UNCLE SAM'S NEWS
IF YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT YOU'LL BELIEVE ANYTHING.
I am resigning because I lied to my wife.
PISS-UGLY GENERAL QUITS AS MATTER OF HONOUR.
It is bruited about, by our information masters, that this be-ribboned arsehole, being the repository of all sorts of secrets - secret torture, secret murder, secret bribery, secret extortion, secret kidnapping, secret illegal invasions, secret drug
rackets, secret money-laundering, more secret torture, all, in fact of
Uncle Sam's secret, democratic, freedom-loving tools - resigned as
director of the torturing CIA spooks because he'd been unfaithful to his wife.
Funny, isn't it, that someone much further up the chain of command, right at the top, in fact, didn't.
PRESIDENT SPUNKY BILL,
FUTURE FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Mah fellow motherfuckers. All Ah done was to have this liddle bitch, less'nhalf
my age, stick mah cee-gar up her snatch, and mebbe Ah shot mah
presidential see-men load over her clothes. Ain't as though Ah lied to
mah wife, President Hillary Trousers, and certainly wasn't no need for
me to resign. See y'all back in the White House, come 2016.
all sing: ....our house, is a very, very, very, fine house
Former NewLabour minister for larceny.
What can one say about McShane that one hasn't already said ?
Only that -
even among stiff, six-hundred-strong competition - his exposure as a
thief is an absolute delight and Please God, even though I don't believe
in You and even though I don't believe in it, please, please, please send this cunt to prison.
Arena, Omnibus, Panorama; the BBC loves its neo-classical pomposity,
the maxim above Bush House - Nation shall speak peace unto nation - is
equally grandiose, vainglorious, too, when one considers that a more
appropriate motto would be Let me entertain you. Nation shall speak
shite unto nation, more like.
is a watchword of these commentaries, here, that there IS no business
like show business, that the rampant, unstoppable epidemic of largely
talentless broadcast exhibitionism which has poisoned post-war society
is both the herald and the instrument of Ruin. On the tube, Pink Floyd's
sixteen channels of shit on m'TeeVee to chose from have metamorphosed
into a non-stop, multi-portal, planetary cesspit, it's surface creeping
up around our necks, it's barrel-scrapings, its turds of wisdom lapping
around our chins; cruelty tevee, shopping teevee, cooking teevee, house
teevee, gambling teevee, the more of it there is, the worse it gets.
And yet, its practitioners seem to merit more and more kudos - the post of Director General of the BBC being the secular equivalent to the Archbishopric of Canterbury. Everyone,
even Pope Nazi and his worldwide brotherhood of noncing monsignors, is
bandwagoning the Jimmy Saville........ As though the Vatican itself
was not the spiritual and corporeal home of The
Beast, sacramentalising the rancid, priestly prick, the dirty, filthy
fucking bastards, as though the Unholy Father, by dint of removing a
preposterous knighthood from his deceased NoncingBrother James, can
align himself and his legions of degenerate employees with the meek and
mild, the Godly.
am a wholly unremarkable man, not for me the rewards of obedience, the
glittering prizes, the gilded career, not even the many years of
selfless public service beloved of the mealy-mouthed town hall
apparatchik up to his arse in corruption, no, I am not even as
respectable as that. I am vested with no great acuity, no special
insights, no razor sharp wit, no-one would ever say of me that I did not
suffer fools gladly or any of that other claptrap of the obituarist,
the hagiographers and journalistic cocksucker, for who knows how to
recognise a fool, to distinguish him from a politician, a judge, a
clergy person or some other fucking buffoon.
am not of the same bright,
jewelled fabric as legislators and jurists, academics or senior
bureaucrats; I am neither police officer nor social worker, I am not a
hospital manager nor the heir as we call the useless ponce, to the
throne, I am not among
the charmed circle which now wails in chorus that Jimmy Saville fooled
it; odd, then, given my lustreless mediocrity, that he never fooled
me, not for a second. Surely I should be plucked from bitter anonymity
and be made Director General of absolutely everything.
of my adult life I have
looked upon this man with revulsion, loathing and incredulity, amazed at
his pre-eminence in the national life, his consorting with the most
powerful. I only ever had to see Saville and the words Nonce, Bully and
Beast would flash before my eyes in angry, lurid colours. Why the fuck
is it, one might justly enquire, that the brightest in the land, the
most advantaged, the most highly paid, the most capable were all, as
they protest, now, blind to
foul Beasting, right before their very eyes, there, on the fucking
television? How dare they now propose to enquire and to report and to -
altogether now, you all know this one - learn valuable lessons, make sure
it can never happen again, draw a line in the sand and move forward.
