Saturday, 26 December 2020

Merry Christmas, Marry Me

 Crofts Family - Merry Christmas, Marry Me 

 stanislav fends off proposal off missus and guvament
Is fucking Tory bastards, innit, caused all this get-married-or-else shit, Archbishop Cameron and fucking Ian and Duncan fucking Smith, going on about marriage being right thing for fucking country, worse than fucking snot-eating lunatic, Brown who piano-wire cravat should have and hung up from oak tree and dance Culloden Jig in thin air, fucking horrible bastard. Country is gone right down in blocked-up toilet, innit, don't eat too much, don't smoke, go for fucking run every morning like mad fugitive, drive electric car, good for three and a half fucking miles, don't fucking drink unless is millionaire and can afford five-pounds a measure, don't go any fucking where, stay at fucking home and don't bother the fucking hospital death camps if you fall over and break your arse on pavements made deadly by useless fucking councillors not good for fuck all and up against wall should be placed with paper bag over head and bullseye over heart and how's that for local fucking accountability. Is fucking outrageous, no fucking grit, no fucking salt, no fucking gas, is cheapest thing on Earth, salt, after fresh air and they've fucking run out, can't fucking afford salt, is hard to believe, innit, in fourth of largest economies, is no fucking salt, country is fucked. Can see whole nation stumbling along icy pavement throwing mashed-up Christmas Pringle, two-for-one at Tesco's or Golden Wonder out in front, like was noncing monsignor spraying holy fucking water down aisle and suffer the little children to sit on my angry red knob. Amen, Ave Maria and so on, is enough salt in box of Pringle to melt fucking ice cap of Arctic. Oh fuck me, says local government bastard, is best not to do blame game, is nobody to blame, councils cannot be expected to prepare for fucking bad weather, just because is Winter and come every year and anyway is no salt to be put on hard shoulder by order of Lord Adonis, so that'll sort things out. 
What next is? No fucking water? Can only wash every other day, like dirty fucking bastard from Australia? And now on top of no fucking salt is come compulsory marriage for good of country. Is no fucking business is it, of bunch of fucking fuckpig thieving amoral motherfucking sonsoffuckingbitches like David fucking Cameron, whether a bloke get fucking married or just keep on shacking-up with nice bit of stuff, like sensible bloke, what the point is if is roof over head and sex partner and someone to talk to; of getting married and ruin everything and get saddled-up with responsibility until Death do fucking release, eh; get joined together in holy deadlock just to please gang of thieving Old Etonian bondage bastards, I say, Gove, bend over here laddie and drop your kecks it's six of the best for you, never did me any harm, woof-woof. 
Maybe can't do proper knobbing until after tripping down the fucking aisle or the registration office - not putting that filthy thing anywhere near me until ring is on finger and decent woman is, Conservative Party says so - and only handjob is getting or not even handjob of J Arthur nature but promise instead and  plumbing Polish bloke can't live on fucking promise, hard enough is making John Thomas stand up at attention at best of fucking times and should take advantage at every opportunity and not have to wait until get OK off fucking vicar, eh, innit,who is probably poof bandit or carpet fucking muncher. Best of all is New Age vicar, valuing all form of spirituality, usually chain-smoking EarthMother lesbo with pierced lip and tattooed to fuck. 
That Nadine Dorries, MP, was on telly saying unmarried people are all shit and a burden on the rich and their kids are all criminals and drug addict and run about sticking knifes in each other and raping old age pensioners. And anyway is probably only a tiny little bit of tax saving and get eaten-up by massive rise in VAT and unemployment. Is not as though missus is fucking pregnant or anything, is it, and baby stan needs proper name otherwise get called bastard by six-toed infant mongrels in village school. Anyway, in Scotland, best part of England, all the kids are bastards here, nobody gives a fuck and people who do get married marry their fucking cousins or sisters, place is full of inbred, drunken, wife-beating, cross-dressing, child molesting transsexuals, nobody's going to say Ye have tae get married, the noo, ye Polish bastards. Anyway, not to worry, can get divorce in Scotland like piece of piss, just give bent lawyer fifty quid, or Presbyterian minister, and not have to put up with this shit a moment longer. 
Stanislav, young polish plumber, footfree and loose fancy. Only not on Sunday, obviously. Is Sabbath. 
I missed the Queen's speech this year. Too busy dining in style. I understand from my chums that it was terrifically inclusive of ethnicity, religion and covid-induced deprivation of hugs and squeezes. Here's mr ishmael on the Queen's Speech, 25/12/2010
Royal Jelly

Well, of course, I have no time for Gay Bibles or any of that fucking rubbish.  King James's Authorised, that's the version for me. Proper fucking English.  The Queen's English, actually. Knowwhaddamean, subjects? Tell you the truth, one is not at all sure what to say, this year.  One means, everything's fucked, isn't it, country gone down the toilet.  That it should happen on one's fucking watch,  that's the shit of it, never put a foot wrong, me, and now, when I should be relaxing a bit, counting my money, like a proper senior citizen,  the fucking place has been taken over by crazy, shit-eating lunatics, last time one saw anyone like Cameron he was sitting on top of a fucking Panzer.

