Déjà vu
We could wish that the Metropolitan Police Force sets up some training in arrest techniques, instead of leaving this neatly (but exotically) bearded junior officer to pick it up from You Tube videos of US cops and get down and intimate on the street. He was clearly unfamiliar with the correct technique as he left off long before death ensued in order to stand up and shout at the onlookers and amateur camera-persons.The beard made a magnificent appearance.
Everybody is elbowing everybody else aside to express their extreme wokeness. Metropolitan Police Deputy Commissioner Sir Steve House called the footage “extremely disturbing,” adding that the arrest techniques captured in the video “cause great concern,” as they are not (yet) taught in police training. London Mayor Sadiq Khan said he was “deeply concerned about this distressing incident,” The whole embarassing balls-up on July 16th has been referred to the Independent Office for Police
Conduct (IOPC) for investigation. Sadiq Khan thinks that's a good idea.The victim has been seen by a police doctor. They kept him banged up in cells. Beardie has been suspended.
The Met has also warned that officers will be deployed to shut down illegal music events across London.Residents of Hackney’s Woodberry Down – a recently gentrified council
estate – were kept awake on Friday night by what police called an “unlicensed music event.”
Riot police attempted to break up the al fresco party, causing violent
chaos as party-goers threw bricks and bottles at the officers. 
"I urge anyone considering attending an event like this to re-think their plans,” Deputy Assistant Commissioner Lucy D’Orsi warned on Saturday. “Officers will be out across London, closing these events down, and they will arrest anyone suspected of criminal offences.” But not by kneeling on their necks, as that technique has not yet been taught.
But, enough of the Met. Let us consider extradition: we
would like the US to send us Anne Sacoolas, the erstwhile British-based
CIA operative who, it is believed, has been promoted in the agency since
she ran down and killed teenager Harry Dunn because she was driving on
the American side of the road. The United States would like us to send across to them Julian Assange, former MI6 agent Christopher Steele, and His Royal Highness Prince Andrew. Bit of an impasse.
Meanwhile, Prince Andrew's daughter, who, we can fairly confidently state, has never been trafficked across continents for the purpose of being pimped to members of the aristocracy,
 |
| Beatrice with her suited and respectable parents |
has married some Italian.
 |
| Hat-tip to mr verge |
They got married in a small, lockdown ceremony at The Royal Chapel of All Saints at Royal Lodge, Windsor.
The chapel is is a Grade II listed church in the grounds of the Royal Lodge in Windsor Great Park, Berkshire, England.
 |
| a small ceremony |
 |
| Beatrice's dad allegedly with Virginia Roberts and Ghislaine Maxwell who has entered a not guilty plea. |
Ghislaine Maxwell has pleaded not guilty to offences of facilitating the abuse of minors by her boyfriend Jeffrey Epstein, allegedly murdered whilst serving a prison sentence for those offences. It is estimated that she will come to trial in about a year, unless, as she fears, she suffers a similar fate to Epstein. Miss Roberts, pictured above, is one of Epstein’s victims and claims she was forced to have sex with a profusely-sweating Andrew three times when she was 17. Andrew has strenuously denied the allegations, calling in aid an alleged chronic condition of inability to sweat, incurred whilst being a war hero, serving his country during the Falklands War. He has said he does not recall Miss Roberts. He's not setting foot in the US though. I wonder if he's sweating yet?
........................................................................
Virus Update
mr bungalow bill said:
I see the numbers are unravelling and it seems we may not really
have been sick at all, or not sick enough.There's a revelation. Still,
it's not like we've fucked anything up along the way and it has been a
strange joy to do as we are told. Such days.