Full and far-reaching cover-up. Cunts.
wonder what kind of self-subterfuge went on here. Why on Earth would
parents let their children watch Saville, when you could almost smell
his rottenness through the bloody screen? I wouldn't let our children
watch the coarse and vicious EastEnders, never mind Jimmy fucking
Saville, ogling, as he did, teenage girls, dollybirds, didn't he call
them; even in front of the camera he was at it.
happens, I think, with celebrity, theTeeVee takes some half-wit, one
trick pony, like Sir Wogan and after a wee while, because his agents
and his producers insist that he is a national treasure, he becomes one.
And for fifty years, it seems, he peddles his stage Paddy horseshit to
millions who think they are being given a treat. Somehow, we have been
persuaded that the useless prat Paxman is a ferocious, tenacious
interviewer, that none can evade his invigilation, even though they do
it every night. Why is it, if BBC interviewers Humphries and Paxman et
al are so good that - despite the proven universal venality of
MediaMinster - only once in my lifetime has a BBC political interviewee
stormed off the set in mid-question. Older readers will remember Whisky Maggie's pretend defence seckatry,
useless John Nott, ripping his 'mic off when the late Robin Day fired a
round of fucks into him. Why is it that Paxman's failure to nail Michael Howard's balls to the chair is hailed as a triumph and not the
miserable failure it was. Why is it, en passant but in an associated
point, that during this round of MediaMinster cruelty, this round of
punishment of the naughty electorate - how dare they question our
expenses? - how is it that, should a public voice be raised in anger on
any of the lame BBC forums - Any Planted Questions, Approved Question
Time - it is immediately silenced by the uppercrust goons running these
fucking awful shows ?
BBC political interviewers were any damn good there'd be John Nott
incidents all the time. But of course MediaMinster all send their brats
to the same school, dine in the same restaurants, holiday in the same
resorts, best of chums, just invent a bit of onscreen confrontation for
the sake of the hoi poloi.
there is a pretence that some presenter or other has some specialist
knowledge, that Monty Don does do his own garden, for instance; never
runs out of compost, although, one man toiling away there in his cardy,
he uses tons of it, tons. I make compost in my walled acre and I can
never make enough of it, never; have to buy as much from Lidl as I make,
at least as much, and I don't have to make teevee shows and write books
and columns and save heroin addicts from destruction, like Earnest
Monty does. No, it's bollocks, of course; Monty has a team of gardeners
doing the work, he's a presenter, leans on his shovel and sighs
worthily about how good life can be, if only we do like him, magic
gardening with invisible labourers, scriptwriters, producers and the
best horticulturalists that your licence fee can buy. Let me entertain
And Saville knew nothing and cared less about music, he was a bouncer, loitering in nineteen-fifties nightclubs and Locarnos,
musclebound and stupid, thick and nasty, an Anglo version of Sean
Connery. And then, thanks to who knows whom, as with Thicko Sir Sean, Thicko Saville got lucky.
on us by that great liberal, Tony Benn, lamely imitating, or trying to
imitate the pirate radio stations of the 'sixties, Radio One was, of
course, always a ship of fools, cheesy clowns, gobby name-checking
morons, braying, posturing egomaniacs, as musical, in the main, as
constipation. Where the pirates had spunk and spirit, Radio One fell
flat and never got up. Remember, ye ancients? Tony fucking Blackburn,
Jimmy fucking Young, Ed fucking Stewpot Stewart, Bob Holness and Kenny
Everett, geniuses, one and all. Bunch of cunts. Few, if any of them,
gave a fuck about music; John Peel, maybe, before he turned into a silly
old fart celebrating punk and in so doing missing the point entirely,
it wasn't for him; Dave Cash, Johnny Walker, were OK but the rest of
them had all the sincerity and ability of one of those grinning
imbeciles selling gen-yew-ine Craponite jewellery on one of the
downmarket shopping channels. Downmarket shopping channels, yeah, I
know, that's saying something, hairsplitting to the Nth degree, they're
all downmarket. But even by the standards of his peers, people like the
nauseating Simon Bates and Dave Lee Gob, Saville was awful,
unspeakably bad. How and why on Earth was his first contract ever
you started with Little Richard and went to, I dunno, say, for
argument's sake, the evisceration of rock'n'roll by the corpse-chilly
precision of Pink Floyd or by the rapid descent into joyless bombast of
Dire Straits or the phony, consumerist hysteria of the Archbishop of
Sweat, Bruce Springsteen, you might mirror the encroaching, inevitable
grossness and the putrefaction, the stupidity and the selfishness of
we, the Boomers, bleating now, anew, not that we wanna dance but that
we shouldn't have to pay for our care, in our twelve-bar old age.
WHAT CAN A POOR BOY DO?
