Sunday 29 November 2020

The sunday Ishmael 29/11/2020

 Gorgeous, pouting, 40 year old,  pocket- sized Venus, Chancellor Sunak, a petite 5 foot 7 inches, in his tight little rent boy suit, stuffed it to the public sector this week. You'd have thought he could have afforded some decent threads, a nice bit of schmutter, on his  Chancellor's salary of £71,090, on top of his MP's salary of £79,468.

Then there's his wife, one of Britain's wealthiest women, richer than the Queen, who is worth a mere £350 million. Mrs. Sunak's shares in her family's tech firm are worth £430 million. You'd expect a suit with a little more gravitas, a superfine  wool to grace the spider-like Chancellerian limbs, with trouserings that cover the Chancellerian socks

especially as he succeeded that archetypal Yorkshireman, former Tory leader William Hague, to the constituency of Richmond, North Yorkshire, one of the safest Conservative seats in the United Kingdom, held by the party for over 100 years. They have some nice cloth mills in 't'Yorkshire. They can turn outa chap gennulman-like.
Not like this.
Or this. 
These wriggly little bottom-nipping suits no doubt have a place somewhere, but not on the Westminster cat-walk. Designed to project a tight, teenage profile,  the rent-boy suit, cut narrow out of stretchy tech-cloth to mould and contour, is really out of place on the green benches. Maybe more suitable for out the back.
Perhaps the matalan look is a bit of smoke and mirrors to deflect the casual gaze from the deep, deep wealth of our Chancellor, dubbed the “Maharaja of the Dales”, and thought to be the richest person in the House of Commons, who, according to former standards chairman Sir Alistair Graham, took as 'minimalist an approach as possible' when declaring his financial interests last month. Sunak set up a 'blind trust' meaning he does not know how his assets are invested and failed to  declare them in the register of ministers' interests. Sunak was promoted to Chancellor of the Exchequer on 13 February 2020 after his predecessor, Chancellor Javid,  resigned that day following a meeting with Prime Minister Johnson during which BoJo had offered to keep Javid's position on the condition that he fire all of his advisers at the Treasury, to be replaced with individuals selected by Cummings. Upon resigning, Javid told the Press Association that "no self-respecting minister would accept those terms". Political commentators saw Sunak's appointment as signalling the end of the Treasury's independence from Downing Street. Close friends with The Spectator's political editor James Forsyth, whom he has known since their schooldays together at Winchester College,  Sunak was best man at his wedding to journalist Allegra Stratton and they are godparents to each other's children.
Anyway, there he was, this week, on national telly, in his neat little body-hugging suit.

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Telling the nation that, following in the footsteps of that great Chancellor, Gordon the Ruiner, he has fucked the economy. Because the wages of workers in the private sector have gone down the toilet, there will be no pay rises for Public Sector workers. As Unite said: "this can only be seen as a kick in the teeth to the tens of thousands of workers who have worked tirelessly through this pandemic, leaving themselves and their families vulnerable to a deadly virus. Such a freeze on public sector wages will amount to a real-terms cut—an attack no worker can afford after ten years of austerity. It’s due to hit millions working in education, local government and many other areas." NHS workers, however, will be excluded from the cut, and Sunak has promised an extra £3 billion for the health service, in a cynical attempt to play off one section of workers against another.
  Heard on local radio this week: "Local Council doesn't work and won't until the policy of giving the high-paid jobs to friends, family and fat cats is ended."
It isn't just local government, babes.

And have you noticed the essentially GilbertandSullivan titles of the great Offices of State? Chancellor of the Exchequer, FFS.