Dr John Lee, writing in the Spectator on the 11 July 2020, reminds us that the early estimate of the death rate from Covid was 3.4%, rapidly declining to 0.9%, then 0.6% with the expectation it will settle at 0.1%, similar to seasonal flu. The defining and reporting of Covid deaths varies wildly, and so the concept of "excess deaths" is now used. Dr Lee tells us: "go to the Office for National Statistics website and look up deaths in the winter/spring seasons for the past 27 years, and then adjust for population. This year comes only eighth in terms of deaths....viruses have been chasing men since before we climbed down from the trees. Our bodies fight them off and learn in the process.... We get sick... But viruses recede, our body’s defences learn and strengthen. The process has been happening for millions of years, which is why more than 40 per cent of our genome is made of incorporated viral genetic material."
So, nearly half of my body is a virus, Dr Lee?
It has all been a bit of a Bullingdon-mess. Over-estimation of the fatality rate, the building of warehouse-sized hospitals, lockdown, the burning of the money and so on and so forth.
Who knows what the deep script is, was, or ever shall be, mr bungalow bill? Was it real, did it happen, was it naturally zoonotic or manufactured from bits and pieces of deadly viral code; was it, in fact, deadly?
The important thing, though, is to take the learning from the experience of 2020:
All this stuff about religions, this one or that one, being a
religion of peace; well, there's the Quakers but they founded America
didn't they, when they weren't sitting around, in their hats and collars
and jerkins, being quiet and thoughtful and patient. And holy, in a
non-specific way, making chocolate, slaughtering the natives, up and
down the Eastern Seaboard; a nation born of a longing for religious
freedom, just as long as it wasn't any damned heathen, aboriginal,
Earth-worshipping religion, fuck that shit; just white religions, as
many as you want, Anabaptists, Pentecostalists, Christian Scientists,
paranoid, lunatic Amish throwbacks, Micks and fucking Mormons, take your
pick, they're all barking fucking mad, bloodthirsty, sex-crazed,
shoot-'em-up, redneck exterminators; that's what's great about the
modern home of ethnic cleansing and slavery, what they do, gang-raping
Iraqi teenagers or microwaving the children of Hiroshima, or just
lynching some of them home-grown nigger boys, they do it all in the
service of the Lord.
And Islam, Mohamedinism; Jesus fucking wept. Cut your head off on live TV. For the Prophet, peace and blessings and hot, spurting arterial blood be upon his name. But not yours, not your name, smile, now, for the camera, Infidel, as I hack my way through your vertebrae, your family'll get to see this, what with Google and everything. Oh, but they're not all like that. They have scholars. Do they fuck have scholars. They have gobby witchdoctors, horrible old bastards, and slimy, American-speaking youngsters, good for fuck all. And they have community leaders, here, in the UK, speaking for moderate Islam, See? We're just like you, really. No, you're not, you're not at all like me. None of you are remotely like me.
The Sunday Filth-O-Graph is emboldened by this gang of nasty public school cowboys and its leaders a couple of weeks back were a redneck, Thatcherite treat. These judges, it thundered, how dare they not do what Michael Howard told 'em. Burglars must have the maximum sentence, more than the maximum sentence, preferably. Like Michael Howard said, prison works, and he should know, he's a lawyer, too, an eminent QC - they're all eminent, aren't they, eminent and learned, never heard of an uneminent QC, did you, just an ordinary money-grubbing lawyer, charge you a hundred and twenty quid for telling you the time, never heard skymadeupnewsandfilth introduce some bad-breathed, puffed-up, useless, incompetent prick with the words And we are joined by Mr Peregrine Sticky-Fingers-Jones, an ordinary QC. Anyway, ya seen Michael Howard's wife? She's a babe, seventy if she's a day, Sandra; she was a model, you know; if she'd got her Cleobury Mortimers out for the papers at that election he would have won, romped home, he would, but even at seventy she could sit on my Tory manifesto anytime. But he was bang-on about the prison thing, Michael was, y'know, how he said Prison Works. It was CallHimDave thought that one up, Prison Works. What a brilliant line, Alright, we know from recent remarks that Dave's not so bright on the old history front - or anything really - but what a brilliant slogan, Prison Works. It's up there with We're All In This Together. And about as accurate. Punishment, though, that's the Judaeo-Christian thing. In the beginning was the word and the word was Punishment: You do any of this shit that I told you not to do and I'm gonna punish your worthless, twelve tribes of Israel asses. And another thing, no use pretending you didn't know it was wrong to eat bacon, ignorance of the law is no excuse. What kind of robbing bastard, tribal elder shit is that, ignorance of the law is no excuse? The Blair-Brown Terror brought in, what was it, three thousand new things you could be punished for doing, or not doing. Three fucking thousand. Bill Posters will be prosecuted, Tony McNulty will think of something.*
