I'm not a violent man, never have been, never had to be, I was
always, from about eleven, over six feet tall. I've had the odd
incident, was charged, once, with attempted murder but that was just Old
Bill, doing what he does, lying his arse off; it was self-defence and
the judge threw it out, laughing. I hit this guy - who was attacking me
with a deadly weapon - as hard as I could, just the once, broke his
face in bits - teeth, jaw, cheekbone. 'Salways made me think twice
about that stuff. And the other thing is that the older I've become the
more I realise how utterly miraculous is Life, Creation, how our
self-repairing systems are hard-wired, clever beyond belief and how a
punch in the gob is potentially an act of heinous vandalism.
That's
not to say that some people don't deserve to have their beings
vandalised; we can all think of six-hundred and fifty of them,
immediately - thieves, ponces, slags, war criminals, Earth criminals,
blackmailers, extortionists and child molesters; there's a giant-sized
A&E department's worth just sitting there, lying and bragging and
guffawing on the green benches.
 |
| Qu: Where is Britain Going? A: To the Dogs |
No use to blame the Tory Manque, the suit-and-haircut poltroon, public school Clegg and his toiletmen, mouths filled with shit and piss and semen, stepped-out, momentarily, from the Westminster cottage, smiling their shitsmiles, lecturing us about the consti-fucking-tution, if you please. GodalfuckingMighty, that we should live to be condescended-to, lectured-at by the cowardly, hypocritical, lawyerbastard degenerate, Straight Simon Hughes; see, always told you, Ruin does have a sense of humour.
No use wondering how it is that the windmilling no-nukes sandal-weaving buggery co-operatives now dominate the political landscape, more Are You Being Served? than The Assyrian Came Down, Like A Wolf On The Fold; nasty, faggoty, self-righteous, pestilential, turncoating, cocksucking, shiteating, cross-dressing, tut-tutting, creepy-crawlying, Hughesing their way to a position entirely unmerited, bullies, traitors, scabs and hypocrites. Vince Cable ? Seer and mataphysician? Oh, do fuck off and grow up. Cable, very belatedly agreeing with the rest of us that UK personal debt was a worrying phenomenon, has somehow been elevated to the status of Prophet With Honour, an observation with which he can honestly say, Andrew, that he wholeheartedly agrees and via which elevation he can, in true LibDem style, urge the savage punishment of the most vulnerable. Nasty, grubby little fox-trotting nitwit, a figment of the imagination of skymadeupnewsandfilth. Next they'll be telling us that You know, that wise King, Solomon, in the Bible, like, he was an early Social Liberal ShitEating Democrat.
No use to blame the fat layabout, Andrew Gobsley of the Liberal Observer, or Pay Me And I'll Go Down On Anybody On Any Channel, Toilets Maguire, of The Consumer Mirror; or David Fuck Me Will This Hereditary Blowhard Never Fucking Die Dimbleby, prickling and preening and pimping all over your shit-tubes, twenty-four hours at a stretch, preserving, at all costs, the status fucking quo, as his bloated, grunting, obnoxious father decreed it, I Am The Voice Of The Nation-ing for all he's worth, lest his star fade and he be seen, at long last, retrospectively, as he is and always was, an enemy of all the people living on the outside of media's toxic bubble, jumping mightily on them, should they dare challenge his poxed and privileged guests - Janet Teeth-Porter, for fucks sake - as they jointly shit in our faces, week after week, year after year; Dimbleby, the arse-rapists' KY jelly. And thanks to all my guests for being here on Question Time, tonight. Aren't I clever?