 Esholt Sewage Works
shit pipes across the Leeds/Liverpool canal

Meghan's had a bit of a setback. It's a personal tragedy. Deprived of the opportunity of hitting the headlines by presenting the world with a second petit paquet, another princeling with the blood of royal ginger Henry VIII, she has made the best of it, stiff upper lip over yards of bleached white American tombstone teeth, and announced instead the untimely ending of her interesting condition. Time was, women discretely drew a veil over the products of conception until there was no denying that the beast with two backs had been thoroughly invited under the marital duvet and yet another mewling and puking mouth demanding yet more resources from Gaia had arrived. For heaven's sake, mankind, has no one heard of Malthus? Nothing to say here, Greta? The single biggest, indeed the only, factor in climate change, is the over breeding proclivity of homo sapiens.Thomas Robert Malthus FRS 1766 – 1834: "The power of population is indefinitely greater than the power in the earth to produce subsistence for man". Or, as stanislav the young Polish Plumber said, "not everyone can have fishy on dishy".
"It is nature's way", the wise old wives would say, knowing damn fine that there was usually a very good reason for a foetus not making it to term. "Least said, soonest mended". Maybe even, when a fertile couple with 12 or so kids was faced with the loss of an embryo, there was a sense of relief. After all, plenty more where that came from. That's the very nub of the problem. Plenty more. Maybe the exponential increase in the number of gay men is nature's way of putting the brakes on the population explosion.
Even when a loving, committed gay couple, wishing to ape the heterosexual nuclear family, buy themselves a baby, it is safe to assume that every male-on-male copulatory or onanistic act will categorically not result in conception. Whereas women do keep spoiling the fun, with their blood and eggs. 
Anyroadup, not only is the great gullible population expected to celebrate successful live birth: (average cost of a baby in its first year of life is £6000. That is some fabulous consumer market to exploit, and the lockdown baby boom will start producing the fruit of the nation's collective loins any time around now) but we now have to announce and mourn miscarriage. What next? Abortion? 
I blame William Hague. He started it. William of Miscarriages, he was dubbed by mr ishmael, for his ruthless exploitation of his wife's gynaecological history, in pursuit of electoral success. Then every bastard politician, hot on the same scent, desperate to prove they could still breed, despite having rancid old sperm, got down and dirty in Ugandan duvet discussions. Here's stanislav reporting on the phenomenon:

Was  argument at Lilith's blog of stuff and  someone was fucked-off. Was not fair, all the shit  Mrs Dave will have falling on head, now that she's going  all square-up with Sarah-George Snot and Mrs Cleggie, in Great Battle of Harpies.

Oh, fuck me, is dreadful, says one lady, and poor Mrs Dave, why can't everybastard just be nice, eh? Poor Mrs Dave is just doing stand by your man - or in this case prat and fucking idiot of public school layabout and waster and never days work has done just good for fuck all is, not even for leading Torybastards and all drowning up shit creek are, even though prime minister Snot is degenerate fucking lunatic and not fit to tie own shoes and should in backwards-fitting jacket be,  useless fucking bastard and Dave and braying hangingandfuckingflogging Davettes should be on top of polls and not crawling around in shit, like one- legged bloke in competition of arse-kicking in muddy field in middle of fucking hurricane.

Lilith is very kindly blogger, not like norml blogger,  and instead of telling caring lunaticperson to fuck off out of it and go over to Mrs Dale's Cardigan of Care blog, just down the road, like she should and any other fucker  would have  done says, Ah, ho-hum, the word SamCam doesn't exactly impel her to click her fucking mouse. Is very polite way to say Look, I don't give a fuck about SamCam or Mrs Dave and not give any offence. 

The big news, even though it isn't,  is that Mrs Dave is up in the Duff Pudding Club, just like probably millions of other women but being Mrs Dave must get the job done right, on budget and in time, otherwise is like most of Good King Henry Eight's bints and good for fuck all and have head chopped off from neck by skymadeupnewsandfilth, or Princess of Tarts and come to unfortunate but very convenient tragic end in subway with coke-snorting wog playboy. 

Whether is despotic, lardarse monarch or whining Prince of fucking Wales or snot-eating iron hoof  a baby is a PR plus, is call noblesse oblige and can be top baby even if is not strictly come out from top  of drawer and father was call Hewitt, or ten times fucking worse, Blind Blunkett.  Baby is good shit. But only for as long as it lives. Will be lots of bookie somewhere, making-up odds on  Cameron sprog, 10/1 Dead on Arrival, even money Deformed or Handicapped, 100/1 Its a Frog with Two Heads in a pinstripe suit. .

Dead baby is fucking rubbish, really, electorally speaking, better is  not to have one in  first place, if fucking thing is going to croak. Dead baby is good for fuck all. Can't get no votes kissing a dead baby or stuffing a hamburger in dead baby chops, or posing at front gate with dead baby, like that horrible cunt, Mellor.

Is absolutely fuck all can be done with dead baby.  stanislav  has all the dead dogblokes' ashes on a shelf. Is nice, don't get them out and stroke them or take for walk but is better than Rocky and Barney go in fucking glue factory. But wouldn't dream of keeping dead baby. Only good place for dead baby is somewhere else and not in house.  People soon would stop coming in house or reading blog, if they knew the place was all festooned-up to fuck with incinerated infants in jars or urns or some fucking thing, maybe with a picture on. From  the scan, because baby was born dead and no proper picture is. Like fucking nutter off Jeremy Kyle show. 

