Sunday 23 August 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 23rd August 2020

mr verge suggested that you might enjoy the opportunity of  (re-) reading stanislav's Sunday Ishmael from August 2009. More fun is than the News.


Go down in garden, stopping to admire extra-terrestrial bastard up against wall;


can sometimes not sleep for worrying about this fucking thing - and many other abominations of life but never mind, is other story, and not suitable for Sunday Lifestyle feature with stanislav.

Carry-on down in garden and pull up rhubarb, is probably century old, hundred of fucking years, this bed of rhubarb and needs good rubdown with flamethrower but produces every year so never mind.

Once upon a time every bastard had rhubarb in back garden and chicken too but came the 1960s and George, Paul, John and that horrible stupid fucking bastard with the nose, luckiest moron alive and the idea of fucking rhubarb get flung out in street along with fabulous acoustic piano made of walnut and mahogany and ebony and smash to fuck with sledgehammer. Didn't matter that rhubarb was rich in anti-oxidant and fibre and jam can make and chutney, too and crumble, just by going down in garden; didn't matter that piano only needs tuning and new generation can learn magic of intervals and octaves; no, smash the bastard up, From Me To You.

Was one particular sonofafuckingbitch vandal on telly call Barry fucking Bucknell.

Ho, viewers, fed-up with that horrid old Victorian door made from nasty old pitch pine imported from North America, seasoned, planed and made into six fielded-panelled doors by proper joiners, whose hands now are coffin dust but their work remains proud testament ?

Well, in this programme I am going to show you how to cover the bastard up, hide all those planes and profiles and mouldings and figurings with some nice nasty hardboard. Because I am a fucking idiot, given license by the BBC, to destroy tradition and foment Ruin; worse than Clarkson, me, him off Top Gay. All you need is a pin hammer, a box of pins and the soul of a Philistine. You just pin this rubbish over the nice door, like this, bang-bang-bang. And then you just undercoat the nice hardboard that you've pinned all the way over the door and gloss it over with white gloss, or stylish purple. And Hey, Presto, you have a smooth, sleek Scandinavian-style door for the modern home. All sign of craft or organic material completely obscured, looks like a proper piece of shit, simply by following my easy to understand, fuck things up, instructions.

Next week, viewers, if you have one of those nasty old fire surrounds made from oak and marble and brass,

I will show you how to smash it out with a sledgehammer, plasterboard the fireplace and fit a nice Berry MagiCoal four-bar electric fire with living flame (a red bulb) all set off by a quality plywood surround. Just like the real thing, only rubbish.

Up until the Great War To Kill All The Cratfsmen, we made the best furniture in the world, beautiful, practical and durable, better, less finicky, less bulbous than in Holland, exquisitely jointed, not just fixed with bolts, as in France, better, more perfectly proportioned; a skilled workforce, nurtured by patriarchal employers like Maple & Co - the Cadburys of the furniture trade - and an abundance of fabulous timbers from throughout the Empire, together with a growing market among the new middle classes at home and the Empire civil servants abroad, saw the production of millions of items of household furniture made to a standard unimaginable today. That fucking chump, Bucknell and his producers, with his panel pins and his jigsaw, trashed that whole tradition; given his head he would have sanded and painted the Maple & Co despatch boxes over which Snotman and Flashman weekly fight their phoney war; few children now know anything but plastic, medium density fibreboard, nothing organic in their homes, nothing which took two hundred years to grow, years to be seasoned, nothing of Mother Earth but her detritus. Bucknell died a while back at 91 and all over the land we can see 19th century pine doors hanging, examine them for the closely-stitched pinholes around their edges, his legacy, some, at least, of his vandal-projects, retrieved, restored; much else, of timeless value, swept away, smashed, burned, Ruined, the useless, pestilential bastard. Ruin's servants are everywhere that bluster and gabshitery and pig ingnorance can earn a few mediaquid. No business like showbusiness is.

