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
Monday, 5 July 2021
The Sunday Ishmael 4/07/2021
ON THE DEAR OLD BATTLEFIELD
It's been a good earner, this WW1 show. Everyone you can think of has filled his boots.( ishmael smith 27/8/14)
Don't suppose humans will ever tire of war - it is just so profitable.
It's Not Easy being a Woman
the Second World War, the Imperial Japanese Army forced thousands of women to become “comfort
women”. No, not cups of cocoa, chicken soup and comfy slippers. Young women from the Japanese-occupied Asian countries were
abducted from their homes or enticed with
promises of work in factories or restaurants, and then forced into
sexual slavery in military brothels in foreign lands. Those who became pregnant were forced to have
abortions. Those who didn’t comply were executed. Approximately three
quarters of comfort women died, and most survivors were left infertile
due to sexual trauma or sexually transmitted diseases.It is estimated that roughly 200,000 women, mainly Korean, were forced into sex slavery in brothels run by the Japanese military. While enslaved, the women were raped, beaten, tortured and killed.
Peace Monument is located outside the Japanese embassy in Seoul. It
consist of a bronze statue of a barefoot, seated girl, depicting a
Korean comfort girl. The statue was placed there in 2011, as a part of a
weekly protest held in Korea every Wednesday in front of the Embassy of
Japan in Seoul, seeking justice from the Japanese government regarding
the large scale sexual slavery during the war. In January this year, a
Korean judge ruled that the Japanese government should pay 100 million
yen to each of the families of 12 women, characterising the alleged
enslavement a crime against humanity. Japan's Prime Minister, Yoshihide
Suga was not keen on the decision. In 2015, Japan formally apologised
and agreed to pay 1 billion yen to the South Korean government.
the 18th and 19th century Britain, women went to sea on Royal Naval
ships in wartime, to provide comfort to their husbands or lovers, to
care for the injured, cook and clean. In addition to the dangers and
privations that the male sailors endured, the women also endured the
consequences of "comfort". Of the 30 women who shipped out with Nelson,
not one received a medal for bravery, although all the male crew of 820
did, plus prize money, on the grounds that the women lacked the
appropriate moral character. Royal Naval vessels were cramped and
keeping the gangways and crew decks clear was a priority, so an
Admiralty direction was issued that women should give birth in the space
between the broadside guns.
Gun deck, HMS Victory
Births were recorded in the ship's log. For those boys whose father was unknown, the record read: "Son of a Gun".
Before we leave the subject of War, here's mr ishmael:
HISTORY (drafted 30/9/14)
is the year of 1645 and the English Civil War is in full swing; far way, in
the Ottoman Empire, news is reaching the authorities......
The Sultan's palace, noises without, sounds of running, cries of Your Excellency! Your Excellency!
the balls of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, and fuck he who
brought you to this life and a thousand dicks up your arse, donkey
brain, but what is all this fucking noise you are making?
It is news, Excellency, from our spies in the Middle North, the English tribes are warring.
are always fucking warring, dog, may you go and fuck your mother, the
poxed-up whore mongrel bitch, what's fucking new about that? They war
with the French, they war with the Welsh, with the Irish, with those
ginger fuckling mutant infidels in Scotland, they whore their children
and their sisters and fuck their sheep and pigs, the English; it is not
so long, son of a fucking dog turd, that they were warring with us;
that fucking shitbrain poofter, Richard,
Lionheart they called him, I ask you, Lionheart, it is what our wise
men call - when they are not inventing higher mathematics, medicine,
navigation, architecture and every other fucking thing - hyperbole,
hyperbole is what they call it; loada fucking bollocks, I say, a
mummy'sboy 's what he was, what was her name, Eleanor? She raised a
right nancy there, with that one, a dick-licking son of shit, buried in
France, he is, proper arsebandit country. Anyway, he came over here
and nearly wrecked the fucking place, until we copped hold of the
screeching bastard and held him for ransom. And now you bust in here,
yelling that the fucking JohnBullers are fighting again, better watch,
eater of goatshit, that your head and your body do not start to travel
in different directions, parted by the Great Blade of Correction.
But, Your Excellency, it could lead to a humanitarian catastrophe......
what.... a fucking what? They are a fucking humanitarian wotsaname,
those fucking English bastards. Do you know, spawn of a syphilitic,
one-eyed camel, what goes on in the Tower of fucking London?
