The Sunday Ishmael 5/03/2023

An appalled nation is shocked to learn that the Johnson Government was a bunch of hypocritical, smug, ignorant, self-fellating chancers who hadn't a clue what to do to combat an epidemic but still felt supremely confident in ignoring scientific advice, attending drinks parties and whipping up fear and distress whilst laughing at the gullibility of the population.

Interviewed by the BBC, one of the few Covid-surviving Nannas said:

"And him with his nice blond hair and his Latin, I'd never have believed it possible."

But the nation's foulest opprobrium, effluent and morning catarrhal mucus is reserved for Matt Handcock. Not only does he look stupid, he is incredibly, ineluctably, unreservedly, irretrievably, pig-shit-thick stupid. With an ego the size of a planet.

An inspiring example of not letting bone-deep stupidity and dyslexia get in the way of a fine British education, Handcock graduated with a first in Philosophy, Politics and Economics from Oxford and earned an MPhil in Economics at Christ's College, Cambridge. The mind boggles. Another argument for nuking Oxford and Cambridge.  Utterly incapable of writing a book, but not wanting to miss the opportunity to monetise his experience of saving Britain, he hired Isabel Oakeshott to write The Pandemic Diaries for him. To assist her in the task of writing his book for him, he gave her the What's App messages he had exchanged with his Cabinet colleagues during the Covid crisis. Then he fucked off to the Jungle to participate in I'm a Celebrity ....Get Me out of Here. For which dereliction of duty he had the whip suspended and annoyed Isabel, who was left to complete his book without access to him. Acting wholly in the public interest, with no thought of getting her own back on the bumptious toad politician, she released the What's Appery - 2.3 million words of messages - to the Daily Telegraph, which has been serialising the best bits, to the nation's mingled shock and delight. 

And to Matty's bemusement. As mentioned above, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Never occurred to him that she would breach his trust.

But the best bit, no, the really best bit, was the revelation of Matty's polymorphous perversity. Well, what else can you call it? Michael Gove, FFS.

Not content with having fucked his own career right royally by intimately contacting Gina Coladangelo when he was forbidding the peepul of Britain to do any intimate contacting with people from a different household - and this after appointing her to a part-time little £20 grand non-executive director post,

Matty conducted a steamy What's Appery with Snake Gove. 

 Texts show Hancock angrily asking Gove during a meeting ‘what are we trying to achieve?’ Gove replied: ‘Letting people express concerns in a therapeutic environment before you and I decided the policy’. ‘You are glorious’, responded Matt.

There was more. Gove texted Hancock late in the evening on the first anniversary of lockdown, telling him ‘U r a hero. Never forget it.’ 

And on the evening of the 26 May 2021, from Gove to Hancock 

‘I ❤️you’.

There they go, as mr ishmael neatly put it: "Shitting in our faces from the Great Latrine of State."

Talking of mr ishmael, I am told by editor mr verge that the fourth anthology will be published later this year. It contains material that mr verge has collected from some fairly obscure sources. Here's a taster:

For a few months (late 2007 until summer 2008) stanislav would sometimes morph into an avatar named in memory and honour of the great Victorian orator & MP, John Bright, who coined the phrase “England is the mother of parliaments” (Birmingham, January 1865) and appears to have had a hand in popularising another idiomatic stalwart, “flogging a dead horse”…  

john bright MP said...

(replying to a Fucking Delicious SNP oil fantasy rant, May 2008)

 This chap, Mr Delicious, seems to be inciting alarm and disappointment in equal measure; even by the standard of the oft desperate, profane and calumnious rhetoric deployed hereabouts, Mr Delicious is on the outer fringes of human repellence, loathsome, repugnant and detestable; as all decent Englishmen would aver, the disdain he so swiftly and uniformly arouses in Order-Orderites is compounded by his claim to being Scottish, yet he is, of course, nothing of the kind. Of primary persuasive significance are his halting and leaden attempts at words of more than one syllable. Anyone who has ventured even a mile or two into his impoverished wasteland will know that Jock does not do Erudition; Jock, bless his square ginger head, does Grunt. The idea that Jock could write a sentence, much less a paragraph, is risible. Anyone who has seen Jock close up will have observed that the webbed fingers and toes characteristic of his species expressly prevent him from operating a keyboard with any facility; added to the bruising of his knuckles from dragging them along Glasgow’s derelict streets, Jock’s prehensile digits prevent him (should he have any) framing his thoughts in a manner communicable to (let alone decipherable by) modern man.

