Sunday 28 February 2021

The Sunday Ishmael 28/02/21: Oddities and Updates

Apparently, according to his doting daddie, baby Archie's first word was crocodile. Now that's odd - first words are usually mummy, daddy or more pie. (That was me). 
editor verge remembered that Mohammed al Fayed, who almost became Harry's step-grandfather-in-law, invariably referred to Camilla as the crocodile. Mr Fayed's long-awaited appearance at the High Court in 2008 as he took the witness stand for the Diana and Dodi inquests was enlivened by episodes of high comedy, occasioned not just by the extraordinary nature of the conspiracy to murder his son and Princess Diana that he laid out to the Court, but also by his difficulties with English idiom and unfamiliarity with the language that is permissible in Court. At one point the Harrods tycoon accused the barrister of bullshit, adding; "I cannot believe that you talk with this conviction out of your backside." The conspiracy, he believed, included the male senior members of the Royal Family. He said: "They cleared the decks. They finished her, they murdered her, and now he is happy. He married his crocodile wife and he is happy with that."
So, when princeling Archie’s first word was crocodile, we can confidently assume that he heard that word a lot – a lot – when Mummie and Daddie were discussing Archie’s grandad and step-grandmum. The conversation would go:

Meghan to Harry: Have you phoned Charles and the Crocodile?

Harry to Meghan: No, I didn’t want to talk to the Crocodile if Dad was out....

 Still with the baby-theme, the Americans have invented a new thing, which enabled the Beeb to run this intriguing headline:

 Gender-reveal device explosion kills father-to-be.

These parties are celebrations announcing whether expectant parents are going to have a girl or a boy. They are dangerous things which have resulted in wildfires in California in September 2020 and Arizona in April 2017 and in several deaths. The most recent victim was expectant father, Christopher Pekny, who died when the explosive device he was constructing for his gender-reveal party prematurely exploded during construction, killing him and injuring his brother. New York's state police department and its bomb disposal unit are investigating the incident.

Apparently, it is now customary for  the "big reveal" to be made  with fireworks and coloured smoke grenades. In addition to this new and dangerous concept of exploding gender-reveal parties, the Americans also invented baby-shower parties, a similarly dangerous pursuit: a man from Michigan was killed earlier this month after he was struck by shrapnel from "a small cannon type device" fired during a baby shower.  

Actually, gender-reveal is wrong in nowadays-through-the-looking-glass-speak, because as we know, gender is something one decides for oneself, so the party should be a sex-reveal party for a child still in the womb and a gender reveal party could happen sometime after the child has achieved the power of speech. “I’m weally a wittle girlie” lisps the tiny chap and mummy and daddy say we’ll have an exploding party to celebrate.  The British way used to be to pretend that there was no pregnancy until late stages, for fear of something going wrong and baby miscarrying, and also, babies are the product of sexual intercourse and  nice ladies – the sort that become mummies -  don’t do that sort of thing, which is why British chaps were driven to doing that sort of thing with each other.

 I didn't get around to telling you about the let's flatten the gravestones for your own protection scandal. You remember Aggregate-gate and Dustbin-gate? Yep, same department.


Back in February 2019, the BBC reported: "Orkney Islands Council has been forced to apologise after flattening hundreds of gravestones in local cemeteries. The health and safety project was criticised by bereaved families, most of whom were not notified that the work was taking place."
Imagine it - visiting gran's grave and standing slack-jawed, flowers falling from your numbed hand as you gaze on a scene of devastation, upended head stones, gaping holes, fearfully wondering if fleshless bones are shining whitely from the revealed grave-dirt. Knowing Orkney's history, your thoughts would immediately fly to Satanist midnight rituals, or, at the very least to  local vandals. Interviewed on Radio Bracing Isles, the gorgeous, pouting Director (for, indeed, 'twas he) carefully explained that the local authority was obliged to make its graveyards safe, following a tragedy in a Glasgow cemetery some 4 years earlier, when an 8 year old boy playing in the graveyard was crushed when a headstone fell on him.
Interviewer: But, Director, how do you know that the graveyards are unsafe? 
Director: We sent out a man to test the headstones.
Interviewer: What test did the council employee employ?
Director: He used the "push test"
Interviewer: How does that go?
Director: He pushed the headstone with his hand.
Interviewer: How many headstones were unstable?
Director: Lots
Interviewer: Didn't you think to tell the families? 
Director: We couldn't begin to trace them all. It would take too long. We had to lay them down immediately for public protection.
Interviewer: How many?
Director: 431.
The Bracecadian, the local newspaper which hates the Council with a vengeance and has pretensions to being a local version of Private Eye, and its ally, Radio Bracing, whipped the public into a frenzy. The Bracing Islands Council, after an initial feint of telling the bereaved to pay for the reinstatement of the headstones, undertook a full investigation, which resulted in a 58 page report containing 22 recommendations, 6 of which were high priority. Some two years later, the Council has just agreed, after a fair bit of grumbling, to devote £247,000 to improving the County's kirkyards. We must hope it includes re-erecting the headstones that they knocked over. For our own protection.  