Rhubarb deprivation shit, though, and piano-smashing and vandalism and veneration of music hall acts like Beatles is just harbinger, very soon came domestic Ruin, poncy fucking architect living in Georgian Rectory in Herefordshire and councillor up to arse in masonic fiddle says, come my good inner-city fellows, is up in fucking sky for you, mates, and no more pesky rhubarb. Will smash with bulldozer old community, even though could preserve and fix up good with decent plumber installing new bathroom, go up in sky, instead, with no garden, is modern living, who needs garden and rhubarb and maybe chicken, anyway, apart from me of course who simply cannot function without few quiet private acres to help my creative process, darling. Is wholesale blitzkrieg assault on working-class community and support system and kinship network and corner shop and pub which has served since industrial revolution, just smash-up perfectly good house made from brick and timber and slate and substitute concrete shithouse, twenty stories high. You will love this shit, shoved up in the sky with people you never have seen and poxy underfloor heating you can’t afford. And just wait until the fucking lift breaks down, as it will.


Ceolmond was Mercian king in olden day, so will call sprawling, shitty, inhuman, alienating slum city in sky Ceolmond's Wood, or Chelmsley Wood, see, is urban shithole, but authentic name. Heritage is.

Anway, poor bastard up in sky has no fucking chance, can just watch property, property, property, as Penny and Sacha, young professionals, seek, as they say, to downsize from their riverside penthouse to a converted barn while retaining a small pied a terre in Chelsea, as you do, they only have three-quarters of a million and may have to raid Penny's father's pension fund in order to get just exactly what they want, they may have to make a few sacrifices to live the dream but they believe the barn conversion can be completed with great integrity and sit appropriately in the landscape, and thus the BBC feeds envy and resentment, heedless that braying fuckpigs like Penny and Sacha pour accelerant on the urban tinderbox that is, for many, HMP UK. Don't it make you wanna rock'n'roll, the BBC?

Never mind rhubarb patch, not even shed has got for hobby, poor bloke in skyhouse, his life may as well have been covered-over with hardboard, can get allotment but fucked off can be at a moment's notice from BigBrotherState of Comrade Snot if it is The Right Thing For The Country, TRTFTC being whatever mad mantra enters Snotman's diseased brain, brings fleeting comfort to his rank, heathen Godless sonofafuckingbitch soul, may Heaven blind his other eye and send fiery pox up his rectum, weeping warts to suppurate his foreskin and may legions of burning children haunt his guilty, Presbyterian slumbers, the horrible fucking bastard.

It's not just him, though, and his organised crime families, there has been gleeful participation in Ruin. In previous posts stanislav has mentioned the grammar school totalitarianistes nouvelle, they smile, and care like fuck and give to Oxfam but stomping over the faces of the poor they, too, wrought Ruin, they are, or were, senior this, chief that, directors of this and that - is an absolute forest of made-up titles for these bastards - or wannabees, which is worse; managing the poor on behalf of the rich, they delivered the working class into a place that the great egalitarian, Lord Prescott of CockOut, calls, in his sweet Nazi phraseology, the Underclass. Fit for nothing, lacking skill, trade or craft, clutching make-believe degrees in make believe subjects, the new bourgeoisie flocked to an expanding public sector and became the people their fathers fought, jobsworths, blind-eyeturners, mealymouthed lickspittles; the greediest, stupidest, idlest, most pampered generation in history, the fabled babyboomers. They're the ones to blame, not just Snotman or Blair or Thatcher, for Ruin. Togged-up in their jeans and trainers, old men and women, off to a Bruce Springsteen concert.

But the rhubarb runs away, here is method for bottled rhubarb.

Tools required

Kilner jar, is only couple of quid.

Big fuck off knife.


Some rhubarb,

Lots of sugar
Some vanilla stuff
Lots of cheap brandy.

Chop leaf from rhubarb with BFOK and put in compost bucket.
Chop stem in two and half centimetre chunk or however many is inches.

