Sunday, 14 February 2021

The Sunday Ishmael 14/02/21

 Here's an oddity. You don't have to listen to it all - I think it is ear-bleedingly unpleasant, a product of the desire of musicians to keep on making music during lockdown, despite regulations designed to stop them; as if there wasn't enough recorded music already in existence to overwhelm the most dedicated listener. I offer it in the spirit of  Samuel Johnson's precept: "Sir, a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hinder legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all." What a lad, eh?
This lot have been brought together by Tony Rogers, in his Covid Cello Project. To be fair, it was always going to sound diabolical, but that's because the tune they are sawing away at is Kashmir by Led Zeppelin. It is certainly better than the original - see? Again, you don't need to listen to it all - indeed, I would strenuously advise against such an endeavour.
God-awful noise. mr ishmael had things to say about them:
 
 
Messrs Led Zeppelin,  

a hugely over-rated rock four-piece from the 'seventies,  an ensemble whose off-stage, brutal, degrading  debauchery was and is widely known but indulged, bless, as is that of so many and yet none of Rock's household names has attracted the attention of the BeastPolice. Still, like Zepp, many will have low friends in high places, might even be knighted.

As well as competing among themselves  to photograph the largest head of celery inserted in a teenager, Led Zeppelin are the most comprehensively larcenous people in show business, having stolen  nearly all of their  material and impudently claimed it as their own, even the massively lucrative Whole Lotta Love was lifted lyrically, musically and stylistically from Steve Mariott of the Small Faces.  There are channels on YouTube dedicated to exposing Zeppelin's thievery but as yet their star still shines, surviving members recently filling the Albert Hall with ageing fuckwits.
 
  As we see at the PBC, it is the silent approval of others which makes all  these things possible, a conspiracy of men, generally men, being true to their selves,  their careers,  their almost certainly baseless idea of who they are.

And at the end of the 'sixties so-called Blues Boom, from the squabbling ruins of Page's awful, pretentious  Yardbirds came the clunking, sybaritic behemoth that was Led Zeppelin, managed by the loathsome bullyboy and racketeer manque, Peter Grant,
 a twenty-stone fuckpig and dyed in the wool moron who would nevertheless  guide Zeppelin to Devil-worship, to orgiastic, underage rough sex, to fatal drug overdose and to fortunes almost beyond the dreams of avarice. 
 
I never went for that androgyne stuff, so popular back then, David Bowie and  Lou Reed were at the head of it, so to speak,
I thought it was unwholesome, nothing to do with me, gender benders,  can't stand them, one thing or the other, anything else endangers the spacecraft, nothing to do with rock and roll, nothing to do with music, even, dragging-up and queening all over the shop. Buddy Holly never did shit like that, that'll be the fucking day and maybe Phil Spector did wind-up shooting folks and taking our childhoods to jail with him but he never dressed up  as a  woman.  The great Little Richard is as bent as  a nine-bob note - or a forty five pence piece - but you wouldn't ever catch him faking fellatio on his guitarist.  Bowie hanging out in Berlin, acting as if he was Isherwood on amphetamine, he and his mental Mrs,  banging the same poxed-up rentboy,  what a load of old shite, pretentious art school wanker. And while I could understand young women  being turned-on by  Led Zeppelin's vulgar, bombastic,  ostentatious and meaningless cock-rock, I could never figure out why so many young men in greatcoats had a hard-on for Robert Plant.  Although the biggest hard-on in town is the one he has for himself. Even by the abysmal, pathological standards of show business, Plant,  the great rock god and cock-waving numbskull, is almost uniquely self-obsessed, seeing himself as, I dunno, rock catalyst, Svengali, mover and shaker  but mainly as just, well, great,  his greatness being the vocal icing on the dodgy battenberg of Page and Jones and Bonham, his co-Zeppers,  them all being great together,  their greatness, collectively and independently, greatness, like Handel or Beethoven, really, truly great.
I wouldn't have gone to see them if they were playing in my back garden,
but I heard a few of the albums, back then, histrionic rubbish, noisy, vulgar and flashy, twin-neck Gibsons, guitars  played with 'cello bows,
wow, man,  and drug-crazed, interminable drum solos where a couple of bars would have done,  and Planty, bare-chested, shrieking and howling, a cucumber down his kecks, a study in pointless homoerotic excess.