Humanitarian? I should, in the name of the fucking prophet, fucking
But Majesty, they kill one another, the Roundhead and the Cavalier...
what...the fucking what....the Roundfuckinghead....what fresh madness
is this, is that fucking shithole never gonna grow up?
now to the vexed question of transgender politics, and the presence of
people who were born male but have declared themselves to be female, in
the female prison estate, female prisoner FDJ has brought her case to
the High Court. FDJ alleges she was sexually assaulted by a male
prisoner who had a gender recognition certificate stating he was a
transwoman, and who was serving his sentence in a female prison. The
prison service has not denied that the assault took place. The prison
service policy in England and Wales is that some "transwomen" offenders
should be allowed to serve their sentence in the female prison estate if
they wish. FDJ argued that this policy exposes women to the increased
risk of sexual assault by offenders who were born male, and that this
risk is not similarly posed to male offenders in male prisons.In
March/April 2019, there were 163 transgender prisoners, of which 81 had
been convicted of one or more sexual offences. 129 of these prisoners
were allocated to male prisons, 34 to female prisons.
Holroyde stated that:
"Many people may think it incongruous and inappropriate that
a prisoner of masculine physique and with male genitalia should be accommodated
in a female prison in any circumstances. More importantly for the Claimant's
case, I readily accept that a substantial proportion of women prisoners have
been the victims of sexual assaults and/or domestic violence. I also readily accept the proposition ... that some, and
perhaps many, women prisoners may suffer fear and acute anxiety if required to
share prison accommodation and facilities with a transgender women who has male
genitalia, and that their fear and anxiety may be increased if that transgender
woman has been convicted of sexual or violent offences against women."
Despite his own findings, he ruled that the prison service policy is lawful, as
there are competing rights to be considered: not just the interests of
female prisoners, but also those of trans"women" prisoners.
little piece dates from December 2015, when Harris was a mere boy of 4 (28 in dog years) and mr ishmael was undertaking
treatment in a hyperbaric tank in Aberdeen, in order to assist in some
recalcitrant healing. By the way, it does work.
Harris watches and listens to the same dreadful carnival of political atrocity as do I, so he's a dogbloke who knows the score.
I am at home, and not sequestered in my compression chamber, three
hundred miles away, up to my arse in submariner revery - rig for silent
running! stand by for depth charges! just how deep can she go?
fire tubes one and two! all that stuff - he is gainfully occupied in
being my companion animal, with chasing the cats, although not so
fervently that he catches one of them and with being the blogdog; he
goes everywhere with me and is generally a busy chap. There are his
baths to consider and his being dried with the electric wind and
brushed; there are his walks and his quality time, which consists of us
playing a type of Fives, with a tennis ball against one of the doors - I
bounce it off a door moulding and he fetches the ball and invites me
to pull it from his jaws but not without some struggle and lots of
ggrrrrr-ing, in order for me to throw it at the door again that the game
may restart; this generally happens on a Sunday morning, while mrs
ishmael is watching her Create and Craft programme and spending money on
yet more sewing machinery, throughout the game, as with the rest of the
time, Harris likes to have GoodBoySaid, and this utterance becomes the
more frequent, with every ball recovered.
Who's-A-Clever-Good-Boy-Then? That sort of thing. Sometimes, in case we
might travel, I speak to him in French: Qui est le garcon bon? Mon
petit ami chaud et brun, il est le garcon bon. Qu'est ce que c'est,
c'est le dejeuner pour M'sieu 'Arris, manges tu, comme le garcon bon.
have now bought him squeakless balls but he tries, nevertheless, to
disembowel them and shake any life from them which they might have had
were they the living creatures he fondly imagines them to be but these
are good quality tennis balls, largely terrier-proof and not those
shitty little pet balls sold by the vetbastards and which cost a couple of quid each and last about ten seconds.