Can wash if fussy but going in oven is and boiling sugar.
Put Kilner Jar in oven at warm.
Pour lots of sugar in litre of water until saturated solution is and can't dissolve no more sugar, for fucks sake. Bring up to boil.
When Kilner jar is hot remove carefully from oven and put on trivet or some other heat-proof thing, otherwise burn ring makes on table.
Carefully fill-up jar with rhubarb, packing tightly as fuck and place visibly couple of star anis, doesn't matter about this, is all bollocks from WI.

Pour in cupful, maybe two if is for Christmas consumption, of cheap brandy, or even three; good measure, anyway, rhubarb cost fuck all and delicious pudding makes with brandy flavour and thick double cream. Can also add vanilla stuff but is not so important as cheap brandy and can forget about.

After ten or fifteen minutes and anyway before turns to caramel remove sugar syrup from stove being very careful because can roast bollocks off and no amount of cheap brandy will anaesthetise molten sugar-coated testicle, can drink whole litre bottle from Spar and still will scream like fucking banshee and upset dog, Buster, who ankle will bite and soon round kitchen running will be shouting like bastard, holding roasted, toffee-covered scrotum and trying to shake-off dog, Buster, and Mrs stan shouting is Don't hurt Buster, only little dog is and is upset to fuck by you doing shouting like mad bastard. Best to be very careful with syrup is.

Pour syrup into Kilner jar up to top and put back in oven at hot temperature and leave for thirty minutes, can go and do blog or something else and then come back and remove jar from oven with suitable testicle precaution, see above. At this time get oven glove or teatowel rag of death, filled with germs, and snap lids close with patented Kilner fastening and avoid getting fold of skin trap in between snap fastening

Is very very important that next bit is not done until jar is cooled down, after hour or two or is third degree burn and smirking lesbian paramedic. Pick up jar and turn upside down. If syrup doesn't piss out all over hands and up sleeve then is good bottling and put in sideboard until Midwinter or Christmas, whichever is best. If syrup does piss out is crap bottling and best is to eat immediately, only not just one bloke or terrible shits will have and be pissed at same time leading to terrible rectal consequence, million times worse than le posterieur flambee derive from macho Vindaloo-munching, but not so bad as molten sugar all over John Thomas and Henry Halls is. Worse possible thing is get hot sugar on marital meat and potatoes and run down garden screaming, chased by dog, Buster and get gobble up by man-eating plant and just lie inside being slowly digested and bollocks hurting like fuck and dog barking outside; fuck me, is nightmare world, this Sunday Supplement shit.

Once upon a time, as we started, all had rhubarb who wanted it, chickens, too, back-to-backs, between the wars semis, nearly everyone was or could easily be connected to Creation; they could touch it, all around their homes; pick it and eat it from their gardens; the architects and the planners made war on the poorest of them, cleansing them from their own neighbourhoods and putting them in concentration camps.

Later, Thatcher and her pinstripe spivs, Flouncy Heseltine and the rodent,Tebbit, sold-off what was not theirs, exchanging stolen properties for votes, devaluing completely the perfectly legitimate concept of social housing for rent and coincidentally creating what we now call sink estates, the people who missed her Ladyship's get-rich-quick boat now living in places which are a byword for bad. The Buildng Societies, too, no-one's to sell, managed to, somehow, and all were delivered to the kindly wisdom of shameless larcenists like Fred Goodwin, knighted for his goodness by Mr Snot, the pretend prime minister.

Among those too tardy or short-sighted to have bought stolen council houses, most were unable to enjoy the fruits of Snotman's No More Boom And Bust Borrowing Spree, either, and probably just watched, window-licking, desolate, abandoned and forsaken, the Underclass, Chavs; people with no rhubarb, much less Kilner jars, these are the forgotten, ignored monument to the great, post-war movers and shakers, the babybooming bastards.

What do we say to some child born unto us in this parentless wasteland of deprivation, as we mow our lawns and bottle our fruits, practice our twee, wee crafts, patting each other on the back for being green, frugal, prudent, trading tips and recipes ?