His Zeppelin drummer, wotsisname, Bonham,  had been his mentor, had got him the gig and so, when the stupid fuck had drugged himself to death,  he and Pagey and the other clown just couldn't, you know, couldn't....
And so Stourbridge's greatest son has  proudly gone his own, irrelevant way, forming  bands and closing them down, disappointing legions of poor Zeppheads, all bleating for a reunion between Plant and the ridiculous Page and the other one.  Doctor Bob Dylan has been unable for forty of his fifty career years, to  carry a tune and is the sort of out of tune, out of time, wrong key  player who, if he wasn't who he is, nobody in their right mind would want in their ensemble, not even if he was playing outside in the carpark and yet he is never short of sidemen and women.  Plant's career highlight has been howling lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely with all the finesse of that other great entertainer, Tom can you  lower your voice to a shriek, you fucking moron, Jones. And he, too, seems able to at least brush shoulders with people whom you wouldn't suspect of giving him houseroom, much less of sharing a stage or a studio with him. He has had several bands of often competent and original players but none have lasted. He's tried the African connection, too, both with Page and without him, but to no effect; greater talents, proper musicians, rather than cock-waving shriekers, people like Maestro Ry Cooder and the ever accomplished and tasteful Paul Simon have made fabulous albums with local musicians, Cooder with Mali's Ali Farka Touree and Simon with loads of them,  South Africans, notably Ladysmith Black Mombasa;  Nick Drake went to Morocco and came back with a feast of new tunings, novel arrangements  and an album still highly regarded;
Plant's adventures have resulted in video clips of him waving his hair around rhythmically, man, and of a Moroccan  ensemble busking along, for the cameras, bemusedly,  with Whole Lotta Love.  It's a sign of his greatness, perhaps. 
Plant's latest project, however, his new Band of Joy, is to recruit a load of grizzly,  boringly competent, sixty-year old players, like himself, and crunch out a few limp covers;  their concert of the album, at the Roundhouse, featured songs by Richard Thompson, Townes van Zandt, fragments of early  Bob Dylan  interpretations and a typically shamefully unacknowledged version of an Incredible String Band arrangement of I Bid You Goodnight. We finally found  the perfect song to close the show, he smirked, never mentioning that the Incredible String Band, often an inspiration to the creative desert which was Led Zeppelin, had arranged that piece to close their own concerts, way back in the nineteen sixties.  Man's a cunt.
As well as the white-haired old guys in woolly hats, with banks of expensive instruments, there's a desolate looking bint, too, Patty Griffin, a harmonising country singer and songwriter, Jesus, how many are there, but in the perfectly predictable solo breaks, where she should properly be doing a bit of coloured girl bump and grind, Planty himself is, after a fashion, dancing vainly around the stage, flexing his OAP arse, but mainly standing, rocking cross-legged, in his cowboy boots, like some gross  chanteuse naive ancien, his snuffler's beard not quite hiding the jowls, the turkey neck, Christ, he's revolting. Nothing wrong with being old, it's just his being old and acting young. Never mind rock god, more like a nightmare Kylie Minogue. The industry, of course,  loves it and will probably "award" the album a score of Grammies, just like it did with  Raising Sand, the truly great,  handclapping  extravaganza he recorded with  the great Allison Kraus and  the great T-Bone Burnett. Just all great people, great musicians, doing greatness together. If you saw a bunch of old geezers doing this down the pub, you'd say, well,  fair play to them, it's not half bad.  But as full-price, new music it's shit, really it is.

