Gorgeous, pouting Sasha Swire has written a book. Apparently, she is Lady Swire, a title that is an affectation of Ruritania. As my dear departed dad - a Yorkshireman - would have said:
That one? Tha's no lady - Tha's no bettern' she should be
a puzzling phrase, which should be interpreted as condemnation of sexual incontinence. Apparently just bursting with barely contained sexuality, setting afire Oxbridge graduates with her looks, charm, sexual effrontery and perfume
(either typical journalistic exageration or a sad commentary on the totty available to Oxbridge graduates - okay, just taking my bitch for a walk), this book gaily breaches confidences and conventions and is designed to produce sufficient publicity to get the Lady's back catalogue of unpublished novels onto the printing presses. Enough of that - the interesting thing is that today on Broadcastimg House, gorgeous pouting Edwina Currie,
former mistress of former Prime Minister John Major and herself a diarist, was wheeled out to support the intelligence, probity, responsibility and general seriousness of the Conservatives, in particular her chum, David Cameron, who would never have been so inflamed by a Lady's perfume that he threatened to drag her into the bushes for the purposes of fragrant delight (or flagrante delicto, as we say in Court). Further, this David, a man of towering intellect, who, together with his Cabinet, could have earned mega-billions as City Bankers, which, of course, is their right, having attended the Right Schools and Universities, are so imbued with the spirit of Public Service, that they prefer to exist on relatively small MP's salaries in order to serve their country. Aye, right. It's all in that "relatively" word. £24,000 is the average salary for a care worker. An MP's salary is £81,932 plus allowances and expenses. The Prime Minister's salary is £158,754. Boris is reported as worrying about money, his salary having shrunk from £350,000, as he sacrificed his newspaper column and speaking arrangements to run the country at our time of national crisis. Gary Linekar, by the way, the crisp man, has a BBC salary of a mere £1.35 million.
Braodcasting House's Paddy O'Connell somehow slid Edwina onto the topic of Michael Gove and Boris Johnson. Delightfully, her opinion of the current Tory leadership? "They are two ducks off the back of which water will always slip."
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So, today we'll read mr ishmael's opinion of Gove and Johnson -
As for the cock-waving cokehead, bicycling BoJo, he simply trusts that his fourth-form bluster
will carry all before him - as it has, so far - and that the sclerotic,
redneck, masturbating horde at the Filth-O-Graph will annoint him Tory
leader anytime he feels like it, anytime he grows fed-up with his
part-time job as Mayor of Londonistan. He should, actually, read the
responses to his hugely lucrative schoolboy rants in the Filth-O-Graph,
where readers are cunt-calling him by a ratio of a hundred-to-one,
cursing his hanged-by-the-neck Turkish grand-dad, cursing his gobby dad
and calling Bojo, himself, an anti-British, foreign-devil wog, a
walking miscarriage who disgraces the office of Mayor, selling us out to
his bosses in Europastan. Anybody but Livingstone would've seen
BorisKen's vanity, of course, wouldn't be bicycling back, wobbling, to Rich
CokeHead Paradise. A fence post would've beaten BoJo; Livingstone,
however, was just ahead of him in the
Oh-fer-fucks-sake-not-this-cunt-again stakes. Ken's vanity, of course,
was insurmountable; had he been concerned more with keeping Boris out
than he was with getting Ken in he would've stood down, in favour of the
fence post, or a paving slab; typically, what used to be the Labour
Party, a gang of warring shitbags, was too frightened to tackle
Livingstone. And now BoJo, the man Labour should've beaten, wants to be
prime minister. I read somewhere that we are two heartbeats away from
having White Powders Johnson as prime minister and Harry Ginger as
King. Would that make shit any worse than it already is? Probably, I
suppose; things always get worse.
GOVE CAMPAIGN PLEDGE
Author of the Bible, former education supremo, Murdoch slag and submissive gimp, Michael Spit, has vowed massive reform if he and his Tory masters are returned to power. With my master, the prime minister's permission, we will put an end to cabinet ministers' wives not being able to read and write by the age of fifty, said Mr Spit. It is simply not good enough, in the twenty-first century, for cabinet ministers to be married to cabinet ministers' wives who can't string together a fucking sentence, even for the readership of the Daily fucking Mail,
is it, fatso?