I know, what we say to them is, Look, Kid, if you work hard you can go to Oxbridge, too, just like Jack Straw's kid, on his own efforts. Or maybe you should just settle for an ASBO.

The word lifestyle is one of Consumerism's triumphs, isn't it, reeking of Epicurianism, discernment, Oh, fuck me, this doesn't suit my lifestyle, as though to arrive at our lifestyle we weigh and value against some supreme, quality benchmark our every purchase, rather than, as is often the case, just doing what's easiest; the lifestylist lives as though our base drives are measured by some consumer-chic Virtue, our shitty, frightened little lives actually a perfect haiku, each syllable a refined, harmonising coincidence of wants. Because you're worth it.

So the - on the face of it preposterously archaic - idea of bottling your own rhubarb is, at least, rebellion against buying somebody else's, because it suits your lifestyle. The Kilner jar is old stuff, tactile and beautiful, no micro-processors. If you can, try it, adapt it. It means that instead of, in mid-winter, buying imported sunshine from TESCO, we can unbottle some of our own, reclaiming from Ruin some of the skills and values despised and feared by Globacorp.

Wednesday 19 August 2020

Summer with stanislav, a memoir. Continued


Just discovered in the Drafts - the continuation of Summer with Stanislav. Now read on...

Summer with stanislav, a memoir. Continued

stanislav visitors have, come up in Scotland, best part of England, from Western Middle Lands.  Is old chum and Mrs but fuck me, is pain in bastard arse.  Drive down in stanislav lane ripping-up hedge with big fuck-off mobile home, not Winnebago or anything, just load of plywood and teak-effect plastic shoved inside big, noisy Citroen diesel van, banging and fucking clattering to wake the fucking dead, engine sound like someone shaking set of spanners inside biscuit tin – come in, mind your head, whoops, watch that step, look, looks like cupboard but press this handle and look...... is ok, work in a minute..... stick sometimes, have to take back to dealer and get fix, is only toothing trouble, three-piece suite and coffee table normally fold out from tiny little cupboard so guest and fellow campervanners can sit around in shorts, singing and having good time, like fucking Hitler Youth - cost forty fucking grand, honest, not invent, forty fucking grand, can buy stonking BMW and still stay in top jolly hotel for forty fucking grand and also not be driving about with shit cassette under feet.

Is call cassette but is shit bucket just as same.  stanislav plumber is but draw fucking line at driving around in mobile toilet and need airfield to turn around in bastard thing.  How would look in car crash, shit flying all over the shop and bog roll, only is not proper bog roll but that stuff, thin and cold, IZAL, good for fuck all, not even for wiping of arsehole which is supposed to be; every bastard with mobile home has IZAL toilet paper, only isn’t toilet paper but bad fucking joke, like in Viz magazine, or Jeyes, sometime is Jeyes but same old fucking rubbish is.  What for you have this fucking rubbish? Is bad enough  take dump in van like fucking savage but then can’t even wipe rusty sheriff badge clean but instead smear shit all over bottom, like Jock,  or finger go through and get all filthied-up with spread-out bit of shit, better would be with handful of grass from roadside and never mind IZAL trick bogroll.  Manufacturer of IZAL is rolling about on floor, laughing off bollocks at mobile home driver and boy scout. Fucking stuff medicated is called, IZAL Medicated, like arse and fingers and underpant covered in shit is some kind of medicated.