way and another he has a busy life, my little warm brown friend and in
fact mrs ishmael has just promoted him. We were trying to book an hotel
or a cottage - fucked if I know, I could happily stay at home for the
rest of my days, and never take a holiday, but mrs ishmael likes to get
away - and the holiday providers would only accommodate what they
called Assistance Dogs - they meant Guide Dogs, y'know, a la Blind Boy
Blunkett's poor, shamed cur. That's alright, he is an Assistance Dog,
enthused mrs ishmael, down the 'phone, he assists my husband with his
diabetes, she lied, if my husband should have a hypo attack he barks at
him - he actually only barks at me when he wants something but never
mind - and if my husband falls ill Harris comes and finds me in the
garden, and tells me. They accepted it, anyway. I was quite aghast, at
first, at the deception, but then I thought, well, if they take dogs
anyway.....and Harris is very well-behaved, for a dogbloke, at least;
he doesn't shit everywhere, like a Shetlander, or threaten people, like a
Glaswegian Tribesman does - never see a sign saying No Tribesmen
Allowed, although you should - doesn't interfere with children, like
most of showbusiness and MediaMinster, so where's the harm, in him being
reclassified, a bit closer, by servitude, to the master species?
according to popes and others in the prelate trade, Harris doesn't
even have a soul, like you and me and Tony Blair do, so he can hardly
be endangering it by conspiring with us in a lie about his status. And
they charge us for him, so, in the end, I didn't see any harm in the
deception. And anyway, like most dogblokes, he is of some significant assistance; he is
my friend and come to think of it he does kick off if I go into a
stall, or if he thinks I have gone into a stall; I might just be
abstracted but the altered state alarms him.
you took him into a Chink hotel, mind, they'd probably cook him and
present him to you on a plate, right before your very eyes, cook him
up before you could say GoodBoy, SitDown, the filthy yellow bastards,
the gruesome Chink Ambassador'd be telling Rent
Boy Evan, off KiddyNewsnight,
this killing dog and fwy-up in beanshoots an' waw-ah chessnut is ay
rin-rin situation, iss no' weally killing, is just fass-food.
Dog is fucking nobody, Hokay?
Iss no' person, issworth less than dissident. Unnerstan'?
dog is kill - or dissident - everybody rin, and nobody loose, an' if
not, when we buy BBC, nex' year, or year aftah, we shoot you in head and
ask Mrs - or in your case, ask Mistah, or iss jus' partner, ask him for
pound for bullet, Hokay?
Y'unnerstand rin-rin situation?
Y'unnerstan' chinese people, now?
Thanks so much, Mr Ambassador for talking to us. If I could suck your
cock or lick your arse while you shit on me I would be only too happy
to do so.
Davies is a byword for arse-clenching embarrassment by proxy; I only
have to see him or hear him fawning over some jumped-up political
nobody or some bent businessman or woman and I physically cringe, on
behalf, I guess, of the soul-remnant which must flutter within him,
blown to tatters by the winds of his enthusiastic self-abasement. The
interview with the repulsive Chink, however, I understand, has been
seen as a low-water mark, even for Newsnight. If
you turned-up at the door of a Muslim Uncle's Cash'n'Carry with a dog,
they'd probably shit themselves and wanna cut his throat, for Allah. I
dunno about Jews, is there anything in their Codes of Exclusion which
forbids having a dog in the house of a Sabbath, I wouldn't be
surprised? That fucking thieving bastard, Benji Netenyahu, he'd tell
you any old crap. When Oily Micky Howard was Trade Seckaterry,
abolishing Sunday, he blustered,
now, Britain's retailers can't be held back by a groundless old
superstition, from two thousand years ago, yet, a fortnight previously,
he'd been filmed, down his synagogue, towel round his shoulders,
singing his own groundless superstition from three
thousand years ago - or is it four? Jumped-up barrowboy, I always
thought, Howard, like most Thatcher spivs. Although, in contrast to
Lansley, Mitchell, Johnson. Osborne, Fox, Letwin, Maude and Cameron he
mrs ishmael, anyway, sent off for a printed Assistance Dog Tee-shirt,
just to reassure the reception staff, that nobody was taking the piss,
although I am not altogether sure about that one. We could've printed
him one ourselves, mrs ishmael having a heat press, but we didn't have
any Harris-shaped tee-shirts. Anyway, it's official, now, as far as we
are all concerned.
so, when I lit-out for the hyperbaric tank, four days and three nights a
week, Harris felt a bit redundant, here, at home on his own. Not for
him a life squandered in watching daytime TeeVee, hiding behind his
curtains as the neighbours went to work, not that we have any neighbours
but that wouldn't matter to Bukkake George Osborne, just as long as the
people hate each other more than they hate the govament then it's sperm
baths and happy coke fiends all round. And so, choosing to do the
right thing, Harris insisted that he accompany mrs ishmael to work,
four days a week, in order to do his bit for the Eckonomy, stupid.