Speaking at the Toby Young Free Scool for the brats of greedy, pushy arsehole parents.
Tory pin-up and Gove praise-singer struts his stuff.
My children are rather special, like myself, really; that's why the govament takes money from ordinary schools, for ordinary children, and gives it to mine, and other ghastly spoiled brats.
One nation Toryism, we call it.
LONG AGO I HEARD SOMEONE SAY SOMETHING ABOUT EVERYMAN
SPITTING STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
I
used to watch Micky Gove, Oh, I think it may have been in the last
century; before he was an MP he did a late-night discussion show with
people's Tribune, Dame Polyp Toynbee of Majorca. It was called a
discussion show, between so-called Left and so-called Right but it was a
rant, Gove, visibly entranced by the sound of his own voice, captivated
by the erudition, conviction and persuasion of his arguments - generally
on the delights of usury and the unregulated market - couldn't stop
himself, Yes, I know Polly, but it is very important that I finish this
point which, I assure you, will deal, rather more than adequately, with
the one you are hinting at and which will, I am confident, demonstrate,
even to you, that the bankruptcy, indeed the vacuity of your position
is indicative of the failure of intellectual rigour of those on what we
call the Left but which is in fact something entirely different,
something truly iniquitous and as a matter of fact much more ignoble
even than that archaic and oppressive denial of the human spirit which
characterises all attempts at a state-regulated economy, such as those
of Chairman Mao Tse Tung or the successive elderly oligarchs in the
Soviet Praesideum, now defunct thanks to Mrs Thatcher's far-sighted and
valiant demolition of the Berlin Wall but as even Marx himself said, many are cold but few are frozen and it is only radical, radical but
compassionate, compassionate but determinedly free market economics
mediated by the truly and precisely calibrated compassionate
conservatism which offers not just this country but indeed, if I may so
boldly vouchsafe, the whole, polyglot tide of humanity the opportunity
to ameliorate its ills and reach its true potential. But forgive me the
digression, Polly, and to return to the properly intended burden of my
subject.......
I
used to sit open-mouthed, watching Gove; he simply wouldn't allow
Toynbee a word in-edgeways; he was a bizarrely seeming-courteous
gabshite, a pseudo-polite bully who spoke so fervently that the spit
gathered in the corners of his mouth, a site which must have distressed
any who witnessed it - those people who now, these days, I guess, sit
glued, ashamed of themselves, to the sneery, torpid ennui of Andy Neil
and his bumsuckers, Portillo and Co. I found myself doing it for a
moment last night, until I realised that I was watching and listening to
the cultural and ethical desert which is called Alan Johnson. God help
his poor, errant wife, faced with a lifetime of evenings spent with this
smug, empty-headed, semi-literate hypocrite, rehearsing his wasteland
repertoire of gossip, spite and IKnowBestism. Christ, you would
forgive her infidelity with the entire Metropolitan Police Force,
wouldn't you, the maddest Sharia court in the world would order Alan
Johnson stoned, not his poor Mrs. There is, among my generation,
anyway, a dark appetite for a late-night, political junky fix but like
smoking and drinking and meat-eating it is an appetite which grows
duller the more it is fed. I don't think the NewPeople have it at all.
It afflicts just we lonesome insomniacs, up all night, leaning on the
windowsill, muttering.
For
most of my life I have staunchly advocated the rights of people to fuck
and fondle
as they choose or are impelled to do by events and influences far beyond
their ken. Life is brief and hard enough without having lawnforcement
in the bedroom, I've always thought, just as long as people are acting
within whatever is the
current law.
I am mindful that such a posture can be seen as endorsing
an over-reach of the criminal law, already pernicious and invasive, and
that the NewPeople urge us to assume goodness on the part of all and
leave people to do as they please; there is, however, a host of reasons
for us policing sexual conduct and behaviours, we need only look to the Harriet Harman
paedophile scandal, a time in recent memory when cynical men found -
were given - opportunity to romanticise and dignify cruel perversion, to
bring it under the Rights banner, to have its cause championed by a
squalid elite, that there should have been permitted to exist an
organisation called the Paedophile Information Exchange is now almost
unbelieveable - but that it now seems monstrous is not due to legislators,
some - at least some - of whom were and remain fellow-travellers but to
victims and campaigners on their behalf; Harriet Harman, Patricia
Hewitt, then head of what was grandly-titled the National Council for Civil Liberties
- later Ms Chakrawotsit's Liberty - would both have seen all the
children buggered, the ghastly, hideous Leon Brittan would lose the evidence;
Margaret Thatcher and the Prince of Wales would cuddle the
perpetrators; the Churches would - and still do - protect the culprit
and slander the victim.
