Sunday 25 October 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 25th October 2020

 On his eponymous show this morning 

Andrew Marr attempted to rout Welsh Health Minister, Vaughan Gething, who was having none of it:  

 With respect, Andrew, he said, in his De'ath voice: Let's have absolute clarity here. There are two choices here: there will be a longer Firebreak or you will all have a very long fire break indeed:

The virus has not got tired, or frustrated, Andrew. It has not gone away. 61 deaths this week, up from last week, up and counting.
Let me put it to you, Minister, the swathes of plastic and crime scene tape across so-called non-essential items that the Welsh people are not allowed to buy in the supermarkets are going to come down on Monday, aren't they?
With respect, Andrew, let us achieve absolute clarity here. Books are not essential to the Welsh, leastways, not supermarket books, look you. I myself have a very short shelf of books and I like to keep them up high, out of reach, like, so as not to be tempted into reading them.

 Turning to my next guest, Dr. Tiny Anthony Fauci, the Director of the American National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, there is considerable scope here for practicing my refined bullying techniques.

Dr. Tiny Anthony, is it true that President Trump calls you Flip-Flop Fauci?
I have a very important job and I will not be drawn into this. We have 70,000 cases in a day and 1000 deaths.
What do you think of President Trump declaring that he's immune?

Put it this way: don't let President Trump kiss you.

 Any news on a vaccine?

There'll be a safe and effective vaccine by the end of November. However, the anti-science bias in America translates into an anti-vaccine movement. Americans won't take it because they don't trust authority.

That's enough Andrew Marr - Ed.

Sometimes, you just couldn't make it up - The New Yorker magazine has suspended one of its long-time staff writers, legal expert Jeffrey Toobin, while it investigates a report that he was allegedly masturbating during a Zoom work call earlier this month.

“I made an embarrassingly stupid mistake, believing I was off-camera,” You could say that. Ishmaelites, everywhere, should you wish to join the Me Toobin movement, wait for your next Zoom conference call and hold up a placard: Je suis un branleur.

Which segues us into news from France, where it is really ill advised to exercise freedom of expression:

Jeremie Breaud, we will cut your head off.
A week after schoolteacher Samuel Paty was decapitated by Abdoullakh Abouyedovich Anzorov, an 18-year-old Muslim avenging his victim’s use of caricatures of the Prophet Mohammad in a class on freedom of expression, Jeremie Breaud, the mayor of Bron, near Lyon, has also been threatened with decapitation. French Interior Minister Gerald Darmanin expressed his support for Breaud on Twitter, and said the mayor would get police protection. Breaud posted on his Twitter account a photo of graffiti on a wall in the town saying “Jeremy Breaud, we will cut your head off”. Police are investigating the precise circumstances behind the threats. Paty was murdered on October 16th  in broad daylight outside his school in a middle-class Paris suburb by an 18-year-old Muslim. Police shot the teenager dead.

mr ishmael's Book of Martyrs: 


Where I come from Micks don’t marry Prods. 

Now, any reasonable person, that is to say a person concerned with social justice, would have to damn the Micks for Schism-ism, the counter-productive clinging to an ancient rift in pre-Reformatory Christendom, and seek to implement a programme of Anti-Schism-ism measures, throughout the province of Northern Ireland; wouldn’t he or she?

Jews, as a rule, don’t marry outside their own faith; it is just a faith and not a race, for there are Jews of many races and skin colours.  Even so, any disapproval of Israeli foreign policy, for example,  their UN resolution-violating ethnic cleansing of occupied Palestine, that is described as racism on the part of  the critic, even though it would more accurately be descibed as humanitarianism.
Now, any reasonable person, that is to say a person concerned with social justice, would have to damn the Jews for Anti-Gentilism, wouldn’t he or she?

Muslims don’t even like the idea  of one of theirs marrying one of ours, indeed have been known to kill daughters who tried so to do, honour killing, they quaintly call it.  The reasonable person, concerned with stuff, he or she must surely damn the Muslims for this, what would you call it, Infidelism?