Fuck me, Jesus, is horrible to imagine. Wossinthatjar, then ? You what ?  Your first fucking born, I'm outta here and don't you ever invite me for wine and tapas again, you're not fucking right, you're not. Sick bastard. 

 Even stupidest  sentimentalising Sun reader is up to his or her arse with dead  political babies.  Has already been dead SnotBaby and dead CamBaby and public bloke has enough shit to eat on plate with politicians all lining up to take stuff off him, for his own fucking good and him saying yes, I know, is for my own good, get economy right again, is the main thing, yes, fuck everything else, can go and look for work with bare feet and empty belly, just as long as economy is right, long term prosperity and growth, that's the fucking thing, Fuck me, is country full  of stupid bastards, rioting on fucking streets should be and pulling thieving banker limb from fucking limb and instead is listen to Jonathan fucking Dimbleby talking to Foxtrotting Nitwit Vince fucking Cable, well what we need to do is take things from ordinary people and give them to the rich,  that really is the only way we can get the economy right and everybody on the panel agrees with that, and I'm not scared to do that, shall we dance?
Oh, fuck me, no job, no benefits, bloke and mrs is fighting like fuck and nasty fucking poisonous consumer  brats all want new Ishit and no fucking money is and credit card company is phoning every five minutes, like stalkers, watching and listening until they know you are in,   and writing every day and can't afford to heat the fucking house any more and can't go down Harvester shithole  or even drive to MacDonald Typhoid Emporium and get  familysize bucket of mutant chicken and baked fucking beans and all for twelve quid, fuck me hasn't seen twelve quid in fucking months but comes in house after fruitless search for shit job on half wages  and bring your own tools - is the only way to get economy right, is pay everybody half and give cunting fucking banker couple of million fucking pounds bonus for buggering-up the whole fucking world, yes, I know, is good for me -  and first thing he says is, Oi, Mrs, how is Mrs Dave getting on, everything is OK, innit, baby developing healthy and all, not got six fucking toes, has it, and cleft palate, like Orkney presbyterian, Oh, thank fuck for that, just as long as Sam Cam is all right, Wot,  the bailliffs have been and taken the wallpaper and the lightbulbs, well, never mind that, look on the bright side, Sam and the Baby Dave are doing well, we can read by candlelight, Wot, they took the candles, too, well, just as long as it helps get the economy right and the public finances balanced, that's the main thing.

Is too much of a risk for Sam and Dave.  Just imagine, useless airhead prat loses the election and Mrs  loses the baby. Fuck me gently, there wouldn't  hardly be no sympathy, you already done that one, would be the hooted public response off starving bloke and mrs closely following baby progress, you and Brown, Westminster is fucking littered with baby corpses off you lot, Jesus, must be like Midsomer Murders round your houses. Massacre of the fucking Innocents.  

Is Tory Assassins committee of old  men in undertaker suits, the backstabbing nineteen twenty-two committee is called and sole purpose is for removing useless bastard from leader's office and drowning in lukewarm shit, like with Ian and Duncan Smith, the quiet bastard and not turning up the volume is. If Cameron baby goes the way of Brown baby then, within five minutes, 1922ers   calling would be with messages of sympathy and betrayal.  Terrible thing, old man, but twice is taking the piss a bit.  Good of the party and everything, S'the Chiltern Hundreds for you, old chap. No, immense respect for the NHS is no good, didn't work last time,  you lost one just before the last election. It's just bad ju-ju, dead babies all over the shop, unsettles the voters. Spend more time with your family. That's the thing.  The surviving ones.  While you still have 'em.  Before they all drop dead from some form of spasticity or mad cow disease.  Yes, got a speech drafted for you, here.

Is very nasty business, politics. Dead baby or no dead baby. But dead baby is probably worse.  Best thing is that old blokes don't bother. 
stanislav's essay today is:

 If you would like to read more from stanislav and mr ishmael, the anthology of their essays is available from   and it is now listed by both Blackwells and the Book Depository
To buy a copy:
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End note:
Did you notice this in the news this week?
The  Utah Department of Public Safety Aero Bureau released images of the rectangular-shaped metal object. It said authorities would determine if "they need to investigate further. It is illegal to install structures or art without authorisation on federally managed public lands, no matter what planet you're from," the department said. mr verge invites you to look more closely at this photo:
D'you see the beast carved into the rock wall behind the monolith?