The BBC has all sorts in its archive and increasingly enjoins us to celebrate anew the joys and mysteries of popular  entertainment. Amongst them is a concert given by the four bozos known as Led Zeppelin who, with their thug manager, Mr Peter Grant, trashed 70's American hotels and teen virginity  with gay cock-rock abandon.
 
 Difficult to see how anyone might endure more than a couple of minutes of this rubbish but millions did, pasty-faced young men in greatcoats and hormone-crazed bints alike flocked to these noisy shows, homo-erotic bombast for the new cognoscenti,  the musically illiterate. Now pay attention, Jimmy Page seemed to say, as he fucked about pointlessly with a new, twin-necked Gibson,  this is all very clever stuff and I'm sure that later, children, in your bedrooms, you'll all want to pretend to do this yourselves; you may not be able to play anything and you certainly can't afford things like this, but it's the thought that counts for you, anyway, for us it's the money. Page's playing  was shit and proper men, of course, like Rory Gallagher, played Fenders, anyway, Page, though, a nasty, pushy, middle class brat sometimes played his Gibson SG with a bow, just like it was a,  whaddayacall those things, a cello, man to demonstrate his genius.

Look at my smooth, hairless chest and my golden tresses, pouted the brainless oik, Plant, I may be stupid, and I am, but look at my chest, I am  pure biceps rock'n' roll  Narcissus, dig my poses, Man.  Somewhere behind, another unpleasant, neanderthal couple flailed away at dark, Satanic drums an bass, at least one of them tragically and irreplaceably, Man, drinking and drugging his worthless self to death.  Ah, the glory days of  Rock consumerism, Keith, man, and Jimi, man, and Janis, man, drowned in vomit, far out. And tragic, too tragic, man.

It is said that when the Zeps ran out of inspiration, surely after about ninety seconds playing together, they would retire to a Welsh cottage with the latest Incredible String Band record and recharge their creative batteries, or steal the ideas of truly creative people, as we call it in the real world. I find this hard to credit. The String Band were one of those odd combinations of flighty wit and  roaming intelligence and virtuosity;  they could effortlessly merge sitar with barrelhouse piano, four piece rock band with string section and   cathedral organ with tin whistle to produce stunning and inimitable masterpieces, thoughtful and elegant, rocking and rolling; riffs, reels and ragas,  the world's music, distilled and alchemised into something uniquely British,  leaping and soaring, running, laughing at Time's tricks,   giggling,  from the scratchy vinyl groove, at Ruin's march.
There's none of that in Whole Lotta Love.

................................................................

Contrary to mr ishmael's view of the man, Jimmy Page's wikipedia page tells us that Page is widely considered to be one of the greatest and most influential guitarists of all time. As you'd expect of a rock cock-god he's also had many significant relationships - notably with Lori Maddox, beginning when she was 13 and he was in his twenties, which attracted recent attention in the light of the Me Too Movement as statutory rape. Since 2014, his girlfriend, now aged 31, is actress and poet Scarlett Sabet.  Anything you want to know about the music business you'll find in the pages of Kill Your Friends and its sequel, Kill 'Em All, by John Niven.

Jimmy Page has been very interested in occultist Aleister Crowley for many years, even going so far as to own Crowley's old place, Boleskine House, from the early 1970's until 1992. Crowley was infamous locally for performing black magic, in particular for saddling the House with Hell's aristocracy. He started a ritual to invoke his Guardian Angel, which required 6 months of preparation, celibacy, abstinence from alcohol and the summoning of the 12 Kings and Dukes of Hell, in order to bind them. Unfortunately, after he'd invited the Kings and Dukes to Boleskine, he was called to Paris by his boss, the leader of the Golden Dawn. He never got around to banishing Hell's aristocracy, who occupied themselves for the next hundred or so years, up to the present, in mischievously  setting fires, rolling decapitated heads around the corridors, pretending to be wild animals snuffling outside guest's bedrooms and other japes.  In 1978, Jimmy explained: "I feel Aleister Crowley is a misunderstood genius of the 20th century. My studies have been quite intensive, but I don't particularly want to go into it because it's a personal thing and isn't in relation to anything apart from the fact that I've employed his system in my own day to day life. ... The thing is to come to terms with one's free will, discover one's place and what one is, and from that you can go ahead and do it and not spend your whole life suppressed and frustrated. ."