Same with the Sikhs, they do honour killings if one of the family gets too close to a non-Sikh, generally meaning an English boy. And don’t tell me they don’t do that shit, the Sikhs,  because I worked with a lifer who had killed his daughter and didn’t see much wrong with his actions, merely regretting their necessity. What would you call a father who killed his daughter, rather than see her married to an indigenous citizen of his adopted country?
What word would be chosen by a concerned, reasonable person, the sort of person who would never say Cunt, not ever, because he respects women, even though he’d vote to bomb brown, Arab women to bloody smithereens?

I dunno, the Sikhs, those vile, snooty, bloody Hindus who maintain their hauteur by treating hundreds of millions of their fellow citizens as Untouchables, whilst pretending to a lofty civilisation; what is a reasonable man to make of all these people who despise us so?

We may not call them racist for it is now an article of faith that it is we who are racist towards them.

But that’s just babytalk, racism, from the mouth of the concerned and reasonable person who would never, ever say Cunt, even though he says it all the time, under his breath, or among his friends.

And any talk of racism is babytalk.
The correct word, the word to make things better, is Otherism.
 I think it is not only fine but quite natural for people not to like other people. I don’t like Glaswegians, fuck ‘em, misshapen, inebriate, wife-beating ginger mutants.  I don’t like Scousers;  I was in Liverpool as a boy seaman and every Scouser I met or sailed with was a lazy, worthless, thieving, gabshite  bastard. I would nuke Anglesey, having been there as a child on a Sunday School holiday trip and been vilely bullied and intimidated by a gaggle of old wifeys in stove pipe hats and shawls, cackling in that angry, vomiting talk they talk.  But all of these evil bastards – and I haven’t even come to the Hermanns – just because I don’t like them, to put it mildly, doesn’t mean that they should be formally or informally discriminated against or disadvantaged;  they can’t help being bastards, they were born bastards or became bastards-by-circumstance, like sick people, disabled people and old people.  I think, in fact, that Angelseyism is a disability, something which can’t be helped; I will always hate them, nevertheless.  And they’d better just hope that I don’t pay them one of my Indignant Visits, now that I’m almost grown-up.
He should have been retired, surely, Father Jacques Hamel,
that he wasn't renders his murder a bit more poignant; his was a grim ending, another couple of wistful summers might have been his portion, maybe more; 
instead, he endured a shocking, choking, bloody death at the hands of crazed children.

Wholly irreligious, I have attended an Easter Mass in one of those  Northern French towns, heard a dwindling,  enfeebled congregation  respond to an elderly celebrant and found it deeply, deeply moving.
Jacques Hamel's flock must be shocked by this event, 
and troubled; they will probably never recover themselves.   
 Could have been worse, mind, could have been their good friends, the Hermanns, running amok, and if it had, they'd have filled the church with villagers, especially women and children, and set fire to it; maybe tossed-in a few grenades, made the parishioners jump about a bit.
Ain't it funny?  Who knows where the time goes, who knows how grotesque atrocity becomes atoned, becomes inconvenient memory, how the foul becomes assimilated into Greed's melting pot?

In the strict sense, though, Father Jack died as a representative of his faith, which is what Christians are supposed to do, and in that strict sense he is now a glorious martyr.

You only have to take a peek at Fox's Book of Martyrs  to realise that it's a dubious honour, martyrdom,  one you're only vaguely aware of as you smell your own flesh burning at the stake or, in this case, taste the blood in your mouth.,
I read in one of the Shardlake novels, recently, that Poxed-up Henry the Eighth's - what would you call them - Sergeants of the Burning Stake, were empowered to tie around the neck of a  condemned heretic, such as Anne Askew,  a small bag of gunpowder,  the idea being that the burning person need only endure the incineration of their lower parts, and, as a sign of the King's gracious mercy, would - or might - as the flames came higher, have their heads blown-off. 
All seems a bit academic, to me; most of those burnt had been tortured to within an inch of their lives before they were set alight by servants of the state. There's no relief from it, though, the behaviour of lawnforcement, just take a peek at the Chicago cops, ruthlessly cuffing the kid they've just shot in the back.  If I was black, in the States, the ClintonDemocrats, under whose black president this racist horror has multiplied,  would  be the very last party to get my vote.

