Sunday 11 October 2020

The Sunday Stanislav 11/10/2020 - the Welch edition

 Fuck off, English Cunt

 Much of south and north Wales are under local lockdown restrictions, with people unable to leave or enter 15 of Wales' 22 local authorities. Travel writer Simon Calder, speaking on ITV's This Morning earlier this week, listed Gwynedd and Ceredigion, as well as Belfast and Edinburgh, as places people could go.This didn't go down too well with the Welch, who inundated Calder with a torrent of abuse via email and social media. Calder responded: "The intensity of negative comments were of a magnitude I've not experienced, completely off the scale ...The hundreds of people I inadvertently angered may be glad to hear that I have no further plans to book a stay in Wales."

Fuck off, English cunt.

 A Welsh Government spokesperson said: "Should any visitors to Wales be able to get over, under or through the anti-English barricades, we expect them to respect the area they choose and abide by local restrictions...

It's well documented that the first minister has written to the prime minister requesting he stop people travelling to Wales from areas of England with high coronavirus infection rates - but he has yet to receive a response."

Fuck Off, English cunts.

 Meibion Glyndŵr, Sons of Glyndŵr, a Welsh nationalist movement, was responsible for the following: 

1979–94: Meibion Glyndŵr fire-bomb around 220 English-owned homes.

1988–89: Meibion Glyndŵr declared that "every white settler is a target". The group also placed incendiary bombs in Conservative party offices in London and estate agents' offices in London, Liverpool, Sutton Coldfield, Haverfordwest, Carmarthen, & Llandeilo. 

1990: Poet and Anglican priest R. S. Thomas calls for a campaign to deface English-owned homes.  

1993: Sion Aubrey Roberts, a member of Meibion Glyndŵr, was jailed for twelve years for sending letter bombs to Conservative politicians.

Fuck off and Die, English Cunts 
Stanislav occasionally diverted his attention from Scotland to administer a blogging to Wales, being a bit of an equal opportunities, or Welch Lives Matter, excoriator:


This bloke, is loony, innit. Archbishop of Whisker. 

Alright is Welsh and everything and good for fuck all only dig-up coal for decent English master and sing in choir, Men of fucking Harlech at rugby match. But is bad news for Church of fucking England, innit, have mad bastard Taffy up in charge, next to God, look you, isn't it. Is fault of dirty, catholic, bastard Tony Blair and bint, Imelda, having fucking laugh, making Taffy scarecrow boss of Anglos. Catholic church has proper foreigner in charge, innit, alright is not Wop but is next best thing, Pope Fucking Nazi the Thirteenth and not silly druid bastard crawl-out from slagheap in Wales. Ever go in Blainaufffffffestinioggggg, is fucking shithole like vandals had been smashing-up surface of fucking moon. No bastard in Blainaufffffffestinioggggg can live. Honest and not invent, is filthy fucking hovel, look. Out from house can go first thing and fall in fucking death if not careful is to bottom of slate mine - and has probably happen aleady to Festinioggggians as is never no bastard there like ghost fucking town - and next thing is fat bastard Harry Secombe warbling Abide With Fucking Me or Bread of Heaven, Bread of Fucking Heaven, feed me until is stuffed. Worst thing ever happen to stanislav was get dia-fucking-betes, everybody said Oh, fuck, diabetes, Harry Secombe, he's got that, innit, fat Welch bastard, never mind, stan, can sing If I Rued The World, like 'Arry? Good old 'Arry, was in the Goons you know, before he got diabetes, ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-tiddle-eye-poo. Can sing that one, stan? Last time was in Blainaufffffffestinioggggg made Mrs drive back and make sure stanislav not bad dream was in middle of and maybe wake-up sweaty like fuck and bed filled up with warm piss was. But was there, just like in photo. Mountains of fucking busted-up bits of slate and slate gas all over the fucking shop like trenches in First World War.  Is common as fuck knowledge that Anglo church is consist of gaybloke, lesbian and nonce in about equal measure although probably is more nonce, like in most church but different from RC church where every bastard nonce is and just get move around from parish to parish, by Noncing Monsignor, which is Eyetie word for Chief Nonce or Cardinal, which means Chief Nonce of Nonces, beloved of fucking Heaven. Church of Beardy is full of fucked-up freaks using the power of the numinous..... to invade souls and genitals of vulnerable people while rubberstamping souls for God.