 

So what's Jimmy doing now? His girlfriend has pretensions to being a poetaster, and it turns out that her stuff is popular, in the modern fashion for dire dross, the public's taste having been formed by exposure to greetings-card couplets and pop music lyrics, mixed in with Melancholia and Significance. Jimmy, of course, couldn't tell good from bad, but he knows what makes money and he has produced Scarlett's spoken-word  album Possession.
As mr ishmael used to say, Scarlett has the sort of face you'd never tire of slapping. Your hand would drop off long before you got bored attempting to remove the pout and the cow eyes. Her ponderous, studied,  artistic, dirge-like narration is absolute proof that poets can't read their own work and that the taste of the Great British Public can never be under-estimated. Her oeuvre leads one to sympathise with mr ishmael's view of poets:  "My resolved view of poets is How Dare there be such, making rhymes and rhythms from the entrails of our sorrow? And then selling them."

mr ishmael's essay today was extracted from the following:

These few Precepts                           23/09/2014

Can White boys sing the Blues?       17/04/2011

Whole Lotta Shite                             6/06/2010

What's on Telly - Betjeman Land     1/09/2014

Honest, Not Invent is an anthology of essays by stanislav and mr ishmael. It is  available from lulu.com  and  is listed by both Blackwells, the Book Depository and Amazon.

 
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Still cold here.  

 

 



19 comments:

Anonymous said...

"Albert and the Ageing Fuckwits" would be a good name for a band.

Scarlett Sabet (god help us all) is an anagram of both "scatter bleats" and "brat's telecast".

We must piously hope that Jimmy is too old now to be anybody's back door man, but maybe all that voodoo keeps him sprightly.

v./

Mike said...

I can honestly say that, apart from a casual reference to Dylan and Tom Jones (I'm a fan of neither), I have never heard of these wierdoes. A lot of this has to do with what you have to pretend to be when you're young to get a shag. EG I used to pretend to listen to Dylan, whereas a strangled cat would have been preferable listening. (Poetic licence - I wish no harm to cats).

pete fenderbend said...

dear mrs ishmael,

i must confess that the late mr ishmael's remarks have proved to be of the greatest interest to me - as too has the wikipedia-entry concerning composition of the led zeppelin staple "kashmir".

now, you see, although wikipedia asserts that plant received his inspiration for writing this hit "during a drive through a desolate desert area of southern morocco", i nevertheless feel ethically compelled to observe that a good deal of his 'inspiration' seems actually to have been derived from a commercially calculating dissection of the who's 1969 studio-album tommy...

and therefore, because i'm incorrigibly old-school - and not one to wash dirty rock-'n-roll linen either on the public internet or in the public courts - i'm right now taking the tube up to maida vale in order to beat seven shades-worth of sample-royalties out of the plagiarizing cunt.

yours sincerely

pete f

ultrapox said...

for scarlett sabet, the best broken words with which i can come up is:


eat a cress blt

stable art sect

blest art caste

cattle breasts

beast clatters

sable tart sect

ss treacle batt


i'm afraid to say that, in order to obtain a recording of "stairway to heaven", i once bought a led zepp album, but was rather disappointed by the mind-numbingly unimaginative tracks which filled out the remaining record-space.

whilst working in the civil service, i once met a former magistrate who ruefully recounted to me the acute embarrassment he had suffered when hearing a case of drug-possession at the court in marylebone. apparently, having found the the individual in the dock guilty, the magistrate had determined to hand him down a stiff fine, and then, blissfully unaware of the defendant's financial status, had also seen fit to issue him with an extremely stern warning, saying: "i have decided to make the fine £50, and now let that be lesson to you, mr page" - the tabloids naturally had a field day.

mrs ishmael said...