Sunday 22 November 2020

The Sunday Ishmael 22/11/2020

In the midst of the usual coronanewsbollox and the rabid controversy surrounding the news that Home Secretary, Ms L. R. Tit (mr. verge, passim), may be an appalling bully or may be the victim of a misogynistic and racist media campaign, but is, for certain sure, a jolly good pal of Bojo the Hoho,

Hand, Boris
it may have escaped  your attention that this week it was announced that gas boilers will be banned in all newly built homes within three years under the government’s war on climate change. The “future homes standard” will require all new homes to have low-carbon alternatives, such as electric heat pumps. These work by capturing the heat in the ground or in the air and discharging it inside your house. The cold air from your house is then dumped outside, like a reverse fridge, thus cooling down your garden. Doubtless in bonny Scotland there will be grants available from the generous Scottish Government to rip out the gas or oil central heating system installed under a Scottish Government grant ten years ago and replace it with the new system. 

In 2011, mr ishmael took a holiday. He really didn't like going on holiday, but always tried to make the best of a bad job. On this occasion, after a thoroughly miserable ten days away from home, he came home to find the Scottish Government's contractors installing a new gas boiler and central heating system in his 200 year-old-home:



It's just one of those remorseless milestones on Ruin's highway, just another example of the moronic gobsters shitting all over everything, including our precious language,  and of them fertilising the ghastly managerialist patois which befouls the public - and probably the private - discourse.  Clearly, on balance, in a sense, in a very real sense, I simply say, a myriad of, at the end of the day, the bottom line, end of, you simply cannot underestimate the importance of this;  a gobbledegook of clumsy, infelicitous phrases strung together  in a facetious,  clodhopping attempt to convey eloquence, erudition, even; the purveyors of this claptrap were probably never  aware that hopefully is an adverb, or even what an adverb is.

It wouldn't be so bad if it was just  Celebrity, gobbing away like this but it's Power, too, and Academe, lazy and stupid, they may as well be blowing bubbles.  One hears and reads govament ministers, jumped-up seckatries of this-and-that who wouldn't - at their current age - pass the eleven-plus,  so grossly malformed, imprecise, ambiguous and downright ugly is their spoken and written English.  The BBC - or Radio CIA  as it has recently reinvented itself;   these Oxbridge Atlanticists, what are they like, eh? - it's cabal of job-for-life idiot presenters wallowing in Estuary solecisms, no longer quietly guards the language, is no longer an exemplar,  while Mark Beardy and Alan Yentob are paid millions, relentlessy grammarless arseholes; editorials in the broadsheets  are littered with sentences which aren't and the numbskulls who  leave university with degrees can neither read, write, speak nor add-up.

Seems a little perverse, then,  to object to  one more idiocy, one more tautologism, why bother, who gives a fuck, not the Unelected Prime Minister, fluent in shitespeak, not the foreign seckatry, a man whose clunking cadences jerk up and down like a fiddler's elbow, a man who thinks he dignifies his creaking rhetoric by making all of his ays long ones, yet a man who is lauded by his fellow parliamentarians as ay most scholarly fellow, even though he is ay noisesome poltroon. Wasn't David Blunkett Education seckatry, isn't Alan Sugar in the House of Lords, isn't Adrian Choylds the new Voice of the Nation, or is it Chris Moyles or, God help us all, Chris the gobby nonce Evans?

Object we must, though, if only to comfort ourselves momentarily, to help steel ourselves, quicken our own step,  against  Ruin's backward quick-march. I know you, and you know me.....we come together rarely in peace and love but  in sonnets of disquiet,  commentaries of outrage - you know, Who the fuck do they think they're talking to, this garland of nincompoops, slung unwontedly around our necks,  these people who bleat about falling standards, heedless that they, all over the media like the pox, are instigators, culprits not victims.