And the Jews, thousands of years getting their arses kicked and their money confiscated and now it's all coming good for them, armed to the teeth, nuked-up and acting out some neo-Nazi prophecy, chosen people, that's what they are, a master race, just like Herman the German was, but chosen by God, y'understand, not Hitler, singled out by angry, old Jehovah, Himself, we are the herrenvolk, not those fucking Germans, we always were, and everybody else can go and fuck themselves, blow the world to smithereens, doesn't matter, it's all written down by some mad paternalistic control freaks, thousands of years ago, on some parchment, you can eat this but you can't eat that, don't drive that fucking Volvo on the fucking Sabbath, Hymie, fuck no; don't eat that shit or it's the fiery finger up your ass, or you get turned to salt, probably skinned the goat alive, to make the parchment, more holy that way, out on Highway Sixty-One.** Just off now to bang my head on the Wailing Wall. And then lock them Ayrabs up, behind a great big Freedom Wall; well we're famous for our sensayuma, right ? Woody Allen, yeah? Only not the bit with the step daughter. Horrible mad bastards. Holy? Religion? Kiss my goyim arse, Hymie. You know, they say every Jew in the world has a right to go and live in Israel, And any Jews who get born in future, they can go, too. How's that gonna work? God probably'll dry-up the whole fucking Mediterranean and fill it full of milk and honey and strictly defensive nuclear missiles, the OK sort of nukes, peaceful ones, because Judaism is a peaceful religion, just like all of them.
But you can't knock 'em, the Jews. Virtually illegal. If a Jewish soldier in Israel smashes a Palestinian child's arm between rocks, it's ok, You know, because of Hitler and everything, Atrocity's blank cheque to itself, countersigned by Uncle Sam's Mighty War Machine and by every faint-hearted liberal fascist in the world. 'Swhat it is. That shit in the camps, Wow, no fucking wonder they wanna let off a little steam. And never mind that that shit in the camps happened because exactly the same kind of liberals were too busy listening to the string quartet in the salon to hear the cry in the street, as Germany's Big Society took hold. And everybody went back to work, rounding up the Jews, making lampshades and melting down gold teeth. Fuck em, eh, time for tough choices, all gotta pull together, after the mess the last lot left us. Weimar, NewLabour, whatever ticks your box, nein?
And that's part of the thing with the Jews, can't say Boo! to them, not because you'd upset them but because you'd upset Herman the German and his nice clean country, hardly a whiff of the crematorium on the nice clean German air. No, Herman, poking about in his poos in the morning, doesn't wanna be reminded of all that Nazi shit, not in his nice, clean, German country. Fuck, no, best cut Hymie a little slack, else he'll be screaming about all that stuff which a very, very few of our grandfathers and grandmothers did to him, it was only a tiny handful of people, really, were Nazis, probably no more than tens of fucking millions of them. I mean, all those Jews, their homes and businesses all smashed up, and them being kicked up and down the strasse, pistol-whipped and jackbooted, like it was the new national sport, just disappearing, down the trainline to nowhere, all their property being recycled, their hair and their teeth, come on, how was any decent German to know that that shit was going on? Was only a million of them worked on the Reichsbahn, seeing all those trains going East with starving and thirsting Untermensche all jammed in worse than cattle, and then coming back again, with the clothes and the luggage and the few miserable bits of personal shit that mein cousin, Fritz, in the SS, had allowed them to keep when they first rounded them up. It's not as though anyone saw anything, not as though the bullwhipping railway station guards or the shoot 'em in the back of the head merchants ever went home on leave to their liebschen and their darling little kinder, was it, and told them that the Nazi Big Society had extermination production lines, specialist units for so-called medical experiment and old-fashioned torture dungeons in which Good Germans, Grandads And Grandmas, could relax after a hard day, counting them in but not counting them out. Nothing like beating a Jewess to death to get the appetite going. And maybe you could have a few of them playing some nice music, no point in putting a concert pianist in the gas oven. Not in a cultured society, like Germany.