No use blaming Lieutenant Colonel Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, he'll range his squadrons against us if ordered to, as we, once the powerful electorate who have sent such a strong message regarding our punishment, swiftly become the enemy within. Or Chief Constable FastTrack Gob, OBE, charging-up his Tasers for imminent crowd suppression, or Brenda von Hohenzollern Battenburg von Munchkin Whoops Change All That To Windsor And Play Greensleeves Very Loudly and her cardboard cut-out, lazy, good for fuck all, fancydressed, Ruritanian Princes and Princesses and Dukes of this and Earls of that with ribbons and sashes and medals and swords and Dowagers and clapped-out mistresses, Parker-Bowlesesque whores and slags and bumboys, Comptrollers, Chamberlains and Pursuivants General, Keepers of the Royal Dildo, Squeezers of The Royal Toothpaste, Wipers of the Royal Arse, the whole ghastly melange of greedy, idlebastard privilege and comfort disguised as Duty and Sacrifice and Noblesse fucking Oblige. Brutal, thieving slags, all of them, muttering my government this and my government that, as though, six months of the year on holiday, and the other six cutting ribbons, any of them gives a fuck, partying, birthdaying, official birthdaying, ski-ing, hunting, fishing, shooting, helicoptering, blundering about pissed on fifty quid cocktails, the inbred, hooraying shower of shit.
Rotten as all these are, the blame for what is to come lies with the Brown-Blair-Mandelstein cabal of blackmailers, bullies and bankers' bumboys, the NewLabourNewWorldOrderistes. Here comes Ruin, fast and furious, to your hospital, your library, your social services, your roads, your nurseries; his praisesingers and fellators in skymadeupnewsandfilth cheering him on, the people must suffer for the alacrity with which they bought into Mr Red Braces' product, whilst he is protected from all consequences, given the national treasure for his compensation. Here comes RepoMan and BaillifsUlike, but not very much, helping force through the cuts to your living standards, grinning that We Are All In This Together, even though we are not. Here comes honorary PC Bouncer, to give you a good kicking for daring to assemble in groups, complaining, here comes the Parish Doormen's Militia, here to slap you around on behalf of their owners. Here goes the pension you worked for all your life, it is necessary that we take it from you and give it to the markets, and you don't deserve it, anyway, you're, actually, when the deal goes down, working class and not middle class like they've been telling you, and you are shit, you are the enemy within, you must be brought to heel, corrected and chastised, dragooned, harangued, corraled and bullied until you know your place, why did you ever imagine it was different?
We'll keep Big Brother and Simon Cowell and wotsisname, the stupid little fucker who couldn't spot a rigged photo but could smell a good insider deal a mile away, Morgan, the celebrities' best friend and confidante, keeper of everything they want you to believe about them, the Sir Michael Biro-Parkinson de nos jours, you know their smiles, their frowns, their ups, their downs but not their vileness, their greed, their cruelty; for as we all know, Piers wouldn't be friends with them if they were actually all cunts, like him. We'll keep all of them, they do a good job, distracting the citizen-debtor, keeping him on the straight and narrow path of obedience and consumer-longing.
And of course we'll keep those poignant, final moments of Brownism, a decent bloke, really, like all who dedicate themselves to public service, when they could all earn so much more, down at B&fuckingQ, or in MacDonalds . All the things he's done to make things better, like 50 fucking pee on the old age pension. And his kids, don't they look nice, nicer than those Iraqi kids, with their arms all blown off and their skin all burned?
Mark Oaten, former LibDem wannabee Home Seckatry didn't eat all that shit in vain, he set an example to the party, if I can do it, you can, and so they are, the parliamentarians at least, although up and down the land, even in the dire, wife-beating Western and Northern Isles, the ghost of the ghastly, sanctimoniuos Liberal fart, Jo Grimond, will be at the table, or the creepy, bent Old Etonian priapist and dog murderer, Jeremy Thorpe, Here, taste this Tory shit, it's not too bad, you can get to quite like it, Mmmm, yum-yum, eat it all up, don't spill any, this is what power tastes like.
But this is Labour's gigantic soiled nappy; its leaders have spent more than a decade, more like two, actually, fellating the rich, shitting on the poor managing to achieve the greatest transfer, ever, of wealth from hard-working people to the idle rich; bartering our troops bodies for Haliburton gold, funneled through the so-called lecture circuit, Tony and Imelda, slagging around the world and whoring the office of prime minister like none, absolutely none in history; invasion, occupation, torture, kidnap, concentration camps, kids eviscerated and incinerated, teens gangraped, wedding parties strafed, just for the crack, eh, lads? Bonny yankee crewcut psychobastard mommasboy nazis, gorged on porn and freeze-freighted hamburgers, filthy, murdering, neanderthal shithead fuckpigs, rally round the flag y'all, George Chimp, cokehead, drunk, and wifebeater, is a great friend to our nation, pronounces the Fife spastic, pompously, like his father, as if from the pulpit, stuttering, gibbering, criminal fucking lunatic, as though we were lost sheep, parishioners in his own private Kirk, the horrible fucking bastard; the NewLabourFascist movement, aligning my country with rapists, torturers and monsters, Brown the impudent, bloated faggot, moralising, sanctifying the obscene, latterly with his sour, bearded lady beside him and we must suspect, happier alone.
