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:
please register an account with Lulu 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 : 
There's a 30% discount for a couple of days: with the voucher code = BFCM30 in the coupon box, which takes 30% 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. 
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?


Anonymous said...

Perfect. Richie "Rent-Boy" Rich - a worthy successor to the Bukkake Chancellor.

Incidentally I still think the beast's head is one of those Viewer's Choice deals - quick google reminds us the terms in question are apophenia & pareidolia. What's odd is that with all the coverage of this story, and the photos in question, nobody seems to have noticed.


Mike said...

Those trousers make my eyes water. When I worked in the corporate world I hated wearing a suit. Even a bespoke suit was uncomfortable. You could sit in your office and take the jacket off, but not the trousers - only on special occasions. I followed my dad's example and never wore underpants. It maybe some Hindu fetish wearing tight clothes?

mrs ishmael said...

The rent-boy suit is a fashion and sexual identity statement. Shop the London Look.

mrs ishmael said...

Excitedly wriggling in his new, hip hugging rent-boy suit, Chancellor Richie Rich allowed his ears to flap to attention and popped his ankles further out of his trouser legs. His adored Master had entrusted him with an Important Task.
"Yes sir", he panted, gambolling up the Ministerial staircase, the blonde flag of his Beloved's hair waving high, high above him: "Economy fucked, sir, as instructed. Moving on to stuffing it to the Public Sector. How hard? How deep? Consider it done." woof-woof