 Not what it's cracked-up to be, I shouldn't think, being martyr'd to death;  more of a spectator sport, actually, and so  it has proven to be, today; the shameless, cock-waving incompetent, Frankie Hollande, bathing his worthless self in the blood of the elderly lamb,  there being, in Frankie's book, no such thing as a bad 'photo opportunity.

Every verminous, shit-eating Godlessheathenbastard in politics, however, after the French priesticide, is doing that head-bowed empathy that they do, when they sense an opportunity to fool some more of the people some more of the time, as if Angela Merkel or Frankie Hollande or Mrs Askey give a flying fuck about some old fool of a priest, ministering to other old fools;  hark, though, as they chorus:

Fucking vermin, they are.  
Shamelessly grandstanding, tub-thumping and blame-shifting, 
like a loony ward full of mad Nicola Sturgeons.
And what a hoot she is proving, Gnasher, beaten in the IndyRef but claiming victory; beaten in the EuroRef but claiming victory  rebuffed by the EU but hailing her triumph of diplomacy and now kicked up the arse by the UK Supreme Court, interpreting European Human Rights Law and finding the wretched little mutant, unsurprisingly,  to be totalitarian. 
It is beyond farce, the SNP, beyond satire, almost beyond belief
She is a sign of the times, Gnasher, shouty and stupid and I guess if Mrs Askey called a snap election the SNP ranks in Westminster would be significantly thinned; Ruth Boy Davidson would claim some seats, and maybe the Greens, maybe UKIP, maybe even Jock Labour, although its leader, Ms What Who, needs to cuddle-up a bit to Jerry Corbyn, if she wants to survive, distance herself from the Blairish, whose days are numbered, any way you look at it - either the voters'll shit on them or the reselection committees will. 

But enough pigmy talk. The knifing of the priest serves two sets of unGodly fucking bastards - firstly, the headchoppers have clutched to their bosom another wretched young man, another  of their  virgin-crazed martyrs.......

 “Adel, he didn’t have much in his head, he wasn’t very smart and he’d never succeeded at anything.” said a neighbour. 
and secondly the secular Frog press has cried Martyrise! at the death of Father Jack.
If there be sides in this latest  episode of  the Bush-Blair Crusade, if we are not all equally degraded by it, then both sides have nailed their martyrs to the mast, one of them a hapless victim, the other two just fucked-up. It's always dodgy, trying to second-guess a bail decision, the judges, in France or here, cannot lock-up everyone, just to please the cops,  and young Adel had only conditional liberty, anyway. If it hadn't have been him it would have been some other boy, with Jihadi smoke in his eyes.

 Christ, if dying under a hail of police bullets becomes a boy's only option in life, well, where do we start apportioning blame for that? And given the  poor old man has single-handedly exculpated, eradicated  centuries of his fellows'  cruel beasting of defenceless children. All washed away by the blood of Father Jack, or so you would think.
 But hang about a bit, as a matter of historical Christian fact, my understanding of martyrdom means that Father Jack wasn't  a martyr, just a murder victim; a proper martyr is given the chance to recant his belief and on refusing so to do suffers the fires or the arrows or the blades of Cruel Hegemony. In the case of Saint Margaret Clitheroe of York, on Good Friday, 1586, she was executed, having failed to plead at her trial on a charge of harbouring Roman Catholic priests, during the Tudor Terror:
  The two sergeants who should have carried out the execution hired four desperate beggars to do it instead. She was stripped and had a handkerchief tied across her face then laid across a sharp rock the size of a man's fist, the door from her own house was put on top of her and loaded with an immense weight of rocks and stones so that the sharp rock would break her back. Her death occurred within fifteen minutes, but her body was left for six hours before the weight was removed.

Father Jack just happened to be there, that's all, when Murder came down his aisle;
his killers, however, knew that they would either be shot at the scene or in pursuit or else face lifelong incarceration and mistreatment;  both they, therefore, and the killers of Lee Rigby knowingly martyred themselves, whereas their victims didn't.