They Came From Outer Space
Yes,
the hospitals, let me finish, burn them down, no, blow them up, that's
it blow them up, no, let me finish, I am very clever, shut up and listen
to me. Blow them up, y'see, it's actually the best thing to do with
them. If you have hospitals people'll go in 'em, see , when they're ill,
and that costs money, and that's money we could be spending on other
things, private schools for instance, and people expect not just to go
in the hospitals but to get treated in 'em, y'see, and get better, and
probably come home and want sickness benefit, which we must scrap.
Because we 're all in this together. We can save the money the hospitals
cost and give it to wealth creating demolition companies, instead, or
as well as, doesn't matter, just as long as we wreck things for ordinary
people. Who don't know any better. And the best thing of all is we can
blame it on thepartyopposite, who are every bit as bad as us but worse.
Health service, no, absolutely ring fenced, best Tory invention ever.
Now I don't suggest for a moment that we are gonna target the poor and defenceless but that's exactly what we're gonna do, after we talk to them about it, or, not really talk to them, just talk about talking to them about it - as if - and getting them to agree that them losing their benefit is the best thing since sliced bread, not that they'll be getting much of that down at the very necessary soup kitchens which we are tasking the private sector with establishing.
It's tough times ahead all around and I for one am going to enjoy them hugely, that's what I came to Earth, sorry, into politics for.
What's that? My ears? No, of course I don't breathe through them. Well, not on this planet.
May You Stay Forever Young. That's an Order
I have sat in this room and been the only one of an adult quintet not to be reading his or her own, freshly-purchased copy of the latest Harry Potter tripe; y'know, wizards and spells, tiny kids' bedtime stuff. Ah, but mr ishmael, she was a single mother. Aye, right, but it's still tiny kids' stuff. And she's been maried, JayKay, for ages, so it's no longer an excuse, being single, never was, actually. What's good is being a single mother and - like nearly all of them - just getting on with it, not making hundreds of millions of trash-pounds; Christ, who'd want JayKay - and her security team and her PR team and her publishers - Fuck me, Jesus, who'd want all that shit for a mum.
A little sidebar here, with myself. If the Labour Party was so important to her, how come she only gave them one of her hundreds of millions of pounds; why not twenty million or a hundred million; don't it make ya wanna rock'n'roll, the generosity of the artist? Why not make a difference instead of a gesture. Big people give a little and they get all the praise, little people, relatively, give a lot and they just stay little people; move along now, you're in the Celebrities' way.
Most successful marketing exercise since NewLabour, itself, I think, Rowling's mewlings and pukings. Baby-talkin' the masses, it's the new Newspeak, Obama does it, Blair did it; Brown couldn't speak but only sermonise and the Coalition mobsters are all just children, themselves, spoiled children, waiting til their father gets home. But baby-talking is the New Way.
Ah but mr ishmael, she got a lot of kids reading again, did JayKay. Fuck off, she didn't, this is publishing industry shit; the kids who didn't read before Pottermania, still didn't read after it. They didn't read because they didn't read, because their parents didn't read, if they had any parents, and even if they did have any parents, maybe they didn't have disposable income set aside to improve our childrens' minds, weren't able to chose Steiner schools, because we believe in them and that our children are well, just that little bit special -why?- well, because they're ours, bless them. vanity and narcissism? No, I don't believe so not that reading Harry Potter improved anything, it just led to people old enough, one would have hoped, to know better, reading these awful monstrosities before their brats could get hold of them - they call it sharing the literary experience with our children, it really is so precious. No, it fucking isn't. Last book I read for fun with a child was The Tiger Who Came To Tea.