Mr Verge: "Just now rediscovered an email I’d saved, from January 2014.  I’d been swapping Bleak Midwinter greetings and small gifts with mr smith for a year or two by then, and evidently he had been the victim of an unwarranted return-to-sender postal carousel. In what follows, he speculates about the circumstances behind his parcel’s having failed to be delivered…"

Yo, mr verge.

I thought maybe the Welsh uncle was staying-over at Christmas, or maybe a maiden aunt, up from the valleys, migrant guest from relative to in-law and that you had left the place to them whilst you were shopping in town for that little Xmas epicurean delight, a smoked ham or a bottle of port, the sort of thing whose purchase sets us apart from the Nigella and Jamie horde, sticking their vulgar fingers in whipped cream and chocolate fondant, aping their bon vivant betters. Anyway, postie comes and knocks at the Anagram Towers door and Uncle Taffy, bellicose in  his underpants, says Mr Verge? No, look you, boyo, isn’t it, no-one here of that name, an never as-been, not to my knowledge anyroad, an I been coming yurr more Christmasses than I can remember. I did know a Mr Verge, back in Pontypridd, like, when I was a lad, but I don’t suppose that’s 'im. Was the drink what done for him, wasn’t it, look you, as it does for many of the poetic disposition. Do I mean disposition? Or is it inclination? Fucked if I know, postie, the curse of the poet, it is, look you, all these fucking words, and putting them in the right order, so’s they scan, like, isn’t it. Rhyme? No, fuck me, they don’t ave to rhyme. Better that they don’t, in fact. Just as long as there’s words, like, colliding with each other. Yes, that’s it, the more inscrutable the better. Must be a bit like your job, all these fucking names, all these fucking addresses, all spilling out of your bag, every morning a proper orgasm, a veritable Krakatoa of names and fucking addresses, all on bills and junk-mail and the odd Christmas card, and it’s you, look you, isn’t it, has to sort the fuckers out, slide them into the right orifice, as it were, one after the other; must be like gangbanging the whole fucking neighbourhood, look you. I don’t mean gangbang, do I, look you? That would be a whole, well a whole gang of posties, all delivering into the same letterbox, wouldn’t it, and the letterbox groaning, Oh, yes, please, more, more, there’s another box round the back, too, boyos, for some special deliveries, and so on. See? See what I mean, how hard it is, being a poet and what have you? Mind can quite run away with you, it can. But whatever it is you’re doing, a gangbang or a Royal Mail serial fuck, it must be 'ard on you, like. Oh, the life of a public servant. There’s no tongue, look you, can tell it, so to speak, like it is, isn’t it? But, no, I can’t help you with no Mr Verge, never heard of him. Best mark it Return to Sender, or Addressee Fucked Off, and ram it bollock-deep into whatever special place is reserved for that sort of thing. Anyway, slovely to talk but I can’t stand yurr in my underpants all morning… 


 Any new offerings from Anagram Towers, mr verge?

 Stanislav's lonely hearts - 8/4/10

Dear stanislav,
I am a pretty, young lawyer, sexy and of independent means, having made a killing, so to speak, in the Iraq OilFields. I hate my husband and would love to have an affair with a person of like mind but everybody seems to hate me.
Please help, 

p.s. I'll do anything they want, for money. 