In the background, yesterday, I heard a BBC hack enthusing about the Church of Rome, about Pope Frankie de los Fray Bentos, about the strength of the Church and how it had kept Polish democracy alive during centuries of Communist occupation, 'swhat he said.  Poland he said, remained fervently Catholic, unlike other countries, such as Ireland, which had drifted away, grown more secular. 
Not a word, from the PBC, about why even dumb, bog-trotting, spud-gulping,  Guinness-swigging, red-faced, shovel-toting, melancholy Momma'sBoys had finally sickened of their  nation- wide, centuries-old  infestation of noncing monsignors, bent bishops   and sadistic, nuns-cum-kidnappers.

Nah, one of the last bastions of freedom in the world, Holy Mother Church.  I don't know who the PBC's gibbering half-wit was at the surreally-titled Roman Catholic Youth Day,  in Cracow,  but he certainly deserves the Papal Order of St. James Savile the Exemplary being pinned to his fucking eyeball.

Jacques Hamel (30 November 1930 – 26 July 2016) was a French Catholic priest who served in Saint-√Čtienne-du-Rouvray. On 26 July 2016, Hamel was murdered whilst saying Mass by two Muslim 19-year olds; Adel Kermiche,who was on judicial supervision after his arrest some four months earlier for plotting terrorist attacks,and Abdel Malik Petitjean. They discussed the Koran with the nuns they had taken hostage after slitting Father Hamel's throat and said "as long as there are bombs on Syria, we will continue our attacks". The teenagers charged at police shouting "Allahu akbar"and were shot dead by officers from Rouen's Research and Intervention Brigade.


Mr Ishmael's essay today was: 

THE ASSIMILATION BLUES             drafted 9/8/2016

Medical Bulletin.
Harris had a relapse at the beginning of the week and was hospitalised for a couple of nights, but he's home now and doing very well indeed.
Got any morphine?
We have stanislav from as long ago as 2007, and some of the finest ishmael essays from the present blog.  The book is available from   and it is now listed by both Blackwells and the Book Depository. To buy a copy:
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.
Honest, Not Invent is available in paperback or hardback.
Link for Hard Back : 
Link for Paper Back : 
At checkout, try  TREAT15 in the coupon box, which takes 15% off the price before postage.  If this code has expired by the time you reach this point, try a google search for " voucher code" and see what comes up.  With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £14.35; HB £23.74. 


Sunday 18 October 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 18-10-2020

Scottish political commentators are crowing over the forthcoming disintegration of England, hailing gorgeous, pouting Andy Burnham

as the new leader of the North, successor to Edgar Atheling and Harry Hotspur and gleefully anticipating a Harrying of the North by Boris to subjugate northern England; which can only further stir up anti-southern sentiment, already fuelled by the gaping economic and attainment gap between North and South. Boris says the situation is grave. Andy says he's exaggerating. Boris says Sir Keir should give Andy a good metaphorical slapping. Michael-can't-stay-out-of-a-good-fight Gove says Andy is posturing and must bend over to Tier Three restrictions.

Andy says he will take legal action as the current furlough system is not fair to low paid workers. Boris says he will intervene if an agreement cannot be reached. Sounds like a Harrying brewing.

Boris Johnson visited Orkney in July this year, as you will remember.

It was not his first visit. Some years previously, before our Gnasher was mistress of all she surveyed, and before she was First Minister of the Scottish Government (honest, not invent, that's what they call themselves - not surprising that 25% of Scots believe that they are already independent of the United Kingdom), back when Scotland had a mere Scottish Executive, mr ishmael was privileged to attend a meeting of the Orkney Tourist Board at which the Executive Director of Visit Scotland, Willy McCloud, and his chum, Boris Johnson, assured the local tourist industry that they were working flat-out to promote tourism to Orkney.

Here's mr ishmael's report to the local paper on the event:

 Head Line: Jive Talking at the AGM

By-line: Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter and Superman's friend:

 Mr. Willy McCloud is acclaimed by all in the multi-trillion dollar global tourist industry, most of which he, personally, is going to bring to Scotland. A former accommodation provider and a man of such immense personal charm and warmth it is easy to see how his customers would have felt about a repeat taste of his hospitality. A higher calling, however, diverted young Willy's stellar talents to the world of tourism consultancy, management and promotion. His many talents were showcased last night to the primitive fisher folk and cave dwellers who make up Orkney's miniscule, faltering tourist business.

