There they go, as mr ishmael neatly put it: "Shitting in our faces from the Great Latrine of State."
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)
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.
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.
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
thanks to editor mr. verge, there are now three anthologies of the collected works of ishmael smith:
Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy from lulu should follow these steps :
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.