Dear Cherie,
Thing is, is fucking rubbish, innit, is old boot now and not no difference makes  to rub NewAge healing cystals all over chops, slotgob just bigger and bigger gets and need to get gas-powered nailing gun
and nail the bastard up before whole world gets swallow up and disappear forever is, like in black hole or destruction engine accelerator under Swiss Bob's house. Fuck me, is end of world coming for sure with that bastard. But if not then whole population of world will soon drawn in be to Black Hole of SlotGob and no fucking wonder is can't get loverboy, not  with gob like that. Is like Mersey fucking Tunnel.

Even husband, Cardinal Blair, gets frightened at sight of yawning Chasm of Destruction and wants to get Pope Nazi to do exorcism if His HoliNonceness wasn't busy covering-up his past. Could normally suggest to poor, lonely old bag that maybe joining-up in  church is good idea as long as no children has of course for Vicar of Priest or Elder to lead unto Salvation of Cock-in-Christ and pass around among community of decent professional,  like  lawyerbastard and copbastard and teacherbastard  and maybe send a few undraped photos of around the world, in the name of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Nonce, of course,  but in your case one step in church  would make holy water go boiling and candle blow out and congregation run like fuck blessing itself  and shit everywhere in fear of End of fucking Days. Would be worse than fucking Omen movie.

Could maybe phone gingerbastard,  Dr Phil Hammond, off TV, is agonisingly clever bastard and could help, or maybe even give you one. Or at a push, two. Or Professor Doctor Raj Persaud off Richard and Judy's Shoplifting Tips Programme, sadly now get axed for being rubbish that not even unemployed bastard can watch, slobbing on sofa with remote control and endless tube of Pringle, only moving to scratch arse.
Love from stanislav, a young polish plumber.


And, whatever you do, do not be tempted into correspondence with Bloke or Bint off Internet Dating Site: During June, July and August 2020, 600 per month romance scams were reported to Action Fraud, a 26% increase on the previous year, with an average loss per victim of £10,000. Romance Scam is a charming name for a cold-blooded, cruel fraud, in which lonely people are fooled into believing that they have found love, in which their trusting messages of love and hope are sniggered over by gangs of fraudsters who cleverly script their interactions to persuade their victims out of their life savings.  A shame we can't send stanislav clones to robustly respond to these fraudsters:

I used to feel sorry for the poor bastards making the calls, it's not their idea, they're just reading from a script but then I thought Fuck 'em, if that's the only job they can get, being impertinent and ill-mannered, relying on people's innate good manners and patience, in order to waste their time or defraud them or both;  they'd be better-off robbing or burgling, doing proper crime. And these are  the ones acting just about within the law. When Jason 'phones me from Karachi telling me it's about my computer and that he's from Microsoft, he is straighforwardly trying to rob me, so call me racist if you like but what I say to the bloke pretending to be Jason is, Ah, Jason, was that your mother I saw on the Internet, last night, having sex with a pig?  You know it was, it was your mother fucking a pig. I must say she seemed to be enjoying it....Jason doesn't like that and finds himself departing from his script, somewhat. Sometimes I talk to them about prison. Prison, Jason, I say, in your country, it's not very nice is it? And you won't like it. But the police in my country are very angry about you pretending to be from Microsoft and they're working with the police in your country to catch you and put you in prison. Click.


Our Gnasher, our First among  Ministers, our Protectress, tirelessly working on our behalf,

spread your wings o'er us, forgive not those who trespass against you, like Margaret the Blip, despised and rejected

and visit your Extreme Wrath upon those naughty ice protesters

who seek to challenge your Beneficent Wisdom in closing Smart Successful Scotland's public drinking houses, restaurants and all other places of hospitality after 6:00pm. 

Shame 'bout the memory loss. Amen.

Nicola Sturgeon forgot about a meeting where sexual misconduct allegations against Alex Salmond were discussed. In written evidence to a Holyrood inquiry published this week, Sturgeon admitted she met Salmond’s former chief of staff Geoff Aberdein on March 29 – but had “forgotten” the encounter. Sturgeon said she looks forward with relish to being able to give oral evidence to the Holyrood inquiry into  her government’s handling of the harassment complaints against Salmond, adding: “I have nothing to hide in all of this.”