Thirdly, of a Sunday, Jock does not, like Mr FD, concern himself with political discourse but instead takes to his rancid bed with a nephew or niece entrusted to his care by a mother gone off to get bladdered on her benefit money, accompanied by the current “Uncle” or stepfather, certainly unemployed, illiterate and probably a heroin addict with tattooed forehead. While they are in his care Jock will introduce the unfortunate, inbred, retarded wean, some hapless Wee Fiona or Wee Gordon, to the intricacies of Jock’s national area of excellence, or communist noncing as we call it in England.

There is only one Scotch writer of note and that worthy is Mr William McGonigal, famous for the spectacular poetic catastrophes so memorably wrought by his infantile, clod-hopping rhyming and scansion, thus:    

     Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!

Alas! I am very sorry to say

That ninety lives have been taken away

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

 The poetry of Jock is thus revealed, over about twenty verses, all like this. Jock culture. It’s like a chimps’ tea party. There is no room in Jock’s dim consciousness for the acrid denunciations, the bitter homilies, the fierce, scorched-earth lamentations of Order-Order, like Shakespeare or even Enid Blyton. None of it would make any sense to him; football, GBH, whinging, benefit fraud, cross-dressing, inebriation, obesity and noncing - that’s a day in Jock’s life.

Mr Fucking Delicious, then, by his very presence here on a Sunday, is clearly not Jock. He may be Mr Dalailamadingdong or Mr Atlas Shrugged or any number of speech-impaired-by-too-many-teeth Chinese restaurateurs making mischief but Jock he isnae; stupid and preposterous are his ravings; dullardly repetitive, arch and unoriginal his style and miserable as sin his attempts at humour. Even so, this dreadful rubbish he posts is light years ahead of all known forms of Jockspeech; he must therefore be English or some other form of non-Jock.

 Your whoreson Paddy, it is true, claims for himself that he is not from a race of obtuse, farting, Guinness-swigging, spud-gulping, melancholy, cry-baby, sorry-arsed, pussy-whipped, superstitious momma’s boys but is, instead, from a land o’er-blessed with saints and scholars; this assertion is as frivolous as Jock’s claims to culture, enlightenment and civilisation, even at at its rudest. Paddy cites the ghastly, mutant doggerel of James Joyce, the pedestrianism of Mr Bernard Shaw and the aching snobbery of Mr Oscar Toilets Wilde as proof of a national literary superiority; the intolerable Mr Flatley and his jerking Riverdancers, stamping their huge, thundering, danse macabre feet in unison, evidence of artistic subtlety. He praises to the skies the raucous oeuvre of the unspeakable posturing leprechaun, Mr O’Bono, and his chums. Like Jock, Paddy doesn’t even bother pretending he has any painters, sculptors or serious musicians but parks his cultural arse firmly in the land of showbiz. Val Doonican and the Batchelors, Irish rock‘n’roll. Meagre as it is, though, Paddy’s culture at least requires a level of prestidigitation and literacy unimaginable to Jock. Mr FD may well be Paddy except that Paddy, save for the nice Mr Martin Kneecaps and other barbarian morons of his kidney, are too dull to romance, still, with ideas of Marxist-Leninist totalitarianism, a doubtless sexually-rooted fantasy which peppers Mr FD’s every feeble insult. He is definitely not Jock and on reflection too monomaniacal for Paddy. The answer, then, is that he is either a renegade Englishman or some foreshortened, grunting, troglodyte Plaid Cymru Satanist imbecile, let loose on the hostel computer whilst the warden is preoccupied. Whatever his nationality, one thing is beyond peradventure, indisputable by any decent person; the man’s a cunt…

…but a cunt, at least, with a nascent sense of humour. Scottish Socialism; fuck me, that’s like the flat earth society. If Nancy Salmond ever did con an independence vote out of the local idiots then within five minutes Scotland’s stomach would think its fucking throat was cut. Jesus fucking wept, Jock is a trainwreck of a nation; drug addicts, murderers, cross-dressers and child molesters, highest per capita rates in the fucking world. You couldn’t, with both hands, find the hole in your own arse if we didn’t give it a good kicking for you now and again. Useless, idle, greedy, drunken, noncing fucking bastards all becoming socialists and working for the common good? Fuck me, that is delicious. And as for this prick taking on four of his superiors in an English pub while he was spending his English dole money, would that be in your wee skirt, or out of it, sweetie? I think out of it and bent over is the only way you’d take on anybody. Never mind; Queen Alex, the great smirking Nancy, will probably buy you a nice brown shirt for your torchlight rallies, you horrible racist, fascist, momma’s boy imbecile. Do you have “Jock” tattooed on your forehead, or do you stick with cunt?