Harris Bulletin: 2021
Six years later, Harris is now a Grand Old Man,
with diabetes of his own, and I am his Assistance
Person, although I don't have a T-shirt denoting my status. We are
both working from home, which suits Harris fine, as he was banned from
the office after taking exception to an impudent dog that had also
chosen to come to work. There were complaints from two floors away,
although it was only swearing and posturing. Just boy stuff.
Portal between Vilnius, Lithuania and Lublin in Poland. The Portals
have large screens and cameras that broadcast live images - no sound -
between the two cities, creating a digital bridge to encourage people to
rethink the concept of unity. There are plans to add Portals to other
cities. The creator, Benediktas Gylys, President of the Benediktas Gylys Foundation says the project is “a bridge that unifies and an invitation to rise above prejudices and disagreements that belong to the past.”
mr ishmael's essays today are:
On The Dear Old Battlefield drafted 27/8/14
History drafted 30/9/14
Harris Chooses to do the Right Thing drafted December 2015
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.
PROWRITINGAID15, WELCOME15 or 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
"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
Imagine if they had a pair of those portals in Glasgow & London. Brotherly love would flow back & forth in a flurry of bared arses, raised fingers, and burned flags. Until some headcase thought it was an actual Stargate and tried to headbutt his way to glory, anyway.
Sadly, mr verge, I suspect that you are right. A stranger is not necessarily a friend you haven't met yet - could well be a deathly enemy.
Are they in real-time then, mrs i/mr v? Can you really give 'em the finger> That sounds a proper hoot.
And I am indebted for all of the arabic profanity. I am sure that this going to come in very handy. Especially if the footie goes the way it always does. It's the hope that does you in in the end. Speaking of which I see that y'all have declared a 0-0 victory for the tartan heroes. What larks.
Alas for the "nation shall speak peace unto nation" aspirations of the inventor of the Portal - he didn't take the British into account, as splendidly exemplified by messrs. verge and mongoose's reaction. I think the technology is just a development of Zoom or Teams, tricked up with a big screen and a sci-fi Portal effect.
Glad you are going to use the Arabic swearies. Inventive lot, aren't they? They have had, of course, many , many centuries of dignity, honour and civilisation to perfect gross verbal abuse. The draft History post that I found in the drafts is, I suspect, an unfinished project, and mr ishmael was intending to work it up into a more extensive piece using all the Arabic swearies - until he got distracted or bored with the project. It does, of course, suit his often-expressed belief that there are no dirty words, just dirty minds.
The Tartan Heroes have plunged Scotland into Covid Hell - with greater transmission and greater case numbers than at any time previously. Despite all that, all restrictions will shortly be lifted and normal service resumed. As ever, it is The Eckonomy, Stupid.
Don't ask me about the football. I don't understand the attraction. Well, I do - tribalism, putting the boot into the enemy, etc, but I don't Feel the attraction. And you have to watch all that tedious running about and kicking the ball.
Footie is a tax on the daft, mrs i. I don't watch it from one yeqr to the next as a rule. I would however make a fantastic referee. Approach me to complain about a decision - booked; fall over and pretend to be dying - booked; complaining about a free kick - booked and free kick moves ten yards nearer the goal; if it moves into the penalty area - penalty... There'd be nobody left on the pitch at the end but we'd get the cheating driven out of it.
Nasty, spiteful game played by cheats and entitled brats. I'd have them all neutered too. Stop the spread.
Make them wear baggy long shorts, black boots and put them onto the minimum wage.
Good to see Harris looking fine, Mrs I. The Memsahib decided that Mr Pug needed a companion (he's now 8 years old), so she bought ($4500!!) a pedigree pug girl puppy at 10 weeks old. She's actually a cute little beauty, but a bundle of energy. Mr Pug has his regular daily nap times but she wants to play-fight with him - cue snarling. And she's proving impervious to house training. She's taken to shitting on my expensive Persian rugs, the little bugger. Still she's a character and a lot of fun.
Best roll up the expensive Persian rugs, mr mike and put them in the attic, or in rooms from which CutiePug is excluded. Now that they smell of toilets, CutiePug will know that's where you have to go, and pretty soon, they'll be fit for nothing else but topping off your compost heaps. I speak from bitter experience. I hope you have a goodly supply of Puppy Pads - life is intolerable without them.
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