And anyway, they hanged a few of them, had to get Albert Pierrepoint in, our official ropesman, gave him a lieutenant colonelcy, made him a Hanging Rupert, because Uncle Sam was topping Herman with those big nooses that you see in the Westerns and they were ripping Herman's head off, not very salubrious for the Occupying Powers, that. Got Albert in and he did his thing of peeking in the Judas hole, studying the neck and shoulder musculature of his customers, checking their weight and calculating exactly how many feet of rope he'd need to break von Rundstedt's neck cleanly, just so. Master craftsman, was Albert Pierrepoint, it was a family business; painstaking and meticulous, he was, or he was in Britain; used to suspend a big bag of sand from the hanging rope, the night before, just in case it retained too much spring, and Herman came bouncing back up through the trapdoor, scaring the shit out of the witnesses, maybe bouncing up and down like a fucking yo-yo. Left nothing to chance, usually, and always was sucking on a boiled sweet as he went about his business. Morning old chap, this won't take a minute, suck-suck. In the English nicks the topping shop was next to the condemned cell, so he could actually conduct the whole enterprise between the clock starting and finishing the striking of Eight; in Nuremberg there was a bit of a walk to the rope, which may have rattled his customary aplomb. I do hope so.
They hanged a few of them, the obviously Nazi generals and around Europe they topped a handful of the really most barabarous camp guards but mainly it was deemed that most of them were carrying out orders, some of them got some years in the nick, and God alone knows what happened to those in the USSR.
The important thing, though, is to take the learning from the experience of 2020:
1. Parliament can pass whatever laws it wants without let, hindrance or scrutiny, in a matter of days.
2. Senior army command can be deployed to "assist" local authorities and NHS Boards instantly.
3. A good crisis should never be wasted - it can always be used to consolidate Establishment power and remove civil liberties.
4. The majority of the population are entirely biddable, joyfully do as they are told, will put themselves into solitary confinement, stop visiting the sick and the dying, and will grass up those few who do not comply.
5. Naming and Shaming is a reliable sporting alternative to football.
6. Should public executions be reintroduced tomorrow, there would be fleets of "Execution Special" coaches commissioned to take avid namers and shamers to Gallows Hill, where they will take the knee, to apologise for their white guilt.
7. As ever, all cops are bastards, but we really, really need them to protect us from ourselves.
8. The summer of rioting is now an established British tradition.
9. The nation can stop worrying about collagen treatments for those pesky wrinkles round the mouth - they can legitimately be hidden behind a variety of face-masks.
10. The Government can invent as much money as it wants.
...................................................................................
Well, it's Sunday, and although the nation's priorities were made pretty clear when shops were re-opened before churches, mr ishmael is here to guide us through the complexities of the Judaeo-Christian-Islamic tradition:
And Islam, Mohamedinism; Jesus fucking wept. Cut your head off on live TV. For the Prophet, peace and blessings and hot, spurting arterial blood be upon his name. But not yours, not your name, smile, now, for the camera, Infidel, as I hack my way through your vertebrae, your family'll get to see this, what with Google and everything. Oh, but they're not all like that. They have scholars. Do they fuck have scholars. They have gobby witchdoctors, horrible old bastards, and slimy, American-speaking youngsters, good for fuck all. And they have community leaders, here, in the UK, speaking for moderate Islam, See? We're just like you, really. No, you're not, you're not at all like me. None of you are remotely like me.