 Someone, anyone, throw another shitcake on the fire. 

stanislav's essays today are:

We'll keep a welcome in the hillsides, but not for Traditionalists

                                                                         drafted 10/02/2010

Yo, mr verge                                                   email  January 2014

 Stanislav's lonely hearts -                            drafted 8/4/10

The phone went (an extract)                           drafted 8/5/2016  

 Today, we have featured mr ishmael's young friend, stanislav, a polish plumber. 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.  


Anonymous said...

Cock begs unfair rhyme (5, 7, 7,)

who might have been the perpetrator of...

heathen's melodic willie (or) hellish wee malediction (1, 7, 2, 3, 8,)


mongoose said...

I shall tease those out later, mr verge.

Meanwhile, the second wave of tyranny has begun. No mention has been made of the relative virulence of the virus this time around. No mention that a great swathe of this winter's crop has already been gathered by the grim reaper. I wonder how many businesses are still afloat only because they are able to access pretend cash from the government.

Dark things afoot in America. Something has got to give over there.

I am particularly struck, mrs i, by mr i's eye for the absurdity of the taffs and the jocks, look you.

inmate said...

OK first book finished, honest not invent Mrs I, please tel mr verge to pull his finger out, less of the crossword puzzles, get on with the next instalment. I want it now, now I say, can’t wait.
Yes mr mongoose, there’s some Wizard looking chappie - former CIA - on the youtubes threatening to blow the lid on Killary, Obamalama and sleepy sniffy Joe over the deaths of Navy Seals, who, apparently, weren’t supposed to kill old Osamalama, but trade him for $150 billion or some such shit. Whateva. And Killary’s Email shredding won’t go away due to some missing ground to air missiles, stored in Qatar but found in Libya, which she forgot about. Whateva.
And the good Dr Kendrick has a post about the latest vaccine Bollocks. Apparently it will only prevent headache and coughs,liquidfuckingparacetamol, until the good stuff arrives in three years time. They really are taking the piss now.

mrs ishmael said...

Consider editor mr verge told, mr inmate - he's cracking on with it - sends me installments that he's found that have me falling apart. In the meantime, you could have a bash at his latest offering of crossword clues from Anagram Towers - by way of encouragement. Have you got anywhere with them, mr mongoose?
Not just the taffs and the jocks, look you. mr ishmael also had a particular place in his heart for the Irish. As an Irish citizen himself, he knew how to stab deep into the underbelly. And everything else is just ripping into the English, with joyful abandon. If you didn't get a blogging from mr ishmael and his young friend stanislav, you could claim ethnic discrimination.
Go on, mr inmate, which bit did you like best in Honest, Not Invent? Which bit? Time for a review.
Tell me more about the missing ground to air missiles.....

Mike said...

Mrs I: if I may interrupt mr inmate. Much as I loved all the political stuff, it was the death of Buster that moved me to tears (I have a much loved, Mr Pug, sitting on my knee as I type).

mongoose said...

I have done the seocnd one, mrs i, but will not spoil the party.

mongoose said...

Though to be fair to me, the second of the first was not exactly Queensberry Rules, was it?

Ah well, it fills the late leaning on the windowsill hours.

Anonymous said...

Quite right, mr mongoose, an infernal liberty but one that had to be taken in honour of mr ishmael's essay on Diabetes.

