Sunday 24 September 2023

The Sunday Ishmael: 24/09/2023

 It's Conference Season! 

For our overseas readers, (and for those who don't pay much attention to the doings of the political classes), in the United Kingdom the political party conference season is held during the three weeks in September and October when the House of Commons has a little holiday, to recover from its big summer holiday. The Liberal Democrats have kicked it off this year, meeting in Bournemouth this weekend. The Conservatives will be next, meeting in Manchester from the 1st to the 4th October, followed by the Greens in Brighton from the 6th to the 8th October and Labour rounds it off in Liverpool from the 8th to the 11th of October. They stagger it like this so that each gets maximum publicity, and can appear on the Laura Kuenssberg Show of a Sunday morning. Mind you, Ed Davey, leader of the Lib Dems, must have been cursing this morning when Laura was inexplicably replaced by attack dog Victoria Derbyshire. 
Where's the fragrant Laura? Is she sick? In the Red Tent? Sacked? Dead? All Vicky would say was that: "hello obviously I am not Laura, she couldn't be here today so obviously I have stepped in". So far, so obviously.
What do they do during these conferences? Schmooze, mainly, and have a discussion about what they should be selling to the public as their committed beliefs and ideals.
Anyway, poor chubby Ed Davey

had no chance as Vicky tore into him about Brexit:
Ed: We're talking all about it at our conference quite rightly. You're right that we did fight against Brexit and we voted against Boris Johnson's trade deal. It was a disastrous deal but we were the only ones to vote against it, Labour didn't. We voted against it because we knew it would damage our economy.

Vicky: I'm talking about now. What's the position now?

Ed : It's because of that history that I'm very happy to tell you we remain very pro-European.

His dapper little feet in their highly polished shoes bounced up and down in fear and frustration in realisation that Vicky had backed him into a corner. Actually, it doesn't matter whether the Lib Dems are pro or anti Brexit as they are unlikely to get a sniff at power again. Although, being total and absolute whores, they would jump happily into a coalition with Labour, as Vicky pointed out, despite having been in coalition with the Tories not very long ago.

Ed: Ah, but we fought them. Oh yes we did. I fought David Cameron every day.

Did you, Ed? Really?

It used to be that Conservatives were right wing and Labour were left wing, (although they are both centrists now), nobody knows what the Lib Dems are, and the Greens are hard-loony. Do you know the origin of that archaic expression, left and right wing?
In the summer of 1789, a French revolutionary mob had stormed the Bastille, a mediaeval fortress used as a state prison, to release the King's prisoners. A National Assembly was convened to write a constitution for the revolution's government, a major issue being how much power the King should be allowed to retain. As the debate continued, those Assembly members who thought the King should have an absolute veto sat on the right of the president of the assembly, and those who thought he should not sat on the president's left. That is, the traditionalists on the right and the radicals on the left. Turned out to be academic, really, as they cut his head orf. But, by then, the terms left and right had entered the political discourse. Only to be defeated by Ed Davey, who doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground, let alone his left from his right, although he'd be quick enough to cosy up to Keir, if offered a place in a Labour Cabinet in return for bringing in a couple of Libery-Demery seats.

Now is the time to engage in a crime spree in London, it seems. Over a hundred Metropolitan Police firearms officers have handed in their weapons, saying "its just not worf it anymore, guv, 'sno fun, innit, yer can't shoot people of colour wivout  bein' charged wiv murder, like."
Chris Kaba, a 24 year old black man, was shot in a police operation in South London last year by  NX121, a Metropolitan police officer, who was charged with murder on the 20th September this year and released on bail the following day. 
 Kaba was driving an Audi not registered to him, which had been identified as being linked to a firearms incident the previous day. Police vehicles boxed the car in  and witnesses stated that Kaba ignored repeated police instructions to exit the vehicle and tried to ram the Audi through the roadblock, whereupon he was shot through the windscreen. Members of his family said that he would not have been shot dead if he were not black. His cousin said "I've put it out there he wasn't perfect… but regardless of that nobody deserves to be killed by the police unless there is an imminent or direct threat to the public." Sounds like there was an imminent and direct threat to the police officers, as Kaba used his weaponised Audi to attempt to break through the roadblock to escape arrest. Kaba had been released in 2021 from a four year sentence imposed by Snaresbrook Crown Court for possession of an imitation firearm with intent to cause fear of violence. I rather think that a white man, with that known history, with those behaviours and refusal to desist and cooperate would also have been shot in those circumstances, but, of course, it has become a racial cause célèbre.  