I have noted previously that when I was a kid it was cool to read grown-up books. Thanks to my big brother, I did it all the time; I read Catch 22, The Naked and the Dead, The Loneliness of the LongDistance Runner, From Here to Eternity, Lucky Jim, oh, shitloads of stuff, Pans and Penguins, and I also warped through a galaxyful of science fiction, short stories, novellas, novels, trilogies, anthologies and compendia; I have a small library of 'sixties science fiction which isn't but ought to be worth a fortune.
Brian Aldiss, one of Britain's greatest sci-fiers describes his trade as First creating a whole new world of different but credible creatures, with credible habitats, biologies, technologies, religions, superstitions, hierarchies, creating a place into which we can extrapolate human preoccupations, such as war'n'peace, over-population, natural disaster, individuality, totalitarianism et cetera and explore them. And then writing a story in it.
Isaac Asimov, in his Foundation Trilogy scattered humanity across the galaxy, his swarming spread guided by psycho-historian and futurist, Haro Seldon, his wars, crises and triumphs catalogued in the Encyclopaedia Galactica. Asimov, himself a distinguished scientist, formulated the fictional Laws of Robotics, realised much later in the derisory film I, Robot. This stuff was proper reading for a kid. This was proper imagination, this wasn't McDonalds-in-a-Book, the addictive, franchised, shove-it-in-their-faces, give-em-what-they-want, fast-food drivel of Harry Potter.
In his bleak 1954 existential masterpiece, I Am Legend, Richard Matheson revived the then-retired, zombie-vampire genre, his lonely and bereft hero, Robert Neville, first battling his neighbours-turned-vampires with garlic and stakes and later with a phlebologist's laboratory bench. Some of my teachers would say You can't read this stuff, others'd turn a blind eye, feeling, I guess, that it was OK for me to read stuff aimed at an older readership. I am Legend, too, became grist to the Hollywood mill, milled into ashes and dust, it was, a vehicle for Will Smith's shiny white smile. Never mind, the book is there, still.
Now, of course, GlobaCorp sells anything to anyone, creates the myth that Yes, it's Good, yes, it's Worthwhile, Yes, parents should read kiddy fiction, listen to kiddy music.
The world's oldest creature, a 507 year-old clam known as 'Ming the mollusc', has been inadvertently killed by scientists during tests to discover its exact age.
Now I don't suggest for a moment that we are gonna target the poor and defenceless but that's exactly what we're gonna do, after we talk to them about it, or, not really talk to them, just talk about talking to them about it - as if - and getting them to agree that them losing their benefit is the best thing since sliced bread, not that they'll be getting much of that down at the very necessary soup kitchens which we are tasking the private sector with establishing.
It's tough times ahead all around and I for one am going to enjoy them hugely, that's what I came to Earth, sorry, into politics for.
What's that? My ears? No, of course I don't breathe through them. Well, not on this planet.
May You Stay Forever Young. That's an Order
I have sat in this room and been the only one of an adult quintet not to be reading his or her own, freshly-purchased copy of the latest Harry Potter tripe; y'know, wizards and spells, tiny kids' bedtime stuff. Ah, but mr ishmael, she was a single mother. Aye, right, but it's still tiny kids' stuff. And she's been maried, JayKay, for ages, so it's no longer an excuse, being single, never was, actually. What's good is being a single mother and - like nearly all of them - just getting on with it, not making hundreds of millions of trash-pounds; Christ, who'd want JayKay - and her security team and her PR team and her publishers - Fuck me, Jesus, who'd want all that shit for a mum.
A little sidebar here, with myself. If the Labour Party was so important to her, how come she only gave them one of her hundreds of millions of pounds; why not twenty million or a hundred million; don't it make ya wanna rock'n'roll, the generosity of the artist? Why not make a difference instead of a gesture. Big people give a little and they get all the praise, little people, relatively, give a lot and they just stay little people; move along now, you're in the Celebrities' way.
Most successful marketing exercise since NewLabour, itself, I think, Rowling's mewlings and pukings. Baby-talkin' the masses, it's the new Newspeak, Obama does it, Blair did it; Brown couldn't speak but only sermonise and the Coalition mobsters are all just children, themselves, spoiled children, waiting til their father gets home. But baby-talking is the New Way.