Is all to do with weight, says chum, like was fucking Apollo mission and not rust-before-your-eyes plumber van conversion, it’s lighter.  Lighter? Is fucking rubbish is what it is. Is better off not wipe arse at all and hope for best and have good half hour in bidet at home than fuck about with IZAL.  Can stay in Travelodge for nearly fuck all and take dog, Buster, and get breakfast…. Ah, but we were able to pull over by a lochside and smugly make a cup of smug tea and no milk because I am watching my cholesterol and I drink Redbush tea because I like to think that everytime I have a cuppa some money is going to those huge traditionally-built women in Botswanaland, even though it isn’t. So fucking what, is fucking Thermos flask in Tesco for fiver and not forty fucking grand. And not get disenfranchised in great arse-wiping  democracy of Life. 
And mould is growing all around windows, would be alright on narrow boat down canal with old codgers in waistcoat and moleskin trouser and kerchief round fucking neck, like cunt, walk upside-down through fucking tunnel and stop at Black Country pub like was Fred fucking Dibnah and eat faggot and fucking pea, mould is quite decorative but rubbish all the same, never get mould growing on BMW.  And can sleep, reclined,  in   shiny black Seven series bought for a few grand and park near public toilet - only not in Wales or anywhere is lorry drivers, could solve all murder or nearly all, apart from people killed by constabulary in split-second, life-saving, empty-magazine-in-skull decision, just by putting all lorry driver in fucking Dartmoor, just round the bastards up, especially those cunts in ties, lorry driver in fucking tie,  who ever heard of such shit, needs quick rub-down with housebrick, fucking bastards, "wear this fucking tie under your brown overalls and salute every bastard who look in your cab". Best is to go in fucking hotel with four stars on,  like Christian and not sleep in smelly old van like Pikey. Maybe Pikey is Christian but act even less like Christian than proper Christian, like Presbyterian nutter in Downing Street, horrible fucking bastard.   stanislav have many disagreeable encounter with Pikey and is unfailingly bastard and put in jail should be. Is only any good for go and live next door to Tessa fucking Jowell and burn tyres in field. Get Pikey come and do tarmac in plumbing yard once and fuck me was like surface of fucking moon. Is rude, ignorant, thieving, cheating, smelly useless bastard and sonoffuckingbitch, every single one has ever met is nasty arsehole, is not prejudice, is what clever bastard call empiricism, never in whole life has met Pikey was good for fuck all - And also in Beemer  can go up motorway at hundred and twenty miles an hour  at 500 rpm and not trundle along at sixty with engine banging and shit bucket slopping everywhere and exhaust fume pouring in. Fucking rubbish. Can buy eight good BMW for cost of smelly old van falling to bits and never in a hundred years work right; wiring is always wrong, turn on tap and hazard lights flash, fridge is always fucked, cooker only fucking work on fucking Wednesday, never mind,  can get fish and chip,  and eat in van, all relaxed, maybe with door open and swarm of midge sucking blood from fucking body and transfusion will need from nearest hospital a hundred fucking miles away, and if shunt has fucking thing falls apart like was made by life-sentence prisoner out of  Swan Vestas and blow away down fucking motorway in splinter and bits of shit plastic and gay crewcut Motorway Old Bill in hi-vis jacket stand smirking, looking to make arrest, because all copper is bastard, right?  as if forty grand blowing  away down Southbound M6 is not enough shit for one day. Allo allo allo, sir, what's all this not here then ? Can’t stand-up and walk about in BMW but can’t stand-up and walk about in camper van, either, only after  fashion  - stoop over, just right to get slip fucking disc and scream like bastard and wind up with blue badge on car and every bastard saying You ain’t disabled, disabled people no legs has, look, you legs has got, is fucking cheat and steal my parking space, I could go in there  - or if is dwarf, like Hazel Blears, can jump up and down in campervan. But no use is to normal-size person.  Fred West had fucking camper van and look at him, spent his spare time chopping people up, squeeze into box and bury under patio, like on Brookside. Fred was made mad  having to cope with life inside rubbish camper van, driving round Forest of fucking Dean, banging fucking head and choking on shit fumes and pots and pans falling out from cupboard every time is a bend, no fucking wonder was serial killer.  Was very nice bloke by all accounts, apart from being raving lunatic and him and Rose killing people, mainly children. Bit like Tony and Imelda, only not so accomplished.