The other reason that London is not currently effectively policed is the vastly reduced number of police officers on duty.  More than 1,000 Metropolitan Police officers, one in 34,  are currently suspended or on restricted duties.
Stuart Cundy,  Deputy Assistant Commissioner, said the number of affected officers was almost the size of a small police force and that 
removing all corrupt officers could take years.
In the past year 100 officers have been sacked for gross misconduct.  
275 officers are awaiting a gross misconduct hearing, a significant proportion of which involved alleged violence against women and girls, compared to 136 last year.
Some 450 officers are also being investigated for historic allegations of sexual or domestic violence.
Cundy plans to hold around 30 misconduct hearings and 30 gross incompetence hearings each month, meaning that around 60 officers a month could face dismissal. He said:  "This is going to take one, two or more years to root out those who are corrupt." 
This is not a case of one or two bad apples, Couzens and Carrick, rogue officers, call them what you will - this is an institution with a culture so misogynist that it needs disbanding and its employees transferred to work  that does not involve wearing a uniform, carrying firearms..... anything to do with the public, really. Maybe cleaning off graffiti, picking up rubbish from Britain's beaches or fruit picking. All under strict supervision, of course.  Previously known for notorious financial bribery and corruption, the Met's dark culture of sexual violence is now being uncovered.
Mr Sam knows all about the dark underbelly of corruption in his part of London:
Mr. Sam said...
Harro, Mr Sam here. This afternoon I have visit flom Mr Nkhangweleni Ekundayo and Mr Kaunadodo Odiambo flom Rambeth Council glants department. They say Mr Ken has decleed glant of ten mirrion pounds for lestaulant business in Rambeth! I risten carefurry.
They bling out form and ask: "Are you lefugee or asyrum seeker?"
"Are you Reninist, Tlot, or other reft-ring levorutionaly?"
"Are you Musrim, Congorese, or come flom Argelia, Rybia, Cameloon, Somaria or Callibean?"
"Are you otherlise brack?"
"Are you plepared to put hand on Kolan, or Book of Gaia as autholised by gleat grobal warning plophet Mr James Roverock (Hory Bibre and Engrish scliptures not acceptabre) and predge "I plomise vote Ken at next erection?"
"No, I not vote Mr Ken."
"You not erigibre for any glant then" say Mr Nkhangweleni.
"Oh preese! I work velly hard but not easy to make riving in Rundon. All plofit go to Mr Ken tax".
"We could bend the lures a rittle" say Mr Kaunadodo.
"Do you have good rine?"
"Yes we have excerrent house rine."
"I was consideling better rine."
"I have case of Chateau Rafite 1994, worth hundled pounds a bottre."
"OK, we take that. Put Mr Sam down for a tenner, Nkhangweleni."
 Harro! Mr Sam here, pleviously owner of Fuk Yoo Ken lestaulant in Rambeth, South Rundon. Solly I not lite retter more often but lestaulant had to crose down. Lates so high in Rundon, I cannot afford to lun rarge business. So I open rittle takeaway in Rewisham.
Mr Guido* just say Mr Ed Bores get rots of Musrim money. Perhaps I appry for glant flom Alab too. Anyway...
My old crient Mr Ken Rivingstone, Mayor of Rundon, come to see me rast reek. He want to hold runch in memoly of young Mr Stephen Rollence, a brack boy srayed in plime of rife. They elect monument and office brock for him, but grass was bloken by hoorigans and feckress rayabouts. Disglaceful.
Mr Ken want me to plovide runch for 20 at City Hore, office of RDA. I ask him why he want Chinese runch when boy was Aflican.
"Because we sprit 50-50, you plick" said Mr Ken. "I road the bill, you take half of plofit. My flend Mr Ree Glasper** alrays do it"
I not rike this collupt frimfram, but I go arong with it or they crose down takeaway too.
"OK Mr Ken, I cook you runch" I say.
Come Fliday, I take runch over to City Hore with Miss Yasmin, waitless, and Mr Fu, chef. I lecognise faces of porriticians who Mr Ken bling to rast Fuk Yoo Ken lestaulant. Miss Halliot Harperson, Mr Mirriband, Miss Brears, Mr Ree Glasper and plinciple guest Mrs Dorleen Rollence. Mr Gobbrer not there today.
I wully about this gloup. Mr Ken and Mr Ree say they rike Chinese glub. I think they rie. They ray on carnival and palade for Year of Lat, but I think it is for porritical upsucking to Chinese and Mandolins.
Mr Ree say: "What the fuck is this, wack? Fuckin chinkie? A bruddy stir fly? Stephen was a brack boy! We want Callibean runch - citlus jerk, prantain, mirret, bledfloot and loot beer. We cannot fratter up Mrs Rollence with this clap.
Miss Halliot intellupt: "You must not talk to Mr Sam rike that, Ree. He deserve lespect as minollity.
"Fuck you, Halliot. Chinese are all fucking capitarist, ey, ey. All lich, fukin roaded. Mr Sam tell me he was pranning to vote Mr Bollis, the sritty clunt."
Miss Halliot say: "Ken, prease stop them bickeling. You learise there are votes in Chinese rundoners? We not want Mr Sam to deneglate Rabour when he reave.
"VOTES, VOTES?" say Mr Ken. "Oh shit."
Mr Ken then reap off chair and plostlate himself on froor. He frail arms and beat his blest.
"I aporrogise, Mr Sam, I aporrogise for all past longdoings to Chinese popuration. I glovel in all humirrity to beg absorution and cremency. Prease be reenient on me and give me lerease flom this tellibre road. Preese fray me with rashes. I letlact compretely, I offer any lepalation you rish".
"But you not do longdoings to Chinese popuration, Mr Ken".
"Yes I do, I do. I comprain about erectlic lazor made by Zhejiang Yongkang Tepai Erectlical Appriance Company"
"But I not know Zhejiang Yongkang Tepai Company"
"They are your blother, your cuntlymen, your lerratives, your offspling. I comprain lazor not working and now I am liddled with disglace and opploblium. I leglet, I rament. Preese vote for me."
"Shut up, Rivinginstone you plat," say Mr Ree. "He's a fuckin sritty, not brack or Callibean. No use to me. Shut up or I might just brab to pless about your fring with radyboy in bendy bus."
"OK Ree, you rin. Pass the lice rine."
*Mr. Guido: Guido Fawkes – Parliamentary Plots, News, Gossip and Tittle Tattle, to be found at, a right wing political blog, to which stanislav, the young polish plumber, and mr ishmael were regular correspondents back in the day.
** Mr Ree Glasper - see Sunday Ishmael, 17/09/23 "Lee Jasper (born 4 November 1958), Professional Black Person, father of 9 children and grandfather of 5,  is a British politician and race relations activist." 