The Sunday Filth-O-Graph is emboldened by this gang of nasty public school cowboys and its leaders a couple of weeks back were a redneck, Thatcherite treat. These judges, it thundered, how dare they not do what Michael Howard told 'em. Burglars must have the maximum sentence, more than the maximum sentence, preferably. Like Michael Howard said, prison works, and he should know, he's a lawyer, too, an eminent QC - they're all eminent, aren't they, eminent and learned, never heard of an uneminent QC, did you, just an ordinary money-grubbing lawyer, charge you a hundred and twenty quid for telling you the time, never heard skymadeupnewsandfilth introduce some bad-breathed, puffed-up, useless, incompetent prick with the words And we are joined by Mr Peregrine Sticky-Fingers-Jones, an ordinary QC. Anyway, ya seen Michael Howard's wife? She's a babe, seventy if she's a day, Sandra; she was a model, you know; if she'd got her Cleobury Mortimers out for the papers at that election he would have won, romped home, he would, but even at seventy she could sit on my Tory manifesto anytime. But he was bang-on about the prison thing, Michael was, y'know, how he said Prison Works. It was CallHimDave thought that one up, Prison Works. What a brilliant line, Alright, we know from recent remarks that Dave's not so bright on the old history front - or anything really - but what a brilliant slogan, Prison Works. It's up there with We're All In This Together. And about as accurate. Punishment, though, that's the Judaeo-Christian thing. In the beginning was the word and the word was Punishment: You do any of this shit that I told you not to do and I'm gonna punish your worthless, twelve tribes of Israel asses. And another thing, no use pretending you didn't know it was wrong to eat bacon, ignorance of the law is no excuse. What kind of robbing bastard, tribal elder shit is that, ignorance of the law is no excuse? The Blair-Brown Terror brought in, what was it, three thousand new things you could be punished for doing, or not doing. Three fucking thousand. Bill Posters will be prosecuted, Tony McNulty will think of something.*
And the Jews, thousands of years getting their arses kicked and their money confiscated and now it's all coming good for them, armed to the teeth, nuked-up and acting out some neo-Nazi prophecy, chosen people, that's what they are, a master race, just like Herman the German was, but chosen by God, y'understand, not Hitler, singled out by angry, old Jehovah, Himself, we are the herrenvolk, not those fucking Germans, we always were, and everybody else can go and fuck themselves, blow the world to smithereens, doesn't matter, it's all written down by some mad paternalistic control freaks, thousands of years ago, on some parchment, you can eat this but you can't eat that, don't drive that fucking Volvo on the fucking Sabbath, Hymie, fuck no; don't eat that shit or it's the fiery finger up your ass, or you get turned to salt, probably skinned the goat alive, to make the parchment, more holy that way, out on Highway Sixty-One.** Just off now to bang my head on the Wailing Wall. And then lock them Ayrabs up, behind a great big Freedom Wall; well we're famous for our sensayuma, right ? Woody Allen, yeah? Only not the bit with the step daughter. Horrible mad bastards. Holy? Religion? Kiss my goyim arse, Hymie. You know, they say every Jew in the world has a right to go and live in Israel, And any Jews who get born in future, they can go, too. How's that gonna work? God probably'll dry-up the whole fucking Mediterranean and fill it full of milk and honey and strictly defensive nuclear missiles, the OK sort of nukes, peaceful ones, because Judaism is a peaceful religion, just like all of them.