Welcome to our humble portals, mr pete fenderbend,good to have you and your wisdoms with us. Although, could I direct your vengeful steps towards Holland Park, where our Jimmy lives in some grandeur in a mock-Gothic castle with his paramour. mr verge thought you might like to see the earthly joys that certain contractual arrangements bestow upon those signing up: https://www.tatler.com/article/jimmy-page-scarlett-sabet-interview-london-house-rolling-stones-song
It must have been a long queue down there at the crossroads at midnight. A bit like the mass covid-vaccination stations. All hell's denizens, dressed up nice, marshalling the snake-hipped, long-haired young men, throug a vanishingly-distant array of clinical tables, staffed by nurse-demons, wielding a little scalpel to cut the thumb, to squeeze out sufficient rockandroll ichor in which to sign the contract (won't hurt a bit - not now - hee, hee,hee)to the big Executive desk where the Presence lounges, irritably snapping at his P.A. "move the anglepoise, Debbie, for fuck sake, it's midnight, I can't see to sign My own Name."
No, seriously, mr pete, I must be careful with all this exhortation to metaphorical violence, however richly-deserved it might be - wouldn't want to get impeached, now, would I?
What were they thinking about? Really? It was never going to fly, that one, but the lawyers got a few day's fees (enough to pay the salaries of several Local Authority Chief Executives for several years, or even a bucket load of MP's, who get paid considerably less than the Chief Execs)and The Donald emerged scatheless, reinvented as a martyr and well positioned for his next adventure.

mrs ishmael said...

You have a rival anagramiste sinistre, mr verge. Good stuff on a first outing. I particularly like sable tart sect - a little shuffle and it becomes sable sect tart, which neatly seems to encapsulate a couple of Jimmy's themes.If you had a look at the Tatler article I linked to, you might think "best art castle" quite appropriate. In fact, in that delightful name, we have an instance of something lurking in plain sight. His daughter and his mistress also share the same name. Gosh - slam shut the Doors of Perception, and weld them shut, Cthulhu is on the other side. Talking of which, you might like 14 by Peter Clines, who has a jolly romp with the concept.
Love the Magistrate and Mr Page story, by the way.

mrs ishmael said...

Perhaps you are right, mr verge, and that accounts for Scarlett's lugubrious pout. That, and the poetry.

mrs ishmael said...

mr mike, my dear, what an honest admission. In one short sentence you have laid bare the whole game of False Display. The only reason for picking up a guitar is to engage the interest of young women.
And, speaking as a former young woman,I've had to listen to a fair few young men ineptly strumming guitars, and one memorable chap, who didn't possess a guitar, solemnly declaimed Mr Tambourine Man to me and pretended he'd written it.
That Bob Dylan, eh? A lot to answer for when his contract reaches conclusion.

mongoose said...

Mistress is such an old-fashioned term, mrs i. One can almost hear an old vicar bastard booming it down the aisle of the kirk. I always thought you had to have a missus to have a mistress though. Otherwise the lass is just an unsuitably young girlfriend, or gf as the young people would have it. The poetry BTW did not cut me "like a knife" but it did make my teeth feel all funny. Jeez. Talk about a talent-free zone. Twaddle is what it was.