The Call Me Ishmael oeuvre now comprises four volumes, thanks to editor mr verge.

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are 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 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 :
Link for Paperback :
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 " 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.

Sunday 17 September 2023

The Sunday Ishmael: 17/09/2023: Name, Rank and Number


He's definitely growing in his hair - but, as he is keeping the beard, he looks more like a thug than ever, seemingly a stranger to the subtleties of international intrigue and diplomacy - which are kind of important for a Foreign Secretary. Looks may be deceptive - but not on the evidence of James Cleverly's  performance on the Laura Kuenssberg political round-up show this morning. 
So, Foreign Secretary, did you happen to mention to your Chinese counterpart, during your August trip to China, that the British are pissed off with Chinese spies being infiltrated into Parliament?

Jim: We do not comment on intelligence issues.

Laura: Sometimes politicians do tell us what they raised in meetings.

Jim: We do not comment on intelligence and security issues.

Laura: Would our viewers be wrong to think that you did not raise these matters in Beijing???

Jim: No, what I'm saying is we do not comment on intelligence and security issues.

Well, that's settled, then. The early morning briefing from Tory Central probably went like this: Get out there, Foreign Secretary, and no matter what she throws at you, it's Name, Rank and Number only, do remember that.
Anyway, Mr Sam, our Chinese restaurateur in London, is less reticent:

Mr. Sam said...

Mr Sam not know about Zionism but he not rike Jewish food. Gefilte fish they boil for three hours, so it does not make nice sauce.


Harro again. Mr Sam here, ploprietor of the Fuk Yoo Ken lestaulant in Rambeth.