Ah but mr ishmael, she got a lot of kids reading again, did JayKay. Fuck off, she didn't, this is publishing industry shit; the kids who didn't read before Pottermania, still didn't read after it. They didn't read because they didn't read, because their parents didn't read, if they had any parents, and even if they did have any parents, maybe they didn't have disposable income set aside to improve our childrens' minds, weren't able to chose Steiner schools, because we believe in them and that our children are well, just that little bit special -why?- well, because they're ours, bless them. vanity and narcissism? No, I don't believe so not that reading Harry Potter improved anything, it just led to people old enough, one would have hoped, to know better, reading these awful monstrosities before their brats could get hold of them - they call it sharing the literary experience with our children, it really is so precious. No, it fucking isn't. Last book I read for fun with a child was The Tiger Who Came To Tea.
I have noted previously that when I was a kid it was cool to read grown-up books. Thanks to my big brother, I did it all the time; I read Catch 22, The Naked and the Dead, The Loneliness of the LongDistance Runner, From Here to Eternity, Lucky Jim, oh, shitloads of stuff, Pans and Penguins, and I also warped through a galaxyful of science fiction, short stories, novellas, novels, trilogies, anthologies and compendia; I have a small library of 'sixties science fiction which isn't but ought to be worth a fortune.
Brian Aldiss, one of Britain's greatest sci-fiers describes his trade as First creating a whole new world of different but credible creatures, with credible habitats, biologies, technologies, religions, superstitions, hierarchies, creating a place into which we can extrapolate human preoccupations, such as war'n'peace, over-population, natural disaster, individuality, totalitarianism et cetera and explore them. And then writing a story in it.
Isaac Asimov, in his Foundation Trilogy scattered humanity across the galaxy, his swarming spread guided by psycho-historian and futurist, Haro Seldon, his wars, crises and triumphs catalogued in the Encyclopaedia Galactica. Asimov, himself a distinguished scientist, formulated the fictional Laws of Robotics, realised much later in the derisory film I, Robot. This stuff was proper reading for a kid. This was proper imagination, this wasn't McDonalds-in-a-Book, the addictive, franchised, shove-it-in-their-faces, give-em-what-they-want, fast-food drivel of Harry Potter.
In his bleak 1954 existential masterpiece, I Am Legend, Richard Matheson revived the then-retired, zombie-vampire genre, his lonely and bereft hero, Robert Neville, first battling his neighbours-turned-vampires with garlic and stakes and later with a phlebologist's laboratory bench. Some of my teachers would say You can't read this stuff, others'd turn a blind eye, feeling, I guess, that it was OK for me to read stuff aimed at an older readership. I am Legend, too, became grist to the Hollywood mill, milled into ashes and dust, it was, a vehicle for Will Smith's shiny white smile. Never mind, the book is there, still.
Now, of course, GlobaCorp sells anything to anyone, creates the myth that Yes, it's Good, yes, it's Worthwhile, Yes, parents should read kiddy fiction, listen to kiddy music.
It's
JayKay Rowling's dreadful marketing triumph - the Harry Potter
tripeology - and the PBC's Doctor Who - sexy young actor and saucy
jailbait cyberminx companion which I blame for this deliberate
and sinister generation-merging.Those
are just two examples but global Infotainment makes little distinction
between generations of consumers and if there is a cross-over product -
be it interporn or smartphones or wizardy doggerel then
cross-generationally-marketed it shall be. There is almost a compulsion
about it, that we must read and watch the same stuff as our kids, use
the same cyber-enslavement devices - I found myself, in the
nineteen-nineties, taking a mobile phone call whilst sitting on the
loo; haven't had a mobile telephone phone since, I mean a mobile, of
course, we don't waste words by saying mobile phone. I mean, that's one
word wasted everytime you say mobile phone. And that adds up to a lorra
wasted words. An anyway, adjective is the same thing as a noun, innit.
Even though the fucking things aren't fucking mobile, they are fucking
well portable, stupid fucking braindead, illiterate, uncomprehending,
pigshitthick buffoons.