I could never understand the headbangers and their addiction to monotonous volume. One day a very long time ago, an exceptionally fair young lady, sadly of only my tangential acquaintance, was recruited by a set of losers to be the singist of their university band. Practice sessions were planned. They made the most terrible and untuneful racket I have ever had the misfortune to bump into. Nonetheless a couple of passing strays proceeded to crouch in front of the maid while she was yelling her lines - as best she could above the din - and they proceeded to play air guitar, and then to shake their fat heads in the traditional headbanging way. The poor girl held it together for just a couple of "songs" before it all became too much for her. Experiment over. Last I heard she was just across the water from you, mrs i, hiding in some cove on the Aberdeenshire coast.

mrs ishmael said...

Mistress, paramour, concubine - they all have a certain stately cachet and were names for a similar condition. Marriage is a contract, that deals with property, legitimacy and inheritance. Still is. Once entered into, it couldn't be vacated lightly until the Divorce Reform Act 1969. Locked in holy deadlock, or as an alternative, a chap might set up a mistress, issue a carte blanche, give a light-skirt a slip on the shoulder. Inherent in the arrangement, in addition to passion and impermanence, was the financial underpinning. The woman was financially dependent upon the man. He was her career. The word mistress evokes a time and culture in which men were far wealthier than women and women were dependent. The custom of the chap paying for the meal, the drinks, the cinema tickets stems from this huge financial inequality.
Girlfriend,significant other, common law or sexual partner are concepts from a different thought world in which women are financially independent and there is more equality between the man and woman. When these relationships end, the woman is not destitute or dependent upon finding another chap for income continuity.

ultrapox said...

@ultrapox - 15 february 2021 at 05:19

with regard to the above comment, i must apologize profusely for the "is" which, in the first sentence, has strangely replaced the originally-typed "are", for the superfluous "the" which, in the final sentence, has spookily appeared before "individual", and also of course for the mysteriously missing "a" which, in the final sentence, should have preceded "lesson" - indeed, i am now convinced that either the cia has mounted a covert operation to grammatically nobble my personal expression, or the creepily self-satisfied sabina sabet has pre-emptively hexed my keyboard.

yes, mrs ishmael, i know that we shouldn't over-kindle our prurient red-topped curiosity, yet the stonking spiritual contrast between, on the one hand, the brazen bouncy-castle cheeriness displayed by the superannulated maestro, and on the other hand, the sensually sub-contracted masochistic melancholia artlessly exuded - alongside an incestuously interlaced limp lank infusion of anally retentive anguish - by his metrically masturbating muse, i find just unbearably chilling to observe: what an icy aesthetic emptiness, what an existential void, exhumed of emotion, and liberated from all viable human virtue.

no, mrs ishmael, you might very well consider that "sable sect tart" is more appropriate, but - for fear of flagrantly infringing, then unleashing, the unchained unordained orthodoxy of mad-as-fuck #metooism - i couldn't possibly comment, and thus, discerning syntactic subtlety to be the better part of socially improprietous violation, i must - tempted as i am by your devilish flight-of-effrontery - stoically stick with the more discrete conservative security of "sable tart sect" - which clearly, incontrovertibly, and uncontroversially signifies a sect devoted to its gustatory delectation in consuming sable tart.

by-the-way, i don't reckon that, in these progressively prudish times, mr pete could ever conceive of getting away with his former fender-bending - or even artistically auto-destructive - on-stage antics - what with the guitar's beguilin' an' suggestive shape bein' reverently modelled on the flowin' female figure an' all that...

and in fact, on-the gropevine, i now hear there is, gathering inexorable moral momentum, an ugly mob-headed anti-maga mood for demanding non-binary gender-reparations in such heinous cases of music-incited misogyny and blatantly figurative sexual violence.

frankly, all things passing as equal, i am of the firm opinion that mr fenderbend should feel thoroughly ashamed of himself.

mrs ishmael said...