Yesterday Mr Ken Rivingstone, the Chairman of Rundon, come for runch with a fliend called Miss Jacqui Smith. Mr Ken say she was home secretly, which I not quite understand.

Miss Smith say "As an ethnic minollity in Rundon, do you enjoy your job, Mr Sam? I don't enjoy mine. It is too difficult for me and the porrice are pigs."

"I cook you sweet & sour porrice balls then!" I said. She not raugh.

Mr Ken say: "You have too many rights, Mr Sam"

I say "But I think you flavour rights for ethnic minollites"

"No, no, you sirry man," he says. "Too many rights on. The prace is rit up like a dodgem link. Didn't you know we have grobal warning clisis? If you reave rights on any ronger, the grobe will fly and the huperson lace will cloak."

"But lestaulant rook plitty with rots of rights" I say.

"Turn them off immediately or I crose you down" said Mr Ken. "One 40 watt ramp in middle is enough".

I turn them off.

Mr Ken say "Now prease bling us the menu".

I bling menu.

"I cannot lead menu!" Mr Ken shout.

"That's because you tell me to turn off rights"

"Well turn them on again until we've finished our meal"

"Yes, Mr Ken."


Harro again. Mr Sam here, owner of the Fuk Yoo Ken lestaulant in Rambeth, south Rundon.

Lecently Mr Ken Rivingstone, the Chairman of Rundon, come for meal with a fliend called Miss Halliot Harperson.

Mr Ken say "Look after Miss Halliot, Mr Sam. She perfect New Rabour woman. She know what's good for you."

"I know what's good for her", I say. "Chow mein!". They not raugh.

Miss Halliot say "I come here to check you not using lestaulant for plostitutes. I ban plostitutes, so if I see one in here Mr Ken will crose you down".

"NO PLOSTITUTES IN HERE, MISS HALLIOT", I say roudly. "This is not blother. This is lespectabre lestaulant"

"OK", she said "I berieve you".

* * *
Next day Mr Ken come in for meal with a new fliend, Miss Fifi-Monique. She is velly plitty, velly arruling. At end of meal I see Mr Ken give her blown enverope. She count money. He then say "Prease Mr Sam would you show Miss Fifi-Monique to the toiret"

I show Miss Fifi to ravatoly.

I say quietry to Mr Ken "Mr Ken, I plomise Miss Halliot no plostitues in here, yet you give Miss Fifi a rot of money. She is plostitute, now you will crose me down."

He say "Miss Fifi not plostitute, she part of lesearch ploject."

Then another man come lushing out of toiret.

"That girl - she's a broke!!" he yerr. "She come in gentreman's toiret and stand at ulinar. She got a fliggin wirry, a gleat big pronker!"

I say to Mr Ken "Now I velly disappointed, Mr Ken. Miss Halliot say no plostitutes arrowed, then you bling in plostitute with wirry."

"That's as may be", he say. "Miss Halliot not say anything about RADYBOY!

"Miss Fifi is opplessed minollity who need our plotection. Give Mr Ree* a ling, ask for bung to keep your tlap shut."

Mr. Sam said... Rate news: I just ask Ilanian embassy about getting glant flom Alab Musrim rike Mr Bores. They say I must serve harral goat and sheep's borrocks to quarrify. I not do that. Not make nice glavey.

*Lee Jasper (born 4 November 1958), Professional Black Person, father of 9 children and grandfather of 5,  is a British politician and race relations activist. He served as Senior Policy Advisor on Equalities to the then Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone. Livingstone suspended Jasper in late 2007 following accusations by the Evening Standard of cronyism and corruption, relating to the improper awarding of funds and of a "tide of corruption". Although the investigation found the allegations to be false, Jasper resigned on 4 March 2008 after the Evening Standard published e-mails of an intimate nature, written by Jasper to a woman involved with organisations who had received Greater London Authority grants and with whom Jasper had not declared a relationship.