..................................................................................
stanislav, the young polish plumber, was born in Inverness, in the public library to be precise. mrs ishmael was working in Inverness and we rented a wee house there, in glorious, dreamlike, mountainside suburbia; we kept this old ruin on and both of us regularly travelled up and down, she at weekends, me at any time I felt like it. The dogblokes, there were then three, sometimes commuted with me but mostly stayed with their Mum.
Went to join the library one day, like a good, earnest, self-improving Radio Four type does. Certainly, said the librarian, can you just fill-in this form ? Now, Inverness is the capital of the Highlands and Islands, that large region of Scotland over which the one per cent of Scots who speak Gaelic is scattered; a ruse of Salmond's Tribesmen, the promotion of this language is resented by the other ninety-nine per cent but the ones who speak it are gobby, demanding bastards, in English as well as in Gaelic. Highland road and street signs, therefore, are duly in two languages, just as they are in North Wales; being aware of this cultural terrorism - Scotland is awash with such impertinences - I was unsurprised that I couldn't understand a word of the form in my hand. But fuck me, I thought, this is a fucking awful language; the roadsigns all had too many Gs and Hs and CHs in them, the syllables so garbled, clumsy and unpleasing that you couldn't even attempt to pronounce them without retching involuntarily; this form, however, was full of CKs and Js and Zs; Christ, I remember thinking, close-up it's even worse than I thought. Handing the form back I said I'm ever so sorry, Gaelic's too hard for me. Oh, it's not Gaelic, she laughed. What is it, then? It's Polish. Polish, right. We have a lot of Polish people here, working in the tourist industry and they.......Yes, they come in here to improve themselves, just like everybody.
My confusion had a big impact. That night I was emailing my friend, Dick, and - being a close observer of multi-culturalism - I had long since adapted my phraseology to the new demographic, one man and his elephant, for instance, ya 'aveta set a sprat to catch a redsnapper, mon; every Tom Dick and Ahmed and so on. And in that email I spoke of how in the Highlands every Tom, Dick and Stanislav did such and such a thing. The next morning, rambling through cyberspace, I came across Guido Fawkes's order-order.
...............................................................................
Origin Story
In the beginning was the word and the word was stanislav
stanislav, the young polish plumber, was born in Inverness, in the public library to be precise. mrs ishmael was working in Inverness and we rented a wee house there, in glorious, dreamlike, mountainside suburbia; we kept this old ruin on and both of us regularly travelled up and down, she at weekends, me at any time I felt like it. The dogblokes, there were then three, sometimes commuted with me but mostly stayed with their Mum.
 |
| stanislav birthplace |
Went to join the library one day, like a good, earnest, self-improving Radio Four type does. Certainly, said the librarian, can you just fill-in this form ? Now, Inverness is the capital of the Highlands and Islands, that large region of Scotland over which the one per cent of Scots who speak Gaelic is scattered; a ruse of Salmond's Tribesmen, the promotion of this language is resented by the other ninety-nine per cent but the ones who speak it are gobby, demanding bastards, in English as well as in Gaelic. Highland road and street signs, therefore, are duly in two languages, just as they are in North Wales; being aware of this cultural terrorism - Scotland is awash with such impertinences - I was unsurprised that I couldn't understand a word of the form in my hand. But fuck me, I thought, this is a fucking awful language; the roadsigns all had too many Gs and Hs and CHs in them, the syllables so garbled, clumsy and unpleasing that you couldn't even attempt to pronounce them without retching involuntarily; this form, however, was full of CKs and Js and Zs; Christ, I remember thinking, close-up it's even worse than I thought. Handing the form back I said I'm ever so sorry, Gaelic's too hard for me. Oh, it's not Gaelic, she laughed. What is it, then? It's Polish. Polish, right. We have a lot of Polish people here, working in the tourist industry and they.......Yes, they come in here to improve themselves, just like everybody.
My confusion had a big impact. That night I was emailing my friend, Dick, and - being a close observer of multi-culturalism - I had long since adapted my phraseology to the new demographic, one man and his elephant, for instance, ya 'aveta set a sprat to catch a redsnapper, mon; every Tom Dick and Ahmed and so on. And in that email I spoke of how in the Highlands every Tom, Dick and Stanislav did such and such a thing. The next morning, rambling through cyberspace, I came across Guido Fawkes's order-order.