Retirement, something happens and every bastard wants to sleep in van at lochside, is like Candice Marie and Keith, from Nut in May, pair of stupid, fucked-up, calorie-counting, bird-watching, shitbrain useless mouthy bastard, only on wheels, Look at Us, here we are in our camper van, Silver FoxesRus.  Can’t change fucking fuse at home and have to become best friends for life  with builder and electrician and Godfather to all their horrible bastards or else house fall down but see a camper van and metamorphose into capable, derring fucking do Kings From Wild Frontier.

Often see iron-muscled, greyhair German lesbian professors riding round High Jocklands, crying, on big, farty Harley-Davidsons and that’s OK, apart from being Dykes and Hermans, of course. Always seem to be crying over some lost Helga, I giff her all zat money und pussy-munching und still she haf run away mit filthy man, Donner und Blitzen, mit nasty cock und balls, ze dirty bitch, how I loved mein Helga und zis how she treat me is, I vill ride up to John of Groat and drive into ze Pentland Firth und drown, or maybe I vill go back in Stuttgart und check-out zat little minx,  Heidi, mit ze pigtails. And is other band of nutters who jump on bicycle and pedal like demented hobgoblin speedfreaks  up  highest roads in the country shouting Gimme A Fucking Heart Attack, I Can’t Stand Being A Teacher For Another Twenty Years! Is fucking rubbish, driving in High Jockland in Summertime. Road is rubbish at best of time but filled-up with Herman lesbian Hells Angel and  demented lunatic nutter on bikes and smug bastard in camper vans is like something off Prisoner programme with Patrick McGoohan, dead now, of course, but was nearly a hundred and so never mind. I’ll be seeing you. But not for a very, very long time.

These two are old friends otherwise should have said when they arrive, OK van is so good, sleep in fucking van and not come in stanislav gaff with proper toilet and bathroom and quadruple thickness Andrex bogroll and bed made from treewood with sheet and pillow made of Egyptian fucking cotton from Mark and Spencer and not made from Jap wipe-clean fucking plastic, like in van and Mr not have to go and stumble round in dark, thistly wilderness while Mrs takes dump in van and vice versa, look, is toilet each, both can go and dump, and not in fucking bedroom.  Joined together in holy deadlock is all very well but is only for sick and health and rich or poor and not for content of bowels, unless, of course, is Liberal Democrat.

stanislav and Mrs stay in hotel often and is always en fucking suite arrangement, as though having shithouse in bedroom was great idea and height of civilisation and everything and get extra stars off extortionist bastard at JockTourist Board and AA, as though ancestors come crawling out from sea and into cave and up fucking tree and across plain and make tools and farming and Internet just so’s can have shit in bedroom, fuck me, was better off in fucking ocean at least can swim away from turd and not have to pretend is no smell. Oh, fuck me, visitors, this is the Executive Master Bedroom, look, has fitted wardrobe and matching bedside table all made from best compressed Executive cardboard to match and tone-in with the one-inch skirting board, and this, this little plywood cupboard over here, in the corner, this is the shithouse, opening right up into the bedroom, it is a miserable stinky little shithouse but we call it the Ahn Sweet, windows? no, fuck me, it doesn't have any windows.  But it has an automatic six-volt extraction fan which sometimes works but not very well. Soundproof? No, not really, the Mrs and I just love to lie here listening to each other farting and splashing and splattering away, it's quite romantic really, especially after a night on the Vindaloo and we both have a case of le posterieur flambee and it sounds like the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra is rehearsing in there. We call it a pebble-dashing moment. Quite romantic.  Clean my teeth ? Course I clean my teeth.  And yes, I do keep my toothbrush in the Ahn  Sweet shithouse. What of it?

But Mrs and stan would rather have third degree constipation than use ensuite for anything else but having shower in, and maybe steal towel or two. Is easy to go down to shithouse in bar or dining room and not stink-up bedroom which is bad enough, anyway, with dog, Buster, is old boy now and sometimes stink like rotten hedgehog although since several hundred pound of VetBastardUlike dental work is not so bad, or only from one end anyway.  Can never understand why anybody would think that combine shithouse and bedroom is good idea. But is better than ensuite camper van. Imagine, on some lonely mountainside, is in pitch black and hubby goes for walk with dog, so Mrs can dump in private and comes back and find Mrs sat outside van in gale and is saying Would give it half of fucking hour, darling,  before going in there is.