The Bracecadian reports that the Bracing Islands Council has assured the public that no stone would be left unturned in its bid to establish how the authority  purchased 80,000-tonnes of stone from a quarry near the Morvern peninsula apparently without elected members' knowledge nor BIC officials attempting to determine capacity within Orkney to supply the aggregate. The first shipment is arriving next week. It will be taken to the council's own quarry, where it will be crushed. More than a quarter of it will become "quarry dust", a by-product of the crushing process, for which there is an exceedingly limited market. They've already got  a great big pile of it in the middle of the quarry.


From the letters page  of the Bracecadian:
When I went out to take in my bin, I discovered it was still full. I also discovered a red sticker informing me that the bin was damaged and could no longer be emptied. I phoned the council and explained that the damage could not have been caused by myself, as all I do is wheel it out and wheel it back in again. It was more likely the machine on the back of the ashy kert. They said they would not be replacing it but they could sell me one for £25".
Response from a Council spokesperson:
" We have refuse bins in stock - your reader will not have to wait long for their replacement bin, once purchased."

While we wait for Sturgeon to give her evidence to the Holyrood Inquiry on Wednesday, here is stanislav on matters scottish and the politicians who are currently fighting to the death:


stanislav live already up in Scotland  and do roaring plumbing trade as jock is bone idle and rather would wait for council to fix shithouse or else just go in garden, like Pikey, or in sink. Is now expert on up here,  best part of England,  and authoritarian report can give, unlike Newsnight which all wank is and fucking nonsense.  Is like famous Doctor Livingstone in Africa, stanislav has been living among savages and can even speak few word of tribesman language - SeeYouJimmy and Awa'TaeFuck and CanYeLoanUs A fiver? -  and so is best placed to  report on election in North of Border. 

First off, is great social problem. Jock is worthless good for fuck all imbecile, mainly, is biggest problem and wife-beating, cross-dressing, pissed-up, child-molesting, beetlebrow, lazy, idle good for fuck all, inbred, ginger mutant with tattoo on forehead saying JUCK and can't even spell own nickname  and decent English bloke Hadrian Wall should restore and keep violent, pissed up angry  Jock on reservation and never come out, only to fight in  proper English war and send in first with dreadful baggingpipe blowing and  tranny skirt flying about in breeze with hairy arse on show to enemy forces,  or even friends at home, don't make no difference to Jock, Behold, my arse tae ye all.

 Member of Ist Batallion Queen's Own  Ginger Inbreds
showing proper respect, like only Jock can.
"   A man is man for a' that,
and a' that. "
( from Rabbie Burns'  Great book of Shite and Melancholy Doggerel )

Is best use of Jock,  to kill him in good scrap, is only fucking use of Jock, really, or else give bottle of Buckfast Tonic Wine and send Jock in minefield and do Highland Jig only not for long, is better than wasting perfectly good dogblokes in minefield and dogbloke, anyway is, intelligent creature and not like jock, which isn't; is plenty of Jock and no shortage is, breed like fucking rats and if Jock get blown up is no matter because  common law Mrs, Wee Fiona, is already fucking  his best mate and get good practice when Jock go in Barlinnie Jail, every few months. And milkman.  Fucking him, too.  And probably uncle, too.