Cookery Corner - Soup and Oysters
Watch Jamie Bloke on telly and copy everything just right. Go in garden pull up handful of weeds from ground, is ok leave some dirt on weeds, is organic soup, innit, go back in house and kick oven for good luck and get half kilo of garlic and smash up with dirty old brick. Have a break and pick nose for a minute, tell cockney joke about My Old Mum. Mmmm, smell all that lovely garlic. And then get some red hot chilli and smash with brick, not too much, just enough. And then get ten pounds per litre olive oil off Sainsbury shop and pour some in jug. Assemble all ingredients and season all up with half pound of cayenne pepper and half pound of vindaloo curry powder off Sainsburys. Take weeds and oil and garlic and chilli and anything else you got lying about and throw in machine and give good fucking blitzing for minute or two till is right sloppy - everything, weeds, garlic, oil and curry powder is one delicious and appetising grey-green mixture. Wipe finger on arse of jeans and stick in soup. Mmmm, is fucking miasma of friendly flavour and texture, leap up from bowl and tickle under fucking chin, eh. Pour in bowls and serve cold with handful of weed ripped up and thrown on top. Mmmm, is delicious and is guarantee family will go mad for it. Can make six month in advance and store in garage with coal. Season to taste.The world's oldest creature, a 507 year-old clam known as 'Ming the mollusc', has been inadvertently killed by scientists during tests to discover its exact age.
But
no worries, as we say, now, here, in Britannia Stupidium. The nation's
greatest chef, Maestro Heston Blumsenchidt, known to his acolytes as SquareHead, ArseBrain, Nutterchops and SpudGeek, a member of a mutant
species, teevee presenteramus arseholeum culinaris, has
graciously decided to cook the old bastard which had been crawling
around Canadian waters for centuries until some cunt decided to
investigate him.
stanislav and mr ishmael's essays:
WotsonTelly (not a violent man) drafted 9/11/13
Ranting in the Wind drafted 10/5/10
WotsonTelly (not a violent man) drafted 9/11/13
Ranting in the Wind drafted 10/5/10
They Came from Outer Space drafted 8/06/10
In the beginning was the word and the word was stanislav
drafted 26/2/14
A Feast of Jamie (extract) drafted 12/03/12
Telly Cooks, the wretched of the earth drafted 26/02/14
5 comments:
Is that what they mean by a bearded clam, then? (Chaucer's Wife of Bath cackling in the wings, reminding us that flavour improves with age, dearie.)
Seriously, though - and moving swiftly on - that Origin Story is a precious find, Mrs Ish; thank you for posting it.
v./
You never disappoint, mr verge; as ever, thank you for your literary contribution.
Yes, it was terrific to find the Origin Story - I knew it existed somewhere - but finding it, ah, that's a different matter. Ishmaelites will be interested to know that I have winnowed the drafts down to less than 1,200. So there's a few more Sunday supplements in there.
Today's political essays have some resonance with what we are schooled to describe as "these difficult times", as all this clapping, rainbowing and furloughing will be paid for, undoubtedly by the poor, in a new age of austerity, coming soon.
I have a wee feeling, Mrs I, a hope really, that it will not be business as usual when the dust settles. The shear economic horror that has been wrought us unprecedented, and what lies just over the horizon is not yet clear. My dad told me that after the war the troops came home determined that its was not going to be business as usual. They kicked out Churchill, and socialist Britain was born. I can't even get my tiny mind around the fallout from the US printing upward of 10 trillion (so far) that has been publicly declared - so god knows what the real number is - and its on-going. I can't see the common folk just nodding when they are starving and homeless, and being asked to pay for all this shit, at the same time as Bezos' fortune has risen 30 billion and counting.
Wonderful again. I see JayKay was offering to pay a year’s salary for the civil servant who tweeted about BorDom last night, how awful it was having to work for such liars. There speaks the authentic voice of the patrician Left. We’re all kiddies now, as Mr I noted: kiddyclothes, kiddylanguage, kiddythought, and, above all, kiddyslavery. We can all just suck our thumbs during the coming catastrophe, Mr Mike.
Hello matte great blog post
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