I
mention this recent, mind-boggling, national, institutionalised
criminality
because that's what I voted against, the other day.(2016 EU referendum) I voted against
Filth, historical and current; so, too, I suspect, did millions of
others. From over-censorious hypocrisy, from police entrapment,
blackmail and queer-bashing we have moved, in a generation, almost
full-circle, to a sustained, vengeful attack on heterosexuality,
marriage and the family - never as ideal as protrayed, of course, but
comforting and rewarding for many, sacred for some and conducive to a
progressive, rights-based society, to self-sacrifice, self-denial and
co-operation. Now we see men, dressed as nuns, brandishing dildos on
the streets and call it Pride. I simply cannot abide all that fag
women-hating that goes on in the name of Freedom, nor will I ever,
purely on rational grounds, call man woman
I
don't give a fuck about Europe, I rarely go and even when I do I live
in a land where I am no longer citizen but citizen-suspect and so my
travel to anywhere is an ordeal of suspicion and bullying and
hostility at the hands of yellow-jacketed, smirking, shiny-headed
unemployables, minimum-waged stormtroopers, insufficiently bright to be
police constables or prison officers, drowning me in halitosis whilst
they manhandle me within a millimetre of an explosive punch. Oh but mr
ishmael, it's for security. No, it fucking isn't, don't be stupid;
jailing Tony Blair and George Dubya Chimp, that would do something for
security. They must love this, those who jet around,unhassled, above
our daily humiliation. In or out of Europe my masters presume me
guilty of
something, to keep me in my place. Well, me and seventeen million
others, we just found them guilty, in return.
The
same people - the Harmans, the Straws - those who embraced the
Paedophile Information Exchange - now make not just my person suspect
but my thoughts, too. Be it Jacqui Schmidt or Tracey May, Satan's
cocksuckers demand that I relinquish
my privacy to them, my thoughts, my correspondence, only that they might
protect me. The same people who
nourished alien child-grooming gangs, people like Mr Jack
Bribes'n'Torture and Mr Dennis the Crook McShane and the contemptible
Nick Clegg; call me reactionary
and ill-informed, insist that if I have nothing to hide I have nothing
to fear; the truth is that I have plenty to hide - what's that old,
bardic line, If my thought dreams could be seen they'd probably put my
head in a guillotine - and I will hide it the better outside of an
inquisitorial EuroPolice state, all of its teeming magistrates able to
instigate my arrest and rendition and imprisonment. I voted against
that, too; who, in their right mind wouldn't?
I
don't give a fuck about trade, either. I know about trade, I have
traded, I know how to make a profit; people will do it, they always
have, when its prohibited, for fuck's sake, people smuggle. People
want goods and services, other people want to provide them, in that
process value is added, taxation raised, services provided. If the
Sultans of Brussels restrict UK trade with member states, if they impede
the exporting of BMWs to the UK, they'll be hung from the lamp posts,
their balls in their mouths.
Here's
a thought. I will change my car in a few months and have been
considering a BMW 3 series Touring, a C Class Mercedes Wagon, an Audi
Avant estate and a Volvo SUV. Now, no, seriously, now I will go for a
Mazda, a Nissan or a Honda, maybe a Ford. Fuck 'em, the Europeans, as
individuals we should sanction them.
Trade
is civilisation, now unelected bureaucrats and buffoons like Obama
sternly threaten that very civilisation, threaten livelihoods and public
services, cheeky cunts. Obama can't stop hundreds of tonnes of cocaine
being shipped-in to America's rich, thousands of tonnes of hash coming
over the border or being grown at home, can't restrict Americans'
fondness for self-massacre, can't even close a torture camp in his
jurisdiction and yet the useless impertinent nincompoop wants to
punish somebody who makes widgets in West Bromwich;
somebody should punch him in his stupid, stuttering gob, kick his
scrawny arse up and down Pennsylvania Avenue. I voted against Obama,
the other day, too.
