prisoners' voting is unlawful and in violation of Article 3 of the First Protocol of the European convention on human rights.For years thereafter a range of delaying tactics were employed to avoid implementing the ruling. Successive Ministers were preoccupied with political considerations and fear of adverse headlines, rather than fairness or the rule of law. Disenfranchisement is a relic from punishments of the past dating back to the Forfeiture Act of 1870. It is based on an idea of civic death and the withdrawal of citizenship rights and responsibilities.
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I don't know if all coppers are gay, as well as bastards but the levels of hate which they display towards everybody else, the sneering, the contempt, the supercilious gabshitery, the particular, scornful venom which they reserve for women, indicate a less than happy workforce with massive problems in that - amongst other things, like institutionalised dishonesty - they react to most normal people like they want to fight them or fuck them. It is a big question: Is Old Bill Gay? Does the often dispiriting and harrowing and undervalued and unrecognised work which he does make him anti-social, brutalised and brutalising? Is he the cause of more crime than he solves? Why is his divorce rate so high? Others work shifts without that happening. Other trades are not as stridently gay. There is no Gay Plumbers Association, for instance. But there is a Gay Police Officers Association. Why? And should there be? Given that the so-called BLGT community, an entity which has sought to sweep-up, under one banner, a multiplicity of not automatically cohesive, what? .. perversions, conditions, minority orientations, lifestyle choices, blessings from God?...and has sought to unite them against what they perceive as the enmity of straight people and hitherto straight institutions, has invented and nurtured an impudent, unreasonable, illogical and deplorable, anti-nature heterophobia, given that the BGLT is united only insamuch as it is fundamentally against what it impertinently calls straight society, is it ok for Old Bill, or a section of Old Bill, given his oath to the Queen, the real one, to march 'neath a BGLT banner?
Is
come back on telly, nutter bloke, Monsigneur Don, priest of ethical
simpering gardening. And was shaving close and no fucking mistake,
whole career as aloof, caring eco-gardener in danger was of going on
compost fucking heap or just down in toilet.
Was
great Polish writer, Oscar Wildeski, was poof, like Steven Fag, and
invented Bunburying as excuse for not turning up at some shit event. Oh
fuck me, Duchess, cannot come to canape party because cousin Bunbury is
to Death's door at, must fly off and visit. And was same thing with Msgr. Don. Oh, fuck me, BBC, am all of fucking swoon and must go and lie
down, far off from Gardeners fucking World, have mental
problems, is all to do with being a cunt and get depressed, too, being
so sensitive, about flower and shit, but can't finish-off series ff;
no, no use to shout about contractual obligation am under doctor and
got sick note.
Manic
Monty's back; spreading his legs over the cabbage patch and simpering,
beguiling the nation with his dire mixture of eco-ethics and
horticultural pantomime.
No, we really do want to involve you, however big and appropriate to
your station in life your garden is, like mine, or even if it's some
two-square metre patch of dirt-over-rubble, like most of yours are.
Massive or miniscule, we are here to help. And to launch this new
series we want you to help us with our trials of daffodils, sweet peas, potatoes, pomegranates, whatever takes your fancy, because, for my money - and
incidentally, yours, too - that's what gardening's all about; impertinent,
know-it-all shithead chancers like me, talking down to the likes of you,
about a load of old bollocks.
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I don't know if all coppers are gay, as well as bastards but the levels of hate which they display towards everybody else, the sneering, the contempt, the supercilious gabshitery, the particular, scornful venom which they reserve for women, indicate a less than happy workforce with massive problems in that - amongst other things, like institutionalised dishonesty - they react to most normal people like they want to fight them or fuck them. It is a big question: Is Old Bill Gay? Does the often dispiriting and harrowing and undervalued and unrecognised work which he does make him anti-social, brutalised and brutalising? Is he the cause of more crime than he solves? Why is his divorce rate so high? Others work shifts without that happening. Other trades are not as stridently gay. There is no Gay Plumbers Association, for instance. But there is a Gay Police Officers Association. Why? And should there be? Given that the so-called BLGT community, an entity which has sought to sweep-up, under one banner, a multiplicity of not automatically cohesive, what? .. perversions, conditions, minority orientations, lifestyle choices, blessings from God?...and has sought to unite them against what they perceive as the enmity of straight people and hitherto straight institutions, has invented and nurtured an impudent, unreasonable, illogical and deplorable, anti-nature heterophobia, given that the BGLT is united only insamuch as it is fundamentally against what it impertinently calls straight society, is it ok for Old Bill, or a section of Old Bill, given his oath to the Queen, the real one, to march 'neath a BGLT banner?
Gardening Corner
First Stanislav:
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| Can't wait to get my hands dirty |
And then, mr ishmael when, most fortunately, the good monsigneur recovered and went on to make lots more really interesting gardening programmes:
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| The Full Monty |
Stanislav and Ishmael essays:
Stan: bloke in Wormwood Scrub drafted 25/01/11
I don't know if all coppers drafted 27/09/10
Nutter Back in Potting Shed is drafted 26/03/11
Gardener's World Apart drafted 13/03/12
16 comments:
What a bizarre portrait, that last one - he really does look as though he's about to give the compost heap a bloody good seeing-to. Gonna show us how a stud aerates his mulch, Monty?
v./
He bestrides the cabbages like a Colossus, mr verge. Apparently, he is now the "nation's favourite gardener", having inherited the title from Alan Titchmarsh, who you will recall from an earlier Sunday Ishmael: A Darkie? In the Bushes?