Oh, one knows that the junior moron's getting married but it's to some fucking gold-digger, a chav, they call them, mother doesn't know her arse from a hole in the fucking ground, thinks breeding's something one does with animals, common bloody trollop, and the bint, herself,  looks like she's strolled off the set of EastEnders and if you ask me she'll turn out like Gormless's own mother, banging like a shithouse door in a gale, working her way through the Household Cavalry, or was it the NHS, I think Diana was doing both of them. And that's not to mention the wog playboy and his oily pater. Dodgy ground, that, the way these family marriages turn out.  Diana. Nuff said, as they say in the Commonwealth. Anne's bloke, that stuttering, stupid bastard, wossisname, Phillips.  And Fergie, Jesus fucking wept, Fergie, fuck me gently, flogging off introductions to number-two son like she was a whore at a hockey match, which would probably be a step-up for the useless, fat pig. Bankrupt, she is, the cow, and  one doesn't just mean skint, one means not a thought, not a scruple, not a value in her empty head, just a vile, churning mess of greed and stupidity, she should have gone into politics.  These two tossers, Clegg and  Cameron, isn't it, prime fucking minister and deputy prime fucking minister, more like the two fucking Ronnies, they are, only not funny;  shouldn't be surprised if we have the troops on the street, shooting one's  subjects, stronganstablegovament, my royal arse.

One could talk about the Heir and his horsefaced Nazi baggage, FagAsh Lil, the Prince's comfort, nearly getting strung-up the other day but frankly one gets a bit pissed off with Brian, one means, he just never grew up, sits around, still, making Goon noises, off the wireless, and that was over fifty fucking years ago. And as for all that Tampax nonsense, well, Jesus fucking Christ, what a prat one has raised. Wasn't me, really, brought him up, just the usual sinister below stairs plotters and poofters, no wonder he's a Grade A Berkely Hunt.  Couldn't hardly write his name on the Cambridge exams,  good job we own the examiners or he'd look even more of dummy than he already does, crashing his aircraft, running aground in his minesweeper  and marrying a disturbed teenager from a family of pisshead nutters. And don't fucking well start me about the Duchy of Cornwall Digestive biscuit enterprise, gonna be King and Head of the Commonfuckingwealth and he's buggering about, saving the planet,  with fucking biscuits

But sport, that's the thing, can't really go wrong talking about sport, or can one,  the prime minister did, didn't he, along with Will Gormless and that fucking ladyman footballer, the one covered in tattoos and adverts, Christ, he makes my skin crawl, grovelling and arse-licking, It's the very bestest honour wots ever bin imposed on me, playing for my country, No, I actually heard him say that,  and his scrawny tramp of a wife,  Jesus, what a fucking ree-tard, Essex, isn't it, she comes from, like the future fucking Queen Katy,  a consumer witch, fucking country's over-run with  them, I suppose they'll be wanting me to knight the fucker, next, Arise, Sir David Beckham of Vodafone.  Over my dead body.  Brooklyn, that's what he calls his brat, isn't it, and Romeo, fucking Romeo, one asks you.

It says here that it encourages teamwork, one would say esprit de corps, except that no fucker'd know, these days, what one was talking about . And it's a bit rich, anyway, what with the govament of merchant bankers cutting all the sport money and shutting down the programmes  to be banging on about sport, now that it's been abolished, along with civilisation.

 stanislav and mr ishmael's essays today are:
Is fucking Tory bastards, innit                drafted  9th January 2010

Royal Jelly                                              drafted  25th December 2010


Bungalow Bill said...

Fine music.

A bit harsh on Aussie hygiene that first piece. Sir David Beckham of Vodafone - an entire culture in that.

mrs ishmael said...

I know, mr bb, and Blogger tells me we have 76 fine Australian readers - they are all mr mike's chums, and I'm sure they wash at least once a fortnight, whether or not they need to. That stanislav, though, he's just not as enlightened and liberal as wot we are. Would you, by any strange quirk of fate, happen to be of an Aussie persuasion? Or just committed to the ALM movement?
Glad you like the music - there's more of that coming up on New Year's Eve.

Oh yes, you three chaps on the naughty step, you can come down and join the rest of us in the body of the kirk - there's just not space for social distancing over there.

Bungalow Bill said...

Of a Scouse persuasion, Mrs I. I don’t know about you but I have a strong suspicion that I’m missing out whenever I hear stories from SE Asia and that arena, Aus/NZ obviously included. Relatives had an exchange student from a Melbourne school staying with them a few years ago. I helped to show her the sights of Merseyside which are indeed noble (though you have to squint a bit sometimes). Then she showed us some photos of her city and everything looked cleaner and happier. Perhaps the Covid terror has changed some of that.

Of course, you have your own vistas.

Mike said...