But it wasn’t just the van. Fuck me, no.

To be continued........

Anyway, bad from fucking worse is gone to. This year is outbreak of SilverFox Hell Angel lunacy. Is not just poxy shit van clogging-up on fucking motorway and can’t even stop in layby because of too many smug  old bastards sitting  at table outside van, drinking FairfuckingTrade cuppa, not too strong and made with  pissmilk and handful of sweetener for heart and horrid old legs all fucked-up with varicose veins and every bastard can see because of shorts, even though brass bollocks would freeze-off from monkey, up here in Scotland, best part of England, Is fucking nuisance, vanhome driver, no fucker wants to see countryside all fucked up with horror show of pasty old bastard sunbathing in fucking public  and probably pile has got, too, all around arsehole, and maybe hanging-out, from sitting outside in short and fucking gale blowing is up arse from Arctic fucking Circle and mean tight-fisting use of Izal joke bogroll but isn’t roll but leaves of piss-thin hard shiny so-call toiletpaper and good for fuck all is and not only hand goes through and covered-up in shit is but fucking watertap in van not working as usual is and no matter what vanman does, is standing with cheeks of arse as far apart as possible is, which is not very much, and keeping shitfinger hand up in air and trying hard not to do breathing-in and  stomping on little foot switch to make water come and at least can wash fucking shit off from hand but instead  of water coming from tap fucking hazard light  coming on is instead. And radio. Is Radio Scotland and, believe stanislav,  is worst noise since beginning of time and big fucking bang. Radio Scotland is all run by homo, in skirt, call Jamie and Fergus and Donald and just dreadful noise is of bagpipe, fuck me, sounds like massacre in cat sanctuary, run by mad  old lady who is dead in living room from hypothermia from  spending all money on Kit-E-Kat and cruel, wicked bastard at Scottish  fucking Gas has cut off power and local nutter with chainsaw bought from car boot sale  has seize golden opportunity and  old lady’s assorted cats disembowlered is being, one at a time, by giggling nutter, Here, Kitty-Kitty, Here Kitty- Kitty so even cats not actually being mutilated to death is all freaked out and screeching and climbing up cage walls, Radio Scotland bagpipe concert is worse than massive cat massacre.  And then is worse, is fucking Jock Polka music, play on wheezy old accordion,  made from shiny tin and plastic and sacking and hundreds of fucking keys and buttons so many that playing it must hit and fucking miss be, sounds like it, anyway, is like Oompah band from Black Forest, but backwards. And is for decrepit old Jock  in wig and false tooth and skirt to seduce old lady Jock down in Clackmacfuckery Village Hall and feel-up have of her bony old arse before the bus comes to take him back to the old Jocks’ home. The one with the Polish nurses. And would ye be doin’ me the honour of having the next Polka with me, Jings, but you’re a right bonny lass, indeed y’are, he leers, at a spindle-thin, one foot in the grave,  eighty year old,  the dirty filthy old bastard, Bagpipe, fiddle and accordion Polka music.  Is Radio Scotland music, hour after fucking hour, is worse than Hell. Anyway hazard light flashing off and on, is nightmare noise from radio, and  can’t wash hand or wipe arse  and  better off dead would be, or at very least in fucking prison where vanmadness  opportunity is minimal, so bloke has to go outside with shorts round ankle and grab handful of grass and wipe arse and fingers like fucking savage is and fucking van cost forty fucking grand and every bastard knows that grass up arse is primary cause of pile, especially when is  not even fucking grass but fucking thistle. And people going past in proper car all shouting and hooting is, Look, silly old bastard, sticking thistle up arse, must demented be, maybe is Terry fucking Pratchett and suicide attempting is by anal lacerations off thistle, is fucking really mad, fuck me, don’t wanna get that dementia rubbish and run around like loony, with shorts round ankles  and  thistle and nettles up arse and shit on fingers.