His facility with his sometimes discernible magic lantern show was dazzling; that it was disordered, uninstructive and flashed before us in a second or two was neither here nor there: who needs a professional approach to presentation when addressing savages dressed in sealskins? If Willy's department organises similarly smooth presentations for potential tourists to Scotland then those engaged here in tourism will really have to reappraise their approach to making a living; if it answers genuine questions with Willy's forthright courtesy and mastery of numbers and if it displays Willy's approach to alternative suggestions it is difficult to see how, in partnership with the Scottish Executive, VisitWilly'sScotland can fail to emulate the success of, for instance, the Holyrood parliament building - only a couple of years late and just under one thousand percent over budget.

Orkney tourism providers were also, at last night's AGM, thrilled to see Boris Johnson wearing one of his many hats  - this time as the proprietor of something called

Boris treated us to a revised, motivational version of the Eton Rowing song: rah! rah! rah! money! money! money!go!go!go!  or words to that effect. That he had come here with no expense spared to so inspire us brought further ecstatic applause from an audience now whipped to a frenzy known only to Orkney hillbillys enraptured by their suited visiters from Sooth.

So much applause was there for Willy and Boris that some present felt that a hat should be passed round at this juncture without more ado; instead, displaying a uniquely sensitive approach to its employees, Orkney Tourist Board insisted that, despite their embarassment, they stand up to be inspected like a bunch of heifers and take a bow. Truly, there is no business like show business.

 Willy said that he could guarantee the quite satisfactory status quo at least until he was on the flight back to his executive suite in Edinburgh. The Chair invited those present to dig deep into their pockets to fund a fictional and powerless status quo to run in tandem with Willy's Brave New World status quo-to-come and soothingly told us that we could sleep safely in our caves for she would be deserting neither us nor her salary, we would always be able to come and be talked-to by her. Thus reassured, we trudged off in the northern night to our chilly caves there to watch, on our car-battery-powered televisions, a restorative episode of the more mundane, less fanciful reality portrayed in Little Britain.

Boris in the Highlands - summer hols, August 2020


Boris' tent in the Highlands, August 2020  

 Yes - the Scottish tourist industry was safe in their hands, although the idea of the Prime Minister sitting in a damp field in a badly put-up tent being eaten alive by midges has a certain charm to it.

Dramatis Personae:

1. Willy McCloud (real name, honest, not invent)  Executive Director, Scotland  UK Hospitality - Present
2. Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (real name, honest, not invent)  Mayor of London 2008 to 2016, Foreign Secretary 2016 to 2018, Prime Minister 2019 to the present and, second only to Ringo Starr, the luckiest man alive.

3. Jimmy Olsen cub reporter on the Daily Planet November 1938 to the present, also known as Ishmael Smith.


Stanislav on pandemic viruses:

Fuck me, bird 'flu now, as well as Alan Johnson's disease. Good job we have hereditary Plagues minister Rosemary Benn at the helm, as we slide back into Middle fucking Ages. Maybe Lady Sir Iain MachineGun Blair send merry men out, blast birds from sky with Hoekkler and Koch. At least do something useful with mad gunslinger psycho-cops. Maybe Tony Benn wrap-up warm in cardy, go out in field with flask of tea and shout at naughty bird, go away, I am old Labour. And vegetarian. Maybe Foetus Hague go and point finger.

On the bright side, though, a good outbreak of plague would clear out the old and the sick and the poor - although, thankfully, none of the establishment who will be inoculated up to their bollocks - and leave so much more money for houses of parliament pensions.

Leicester Royal Infirmary, flagship NewLabour disease pit, and employer of mad ventriloquist McCann, has a mission statement which says: Doesn't matter if our incompetent actions result in your death as you would have died eventually anyway. Honest. Stanislav not invent. The government could display real vision by adapting this to any outbreak of plague. Hard choices. Not come in Downing Street to be popular (just as fucking well, really, considering.)Trust me I am son of fucking Manse. Many must die in order that few remain rich. More joy in heaven over poor bastards flung in plague pit and cover-up with lime and forget about. May as well go now as hang around with arthritis, dribbling. Only die in hospital anyway, lungs fill up limbs drop off from AJD. Better off fucking dead, really. Not like us who is left behind to grow old and spend pension. At going down of sun and in morning will remember bird flu death millions. Age shall not wither. Maybe dig-up Bernard Matthews and give peerage for solve pension crisis. Lord Levy negotiate price with family, oi vay. Have Nagilah. Don't work Saturdays.