But you can't knock 'em, the Jews. Virtually illegal. If a Jewish soldier in Israel smashes a Palestinian child's arm between rocks, it's ok, You know, because of Hitler and everything, Atrocity's blank cheque to itself, countersigned by Uncle Sam's Mighty War Machine and by every faint-hearted liberal fascist in the world. 'Swhat it is. That shit in the camps, Wow, no fucking wonder they wanna let off a little steam. And never mind that that shit in the camps happened because exactly the same kind of liberals were too busy listening to the string quartet in the salon to hear the cry in the street, as Germany's Big Society took hold. And everybody went back to work, rounding up the Jews, making lampshades and melting down gold teeth. Fuck em, eh, time for tough choices, all gotta pull together, after the mess the last lot left us. Weimar, NewLabour, whatever ticks your box, nein?
And that's part of the thing with the Jews, can't say Boo! to them, not because you'd upset them but because you'd upset Herman the German and his nice clean country, hardly a whiff of the crematorium on the nice clean German air. No, Herman, poking about in his poos in the morning, doesn't wanna be reminded of all that Nazi shit, not in his nice, clean, German country. Fuck, no, best cut Hymie a little slack, else he'll be screaming about all that stuff which a very, very few of our grandfathers and grandmothers did to him, it was only a tiny handful of people, really, were Nazis, probably no more than tens of fucking millions of them. I mean, all those Jews, their homes and businesses all smashed up, and them being kicked up and down the strasse, pistol-whipped and jackbooted, like it was the new national sport, just disappearing, down the trainline to nowhere, all their property being recycled, their hair and their teeth, come on, how was any decent German to know that that shit was going on? Was only a million of them worked on the Reichsbahn, seeing all those trains going East with starving and thirsting Untermensche all jammed in worse than cattle, and then coming back again, with the clothes and the luggage and the few miserable bits of personal shit that mein cousin, Fritz, in the SS, had allowed them to keep when they first rounded them up. It's not as though anyone saw anything, not as though the bullwhipping railway station guards or the shoot 'em in the back of the head merchants ever went home on leave to their liebschen and their darling little kinder, was it, and told them that the Nazi Big Society had extermination production lines, specialist units for so-called medical experiment and old-fashioned torture dungeons in which Good Germans, Grandads And Grandmas, could relax after a hard day, counting them in but not counting them out. Nothing like beating a Jewess to death to get the appetite going. And maybe you could have a few of them playing some nice music, no point in putting a concert pianist in the gas oven. Not in a cultured society, like Germany.
And anyway, they hanged a few of them, had to get Albert Pierrepoint in, our official ropesman, gave him a lieutenant colonelcy, made him a Hanging Rupert, because Uncle Sam was topping Herman with those big nooses that you see in the Westerns and they were ripping Herman's head off, not very salubrious for the Occupying Powers, that. Got Albert in and he did his thing of peeking in the Judas hole, studying the neck and shoulder musculature of his customers, checking their weight and calculating exactly how many feet of rope he'd need to break von Rundstedt's neck cleanly, just so. Master craftsman, was Albert Pierrepoint, it was a family business; painstaking and meticulous, he was, or he was in Britain; used to suspend a big bag of sand from the hanging rope, the night before, just in case it retained too much spring, and Herman came bouncing back up through the trapdoor, scaring the shit out of the witnesses, maybe bouncing up and down like a fucking yo-yo. Left nothing to chance, usually, and always was sucking on a boiled sweet as he went about his business. Morning old chap, this won't take a minute, suck-suck. In the English nicks the topping shop was next to the condemned cell, so he could actually conduct the whole enterprise between the clock starting and finishing the striking of Eight; in Nuremberg there was a bit of a walk to the rope, which may have rattled his customary aplomb. I do hope so.
They hanged a few of them, the obviously Nazi generals and around Europe they topped a handful of the really most barabarous camp guards but mainly it was deemed that most of them were carrying out orders, some of them got some years in the nick, and God alone knows what happened to those in the USSR.