I
recently read a comment thread in the Guardian, about fragrance,
they didn't call it fragrance, just perfumes and deodorant. The
NewPeople, it seems, are incensed by perfumes on the tube, in which,
daily, they go about their angry lives. It's gonna kill them all, they
say, people wearing scent. It should be made illegal. Walking through
airport perfume retailers just quite ruins their experience. They
really were raging and drooling. (Me, I try them all, at the airport, I
love fragrances, light ones, heavy ones. I like the good, old ones the
most - Chanel, Guerlain, Dior - but I like some of the newer ones, too,
Calvin Klein and Boss, all the various Obsessions and Poisons, quite
makes my journey, it does, once I have been police-stated airside, sniffing and testing nice smells. Not so these joyless,
prohibitive bastards who read the Guardian, y'know, thinking it still is
the Guardian.)
Recently,
in Aberdeen Hospital, an older, lady
phlebologist came to take a blood sample, I knew her of old, I think she
may be a bit deaf, has a minor speech impediment, like deaf people
sometimes do, not quite fully making her words, and I really, really
like her. Gosh, I said, tentatively,
that perfume's nice, what is it? She laughed to herself and
eventually said - It's one of my husband's aftershaves, it's an
expensive one, but he doesn't like it, doesn't wear it, so I do. It's
alright for pushing this trolley up and down hospital corridors. I
laughed out-loud, saying, that's the sorta thing I'd do, too, and it
is. Although I have lots of good stuff I very rarely wear any man
cologne, coupla times a year, maybe, that's it, charity shop'll get an
olfactory
bonanza when I die, but I always like it when I do, nothing erotic
about it, nothing seductive, I just like the smell, and the craft of the
parfumier, lifts me up where I belong and if I'm there when mrs ishmael
is putting some on I may have a dab on my
wrists, sniff it, through the day. Guardian readers, by a hundred to
one, want perfumes banned in public places, their train journeys are
made miserable by scent. Now, if I had to travel daily on one of those
fucking diabolical subterranean cattle trains beloved of BoJo and Kahn
the Kunt
then other people's perfumes would be way down my list of grievances,
overcrowding, unreliability, safety and cost being of much more concern.
I
am nowhere near as clever as the average Guardian reader, even so, I am
hundreds of miles from the nearest subway train system and if people
can't stand the trains they should move to the country and live off
their wits, only they haven't got any and thus, witless, prefer to find
something which others enjoy and prohibit it. I voted against the
Guardian, too, the other day, too, anyone who writes for it, anyone who
supports it by occasional purchase or by subscription. Polly Toynbee, defender of the poor?
Gimme fucking strength.
Something
happened, with the post-war expansion of the public sector and the
upsurge of grammar school alumni rising through its ranks. People who
had virtually no trade skills and none of the wit derived from
scratching a living in the real world found themselves in positions from
which they could decide what was best for others and lecture them
accordingly, others such as tenants, passengers, patients, pupils and
customers. It was the dawn of I-Know-Bestism, now a ruinous plague.
But
I didn't come to talk about the Eurendum. mr bob doney offered his
thanks for the endless commentary, here, of discouragement to our
enemies and I thought I should say something about that because,
inasmuch as my opinion matters more than another's - which it doesn't -
that is not how I see it, this cyber streetcorner.
mr tdg sometimes obliquely challenges my assertions about and support for the people. Worlds, he reminds us, they rise and fall, this is all a speck in Time's eye; art, thought and culture, that
is the stuff which matters, not tribal squabbles over who bestrides the
dungheap, the people, should not be my preoccupation and I am rightly reproved, even though I do hymn, often,
those other things.
