Massive Outbreak of Civil Disobedience in Scottish Universities.
Scotland attempts to lock up its student population in a bid to halt the wild-fire spread of coronavirus amongst the student population. Student accommodation provides a significant income source for Universities, in the region of £6000 per year per student for 12 students sharing kitchen and bathrooms in one apartment. Within days of students arriving at University, where their education would be delivered online, coronavirus outbreaks ensued. Students were instructed to self-isolate in their rooms, and not go home. They weren't keen, as a spokesperson said: " the whole point of going to University is to socialise, make friends and have sex. If I'd wanted to study, I'd have stayed home and enrolled with the Open University". Asked why the isolation time couldn't be used to catch up on pre-semester reading, the spokesperson said: "You're still missing the point, innit. I'm going home. At least I'll get fed there.
|Glasgow Hall of Residence|
Middle-class parents have driven to Halls of Residence in surprisingly large numbers to take darling Hamish and wee Fiona home. Others have made their own way to railway stations and airports. It's probably the end of the University system as we know it.
I had a new tumble dryer delivered the other day. The chap installing it had no sympathy for the student plight. "They wanted to go, didn't they? They should stay there and try reading a book."
Rigged up like a Ruritanian Christmas tree, a senior police person with a wholly unlikely name
|Look at the medals. Believe the medals. And the white braid thing. Just believe it.|
today promised a full and far-reaching cover- up into why a handcuffed man, under police arrest, was able to draw and shoot a gun - a gun, for fuck's sake, while handcuffed, kill the Custody Officer then inflict life-threatening injuries on himself. This is Britain. We're supposed to be able to keep our prisoners safe. Anyway, even as we speak, police officers are combing South London, searching for a plausible narrative. Look at the medals. Believe the medals. Dick was the officer in command of the operation which led to the fatal shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes, an innocent man who died in consequence of being riddled with bullets by officers under the mistaken impression he was someone else. Dick was cleared of personal blame in the subsequent criminal trial in 2007. In June 2009, she was promoted to the rank of assistant commissioner. We've covered this ground previously, but it never hurts to remember.
So Andrew Neil is off to pastures new, eh? The 71 year old broadcaster leaves the BBC after 25 years "with a heavy heart" , and, no doubt, a heavier wallet, to become chairman of the new TV channel, GB News which will launch early in the new year. How he will be missed. Here's mr ishmael's thoughts on Neil:
Andy Neil, who, as he constantly reminds us, went to grammar school and university before enabling Mr Murdoch's lifetime of corruption,
Nightey-night, don't let the anal-laryngitis bugs bite.
Ici les pauvres ils ne sont permittez pas,
For those whose viewing lives are, as yet, unblemished by his repetitive stuttering, Martin is a kind of secondary modern school Professor Brian Cox, everything is not, well, just amazing, rather, it is well, I'll go t'tfoot of ower stairs, whooda thought it, wind tunnels, eh, flamin' wind tunnels, whooda thought it, flamin' wind tunnels, justa test a flamin' bike - Mr Guy Martin, is the new go-fast celebrity, who just allus wanned to go faster, I allus wanned to go faster, allus wanned to go faster; an sez everthin' three times, sez everythin' three times, yeah, sez everythin' three times, jobsagoodun. I said, jobsagoodun, job done, like. Yeah, job done. Shouldn't mock his affliction but then he shouldn't go on t'telly, nah, shouldn't go t'telly, like, not if he dunt want people tekkin' t'piss', tekkin' t'piss; 'sall them doin, is tekkin' t'piss.
Martin's first TeeVee outing was with a mate, with a mate, like, he's me mate, an' a right good lad, and they were toddling around the Midlands canals, kinda like refurbicating the narrowboat as them went, like, as them went along, d'ya know warramean, like; doin' it up as them wen' along. They stopped underneath Spaghetti Junction, where them figgered-out how to make a shower, no, a proper Victorian one, so's them could get clean, and doing all t'weldin', weldin' an brazin', like, so the shower when it were made, were a pukka job, like, a pukka job, 'ot water comin' out, at right good pressure, right good pressure, aye, it were comin out at right good pressure, were the 'ot water. They stopped, too, in the Potteries, where, Martin learned, like, warra right clever fella, a right clever fella, were that bloke Jo-siyah Wedgewood. Right clever fella, he were, built t'canals an' all, so's he could get 'is pots to market, achelly built the flamin' canals, himself. he did
It was an entertaining device, an engineer naif, goin' round't place on a canal boat and staging little events, mechanical sideshows, to demonstrate how inventive were the Victorians, for those not already imbued with that knowledge by Professor Fred and dozens of others, and Martin's lack of presenters' artifice quite refreshing.
A little of that, however, goes a long way, and now I want to beat his grinning, idiot savant head against a wall and then run him over with a steam roller, scrape up his flattened corpse and throw it in a Bessemer Converter.
His second stab at telly greatness was when ChannelSnow followed him around the Isle of Man TT Races, where he reached nearly two hundred miles an hour on that frightful, deadman's course. He claimed to be self-funded, taking time out from his dayjob as a truck mechanic and being at odds with the race organisers up until the last moment. In this show the naivety seemed a bit far-fetched, a bit laboured, nobody quite as stupid as Martin claims to be could ride that course at that speed and despite his increasingly irritating gob, Martin
and all the TT riders show what a horrid ninny this bloke is
and this one
Uuuurgh, uuuurgh, doh, doh, doh, ohh, m'game this, doh doh, m'game that, .......uurgh.........uuuurgh.
Fucking repulsive, this prat.
and this one
Oh, yeah, well, I'm like changing my job and it's just such a national tragedy, for me but mainly for the fans, I just love 'em, ya knowharramean?
Autumn Reflection - mr ishmael 1/12/2014
The mice come in every Autumn; this is the countryside and no matter
what we do they come indoors. Professional mice eliminators say that we
must pay someone - someone like them - to mortar-up every external crack
and fissure; d'you know, they say, that a mouse can crawl through a
space the diameter of a Biro tube. And whatever, you are under siege
from them, even if your house is absolutely impregnable, we need to
come and mouse-proof the grounds, the paths, the lanes, the hedges. Oh,
just a coupla hundred pounds a year, the contract. Yeah, but it's
peace of mind, innit. And that's priceless.
I have never engaged these people, the pest controllers. I tried traps, one year, until I found a little mouse trapped by his mangled leg and had to take him outside and crush him with a rock. Another time I installed some of those ultra-sonic plugs, just plug 'em into a socket and they emit a high-frequency squeal which either kills or terrifies the mice. Worked for a while.
This year, they've been running around between the walls on three floors and so we put the bait down everywhere. We have smelt decaying bodies for some time and assumed them all dead, the poison, we understood, was pretty quick. Only it's not.
Today we had a leak, splashing down from the first floor and when the plumber came he showed me these push-on, plastic corner-joints which he had found in the central heating pipes.
What happens, he said, is that the mice take the poison and are driven mad with thirst and, hearing the water in the pipes, try to get some for themselves. Fair gave me the horrors, it did; poor little bastards. But then they're vermin, that's what they are, gotta get rid of 'em. I mean, it's just like the Jews, isn't it? Or is it, in Farageland, the Somalis, now, who have become our vermin?
Enough people called them vermin and then they were treated like
vermin. If they were pet mice or creative, artistic Jews, well that'd
be different, wouldn't it?
Mr ishmael's essays today are:
Arse to Mouth Disease strikes Greatest Living Journalist Published 23rd November 2016
Biker News drafted 8th June 2015
Autumn Reflection drafted 1st December 2014