Anyday can walk down Glasgow street and step over big fat Jock bastard down dead has dropped from heart attack at age of forty-five with no teeth and only row of gaps.  People really do think that fried-up Mars bar is urban fucking myth but is staple of Jock diet, honest and not invent, fried-up in batter and serve with chip and tomato sauce, and wash down with Iron Hoof Bru,which  has five pound of sugar to each tin;  fuck me, is terrible fucking place in Scotland. And haggis, too. is worst creation ever.  Take one old dead  sheep stomach and fill up with  condemned membrane and nerve and foreskin and eyelash and good handful of floor sweepings-up from abattoir. Mix up a bit, only not too much, tie all up together and boil for one week, or two, to be on safe side, serve with lumpy mash-up spud and turnip and garnish with thistle and carry into lounge with piper for escort
and eat off lap making sure to spill plenty down shellsuit, for eating later coming home from pub, gives plenty of strength for slapping Mrs around the flat and maybe get arrested down A and E, especially if Valentine's Day is, or wee Fiona birthday, So, diet is a factor and no help is that Tribemen  leader, Greaseball Alec Salmond, is greedy fucking bastard and can't hardly move is so fucking fat.......


Beetle-browed, cross-dressing, workshy, wife-beating, inebriate, child-molesting ginger midgets all over Scotland were today rejoicing at the favour done them by Mr Nick Clegg and his Toiletmen.  If it wisnae fer yon  silly posh fucker, him as is married tae that Dago bint, we'd be fishin' aboot the noo, lookin' fer some eejits tae get intae bed wi', mebbe that wee bald green fucker wi' the earring,

Mr Patrick Snuffler of the Jock Green Party, models an earring, for the planet.
 Mr Harvie, an intolerable, wee know-it-all, was re-elected but is no longer,  thanks to Mr Clegg, able to hold the balancing scrotum of power in his hands,
but as it is, here we all are in charge of us own destiny, writin' us own dole cheques like a proper nation and the bonny wee Nicola Moustache is all over the telly like a rash, showin' they English fuckers how a proper woman  behaves.
In Glasgow, Ms Nicola Sturgeon, deputy leader of the Tribesmen,
celebrates Scottish Independence.

Like most up here, we felt until recently that JockLabour would scrape home,  that people would be  replete  with  Salmond's smugness, with him being so blatantly in hock to big money  - Souter Transport, the Highlands-despoiling power companies, Donald McTrump - and with the all around arseholeness of his gang  of shouty, self-congratulatory ruffians.  We thought that, repelled by London's millionaire  Toryboy slags and pimps and spivs, the traditional Red Clydeside vote would hold its nose and vote Labour. Salmond, remember, was the gabshite RBS economist who didn't see   the gangsters robbing the till, Salmond was the idiot who wet himself in public at the thought of the Celtic Triangle - Paddies, Eskimoes and Jocks - outshining all others. We hadn't, however, considered that he'd been down to the crossroads with Rupert Murdoch and done whatever they do there to ensure the support of  macskymadeupnewsandfilth; we hadn't, either, recognised the full, horrible, gurning incompetence of JockLabour's most recent failed leader - where do they find them - Mr Iain Grey;  we had forgotten the toxic effect on decent people of Labour darling Wee Douglas Alexander.....
Ms Moustach - has anyone else noticed - has come to resemble our own, late Maggie-Maggie- Maggie,  
Empress of Grievance. 

Queen Boudicca.

Yes, I know, people do warn that we can become the thing we hate and there is a startling sartorial resemblance, if nothing else, between Ms Moustache and the Whisky Maggie. Just saying.

 And they do both appeal to the, what shall we say, to the instincts of the aggrieved ruffian. 

Flag-waving, tub-thumping,
 jingoistic, rabble rousing

in place of reasoned political argument;

adolescent hatred and bile as a political raison d'etre.

No, I daresay she won't like me saying that, comparing her to Thatcher. But she doesn't much like anyone who doesn't  agree with her RobRoy schtick.
Schhh, I wouldn't mention the oil price slump to her. Or the EU referendum, she'd shit a brick trying to explain that one, better together with Europe,  not better together with Engran' I mean England.
stanislav and mr ishmael's essays today are:
Election 2010, News from Scotland, best part of England   drafted 16/4/10 
The Tribesmen: How we so love Nick Gimp                        drafted 6/5/2011
This Sporting Life(Extract)                                              published 3/5/2016

There's a whole lot more from stanislav, the young polish plumber, in the eagerly-anticipated Vent Stack, which editor mr verge is polishing and perfecting. In the meantime, Honest Not Invent is available from Lulu, Amazon, 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 may be a 15% discount try the voucher code = 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.