The Sunday Ishmael: 15/01/2023

 Politics is Show Business for Ugly People

See what I mean? 

This is Stephen Flynn MP, before he defenestrated Fatty Blackford as Leader of the SNP at Westminster -

 and became Mekon Flynn, Member of Parliament for Aberdeen South, an oil industry constituency. 

Interviewed by Martin Geissler this morning on the Sunday Show, he assured the Scottish nation that his constituents were perfectly fine with no new oil licences being issued and if we don't need to pull oil out of the North Sea then we should let it lie. With the decline of the oil industry, Aberdeen's prosperity has nose-dived, but Mekon Flynn reckons that Aberdonians are so alive to Green issues and the need for renewables to replace oil that the streets are paved with noses cut from spited faces.  Even though two days ago he was backing the Cambo oil field development to go ahead, contrary to the SNP/Green position that it "should not get the green light" and Madam Sturgeon has vowed that there would be no more new oil explorations in her energy strategy.

.All those bulging brains barely contained in that big shiny head have spit out Mekon Flynn's considered opinion that Gnasher McSturgeon is the most outstanding politician of her generation in Europe,  subtle, intelligent, far-seeing, successful, dugget, and what she says goes. 

I think she's had a word with him. 

He's also rock-solid on Gnasher's policy of using the next general election as a "de facto" referendum on Scottish independence. The thinking of the most outstanding politician in Europe goes like this: 

A referendum on Scottish independence was held on the 18th September 2014, the electorate being told that this was a once in a generation opportunity to throw off the shackles of union with England, Wales and Northern Ireland. 55.3% of voters said No, we want to stay British. A generation is generally reckoned by demographers and statisticians to be 25 years. Simple arithmetic, however, is not part of the SNP skill-set, for eight years later (not 25),  in June 2022, Sturgeon announced plans to hold another referendum on 19 October 2023. Boris refused permission. This is not a devolved matter.  So Gnasher Sturgeon referred the question of whether a referendum can take place without the UK government's agreement  to the UK Supreme Court, which ruled in November 2022 no, you can't. So now she says that if the Scottish National Party get a majority in the next general election - unlike their present position, shored up in Holyrood by the Greens, that such a result is a declaration of intent to leave the United Kingdom. This is, of course, bollocks, would have no binding effect on the Westminster Government and make no difference whatsoever to the Westminster position. It just means that there would be MPs of an SNP persuasion in Westminster. Just like now. Gnasher, of course, seems not to have grasped the difference between her devolved administration in Holyrood and the Government of the United Kingdom.

And Mekon Flynn has the job of defending this gibberish. Or he'll be defenestrated like Fatty Blackford, that simple, crofting, Merchant Banking former SNP Leader in Westminster.

I wouldn't give a toss about any of this nonsense, and I'm sure that you don't, you Gentlemen of England now abed, holding your cheap manhoods (not quite right, mrs. ish), but I have skin in the game. Being a British citizen, living, working, owning property in, getting and spending in Scotland, part of Britain.  

Talking of skin in the game, Rishi Sunak ain't got no right to be pontificating about the NHS - not until he's got a dog in the race. Last Sunday, on the Laura Kuennssnose Show, squirmy, little, wriggly, dwarfy, cross-eyed Sunak point blank refused to say whether he used private medicine. We know he does. Can you imagine him down his local GP surgery, queuing in the waiting room, waiting on a trolley in an NHS corridor, going round the chemist's with his scrip, whilst his security battalion surround him, fending off the outraged complaints of fellow-patients - wot's he doing ere, taking up time with our doctor, get round Harley Street, you, and get a good gravy dinner into you.

Why won't you tell us, Prime Minister, whether you use private health care, said Laura, politely but implacably.  That's private, he said. His ears told us the truth, though. Have you noticed, that when he tells lies, or gets embarrassed, his ears grow, start flapping and turn red? Have a look, next time he's interviewed or at PMQs - dead useful little tell, that one.

He's subsequently confessed. though. Turns out he has used private health care. Well, who'd have thought it? 

He also wouldn't be drawn on whether he'd help the Royal Family to sort out its current domestic difficulties. I'm not talking about the Royal Family, he said, even when Laura Nose told him John Sodding Major had gone in for a bit of go-betweening with Charles and Diana back in the day.

It was Keir Starmer's turn to face the same questions this morning. No mucking about, though. Straight forward and manly under fire. Have you ever used private health care?

No.

Would you help out the Royal Family with a bit of counselling?

No, I wouldn't do that.

Laura's got Gnasher Sturgeon under interrogation next Sunday. Maybe she'll get asked about her Gender Recognition Reform Bill - which will impact on UK law thusly: English bloke goes up to Scotland. I'm a woman he says, and I promise I'll live like a woman for 6 months. Okay, here's your Gender Recognition Certificate, off you go. Goes back to England. I'm a woman, he says, and this certificate proves it and you can't stop me going in women's toilets, in battered wives' hostels and in women's prisons. Yes, I've still got my full meat and potatoes, want to make something of it?