Dirty Little Bastard

Hiding in Plain Sight (Channel 4 Dispatches Documentary)

What is it about the British that we can't get enough of these sexually incontinent, unwholesome, "charismatic" entertainers? Is there some muddy streak of ordure running through the nation's psyche, born of Presbyterian repression, that causes folk to avidly consume their shit, giggle at their risqué jokes, gobble up references to sexual practices once considered illegal and now, it seems, compulsory? Is it yet another iteration of British misogyny, at which women snigger in complicity, for fear of being considered bad sports, or look sideways at elderly unpriapic husbands, mocking them for imposing a lifetime of double standards upon them and now impotent?
Anyway, its a thing. As my psychology tutor used to remark: once - it just happens; twice may be a coincidence; three times and its a pattern. 
Frankie Howerd, promiscuous and cruel bully;
Rolf Harris, with his extra leg and interest in sex with little girls, for which he was imprisoned; 
Jimmy Saville, with his interest in sex with young and/or disabled children and dead bodies, and now 
Russell Brand, narcissist and sexual predator. He says his sexual partners consented. They said they were raped. He was probably too off his head to know a yes from a no, and too up his own arse to imagine anyone would want to refuse the great Russell Brand access to their bodies. The Dispatches Documentary, available on your i-Thing, will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about the unsavoury Mr Brand. Here's mr ishmael from August 2014:

More Porno Britain 


Jemimes, it seems, has been roughing it with ageing Lothario, Mr Russell Brand.  Famous for being himself, Mr Brand, once feted by your correspondent for the  novelty of his comedic ideas but now just another doomed, tawdry showbusiness slag, is being applauded and  celebrated for  joining the line - someway behind Hugh Grant -  of celebrity Jemima-fuckers and claiming, as he always does, bless, that this time, it's the real thing; Jemimes is being applauded and celebrated for appearing in a 'photo without her make-up, for cancer. Yes, I know, it is an oddly skewed world which has come about, wherein a worthless idle  slut like this is praised for appearing as she is and that people need, in order to  give2charidee, bribing with a glimpse of some old whore's pimples.

That epic distortion aside, Russ and Jemimes are in the news, well the rapidly collapsing Filth-O-Graph, anyway, for a backfiring attempted  threesome. Hoping to give FunnyBoy a birthday to remember, Jem hired a visiting lady to give him what she described as a massage and sent a car  and a few hundred quid to bring this person from London to her mansion in Cotswoldia's Chipping Cameron, surely the most rancid and toxic and wholly amoral hamlet in the country, stuffed, as it is with people like those at the top of the post,  there to ease Russel's muscular tensions.

It all turned to shit, anyway, for reasons not made entirely clear in the Filth-O-Graph, and the cops were called but no charges made.  I think the masseuse was one of those EuroGippoes, so what self-respecting Inspector Filth would take her word over that of two members of the slag aristocracy.

Both divorced, both having fun, nothing wrong with that and Jemimah, anyway, is the otherwise unemployable daughter of one of our most unprincipled, predatory capitalists, why shouldn't she buy some foreign pussy for her boyman, Russell, it probably runs in the family, that sort of thing, Daddy, Sir James Goldsmith, his life wallpapered with injunctions, certainly lived in a menage  of at least trois, why shouldn't she do the same?

The grinning cheeky chappie, Brand, though, he's council house, isn't he, single-parented and by his own account some sort of revolutionary socialist;  paying a foreigner to spice-up his sex life seems a bit running dog capitalist to me.
Honey, if that's movin' up then I'm movin' out.

  The reason this sort of thing backfires is that - like Lord FatJohn Prescott on the croquet lawn - arrivistes like Brand think that in banging the repulsive Jemimah he's changing his status when all he's done is change his  forelock for his foreskin.

 Unfortunately, when some arsehole Hollywood junky dies, the viewing public - serves it right for watching - is subjected to a barrage of maudlin hyperbole; to tales of self-slaughtered genius misunderstood; to the deeply sincere regrets of every slag in showbusiness who ever shook the deceased's septic hand. And sure enough,  our own name-dropping junky-aristo, none less than the cock-waving  Sir Russell Brand, current swain of 
 Lady Forty-Something Khan;  laird of Chipping Sodom and poor, exhausted masseusista,  did not disappoint.
The Daily JailBird, known to we ancients as the Guardian, recently printed Brand's eulogy to Robin Something;  it was, as you'd expect, an oily, name-dropping, Look-At-Me lamentation,  Brand the iconoclast, hero-worshipping ad nauseum;  that it sat oddly with our boy's customarily espoused, Everyman egalitarianism  is unsurprising, for he is no more a socialist egalitarian revolutionary than is young parent, Lady Sir Elton John; his burnishing of the wretch, Williams', noisesome ouevre  is no more shocking and hypocritical than is his knobbing some wealthy old baggage for class kicks and calling it love.  And it wasn't entirely hero-worship, for man of the people, Russ, in illuminating Robin's tragedy, let the limelight flood his own, equally obnoxious, self-centred existence. 
Cock-waving, it is the very essence of my Art.