Here's a link to an unbelievable article:
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2310962/Monty-Don-tells-Frances-Hardy-teenage-trip-France-shaped-life.html
Here's a taster: "when he was 19, the southern light raised the serotonin levels in his brain and ‘created a kind of ecstasy’ he remembers. He fell in love for the first time, with an English girl called Julia who was 18. ‘I lost my heart to her,’ he tells me. ‘But it was not a wild, libidinous time. I met her, she was my first love. We had a long relationship and when it passed it was painful, as love is.Then, when I was 22, I met Sarah when we were both at Cambridge University. We got together two years later and this July we’ll have been married 30 years. So although I tend to have lots of friends who are women, I’ve had just two lovers."
Two-Loves Monty - hence one cabbage per paw, perhaps. An amatory paragon - we should all tip our trowels, I'm sure.
v./
"An amatory paragon" - very good Mr Verge - there must be an anagram in there?
I must be getting old, you know, folks, because we spend more time rootling about in the garden than ever. Mrs m has gone mad with her sunny soldiers. 70-80 are already in, and are growing rather well actually, but she has now seeded another battalion to take the placve of the inevitable cat-trodden and slug-eaten fallen. The vegetable patch on the other hand looks as flat and virgin as when I cleared it six weeks ago.
Oh well. I am going back to work this week anyway. Fuck 'em. What I really need, however, is a haircut. I look like a gardener's labourer. Perhaps, a flat cap might get us from here to Freedom Day.
Has our recent trouble been a burning down of the eco-loons, do you all think? Or a practice run for net zero. I know what I think.
You don't disappoint, mr verge - laughed out loud.
No, no, mr mongoose, none of us are getting old. More experienced, perhaps. And with experience, comes gardening. We've had much rain here, after a dry April, and everything is green and growing, especially the weeds. When I went down the garden yesterday, first time in a week due to extremely adverse weather events, in order to burn all the Amazon packaging - the tips are still closed and the fortnightly recycling collection has been cancelled for weeks - I found that my vegetable patch is showing signs of potato and onion life. And weeds.
I went delightedly back to work a fortnight ago - this solitary confinement doesn't suit me a bit. I hope your return to work is similarly joyful. Ask mrs mongoose really nicely to get out her best sharp scissors and give you a trim.There's a post on here somewhere about mr. ishmael's trip to the Dundee A1 Turkish barbers, after years of home barbering by myself. Dangerous places, these barbershops, as you will see should I locate the post for you.
Found it: that search bar on the top left corner of the blog is excellent: here's the
link
https://mrishmael.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-sunday-ishmael-travel-pages.html
from April 2015
Enjoy! (as they used to say to us in restaurants)
Thanks, Mrs Ish - happy to be of service.
A net-zero practice-run sounds all too horribly plausible, Mr Mongoose. And I could do with a haircut myself. (Must be some clippers here somewhere...)
Mr Mike's instincts are sound - "Monty Don amatory paragon" looked like it might yield something good about goat porn but in the end the winner is "adamant agronomy porn-toy".
v./
Good call, Mrs Ishmael - that's going to be one of the posts in the anthology.
v./
Well, mr mike, you did encourage him, and I hope you're satisfied.Thank you, mr verge, most apposite.Perhaps I should include it as a photo caption, because there's another installment of the Monty saga to post.
All goor work but have you got that mower running, mrs i?
A lack of 'e's to play with, mr v. That was your problem.
True that, Mr Mongoose, but at least I'm too old for any disco-biscuit e-gags to be pertinent.
(Read once - probably something to do with Shaun Ryder - that a pub called the The Eagle was rebranded overnight by some scallies with a stepladder and became The E.)
v./
mr mongoose, the ride-on mower is running, bit rattly, noisy as hell, and, since we last spoke about it, has done its office several times. Unfortunately,this last fortnight of rain, snow, hail and bone-achingly cold wind has encouraged the grass but removed my ability to cut it, as the wet grass just clogs up the chute and is impossibly heavy to fork into the compost heap. The bloody hedge has started back up as well - getting thicker and greener every day. I'll have to do something, or I won't get any more oil deliveries - I have Been Warned.
Es or no es, I think "adamant agronomy porn-toy" takes the biscuit, and will make it into a photo caption. Respect, mr verge.
That doesn't sound good, mrs i. Is it rattly from the engine or rattly when the beast itself moves around? Is the smoke still black? Anyway, you are a lion of garden maintenance up there in the unforgiving sky. We take our hats off to you.
Can you not get a mc'fairmer's wife to sort her husband, the promise of a cup of tea? She'll have him drive down your drive with his roller-clippery thing, drink his tea and then do the other side on the way home. It might need a slice of cake. Geez, in this enlightened, Orcadian age, she might even be the mc'fairmer.
The smoke issue has cleared up, mr mongoose - I think it was just because of sitting over winter in the byre without the engine being turned over. It's rattly when the cutting deck is engaged, then gets down to steady roaring. Still efficient, although the belts are a problem on this model, and with the gargantuan cutting tasks required of it. The belts sometimes skid if the grass is too long or wet, stretch and sometimes snap, and it has to go in for servicing and belt replacement when that happens, as the manual warns that this is not a job to be done at home. Trouble is, I don't even know if the outfit that services it is open for business yet. We have a much stricter lockdown in Scotland still, than you do in England.
The fairmer idea doesna really have legs, thank you for suggesting it, because the fairmer, Keith, doesna have a machine narrow enough to get down the lane, now that there's a substantial hedge on each side. I'll just have to grit my teeth and get out the cordless hedge trimmer - fairly soon, I suspect, as the rosa rugosa is a thug and threatening to turn the place into the Sleeping Beauty's palace.
Talking of gardening, I'll look out that other Monty Don essay.
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