The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
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 Camillaas 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:
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?
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?
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.
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:
ELECTION 2010, NEWS FROM SCOTLAND, BEST PART OF ENGLAND 16/4/10
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.
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
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.......
THE TRIBESMEN: HOW WE SO LOVE NICK GIMP. 6/5/2011
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.
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.
adolescent hatred and bile as a political raison d'etre.
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
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 theBookDepository.
To buy a copy:
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.
There may be a 15% discount try the voucher code = TREAT15in
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 "Lulu.com voucher code" and see what comes up.