Russy, you see, darlings, had met the dear departed one, 
not only that but Robin had complimented Russ, presumably on  what he calls  his work, an activity  which most of us would describe as showing-off to a cretinous, uncritical public;  Robin and Russ, creative junky-brothers under the skin, both toiling thanklessly, prodded and scourged by a relentless muse, both driven, by forces unknown to the layman, to play silly buggers.  Poor Russell, for all his supposed streetsmarts, unaware that luvvies endlessly and  meaninglessly compliment everybody, Darling, you were wonderful. Oh, was I? Really? Do you really mean that? And actually, darling, so were you, and so courageous, so Out There. Anyway Russell had met the Star and the Star had recognised Russell's  fellow-genius,
 fellow selfless artistry, fellow-suffering, Christ-like,  for  his Art.  The art of showing-off.

The Call Me Ishmael oeuvre now comprises four volumes, thanks to editor mr verge.

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are 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 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 :
Link for Paperback :
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 " 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.
Just leave it to me, Foreign Secretary.


Friday 15 September 2023


The Moon and The Sun. 

Having seen the Moon in Durham Cathedral, back in 2021, ( see Sunday Ishmael 31/10/21),
I wanted to see the Sun in St Magnus Cathedral. 
Orkney is keen on Festivals, as a means of attracting external funding and visitors bringing in even more funding. To be fair, there are  disproportionate numbers of Art Botherers in Orkney - well, 25% of the population are over 65 and there are many, many more women than men, so what do you expect? And most of them consider themselves to be artists, freed from the daily trauma of going to work to earn the old daily bread. "Oh, the light", one such elderly incomer enthused to me, "the light, as important as breathing, for an artist like me...." I grumpily riposted, "Orkney has only 40% of the light levels recorded at Kew Gardens, so for a gardener like me, that's pretty shit. It's dark for most of the year, apart from three months when the grass doesn't stop growing." Undeterred, my acquaintance fought back: "I don't garden, but I gaze at the sea a lot. The luminosity informs my palette". Me: "I suppose that's the reflections from the perpetual cloud cover..." Her: "And the air - the sweet sea air.." Me: "It certainly does move around a lot. Fast."
There's the St. Magnus Festival, of course - international music event, there's the Blues Festival, the  Drama Festival, the Folk Festival, the Story Telling Festival, Norwegian Constitution Day, the Festival of the Horse, and the Science Festival. This year, the Science Festival ran from the 7th to the 13th September, and I usually avoid its rag-bag offerings of why oats and bere are better than wheat, how to spin flax, tattie tasting, northern lights, walks around the Ness and the Ring of Brodgar, hydrogen ships and how to make whisky. 
But, this year, the Sun came to Orkney. 

Not the real thing, of course - that, as ever, was hidden by the metres-thick perpetual cloud cover. No, this is a 6-metre-diameter installation, created by solar physicist Professor Robert Walsh of UCLAN and artist Alex Rinsler.
This model projects images from NASA spacecraft, speeded up to show storms building and massive flares looping outwards.
The data from NASA's Solar Dynamic Observatory is presented in 360 degrees, with smoke effects to mimic the sun's outer atmosphere, depicting 10 weeks of the sun's life in 12.5 minutes, showing it cycling through ranges of temperature from 4,500 to 10 million degrees. 
The accompanying concert featured Michael Oliva's Threnody and his Music of the Spheres:
This will take 11 and a half minutes of your life and you have to be in the right mood for it, but it does evoke those eternal mysteries better not dwelt on for too long by our limited meat-brains. The blurb says: (a) blend of electronic sounds with instruments and voices to create work of elemental power and ethereal beauty....A meditation on the Solar System, Harmony, Light and the Passing of Life.

I suspect that St. Magnus Cathedral was not the best place to display it - it looked rather confined by its surrounding sandstone arches. This is how it appeared in Blackpool.

There don't appear to be any more dates or venues for this touring art installation - but if it becomes available at a venue near you next year - I recommend it.

Sunday 10 September 2023

The Sunday Ishmael: 10/09/2023

A Parliamentary researcher  has been arrested under the Official Secrets Act, amid claims he was spying for China.