Stanislav go now in Tesco, buy whole stock of own brand Beechams Powder, come home, seal-up doors and window, not go out, not do plumbing job. Kill budgie. 


In house of reptile last week is opposition debate on cuntus johnsonitis fatalis, named after singing postmistress and head of National Death Service, Mrs Johnson. This is epidemic of mildly sick people go in hospital and come out in box dead as fucking mackerel. Thousands of people is already dead, killed by useless private cleaning firm, Germs&Corpse U Like, lazy foreign nurse terrorist, greedy dirty doctor bastard and pension-mad chief executive of hospital. Is most serious health problem in country. Thousands more destined for slow, dirty extermination. Even fucking dogs catch cuntus johnsonitis fatalis from owners. Is worse, much worse than evilest evil ever committed on nine-eleven, is murder on a grand scale and yet, yet……in the debate is hardly no fucker to be seen. Handful of sleeping drunks; mad pizza saleswoman, maybe twenty, out of over six hundred MP, is lying about in chamber, farting. No Lib Dem at all. No Paisleys. No Jock Nazi Party. All must be in restaurant, knocking shop or public toilet with Michael White and Kevin Maguire, proprietors of Gay Toilet Sex Is Us.

Speaker Gorbals Mick is absent probably queuing up outside toilet - because is nobody on Labour benches need protecting from tricky question, his only purpose on Earth. Health minister “Cocaine Carol” Flint is off doing worthy relief work in streets of Kings Cross and singing postmistress, Alan Johnson, herself, is busy putting finishing touch to new album, Songs from a Mortuary. Department of Extermination is represented only by grey-haired old biddy, used to be dinner lady in Rowley Regis, now, fuck me, minister of state.

Madam Deputy Speaker, says veteran Tory nobody, Is fucking shit, all this, get letter all day long from constituent, father go in local hospital, Madam Deputy Speaker, share fucking bed with two other people, roll around in shit, get some slap from nurse, get no food, starve and then fucking die, Madam Deputy Speaker; yes I will give way to the Honourable Drunk opposite…

I thank the honourable gentleman, said Barry Knuckles (New Lab, West Bromwich) and wish to tell House that I get these fucking letters, too, all fucking day long, Madam Deputy Speaker. Fucking constituents pestering fucking life out of me. I mean, Madam Deputy Speaker, what the fuck do they expect me to do about it? Work in fucking warehouse before I came here. Do I look like a fucking doctor? Is very real problem for honourable and right honourable members. Need pay rise, Madam Deputy Speaker, need more staff, need less hours and more holiday, Madam Deputy Speaker. Otherwise attract wrong type of person in House. Put people off voting for me.

I thank the honourable member for his intervention but back, Madam Deputy Speaker, to this old bastard in my constituency….Yes I will give way to the right honourable lady…

I am grateful to the honourable wotsisname and might I just say Madam Deputy Speaker that my pizzas are on sale in the lobby of this house and outside the other place, too, at an introductory price of three for two and they are, if I may say so, like yourself, Madam Deputy Speaker, and myself, hot stuff…

The House rang to shouts of Siddown; Tory Slag; You must be fucking joking and Show us yer tits then, this last from Mr Knuckles of New Labour.

Order, order, the right honourable lady must be heard.