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

Whilst we are abusing the whoreson Scot, busy cutting off his own head to spite his neck, remember the minimum unit price for alcohol, introduced by Nanny Nicola because the Scots drink too much? Well, it didn't work. They are still at it - drinking that is, so Nicola has been working on another scheme - reminds me of Lewis Carroll's The Aged, Aged Man -
"But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen...."

This scheme involves hiding the booze so that your whoreson Scot can't find it. 

When I was a bit of a poseur, in my headstrong youth, I would scan the shelves at the tobacconist's shop, and emerge with Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes or Black Russian.

Or Henry Winterman Slim Panatellas

Or gold-tipped Jasmine cigarettes.

Not now, of course, as the cigarettes are all locked up behind metal shutters, lest the very sight of them drive passers-by into addiction. 
That's what is proposed to happen to the booze. The current SNP consultation describes alcohol-related merchandise and clothing as "walking billboards" which may encourage people to abuse alcohol. No advertising, no alcohol on display and alcohol available in adult-only sections or separate rooms in shops - doubtless next to the porn.

 Those alcoholics, spoiling it for the rest of us.

A sip of wine, a cigarette.

Anxiety is possibly premature, as Nicola's days are numbered, down to a precious few. Did you notice that John Swinney has also handed in his notice? Deputy First Minister of the SNP Government and former Finance Secretary, he might know where the missing £600 grand is.

The contenders for leadership of the SNP are punching it out. We have Humza Useless, a man deeply compromised, torn between the proscriptions of his Muslim faith and the requirements of ambition - how do you walk the tightrope strung taut between Scylla and Charybdis above the swirling abyss of an ancient intolerant religion and the need to appear socially progressive? And Ash Regan, a know-nothing gabshite, who persists in referring to the government of the United Kingdom as the London Government, an over-confident Ginger, who airily describes the fundamental issue of the currency of Independent Scotland as  "arrangements", without a clue as to how to establish said currency and the reserves needed to support it. Then there's Committed Christian Katie, who also subscribes to an ancient and intolerant religion and doesn't hide it. 

They're fucked, I suspect.
..............................................................................

Oh, Crown of Light, oh Darkened One 

Imbolc means "in the belly of the mother". The winter hag is transformed into the maiden, as, in the northern countries, spring steadily advances, its flowers appearing from the frozen earth. The observance of Imbolc starts at sundown on February 1st and continues through the following day. The crown of candles worn by the maiden symbolises the youth of Spring bringing in the light. In some traditions, though, the crown is worn by the Mother aspect of the triple Goddess, a powerful, independent middle-aged woman.   The Imbolc ritual celebrates the Fire Goddess Brigid,  patron of smithcraft, healing, midwifery, and poetry.  February is the season of Imbolc and was punctuated by ceremonial occasions, which were, of course, appropriated by the early Christians as they spread West and North, just as they appropriated pagan sites and rededicated them as Christian Churches. Why waste the huge energy of belief invested in place and date, and what better way to sneak in a new religion than to dress it up in the clothes of the old faith? So, February 1st became St. Brigid's day, and February 2nd became Candlemas, the day to make and bless candles for the liturgical year, when the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary was commemorated, the 40th day after Christ's birth and the conclusion of the Christmas–Epiphany season. February 14th became Valentine's Day, ostensibly commemorating the martyrdom of an early Christian Saint about whom nothing is known, but is probably a mash-up of 3 separate chaps all called Valentine. As the pagan religions of the north celebrated Spring lustily, the more respectable amalgamated St Valentine was overlaid on existing ritual, but became synonymous with romantic love rather than matters of procreation. In a matriarchal society, it matters who your mother is, as inheritance flows through your mum. In a patriarchal society, it matters who your father is. Every woman knows her child is hers, but men have to take her word for their fatherhood - or set seals upon chastity and monogamy. 

"To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,

All in the morning betime,

And I a maid at your window,

To be your Valentine.

Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,

And dupp'd the chamber-door;

Let in the maid, that out a maid

Never departed more."

Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5

 

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.