Anyway, Keir Starmer, who has got both skin in the game and a dog in the race, is going to sort out the NHS when he gets into power in two years time. He's sick of being in opposition, he says, and he's going to make a difference. Well, thank goodness for that - someone needs to do it, the NHS, sort it, that is. A man of high ambition. 

The National Health Service is the term for the  publicly funded healthcare systems of the United Kingdom, set up in 1948 and funded from general taxation, apart from prescription charges in England. In 1948 the population was considerably smaller than now, the treatments available were limited and the ambitions of ordinary people to lead long, healthy lives, with their own teeth, good glasses, hearing aids, contraception, assisted conception and transgender surgery were similarly limited. These days, people expect planned pregnancies to result in healthy, viable babies, and if they don't, then they expect the NHS to ensure that foetuses that would have died in the womb or shortly afterwards survive to become long-lived adults with all their extensive and expensive medical needs paid for from general taxation. Instead of living a mere 5 years after retirement, folk expect to do nothing economically productive for 20 years after retirement and be maintained in good health. They demand that general taxation pays for the damaging physical consequences of dodgy  lifestyles - addiction to alcohol, tobacco, sex, drugs, chips, extreme sports, gardening, the internal combustion engine and victory knee-slides. Oh, yes, mr mongoose wants unwise cricketing manoeuvres added to the list.

If I was Sir Keir, Sorting Out the NHS, I'd start with replacing the General Practitioner with ChatGPT,  an advanced Artificial Intelligence chatbot which interacts in a conversational way. Its trainers say that the dialogue format makes it possible for ChatGPT to answer followup questions, admit its mistakes, challenge incorrect premises, and reject inappropriate requests. Totally unlike the average GP. I tell you, having seen medical students in the general bar of the Students' Union of Birmingham University, I think a Chatbot is the way to go. Especially if it can do blood tests, which seem to have replaced the average GP's diagnostic skills. As mr ishmael used to advise - the person most likely to kill you is your doctor.

Poetry Corner:

‘Mortal,’ said the sprite, ‘be wary; shallow learning is unwary;
Heed the perils of reliance on machin’ry’s mere compliance.’

The couplet is by chatbot ‘Claude’, who was asked to write a poem about itself and the impact of machine intelligence in the style of Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’.

27/05/2009 Stanislav, An Outpatient, Speaks

Go down local hospital today for laser surgery, on old mince pies, Fuck me, gently. Not hurt a bit says eyebloke. Cunt. Not hurt him a bit but is like some bastard hammer hot nails in stanislav eyeball, fucking dreadful. Is OK? says eyebloke; No, is not OK, is fucking murder, is on special extra fucking hot setting, eh? ten million volts? best leave off for a minute. Have had laser surgery before, few time, and never hurt like this bastard, is exfuckingcrutiating. Edinburgh Royal College of Surgeon-Extortionists says that doctor working in Highland and Island is often alcoholic, drug addict or misfit; this bloke look like all three bastards. Scotland is best part of England and can see doctor very easy, is just that is maybe crap and dangerous; dirty, drunken mentalcase with hand shaking and bad breath full of garlic, often has huge beard and hair everywhere, like fucking Hobbit and would sooner cut own throat than wash hands between patient. Anyway, to start off with, eyebloke puts stanislav head in iron mask and is damning and fucking because nothing works, turns out he has the lens in the wrong way round; good job, says stanislav, it didn’t fucking work, else you’d a had laser in your eyes, innit, and serve you right. Maybe was wrong thing to say. Anyway stanislav not want to be seen as ladyman or wuss but after few seconds is in agony, can’t see and both eye is streaming and head is exploding. Can do Zen shit, meditation and self-hypnosis, just sort of empty mind of Now and tranceout, feel no pain, or little pain, but not with this bastard. Have you got much more to do, maybe can put up with if nearly finished is? You've had 56 shots. And how many is more to come? Is a thousand altogether. Oh fuck me, nine hundred and forty four more bastard nails hammer in fucking eyeball, fuck that shit, can't put up with, is like some bastard set fire to inside of head and bombs going off in eyeballs, sweat like fucking Paddy Fawkes in confession box with noncing monsignor, another nine hundred will vomiting be and shit pants like demented old bastard on Tory backbench caught with fingers in till and cock in rentboy. Fuck it, can go blind and get dog, like Blunkett, Buster is dear old friend and best boy but is crap for walking about with, does great tripping-up even when stanislav can see, and even if didn't trip up and smash face on pavement would pull arm from socket in pursuit of other dogblokes. Can be blind plumber, stanislavplumbcheap4u in Braille. Anyway get money off government if blind is. Not fucking much, not as much as Mr and Mrs Balls or Mr Duncan, but is few quid and can always tune piano for living. Have had blind piano bloke come in gaff and tune-up Joanna. Is all horrible miserablest fucking bastard ever – this piano, Sir, is very out of tune. They all say that, like was crime against disabled bastards. Yes, is out of tune, that’s why stanislav sent for you in first place, you pianobloke is, if stanislav could tune piano, you wouldn’t be here, innit, can do most thing, but tune piano is job for blind bloke with fuck all else to do but listen, innit, is shit job, is only fit for blindbloke with special listening skills, so maybe it just SEEMS so out of tune because you is listening like a bastard and to me is just fucking out of tune, I mean, it doesn’t matter if is one note out of tune or eighty-fucking-eight out of tune, is same difference, piano sounds like shit, only takes is one note and whole thing is fucked, unless of course piece of music doesn’t have that one note in, which it might not, if was Three Blind - no offence – Mice, but can’t sit and play Three Blind Mice forever and ever, people come round for dinner and you say Oh Fuck me, guests, I’ll just play you Three Blind Mice, a few times, like last time, pretty soon run out of dinner guests, who wants to come and hear Three Blind Fucking Mice, year after year, and here in Scotland can only really invite expatriots because Jock is savage and no fucking manners has got and would smash gaff up if only was Three Blind Mice by way of post-prandial divertissement, so really either piano is in tune or is not in fucking tune, can’t be very in tune and so can’t be very out of tune either, and, matey, have had hard day with head down toilet so not fucking me about be anymore with this Piano Is Very Out Of Tune Shit, like was Blind Boy Monty Python and Parrot, only piano instead; have got topjolly Yamaha keyboard and never go out of fucking tune and sound more like piano than piano. Have got Yamaha acoustic guitar and Yamaha electric guitar, is like fucking Yamaha factory, could have fucking Nipponese orchestra in here and don’t fucking care if you tune piano or not, is only affectation, acoustic piano, Yamaha is much better. Don’t need all this shit, got plenty of shit without bad-tempered accusatory pianobloke coming in here and giving me more shit. Do you wanna tune out of tune piano, like it says in Yellow Pages or have you come round here to bully people? What is it with you blind fuckers? ‘snot my fault. Try to give you some work to do and is better than weaving fucking basket and only can whine about piano out of tune being, as though stanislav took front off from Joanna and twist all the tuning pegs with fucking molegrip just to piss you off ? Honest, not invent, is true conversation. 