What the people want,
according to any objective analysis of how Want is expressed and
satisfied, is tat and pornography, bling and boobs; the best-selling
newspaper in the country succeeded because of its daily portrayal of
teenage tits, the younger the better, and lies, filthy, disgusting lies,
about everything, not just about Hillsbro. Rupert Murdoch and his
McKenzie sluts - Trevor Kavanagh, Larry Lamb, Adam Lard, Kay Burley,
Toilets Maguire, Andrew Pierce, Cameron's playmates, Jerry Clarkson and
Bekkah Brooks and notably the redneck playboy ancien,
Andy Neil, have grotesquely disfigured the nation, coarsened the public discourse,
corrupted the police and ensnared the legislature. All this happened,
though, because of and not despite the people, whose rights we
have sought to strengthen and protect. Why do we bother, why do we
celebrate the Eurendum result when, tomorrow, those who voted for
departure would also vote for hanging, for castration, will genuflect
before some braindead, crooked bullyboy foreign football manager?
Well,
my
response to my episodic self-scourging is to remind myself that things,
for Everyman, at home and abroad, have grown much better than they were
when I was born - people live longer and in greater comfort, the
opportunities for self-improvement are staggering, that is even said to
be the case in those parts of the world which we used to call Third;
maybe the urge to hang people will diminish as a result of wider access
to information but I don't know how a referendum on capital punishment
would pan-out, held tomorrow; maybe we would need the Europhiles to
prevent us breaking, again, the necks of the guilty and the innocent.
I
am fairly sure that among my fellow-leavers will be a significant
number who consider their children their best friends, luv'em2bits,
woulddoennyfin4'em, read the Sun, hate and fear Otherness and are
generally completely worthless arseholes, a waste of oxygen, a
pollution. I am cautious about the idea of family, even, its cruel
wastelands; I feel absolutely no kinship, fellowship or comradeship
with other Leavers, present company excepted, not exactly a Man of the
People, me; the idea of the people, though, that's another thing entirely and I am overjoyed at the idea that
large numbers of people, finally given the opportunity, have, acting
collectively, ignoring their traditional masters, upset Greed's
applecart, flung a spanner in Vice's works, put a fly in Ambition's
ointment and generally pissed on Order's brogues. It is a delight to me,
the idea of Everyman; he doesn't have to exist.
I
take everyone's strictures, here, to heart, no point in coming,
otherwise; I am grateful, content to be censured and reproved, amended
and corrected and so I can embrace the suggestion that the people
are not as I idealise them. This is not, therefore, the endless
commentary of discouragement noted by mr bob doney, rather, it is as
much an enquiry as a polemic
The people, therefore, their rights and needs, it is, all of it, a moot point.
There
was a headline, from the Guardian, appeared, somehow, on my screen:
"Why your pet doesn't love you, but is just trapped by you." It was red
mist time, again. I didn't read it.
.........................................................................................
Honest, Not Invent
The book is available as either paperback or hardback; we've had proof copies of both and the production quality is very good. Cover design is the same for both. 340 pages, each chapter dated in the list of contents; we have stanislav from as long ago as 2007, and some of the finest ishmael essays from the present blog. For now (there are still a few hoops to go through before it appears elsewhere, at the same price) the book is only available from lulu.com. No one's billing or delivery address, nor any payment info, will be available or disclosed to the creator of the book; all this is securely handled by the publishing platform. Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy should follow these steps:
Please register an account with them first. This will save you a couple of quid, as going straight into the links provided below seems to make paypal think it's ok to charge in dollars, and apply their own conversion rate, which will put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Honest, Not Invent" into the Lulu Bookstore search box. If you follow a link, a pop-up box asks for age confirmation - simply set the date to (say) 1 January 1960, and proceed. If you type the title, the anthology will not appear as a search result until the "show explicit content" box (found at the bottom left by scrolling down) has been checked. You may also see the age verification box, as above, at this point.
The full title is "Honest, Not Invent - the best of stanislav, a young polish plumber", and the cover you'll see is red with white titles and a picture of Buster the Blog Dog.
Link for Hard Back :
Link for Paper Back :
At checkout, try READ15 in the coupon box, which (for the moment) takes 15% off the price before postage. If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up. (ORDER10 might also work, for a 10% discount, if the 15% has expired.)
With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £14.35; HB £23.74.
Today's essays by mr ishmael are:
What the Papers say (an extract) - drafted 2/11/13
Gove Campaign Pledge - drafted 18/04/2015
Long Ago I heard someone say something about Everyman - drafted 6/08/16