Bravo, mr ultrapox, a tour de force. I love the idea of a secret society dedicated to the eating of sable tart. We are talking fruit pie, aren't we?

ultrapox - part one said...

oh dear, mrs ishmael, i have just digested the above-recommended tatler-lifestyle-feature - no doubt not only a piece strategically commissioned by the prominently positioned pages in order to stress, to their bent bourgeois chums on kensington and chelsea planning committee, the absolute architectural indispensability, to the entire british nation, of their a-listed ch√Ętelet, but also a story envisaged, i would imagine, to underline the inherent danger posed, to every last member of humanity, by a neighbouring staffordshire-bull-terrier, which possessing evidently neither good manners nor culture, and only a fuck-off class-a kennel, appears doggedly determined to gnaw away, with an irregular rabid alacrity, at the very foundations of both british history and polite society simultaneously - and unfortunately, mrs ishmael, i have, upon careful exploration of the gratuitous gaudy detail contained within this antsy artsy article, been brought to the most sobering realization that the good mistress sabet's heritage is, in actuality, dominated by elements of a distinctly aristo-frogo-scottish-cum-iranian nature - and that she's bigger than me - and that i should therefore now immediately prefer to take back all recent indecent, or otherwise off-colour, observations which i've been so foolish as to have made about her ladyship's character - especially those highly immature insinuations imparted by foul means of anagrammatic atrocities.

of course, as a man of the holy church, i must, henceforth, constantly pray that the glamour gilded guitar-strangler has his hands far too full dealing with gobby robby's eccentric subterranean exploits - and with obsessively preserving the exquisite oil-painted veneer of his walking talking living pre-raphaelite doll - ever to have any time spare for sorting out the lowly likes of pen-pushing pleb-plankton such as moi - because the truth, i must confess, is that, in my more paranoid moments, i still cannot help wondering just how many local miscreants, and stray led zepp fans, have, unbeknown to the world outside, been doomed to meet a grisly end imprisoned in the tower house of hard-rock-horrors, never again to glimpse the nurturing light-of-day.

however, continuing in this spirit of goodwill, i would indeed strongly advize holland park's priceless porcelain figurine to carry out a precautionary check of the content of count bluesbeard's closets - for methinks there could well lie, hidden within the kinky kensington castle, some mysteriously-padlocked 'instrument-cupboard', or other such heavily-secured repository, which, inexplicably, always remains strictly off-limits to anyone but the holder of a singularly large blood-stained key...

after all, we don't wish lady madstanza to wash up in the manner of that other fanatically treasured masterpiece, ophelia - the cold cruel creation of pre-nuptial pervert sir john everett millais, which was surreally moulded from the misery of his maritally mistreated model, elizabeth suicidal, an unluckily low-born lady who was later to become the wedded-doormat of painter dante gabriel rossetti.

(continued in part two below)

ultrapox - part two said...

(continued from part one above)

now, on a happier note, i am most heartened to learn that the picture-perfect poetess is getting portions of good wholesome food - such as celery - plus free hard-rock-lessons, nevertheless, i feel honour-bound to warn the spoken-for word-artist-in-resplendent-residence that - in certain less well-bred quarters - the cerebrally arresting complexion of her aesthetically overwhelming oeuvre could prove enough to provoke - in less socially blessed souls and those lacking the requisite degree of academic refinement - a decidedly piquant professional jealousy, and ergo that - iniquitous though this may sound - her staggering level of virtuoso-verbosity could, in-point-of-fact, quite easily suffice to make mega-mouthy african-american rappers - in the mean-minded mould of ms arsier yanks - spit - or even, heaven-forbid, take a cheap-'n-chippy pop at talent-lite white privilege.

furthermore, all my earlier jesting about beauty-and-the-beast-comparisons placed aside, i seriously consider that, for any reputable trans-atlantic airline with aspirations for a solvent future, it would necessarily comprise a grave mistake to seat the gently lyrical ms sabet directly next to the expletively explosive chops of chronic claustrophobic race-cow ms arsier-than-thou yanks - since frankly, you know, it would actually be a damn-sight safer to prime a lump of semtex, and then invite a suicide-bomber to carry it on-board the plane in a plastic bag.

