Monday 5 July 2021

The Sunday Ishmael 4/07/2021


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
During 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.
The 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.
In 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)
It 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!

By 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.

They 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......

A 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 co-co.

But Majesty, they kill one another, the Roundhead and the Cavalier...

The what...the fucking what....the Roundfuckinghead....what fresh madness is this, is that fucking shithole never gonna grow up?
Handy Guide to translate Arabic Insults:
Arabic SwearingEnglish Translation
Airi Fe SabahakMy dick on your forehead
Neek rasiFuck my skull
Yla'an haramakDamn your spouse
Kos okht ile nafadakFuck he who brought you to this life
Aire fe mabda'akMy dick in your principles
Toj koo' masCome suck my penis
Zobree akbar minakMy dick is longer than you
Ya manache'hFag, gay
Air il'e yoshmotakMay you be struck by a dick
Air il'e yeba'atakMay you be stabbed by a dick
FatahForeskin (considered a grave insult)
Ah dena mukkDamn your mother's religion
AhhlassShut up
KoosCunt, pussy
Yebnen kelpSon of a dog
NikomakFuck your mother
Sharmoota (or Sharmuta)Whore, bitch
GahbaWhore, bitch
Elif air ab tizakA thousand dicks in your ass
Elif air ab dinikhA thousand dicks in your religion
Mos zibbiSuck my dick
Waj ab zibikAn infection to your dick
Kul kharaEat shit
Ya KhawalFaggot
Bouse TiziKiss my ass
Ebn el metnakahSon of a motherfucker
Inti sharmootaYou're a whore
Inta sharmootYou're a male whore
Inta humarYou are a donkey (idiot: to a man)
Inti humaraYou are a donkey (idiot: to a woman)
Inta shazYou are a pervert
Gildak khashina aweeYour skin is very rough
Ikla hudumakTake off your clothes
Aiyz temus?Would you like a blow job?
TakhiBend over
Mus zibiiSuck my cock
Boos zibbiKiss my cock
ZubrakPenis, Cock, Dick
MekyadPenis, Cock, Dick
AyirPenis, Cock, Dick
ZibbiPenis, Cock, Dick
ZibPenis, Cock, Dick
ZabourahPenis, Cock, Dick
Elhasi teeziLick my ass
Reh tak kharaYou smell like shit
In'a'al mayteen ehlakDamn your dead
Bi kem el sharmoota di?How much is this whore?
Kul khara we mootEat shit and die
Said bousakShut your mouth
El hass hasaweeLick my bollocks
El hass el errLick my dick
Rouh ya AyrGet lost, you prick
ManiakActive homosexual
Khanzeera al matinaPig in the mud (to a woman)
Inta khaywanAnimal (to a man)
Moomkin almiss bizazeek?May I touch your breasts?
Aiza ta'mili hagat wiskha ma'aya?Would you like to do dirty things with me?
Bit tifi wela bit tibla'ee?Do you spit or swallow?
Kess emmakYour mother's genitals
Kess ekhtakYour sister's genitals
Eyreh feekMy cock in you
Eyreh be afass seder emmakMy dick in your mother's rib cage
Akhu sharmootaBrother of a whore
Ibn haramBastard (lit. son of sin)
Kis em ickGo fuck your mom
Inta KhawalYou are a fag
El Khara Dah?What is this shit?
Inti mafish MukhYou have no brains
Teezak jiyefYour ass stinks


Turning 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. 

Lord Justice 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. 

 Harris Chooses to do The Right Thing
This 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.

When 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.

I 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.

One 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?  

Officially, 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. 

If 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, 


that 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, iss worth less than dissident. Unnerstan'?

When 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.
Evan 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, 


Come 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 is aristocracy.

And 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.

And 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.
 Did you see this?
The 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 copies: 

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 point.) 
 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

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 " voucher code" and see what comes up.  

With the 15% voucher, the book (including delivery to a UK address) should cost £10.89



Anonymous said...

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.



mrs ishmael said...

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.

mongoose said...

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.

mrs ishmael said...

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.

mongoose said...

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.

mrs ishmael said...

Make them wear baggy long shorts, black boots and put them onto the minimum wage.

Mike said...

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.

mrs ishmael said...

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.