Thanks, mr inmate - though ultimately we hope to find a wider audience (considering the number of people who used to enjoy his rants on order-order), our fellow regulars here are the ones with first dibs on the pleasure of reading him again in book-form. Very pleased to hear you liked it. I've set aside the slightly daunting task of putting Ishmael's Blues together, for a little while, and have made good progress instead on a shorter, supplementary anthology containing nothing but stanislav. At the moment I'm thinking of slotting the selected pieces in chronological order, bookended by part 1 of Gordon the Ruiner at the front, part 2 at the back. Proof copy will go by Vent Stack (or Inter Juvenalia) for my own amusement but when it's ready I think the best title will be "love from stanislav - rest of best".



mrs ishmael said...

mr mike - long may Mr. Pug sit on your knee and mr Harris snuggle up to me. The dreadful truth is that their lives are so short compared with ours, so from the start you know that all that love will end in tragedy. Just like all love - always, one way or the other, your heart will break. I can't read the death of Buster - just too dreadfully sad and takes me back to that awful time.

mrs ishmael said...

Title competition time, mr verge -
Would "A quick rub down with a house-brick" work?

inmate said...

Thank you mr verge, it really has been a pleasure and rest assured I will be/ am plugging the wisdom and fun held within the covers of Honest not Invent to others yet to sample young stanislav/mr Ishmael.
I must agree with mr Mike, Mrs I; the post on buster is heart rending. However the post about the death of his friend Dick struck a few chords with me, p’raps for personal reasons.
Also his recollections of ICU, of the chest drain hosepipes after heart surgery brought back some strange visions for me; I don’t know what the fuck they give you, but the hallucinations are far more vivid and strange than any recreational drugs. Not that I’ve tried that sort of stuff, of course.

BTW mr Mike are we allowed to say ‘death’ or “ my friend ‘died’ suddenly” nowadays? Mustn’t we say lost? After all weren’t twenty two young souls lost in Manchester on treeza’s watch, the dried out, barren hag, obviously they didn’t die after being fucking blown up by some mad fucking moslem brother.

Anonymous said...

Sounds about right, mr inmate - and Remainers would probably have to go with "adieu, les perdues", to boot.

At the risk of sounding precious, I sorta-kinda tried to echo stanislav's description (in "Handel's Plumber") of the chorus' repeated amens, saving the hardest flurry of emotional punches til last.


Mike said...

Mr inmate: your probably right: "death" is another non-word. Its a cliche, but Orwell must be spinning in his grave. I'm probably not supposed to say "Mr Pug"? And I must be guilty for assuming he is male, or wants to be viewed as a male, even though he has a cock, and (once) had balls. And has a loud alpha-male bark, but so do many lesbians.

mongoose said...

Alas, mr mike, I don't you can sat barely a word of any of that these days, these days.

Do not forget, title hunters, that after the rub down with a house brick the miscreants used to get popped down a mineshaft.

I have been doing stupid admin bollocks most of the evening and have had Judge Amy's senatorial lynching on in a wee window of the screen. The USA being a madhouse apart, she seems to me to be rather a sensible and civilised sort of woman, not to mention twice as bright and three times as composed as the rest of us. As somebody just said, if she hadn't been proposed by the Great Orange Horror, she'd be get 70+ votes for her confirmation.

Bungalow Bill said...

Songs of Praise, Mr Verge.

Amy is too good for them, Mr Mongoose. And, as you say, too good for us. It’s unsettling, now, when you witness people like her.

mongoose said...

What should really worry us, mr bb, is not the stellar quality of Barrett - impressive though she is - but the sorry state of the dickheads who now get to be US Senators. Some of those eegits I wouldn't let serve on a parish council.

Awww, Uncle Joe Biden, despite his protestations, did meet the Ukrainians who were busy stuffing his sons pockets with gold. Who wudda guessed it?

mrs ishmael said...

Sorry I've not been around for a couple of days - 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 - so he has been having intravenous morphine every 6 hours and lots of meds to calm everything down. Anyway, he's home now, on paracetomol syrup, on four meals of chicken and rice a day, and his bed next to the radiator.
There have been some brilliant comments in my absence, but mr inmate's drawing attention to the euphemisms for death deserves a little Lady Bracknell: "To lose one parent, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”

Bungalow Bill said...

Mrs I, thinking of the dog fella. His treatment sounds rather lovely, after the pain.