* McNulty moved to the Home Office on 9 May 2005 as Minister of State for Immigration, following the general election reshuffle. In May 2006 his Home Office portfolio changed to responsibility over the policing and crime, security and counter-terrorism.
** Highway 61 - Bob Dylan:
Oh, God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe say, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"
God say, "No," Abe say, "What?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin', you better run"
Abe say, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"
God say, "No," Abe say, "What?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin', you better run"
Well, Abe said, "Where do you want this killin' done?"
God said, "Out on Highway 61"
God said, "Out on Highway 61"
............................................................
WHAT, EXACTLY, THE FUCK, IS AN OFFENCE OF CANNIBALISM?
I could write
reams on the subject of Sawney Bean, the infamous 15th century head
of a cave-dwelling Scottish cannibal clan responsible, it is said, for
the murders and eating of over a thousand souls.
Such
contemporary cannibalism as I have read of, however, seems to be
practised not by Jock, not yet, anyway, we must await the impact of Ms
Gnasher Sturgeon on our national appetites but by Herman the German
and sometimes his Swiss neighbours. Herman, being civilised and polite,
engages in consensual cannibalism, issuing invitations to potential,
voluntary ediblees in specialist magazines and websites. There was a
case a few years back, of one Herman, Meiwes, who advertised his wish to remove, lightly
season and eat another man's penis, advertising on the internet in March 2001 for a "young, well-built man, who wanted to be eaten". Mr Brandes responded and agreed to the cutting off of his penis, which Meiwes then fried for them both to eat. Brandes died of his injury. Meiwes then came to trial, by which time he had eaten a further 20 kilos of Brandes. Was this murder, manslaughter, suicide, assisting in suicide? There was no offence of cannibalism in Germany and during the trial it was alleged that there were 800 practicing German cannibals. Meiwes got life, after a prosecution appeal against a five year sentence. Seems there are some offences you can't consent to, even though they aren't offences.
Mr Ishmael's draft essays:
All this stuff about religions; drafted May, 2006
What, exactly, the fuck, is an offence of cannibalism? drafted 11/11/2014
14 comments:
Excellent piece Mrs I; and the kneeling copper had ginger hair! Perfect counterpoint with Mr I's piece on religion reminding us (as if we need it) of how truly insane the world - at least the Western world - has become. The virus has entered the brain.
BTW has it yet been revealed which part of the public purse paid for the wedding? As Mr I used to say: "shitting in our faces".
Yeah, it’s what we’ve always done, creating our gods and devouring each other. You’ve got to believe and you’ve got to eat, else you might just go mad....
Prob'ly paid for with something the family stole earlier, mr mike. Several centuries earlier.
mr bungalow bill, the belief at the heart of the Christian central act of worship - that the celebrant and participants eat their god, is extremely odd, and clearly places Christianity within an ancient tradition of ritual murder, which you would imagine is, in itself, sufficient reason to disestablish the Church of England and offer counselling to the adherents to all these sects.
Perhaps belief in royalty and the Divine Right of kings will also fade as Christianity, it's 3 gods and it's teeming multitude of saints, shuffles off to join the other worn-out gods on Mount Olympus or in Valhalla.
I'm not eating any of the royals, though, not even when sauteed in garlic and olive oil by Jamie - bish, bash, bosh, a Feast of Andrew. After all, mr ishmael was a vegetarian.
It is turning into a bit of a Horlicks this pandemic business. And I think that Mr BB is pretty much on the money - not for the first time, of course.
I suppose if everybody stands still and just pretends for a four month period that money comes from the fabled magic tree then it very probably does. The few who kept working - the Swedes and so on - will have some extra real cash to splash around while the rest of us must wait for our 4-month's pretend money to be inflationed away, cancelled and crossed out, reappraised, reclaculated, ring-fenced and Brexit-disguised.
Jamie Oliver, mrs i? Do have a care. That's wickedness, that is.
quantitative easing: definition -
the introduction of new money into the money supply by a central bank.