It is not for media consumption but for myself and my friends my stories are sung and some here will recall my young friend, stanislav, railing against the apostrophe Jihadists, still around, who would claim to have dismissed a post or an individual comment simply by having gleefully complained that an apostrophe was in the wrong place or absent, even though their own rebuttals were often a linguistic and intellectual desert. Pray, let us not be so infantile.  It is  not prose rough-hewn or inadvertence or  educationally short-changed  ignorance to which I object  but it is the well-educated turned language-fashionista who are so contemptible;  lazy and self satisfied, not for them the internalised self-editor whose rigour so polices many of us here,  they don't have to think about what they are saying,  these mediapolitico pricks,  or how they say it,  they are just cheap shits, in love with the sound of their own rank, turgid voices.  In the 'forties, effete, layabout public schoolboy, George Orwell, wrote a furiously grand, snobby essay on the subject of politics and the English language and I will reproduce it here, eventually, it is uncannily prescient and reveals that this coarsening, this watering-down  of language's precision and invention has been on the march for some time;  who among us, here, would try to outguess its pitiless, vulgar legions? Well, I would.

It was the reason why, which so recently bugged me;  you know how these things happen,  you notice something once and then it's everywhere, these tautologisms are all around, in the air and on the ground.  The reason why Prince Gormless is marrying Miss Totty;  the reason why Osama bin Wotsit was killed;  the reason why the Coalition has come together not in the interests of its members - fuck no -  but in the national interest;  the reason why AyVee is shit and the reason why it is cool to kill Gadaffi's grandchildren, collateralise the wee nignogs,  as Air Vice Marshall Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap would regretfully bluster it away, the cunt. The reason why these children were killed by us is because unfortunately these things happen in war, even though we are not at war.

And I nearly found  myself advancing, here,  the reason why there has been a dearth of commentary in these quarters -  the wee policeman, though, an eternal sentinel, some chiding hybrid of school teachers Miss Boulter and Mr Hill, threw me down my internal  stairs, bless him.

The reason  is that, after a fashion, we dried up; we paranoics-romantique, we lonesome, insomniacal obsessives shouldn't take holidays, for if we do they throw us off our stride, completely. It didn't help that the ten days were spent without access to cyberspace, its instantaneousness of everything. I have been driving around the UK for a longtime, now, been up and down her highways as far as my eye could see and I have always been able to finish up exactly where I wanted to be, you look at a map,  you just watch the signs,  there's millions of them,  or you can always pullover and ask someone - you might find someone who can visualise things and give you concise, useful direction - but if you can read you can find your way, oh, all around the country.  So this multi-lingual satellite navigation system, in the Citroen, was, for my purposes,  absolutely redundant and probably, like the mobile phone, a nasty harbinger of GlobaCorp Control Systems.  No, for me; that manifestation of information technology is as welcome as warm snot on a doorknob.  Google, though, is my rod and my staff;  my help cometh even from Microsoft Windows, who made Heaven and Earth, I will lift up mine eyes unto Firefox Three;  the search engine is my Shepherd, I shall not want, surely Goodness and Mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in cyberspace forever - which, of course, shall we all - as it happened in the beginning, is happening now and shall ever be happening.  Fucked without the Internet, I was. Ducking into netcafes and libraries for half an hour here and there, strangers keyboarding furiously, hemming me in at my shoulders, no access to my Picasa library of freaks and knobheads, blog and email passwords forgotten, it was shit and so I gave up, until I could be at home, always so good to be back home again.  Meantime,  I read William Burroughs and shopped in one of those larcenous shitholes which rejoice in the name of Antiques Centre - sharp-faced, greedy harridans lying without restraint, Yes, it is Victorian,  the fender,  it only looks so shiny because we use a special process to clean it up, yes and the brand new screws and the brand new screws and washers, they are part of the special process.  It was grim sport, venturing among the unGodly and reminded us of how we cherish our relative isolation here in Scotland, the best part of England.

And talking of which, another reasonwhy  there have been a few weeks of relative absenteeism, is the largesse with your money of First Minister Salmond and the Tribesmen.  A day after returning home,  a big parcel arrived from the Scottish govament, as they insist on calling it.  So big it was, that it came on a pallet, a new, energy efficient  central heating system; a big, fuck-off, external  combi boiler,  eight radiators, a new two thousand litre fuel tank and all the knobs and pipes and detectors and alarms and programmers;  the lads were a week installing it, carpets up, floorboards up, walls drilled with brightly coloured Makita drills, pipes bent and forced through walls thirty-two inches thick,  bookcases emptied, furniture dismantled, hotwater cylinders removed, dust and shit and packaging everywhere, manic plumbers and engineers and sparkses determinedly pressing-on, to the next installation and the next.  The cost was getting on for nine grand, my contribution was  about eight hundred and, since they offered,  I took a loan for it, interest free, repayable over about eight years.  It is, of course, this sort of thing, and the scrapping of prescription charges,  as much as a righteous loathing of the MacToiletmen, which has seen Salmond, in his own mind, at least, crowned Emperor.