Thank you Madam deputy Speaker and as I was saying to my friend His Holiness Pope Nazi only the other day over lunch in the Vatican, these pizzas of mine really do, Your Holiness, represent outstanding value and maybe you would consider a bulk order for your Paedophile Escape Committee Working Lunches. I know you have a lot of hungry mouths to feed on these occasions and I could get you one fucking Hail Mary of a deal on a lorry load of the five-cheese variety. The Lunch is a-over, fuck off in a-peace, was the Holy Father’s strange response. Got enough-a on-a my gold-a salver with those-a fucking McCann nutters a-coming around here every five minutes with a fucking film crew, saying darling you were lovely but can we do that again, just-a one more take, darling, Capiche ? Shower of a-fucking heathen cunts. Go on, fuck off back to the nutter house before I-a fucking excommunicate you, you-a mad old bitch. Take your fucking pizzas a-with you. This is-a fucking Italy. We don’t-a want-a pizza made in-a fucking Milton Keynes. Anyway, thought-a you was a fucking M-a fucking P, eh ? Not-a fucking fast-a food-a salesgirl. What next-a happen? Is-a whole fucking house of commons go on-a fucking Tesco advert, every fucking little help-a. Fuck-a me, great Catholic, Napoleon, was-a right, is a nation of-a fucking shopkeeper, go-a straight in-a fucking Purgatory or my-a name-a is-a not Joseph Mengele, Butcher of-a fucking Poles, Scourge of-a fucking Jews and-a Protector-a General of-a sacred brotherhood of-a Nonce U Like. These geezers, blessed be the name of the Lord, is as much-a sin against as-a sinning, these kiddies is all tarts, always asking for it. Not fucking grateful. So what if holy man of God fuck up arse of few altar boys in otherwise life of service to one true religion. Issa perk of fucking job. Little bastard get used to have insertion of Holy Ghost. Don’t get fucking manse to live in like heretic fucking Presbyterian. Dominus Vobiscum and suffer the little children to-a come unto me. O sole mio, arrivederci Roma, issa Walls-a Cornetto, give-a it to me.

Anyway Madam Deputy Speaker it occurred to me in my lunch with il Papa that prayer might be the solution to this cuntus johnsonitis fatalis business. If only people in hospital were to pray to the Lord God who made them all, only not of course those beardy cunts and carpet munching vicars in the C-of-E, then our hospitals would be much better places. Prayer is the answer, Madam Deputy Speaker; prayer and pizza; a few Our Fathers and a warmish slice of Widdecombe’s Fair Pizza can ease an old person’s unnecessary passing no end. And I commend them both to the House.

Fuck off you mad old bat. Shove yer pizzas up yer arse. Show us yer tits. (hon. Mr Knuckles) Resign.

If I may, for the Government, Madam Deputy Speaker, reassure the House, said the dinner lady from Rowley Regis, the right honourable Madge Atkins, minister of death, that in conjunction with my right honourable friend, the hereditary minister for plagues, Mrs Rosemary Benn, we have carried out reee-surch into this whole matter and rather than bring in the bulldozers and waste public money on culling these patients and having huge funeral pyres darkening the fucking skies and feeding the frenzied, if diminutive literary skills of Mr Toilets Maguire - skies black with the smoke of infected old age pensioners being burned alive, and so on; cull of infected elderly spreads to Northampton, fire pits smoulder for days as government appeals to UN for airdrop of firelighters and lighter fluid, Nazi doctors roasted my sick father alive - we all know what the press would make of such a solution. So instead, members and right honourable members, we have decided to enlist the services of New York demolition expert, Mr Rudolf Fire-In-The-Hole Giuliani, who assures me that he can demolish all the hospitals with the patients still in them: we’ll put explosives in every floor and they’ll all come down sweet as a nut, right in their own footprints. Just be like mincing everybody up. It’s all quite humane, they don’t feel much and its better than the daily beatings and torture from the Sri Lankan nurses. I mean, I wouldn’t shit you, lady, its not nice or anything, but they were all probably going to die at some point, so fuck ‘em. We hoover up all the debris and ship it out to India to be turned into curry powder or whatever the fuck they do with it. And if the relatives complain you just say it was the ragheads did it and then invade Pakistan. It worked for us. That’ll be ten billion dollars, please.