There you go, mr mongoose - it's a thing, dictionary definition and everything - you just invent some new money. 'course, you've got to be real clever to do it.
Have a care? Here's a Feast of Jamie:
https://mrishmael.blogspot.com/search?q=a+feast+of+jamie
Thanks, Mrs I. Seems like only yesterday I was reading the Feast of Jamie, so indelibly was it scorched into my memory cells. Its about that time I stopped dining out.
Priceless! Thank you.
The thing about QE, mrs i, as I am sure you have worked out, is that it takes us even further away from real value. We used to hand over bits of gold for our tucker. Then we handed over bits of paper printed by a bank and backed by bits of gold. Then we handed over bits of paper a proportion of which was backed by bits of gold. Now we show a computer a plastic card backed by a bank account within which resides electric money backed by the card-issuer saying Lord knows what.
It seems to me that QE is just an electric means of slackening the rigour with which people chase debt and increase the abandon with which they incur it. When Rishi's electric dosh is stopped, folk are going to find themselves in Tesco with no means of paying for their white-sliced.
I thank the good Lord once again that we are so ancient that we no longer have a mortgage to pay.
The problem with QE is its like a drug - addictive. Suits politicians as it seems painless, and lets then keep kicking the can down the road. The other side of the coin is low interest rates; necessary so QE can be afforded. This creates asset bubbles and promotes all manner of mal-investment and zombie companies. In the long run the result is a very poorly performing economy. And all hell of a bust, which will inevitably happen.
I read somewhere that 98% of the money in the UK is debt. I thought 98% ? nah…can’t be.
But when I look at the young folks these days. A young couple with two cars, a giant Wimpey that both are on a 50 year mortgage with so that they can live better than their parents did. No real money at the end of the month as it’s mostly debt servicing. Credit cards and whatnot. Wall sized TV and retro German sound system as well.
My old grandpa..never saw him in anything other than an old suit. No utility trousers, rigger boots or protective hi-vis like (To borrow from Mr Ishmael) all the gay builders have these days. Out the back digging up spuds n, neeps for the tea. Didn’t have two pennies to rub together. Never saw a banana in his life. My dad didn’t see one until he was 21.
I believe my dad was the first of his family to leave the council scheme and take on a mortgage. I remember getting pelters in the school playground from the boys still living in the schemes. Probably repeating what their parents were talking about. Our house isn’t paid for…the irony. That same lad in primary school now has the big Wimpey plus trimmings.
I see two societies in the UK today. Those who have savings to fall back on and those who will be chased for debt when the reset occurs.
I’ve often thought of taking the cash I have out and putting it under the bed. But how long before it’s useless as we’re practically cashless now.
I’m wondering if it’s economically saner just to spend any money on something of value rather than having it in a shitty 0.5 interest account.
Savers are fucked all ends up, Mr Doug Shoulders. The money magicians don't care but, of course, what is being corroded is good faith. Lose enough of that and you can only have tyranny. Some, though, apparently think that tyranny is bliss.
Beneath it all, the desire of oblivion runs, said Mr Larkin. No more freedom, no more fear, no sadness and pain. Just the comprehending, saving bosom of the State. Wrap up and enjoy.
"for" not "of" oblivion. Memory, like everything else, is failing. Cracking poem regardless.
The trick lies, mr doug shoulders, in ascertaining what is "something of value". And is that intrinsic or ascribed value? Two identical 3 bedroomed semis, one in London, one in Bradford, sell for preposterously different prices - and that is the consequence of ascribed value, which is massively inflated in London by the money-launderers. The intrinsic value - somewhere sound to live for self, spouse and two children, is completely irrelevant in the housing market. Fashion dictates the value of antique furniture. Fabulous pieces of Victorian furniture, especially wardrobes, are simply not wanted any more.
mr bungalow bill's money magicians simply invent more money - see tomorrow's Sunday Ishmael for some of his thoughts on money.
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