Mr BB: the origins of Melbourne were as a port and outlet for the Ballarat gold fields (amongst the most prolific in the world at the time), and also the wool and other commodities to the Empire. Like Liverpool in its day. Hence, Melbourne was/is quite a wealthy and regal city, although there is now urban sprawl. Australia in general is much cleaner because we don't really have much industrial production, and also the majority of the country is on the coast. So we get the benefit of the coastal breezes each day. Also, the sunlight here is so much brighter and intense. For the first 2 years when I emigrated I had to constantly wear sun glasses.

Bungalow Bill said...

I have friends in Perth, Mr Mike, and they speak of that same brightness, a freshness to things. Peering through the dankness in the Old World, the occasional ray would not go amiss.

mrs ishmael said...

When I was a gym-slipped girl, I remember my Art teacher in my Bradford school,a long, long time ago, when the sparrows and the buildings were black and the markets Victorian, telling us what a beautiful city Bradford was. Of course we scoffed, but she exhorted us to look up. She had just given an illustrated lecture on the threee orders of Ancient Greek architecture, and gave us as homework to go into the city and identify Doric, Ionic and Corinthian capitals on the buildings. Just look up - past the shop fronts, up to the magnificent Victorian buildings above. She was quite right. Those Victorian city fathers, wealthy industrialists, adopted the architecture of Greece and Rome. The bones of those magnificent buildings were there despite the industrial dirt and the tawdry modernity. So I was well satisfied with Bradford until I went to University in Birmingham, and discovered that Birmingham had buildings far, far better than Bradford's. The Town Hall, the Museum and Art Gallery complex, the Council House and Margaret Street, the Cathedral with its Pre-Raphaelite buildings. Beyond anything - until I went to Glasgow. Now there's a Victorian City to wonder at! The Kelvingrove Art Gallery is cathedral-like in its magnificence.
Britain's wealth of architecture and art is still there - behind the squalor, the traffic, the street people. Not all of it, of course - Hitler got rid of a lot of it and the modernisers and city-in-the-sky architects saw off considerable chunks, building their fashionable nonsense, neither use nor ornament, subsequently being demolished. But what is left is awe-inspiring.
Just look up.

Bungalow Bill said...

True, Mrs I. Liverpool has more listed buildings than anywhere outside London, I believe. Its Georgian quarter is magnificent. It would just be nice to have some more light for viewing purposes.

mrs ishmael said...

Never did get around to visiting Liverpool. I think the soft, dim light of the North is the right backdrop for these magnificent buildings - no harsh edges, sharp corners, blinding elevations or inky shadows. I'm glad, though, that they are mostly cleaned up now and have shed their industrial grime.

Mike said...

Mr BB: when I was a kid in Manchester I remember the "pea soup" fogs. Couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Blowing out thick green snot all the time. Its a wonder we survived.

mrs ishmael said...

They had those fogs in all the big cities, mr mike - mr ishmael told me about times in Birmingham when the bus conductor (remember those?) had to walk in front of the bus, with a flag, guiding the driver to stay on the road. So the school journey home was accomplished at walking pace.
Up in Yorkshire, we used to get some heavy snow in the winter, which brought major problems. I lived in Halifax in those days, and, because I missed the regular Confirmation classes, I had to go to classes in a little church on the moors, which involved my dad driving me through roads reduced to single track lanes, with 12 foot high walls on each side of the road, where the snow blowers had piled up the battlements of snow, it had frozen, snow had fallen, snow on snow etc. My dad said it was not as bad as a Yorkshre winter just after the war, when a snow plough had gone out up the moors to bring a pregnant farmer's wife down for safety, it never returned, so they sent another snow plough up the moor after it. It never returned. When the thaw came, they got a third plough through to the farmhouse, where they found both crews, the farmer, his wife and the new baby. Aaaw.
They just don't make weather like they used to anymore.
A Mancunian, mr mike? Second best collection of Pre-Raphaelites in the country, and a triangular Town Hall designed by Alfred Waterhouse in 13th century Gothic style and 12 murals by Ford Madox Brown

mongoose said...

When we were wee - before central heating - my parents would 'bak up' the fire in the evening. These seemed to be some mad slow-burn over the night so that we didn't all freeze to death before morning. The damp, barely burning coals would expel this noxious, coal-smelling green-yellowy frumious smoke. And in the morning the sodium street lamps were like dim candles in the fog and everywhere reeking of coal.

Many years - for my sins - I was made to work at a couple of coke works. I used to be in the mornings about five-years-old again, the ick and filth from the coking process wedged in the valleys and down into it I'd drive. The same smells and colours.

I trust that we all - prisoners in our own homes - make the best of whatever tomorrow can be turned into. At least mr mike is free to walk his beaches. (Steve Smith's eyesight just on the wane do you think, mr mike? That's a young man's technique he has there.)

Bungalow Bill said...

Where do we go now from this new madness? Same as before: keep to ourselves, do the good things well, never give up, take consolation from each other. Above all, never give up.

A very happy new year to Mrs I and to all on here.