I would further advise members that I spoke, through the door of the Michael White Exclusive Toilet Suite in Downing Street, to my right honourable friend, the prime minister, who, whilst terribly busy, found time to approve this visionary measure in order to deliver on the aspirations and values of the British people. Well, those British people not clogging-up the hospitals, anyway. Doctor Nutter McCann has offered to lend his expertise, too, as he became familiar with barbecue techniques during his recent sabbatical in Portugal. All he needs in return for doing his act is a donation to he and his wife, Myra’s, personal mortgage charity, from every grateful citizen. This, therefore is the government’s solution to the cuntus johnsonitis fatalis epidemic; never mind killing the sick old bastards slowly, by thirst and starvation and beatings and infection, lets just blow them, Madam Deputy Speaker, all to fuck. Rally round the flag, y’all

Hear-hear, hear-hear. Three cheers for Uncle Sam. Peerages all round. The House will rise. ( and go in search of joyful relief from Michael White and Strict David Aaronobitch.)

Stanislav advise only go in hospital with body armour and AK 47. (Most Reverend Bishop Jonathan Spank-Me Aitken can get cheap from friend down Turkish bathhouse)

Historical note: Alan Johnson served under Prime Minister Gordon Brown as Secretary of State for Health from 2007 to 2009 . At the age of 18 he was employed a s a postman.

Professor Quatermass - not really professor, well, maybe of advanced cheese studies or history of mobile telephone ring tones at University of Ashby de la Zouch, but not of politics; said:“Take country from this moment to next....?” Is shit, right, bollocks. Country and all things else take self from one moment etc. Happen anyway. Is no “moment.” Show Stanislav where is “moment.” Tell Stanislav when is next “moment.” Professor Q talk like any number of cunts on Today programme. At this moment in time. Devil, as ever, is in details. In very real sense. Is bottom line. At end of day. Prof Q is:“Desperate to see people works in offices...” God fucking help us all. Is height of ambition, eh? Everybody work in fucking office, be optimistic, be faintly artistic, listen to PotatoMan Mark Lawson blether and whine about Japanese cinema, like expert; watch Paul Morley on hundred best whatever programmes. Every fucking day. Is little known connection between punk rock and Medici Rennaisance. Oh yes. Make BBC cheque to Paul Morley RentAGob Ltd. Fuck me. 

Great Polish painter Rembrandt is art. But Balinese people have great saying, is “We Have No Art. We Do Everything As Well As We Can.”

Professor, run away from office and moments and Mark Lawson and metropolitan conservatism; make escape from Arts phonies like skriking, speech-impaired, hunchback, transexual Kirrrsty Wonk; forget optimism, just forget it. Come in Scotland and be miserable. Sit in cave, eat porridge with fingers, drink whisky, wear skirt, beat wife, read Scotsman, memorise melancholy doggerel of shit writer Burns and hate everything. Scotland is land of fathomless, irremediable, eternal grievance. Come in Scotland and dream of Vengeance.                                                                                                     Stanislav McLeodski   October 09, 2007


Medical Bulletin 

Harris, the Blog Dog, has been hospitalised with acute pancreatitis, which is as painful as having your leg cut off without anaesthetic, according to the vet. Humans with this condition scream, but dogs hide their pain - an evolutionary characteristic developed to prevent the pack turning on them and ripping their throats out. Harris was on

Here's where my leg was shaved for my drip. I was very brave.

a fluid drip and intravenous morphine every 6 hours and lots of meds to calm everything down. Anyway, he's home now, on paracetomol syrup, probiotics, omeprazole, four meals of chicken and rice a day, and his bed next to the radiator. He glares at me a lot. Clearly blaming me.

Here's me, resting.


Mr Ishmael and his young friend, Stanislav's essays were: 

Jive Talking at the AGM          undated -     circa 2012 
Fuck me, bird 'flu now              comment    November 13, 2007
House of Reptile                       comment -  November 23, 2007 
Professor Quatermass             comment   October 9th 2007 
Today, again,  mr ishmael's young friend, stanislav, a polish plumber, has been featured, to whet your appetite for Quick Rub Down with a House Brick or With love from Stanislav or Popped Down a Mine Shaft - the title is not decided yet. mr verge is currently working on the second volume, which will feature reprinted and previously unpublished stanislav. And, of course,  Honest, Not Invent is available in paperback or hardback.
We have stanislav from as long ago as 2007, and some of the finest ishmael essays from the present blog.  The book is available from   and it is now listed by both Blackwells and the Book Depository. 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.
Link for Hard Back : 
Link for Paper Back : 
At checkout, try  WELCOME15 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 " 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.