Boomers I mean those mid-century born, around nineteen fifty, the Teds
were our older brothers, pre-warbabies, Blitzkids, evacuees, quick to
violence, to storming, motor-cycle chain, broken-bottle GBH; dressed in
drape coats and drainpipe trousers, coiffed and sideburned, ungainly,
insectoid, in crepe-soled brothel creepers, all sicklied o'er with
pimples and blackheads and brilliantined dandruff and bad breath and
BO, the Teds, Rockabilly hooligan vigilantes of style, were the
fag-end of something else, spivs, maybe, and were washed away by what we
call rock 'n' roll, their time swift and sharp, like the fleeting
caress on the cheek of a cut-throat razor; from Teddy Boys, truculent,
rebellious if bizarre nouveau Edwardian punk-thugs, the market moved
into the more orchestrated and exploitable zone of the post-war economic
miracle, the teenager, born in the early fifties, spending his or her
parents' monies in the early sixties and their own ever since; many of
them remain, paunchy, grey haired, arthritic, defiantly teenage, in
their sixties. Many of them, rock and rollers still, malleable,
gullible, still market fodder, voted, laughably, for their own lay
preacher of rock, after all, he played his own, Prime Minister's
Edition Fender Stratocaster, they voted for Tony Blair. This is the
story of how the machine eats-up everything. This is the nightmare of
Rock 'n' Roll, I Gave You The Best Years Of My Life. This is the way the
world ends, not with a Doo-Wop but with an I SimplySayPeepulOvBritain,
Clearly, On Balance and In a Very Real Sense. This, friends, is the
Well, itsa one for the money,
Two for the money,
Three for the money
Now Go, cat, go
But don't you
Step on my Blue Suede Shoes.
CLOSE YOUR EYES AND I'LL KISS YOU
How the Beatles destroyed Rock 'n' Roll.
Like many, they were overawed, the fab mopsters, by the Minessotan
Dwarf, punchdrunk on his own imagery of collision, his own fricasee of
easy chordings and hammerings-on, Dylan did more, suggested more,
accomplished more with a guitar, a mouthharp and a formidable, burglar's
intelligence than these four did with their Gretsches and
Rickenbackers, the Hohner Violin Bass, their harmonies and that dumb
fuck, up the back, the luckiest Scouser in history, banging on the
drums, shaking his head.
McCartney almost once said that they kept Ringo on because he was so
stupid, came up with odd wordplays, Howyadoin Ringo? resulted in the
simian growling, Oh, I feel like I've had a hard day's night; the
creativity of enforced, cloistered co-habitation resulting, in the
nursery rhyme number one worldwide hit.
The Beatles historical perspective was terse and limited to the USA of
maybe the forties and fifties; McCartney derived a bigband sensitivity
for arrangement and harmony from his dad, Jimmy, but mainly the Beatles,
in Hamburg, covered US R 'n'B and the great, the maestro
singer-songwriter, Chuck Berry.
Dylan tapped into all sorts of shit. An American Russian Jew he had
listened to everything, country, rockabilly, swing, jazz, country blues,
urban blues, bigband and that amorphous mass, folk-airs from
Scotland and Ireland, ballads from England, spooky nigger hollers from
Mississippi, Everly Brothers' Kentucky harmonies. louche, funky,
shake-your-moneymaker twelve-bars from Chicago, Howlings and Lightnings
and SonnyBoys; Hank Williams poorboy lovesongs, hobo talking blues and
railroad songs from the Depression, Rebel and Yankee tunes, Steven
Foster......Lennon and McCartney, by comparison, were popular music
But never mind that, they could do harmonies .......We've heard a lot
here, recently, about the harmonies of the Copper Family, unaccompanied
English rural songs, in which the voices embellish themselves, each
other, with nary a squeezebox or fiddle to be seen, just the voices
weaving in and out, around and around, reeling, almost, and a-rocking.
Well, the Beatles' very first hit, Love Me Do, was remarkable for its
harmonies as well as for the almost Elizabethan useage, not Love Me or
Do Love Me but Love Me Do; almost off-key.
mr ishmael's essays today are:
HAVE I GOT SOME OLD NEWS FOR YOU drafted 11th April 2013
THE SUNDAY SERIAL, C'mon Everybody drafted 11/3/2010
Both anthologies of the work of mr ishmael and his
young Polish friend, Stanislav, Plumb Cheap for You: Honest Not Invent
and Vent Stack - are available to purchase for mere money at Lulu or
Amazon. It is cheaper to buy from Lulu. Here's how to buy your own
Please register an account with them first. This will save
you a couple of quid, as going straight into the link 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 our 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
The full title is "Vent Stack love from
stanislav" by ishmael smith, and the cover you'll see is red with white
titles and a picture of Buster the Previous Blog Dog having a green thought in
a green shade.
Link for the paperback:
shorter link, which might make it easier if you wish to
paste it into an email and tell a friend:
Honest, Not Invent is available in
paperback or hardback.
Link for Hard Back :
Link for Paper Back :
At checkout, try WELCOME15 or TREAT15 in the coupon box,
which (for the moment) 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.
With the 15% voucher, the book (including delivery to a UK
address) should cost £10.89