I know that I should have said, Hang about, this is a Barnett Formula freebie too far, no thank you, Sir, I will stick with my existing CH system, and my Rayburn and my coal fires,  I fucking hate radiators anyway, they leak, it's a nasty heat and they occupy walls in a way which restricts the deployment of furniture;  actually, I don't mind being a bit cold,  even though it's not a good  idea to be shivering when one has the former fag and former baconsandwich arteries, grinding and contracting, Mr Death's artificers modifying my life support piping.  And there was a time when I would have said, No, don't want it, let somebody else have it - diffident and painfully self denying, we Zen-Presbyerian-Marxists - but as Mr Doctor John the Night Tripper remarked, If I Don't Do It, Somebody Else Will.  I am sure that the UPM, Mr CallHimDave, would go into one - I don't pay my taxes for Mr Ishmael to walk around his house bollock naked in the middle of Winter, no, like most decent people I pay my taxes to fire half-million pound Cruise missiles at wogs in Libya,  that's what taxpaying ststesmen like me and Mr Sarkozy the Dwarf and Signor Berlusconi the Pimp pay our taxes for, if we have to pay any that is, which seems most unfair if we do. 

Seemed silly, not to take it, when it was offered, and anyway we retained the old, warm-air system, trunked through the house with more hardware than B & Q's got, easy on the  sinuses and hard on the damp.  Grinning grins all day long  of blithe acceptance and understanding at the workmen as they sought vainly to explain one aspect or another of combi-boiler technology and then,when they had gone, squatting in some unfamilar place at some unfamiliar surface, maybe with a telly or a washing machine on in the background made blogging impossible. The young can do this stuff, I see them laptopping away in the most unlikely places, maybe travellers like mr jgm2 or mr yaic do it perforce, and manage without a mouse, but I can't, I need to sit down in quiet, at my own desk,  without hindrance.  Just a personal ritual, not just a ritual, the establishment of a productive environment always been thus.  I remember, in the eighties, hearing Ruin's  children condescendingly explain to me that having Radio One on helped them with their homework, no, really, you have an attitude problem, Ishmael, that's your trouble. The days when we might properly - in everyone's interest - correct or even rebuke the young long gone, now, washed away in a floodtide of over-protective consumer sentimentality;  luvemtobitsmykids, although, of course, such is mere, worthless self-love.

The people in charge, when the space shuttles went to toast, they knew about it all, the O rings, the missing tiles,  there wasn't any need for all that shit to happen; maybe, like my plumber-engineers, they were just too busy being clever, maybe getting on with something else, the next mission, that they completely missed the point of their endeavour. There will be some jargon phrase for this phenomenon, some geekspeak, meant to mollify, exculpate and neutralise, something from the same shitty  lexicon as collateral damage. It can't be this way everywhere, can it? A monkey wrench up their arses, or a slide rule,  that's the remedy.

So there it is, disorientated to the Nth. degree,  abroad, adrift, banished from cyberspace, marooned among heathen Godless motherfuckers and then, returning  home   to the unexpected, unscheduled  doings of Chaos.  But its nearly over.  The lads just need to return and make the boiler work.  The sparks wired the  whole thing the wrong way 'round. Other than that, other than it not working, it's fine. I am expecting them anytime from last Friday onwards but of course by now they will be on another job, destroying someone else's hard-won equilibrium, my malinstallation and its remedy erased from their minds..   Back, anyway, to Decency's barricades and as  la belle haughty, Lennox,  insists, poppily, it's good to be back home again.

Today's essay was:
Not the Reason Why  written 10/5/2011

 If you would like to read more from stanislav and mr ishmael, the anthology of essays by stanislav and ishmael is available from   and it is now listed by both Blackwells and the Book Depository
To buy a copy:
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So, since there'll be no use for gas and, under the same, green industrial revolution initiative,
new cars and vans powered wholly by petrol and diesel will not be sold in the UK from 2030, the oil industry relied on by that fishy pair, Salmond and Sturgeon, to finance an independent Scotland, is about to disappear into the mists of history. Just saying.

Mr and Mrs Priti Patel