also, let me sound a note of caution to the randy robby: on no account ever attempt to climb up crapunzel's hair into the beast's lair.

ah well, when all's said-and-done, just what exactly's wrong with two hearts beating in perfect harmony, with two people being on the same page...

for perpetuity...?

oh my god, i bet the music-man's never heard that one before.

anyhow, the sultry ms sabet sure seems to turn jimmy's pages...

and there's no evidence of her head spinning 'round...

yet.

yes, with regards to the variety of that tart, mrs ishmael, maybe it could be said to be more fruity than fruit...

but finally, may i sincerely apologize to ms sabrina for wrongly referring to her as sabina - when i clearly meant to call her sabena.

ultrapox said...

@ultrapox - 19 february 2021 at 01:57


"also, let me sound a note of caution to the randy robby: on no account ever attempt to climb up crapunzel's hair into the beast's lair."


sorry, looks like the postergeist has been at work again, and has quite untowardly added a completely uncalled-for c to the front-end of rapunzel - giving the tower-lady's lyrical nom de flume an unnecessarily, and of course inappropriately rude, cap...

also, wasn't the real rapunzel kept imprisoned in the tower by a wicked old witch - rather than by the beast?

hell now, can you just imagine randy prinz robby's total horror were he to climb up his hairy stairway-to-heaven, only to discover an insanely jealous jimmy standing there in nothing but a black pointy hat...?

arsier rants said...

i am rapunzel

arsier rants said...

...an' snow white stalked ol' dopey-strummer coz she gaggin' for grandpa to twang 'er g-string

ultrapox said...

@ultrapox - part two - 19 february 2021 at 01:57

regarding the above comment, please accept the following as a replacement for the final clause of the second paragraph:


"since frankly, you know, it would be a damn-sight safer to prime a lump of semtex for a suicide-bomber to carry on-board in a plastic bag."

the real rapunzel said...

ha...ha...ha...

very fuckin' funny, mr ultrapox.

yes, of course i am the real rapunzel...

but no, i wouldn't have said it like that...

instead, usin' my best london, i would probably have spun it more like this:


"...an' ultrapox chat shit:

snow white stalked ol' dopey-strummer coz she gaggin' for grandpa to twang she g-string"


however to be honest, why would i even be wastin' my time an' artistic energies hatin' on the sex-life of those two boring british bitches...?

especially when there's much more important issues needin' discussion...

such as 'social distancing' and the true reason for it being imposed.

yeah, social distancin' my black ass...

it's actually racial distancin', my dear deluded brothers 'n sistas...

bein' enforced by wealthy middle-class whites...

who are experiencin' such deep guilt about their historic racial oppression an' exploitation of blacks that - livin' like they do in constant fear of racial reprisal - they've now turned totally fuckin' paranoid, the dumb-ass crackers.

yeah, that's the real reason for this so-called social distancin'...

but then why're these crazy people bearin' this great burden of guilt for crimes committed, years upon years back, by others...?

just makes no sense, does it...?

unless of course...

these professional white-folks are still invested - emotionally, politically an' financially - in the same old racial oppression game...

unless of course...

slavery an' genocide still goes on just as it always did...

in africa...

unless of course...

racial oppression an' exploitation still continues just as it always did...

in africa...

an' these wealthy whites are all still profitin' big-time from the blood-mineral-trade.

oh shame, have i just rumbled the slitherin' slave-tradin' snakes...?

but jeezus really...

these rich white jerks have finally gone an' done it this time...

shit, these paranoid white pussies are now so fucked up they're scared to breathe on one another...

or to touch one another...

and are even frightened to go near blue-collar guys and rednecks - their own caucasian kind - coz they've ripped those poor bitches off, an' sucked them dry, too.

well, fortunately in my own case, loverboy has at last succeeded in coming to terms with his crimes against african humanity...

however he'll always be a recovering white...

naturally.