 Best thing in situation like this is stick shitty fingers in ground as if shovel was and keep on stabbing in ground until has hand covered in just dirt and not shit and can touch clothing, then is to remove short and use y-front underpant to wipe off arse and when no-one passing is in proper car, throwaway  in hedge,  only not where dog, Jasper, can go and pull out and start to eat and maybe get Y-front stuck over head and normal bastard, going past in proper car is on mobile phone to cop and RSPCA,  Allo? Allo? ….Is polis? Right… SeeYouJimmy?.....   Is fucking pervert here, on A9,  and dog has got head in underpants and poo….  Nah, is not skidmark,……is proper poo…dunno…..might be dogpoo…but might be yuman poo…bloke looks like fucking nutter and thistle has sticking out from arse…I know….all sorts takes,….but fuck me, Jesus….and shit has got all over hand….no….is not car………van is….with awning and elevating roof….no, is not Volkswagen… Hobbyhome….no…straightup….is call Hobbyhome, Yeah, is plumbervan, all filled up with plywood furniture and things that don’t work. Better come and arrest him,  aye, before he starts sticking yon fucking thistles up the puir wee  dog’s ….Aye, English by the look of him.

But the main innovation  in vanworld this year, was the motor scooter, all tied-up on the back, clever, see, when you get to favoured lochside cup of smug tea position - assuming is space and not all occupy is by other  greyhair, varicose-vein, pile-smitten  SilverFox, Hell Angel, stupid old vanster - can just wrestle motorscooter off from van, is easy, really, not really heavy, just awkward, is all, could lift motorscooter up an down all day fucking long, no sweat.

What? Can ride motorbike with pile,  or several? Round arse? Oh, there's creams, and sprays, they're very good. Would want to be very fucking good, good like diamorphine  is, zonked from fucking mind stanislav would want to be, riding motorbike with thistle-aggravated pile round arse on bumpy Jock road. Can go on S and M holiday, you know, even old bastards like you,  can dress-up in leather and rubber and plastic and some bastard can smack arse with thistle and no danger is of falling-off from motorbike, probably even have proper toilet in S and M hotel and not shit cassette, sliding about, under driving seat;  is much easier than this shit and not cost forty grand and then ten grand for motor scooter  to tie on back. No, it's cool really, we just drive where we wanna be and then go off and explore,  on the bike. Like in Easy Rider. And you know what happened to them, innit? No, bike on back of grossed-out plumbervan with inoperating integral sanitation and plywood furniture and trick toilet paper, is all bollocks.

Is brilliant new solution and little cost is to LibDem planet of Future and billion of  horrible little LibDem grandchildren, for whom selfish, smelly old pensioner must now freeze to fucking death and starve, both all at same fucking time. SmartCar can fix-up on back of Campervan, with A-frame, lots of people do and go off in Portugal, maybe  help give with  search for  McCannBastards child, has to be out there somewhere, that's what  Gerry and Cilla say. And they should know. Doctors and everything. Wonder they was not here in UK,  to get blessing off Pope Noncio. And maybe few quid, out from poor box, expensive business, defending doctorvirtue.  But Smartcar on Campervan idea has one big flaw, would be better, especially for pile on arse, to just leave campervan at home, on the drive, blocking the neighbours' light, or maybe halfway on the drive and halfway on the pavement, so's the pushchairs and the old people have all the excitement of walking out in the road and maybe being killed or crippled just so's you can have a cheap, Andrex-free  holiday - Oh, they're magic, Ken and Yvonne,  they really don't mind the neighbourhood looking like a campsite, no, really, just a happy-go-lucky, park that fucking vehicular abortion right next to my front garden, go on, 'swhat good neighbours are for couple...What...lend them the campervan?  Ken and Yvonne? Well I would, of course, it's just the insurance....  - go on holiday in SmartCar and stay in  proper fucking hotel.