No, mate, don’t care if you is doctor or not, stanislav is not coward, has had loads of this shit before and is OK, sting a little bit and eyes water but this fucking torture is, you from MI fucking 5? Can take laser and shove-up arse of BMA, is fucking rubbish, come in NHS to get rid of fucking pain, not get fucking torture to death, can go on waterboarding vacation in Cuba and is not so fucking bad as this shit, can smell fucking eyeballs burning. You done this before ? Oh yes, am consultant, if is hurting you like fuck I can give you local anaesthetic. You mean needle in fucking eyeball, innit, is not good day for stanislav, nearly have eyes blown out through back of fucking head and now is fucking get eyeball stuck with hypodermic syringe, like in fucking nightmare, you know how Jack Nicholson says I Would Rather Stick Pins In My Eyes Than whatever it is? Well stanslav has had pins stuck in eye, or needle, which is same thing, only worse, and is shit thing to have, can't even, obviously, close fucking eyes and hope for best because is looking straight at needle coming towards eye in shaking hand of drunken misfit dope-fiend called Sandy or fucking Angus. Want local anaesthetic and carry on scorching eyeball ? No fucking thank you very fucking much. Got enough doctorshit with mad bastard wants to stop heart and rip to pieces and patch up like fucking inner-tube on bicycle, scar down front like Grand fucking Canyon and is only little bit of angina and can live fine with few pills and just as long as poor eviscerated surgery victim and probably longer and don't want some fucking eejit sticking needles in my eyeball, today. Hooligan-Sadist doctor not apologise, Fuck me, no, not say Just relax, be better soon, was pissed off, bureaucratisation of NHS has no room for individual, hyper-sensitised patient and says stanislav can go in day clinic, fly to big hospital, still get needle in eyeball but can do it in more caring environment than grubby little office, and lasershots won't hurt so much, is only pain and fuck all compared to what Afghani Wedding guest gets from Uncle Sam, but he is wog, innit, and doesn't matter, stanislav can go in bed afterwards with nice cup of tea and Jock nurse, big like elephant, keep check on observations and say There-There, Hen, There-There. 

Scotland, best part of England.

 

thanks to editor mr. verge, there are now three anthologies of the collected works of ishmael smith:

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack  and Ishmael’s Blues are all available from Lulu and Amazon. If you buy from Amazon, it would be nice if you could give a review on their website.
Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps :

Thanks to editor mr. verge, there are now three anthologies of the collected works of ishmael smith:
Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack  and Ishmael’s Blues are all available from Lulu and Amazon. If you buy from Amazon, it would be nice if you could give a review on their website.
Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps :
please register an account first, at lulu.com. This is advisable because otherwise paypal seems to think it's ok to charge in dollars, and they then apply their own conversion rate, which might put the price up slightly for a UK buyer. Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links below (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Ishmael’s Blues" into the Lulu Bookstore search box.  Click on the “show explicit content” tab, give the age verification box a date of birth such as 1 January 1960, and proceed.
Link for Hardcover :  https://tinyurl.com/je7nddfr
Link for Paperback : https://tinyurl.com/3jurrzux
At checkout, try WELCOME15 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, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £16.84; HB £27.04.