The Metropolitan Police said: "A man in his 30s was arrested at an address in Oxfordshire and a man in his 20s was arrested at an address in Edinburgh. Searches were also carried out at both the residential properties, as well as at a third address in east London."

After being questioned under arrest at a South London police station, they were released on police bail. The Counter Terrorism Command, which oversees espionage-related offences, is investigating. The researcher had access (what does that mean? What sort of access?) to security minister Tom Tugendhat and foreign affairs committee chairwoman Alicia Kearns. The Sunday Times said the bloke had lived in China for awhile, where he had been turned into a Chinese mole  
before being
 ordered to return to Britain to infiltrate political circles.
This morning on The Sunday Show (special news for Scotland), Martin Geissler said he had no doubt that we are spying on the Chinese,
James Cleverly, UK Foreign Secretary, visited China in August to complain.
but that the Chinese are most certainly spying on us. And the Scottish connection?

Perfidious Scot, I guess.
Anyway, it all happened in March, but we've just been made aware. And it gives me the excuse to introduce Mr. Sam, the proprietor of a small Chinese restaurant which happened to be patronised in 2007 by the eminent politicians of the day, as imagined by a contrarian contributor to Guido Fawkes' Order, Order.

Harro. I am Mr Sam, owner of the Fuk Yoo Ken lestulant in Rambeth, south Rundon. The other day Mr Ken Rivingstone and his flend Mr Ree Grasper come in for meal. 
Mr Ken is Chairman of Rundon, bit rike Mao. Mr Ree is bad man. He reeches off latepayers.

Mr Ken say "Gleat here, innit Ree? In Rundon, thanks to my murticurtular poricees, we can have a meal from any cuntly around the grobe. Rebanese, Rat, Lumanian, Flench, Itarrian, Callibean, Bangradeshi. Anything but Engrish.

"Why no Engrish?" I ask him

"Because Engrish is clap. All things Engrish clap. Too many Engrish in Rundon, so I ban them."

"But you are Engrish, Mr Ken" I point out

"Eulopean" he said.

"But your fliend Mr Ree is Engrish or Blitish".

"He is swarthy and has a rittle beard" said Mr Ken. "And he rike Lobbin Hood, lob flom lich and give to poor.

"But I am poor, Mr Ken. He not give to me."

"You not brack," said Mr Ken. "You sritty. You not ploper minollity.

"But I am Chinese. I speak mandolin. And Engrish are minollity in Blent, Newham and Tower Hamrets."

"Shut up. You talk lubbish" said Mr Ken. "Now can we rook at the menu?"

I bling them menu.

"Do you have sweet & sour organic quorn made with all Fair Tlade ingledients?" ask Mr Ken.

"What Fair Tlade?"

"Everyone must serve Fair Tlade in Rundon. You not serve? I crose you down. We must stop exproitation of peasant workers in deverroping cuntlies. All emproyee at my GRA must eat Fair Tlade always, or they roose their job."

"How you know if they eat Fair Tlade at home?"

"They get laid at night"

"So does Mrs Sam"

"Don't be frippant! Disobey GRA legurations is not raughing matter. We have 685 emproyees who laid their correagues' houses and frats at night. All food in house must be Fair Tlade. And they check no emproyee has been smoking cigalette or cigalirro, or dlinking riquor."

"But I smoke cigalette sometime, Mr Ken"

"Light, I definitely crose you down. You are kirring mirrions of helpress and vurnerable by smoking cigalette."

If you crose me down, do I get a glant to start up again?

No. You are sritty, not brack. Tough ruck. You own lestulant, you gleedy capitarist. You sritties not leplesented on any of my stlategic multidisciprinaly glassloots networking committee crusters. You not vote for me.

"I give you flee meal then"

Ah, now you're talking. Write him a cheque for half a million, Ree."
Harro and melly season! Mr Sam again here, owner of the Fuk Yoo Ken lestaulant in Rambeth, south Rundon. Did you know 2008 is Chinese Year of Lat? We could corr it Year of Mr Ken! He always tlying to crose me down. I not see Mr Ken this reek. He not cerebrate Clistmas, he go play with Musrim Ilaqui and Alab. He say Clistmas too Blitish, not incrusive of minollity. My famiry say good liddance - Mr Ken he alrays compraining.

But today I have supplies guests - Mr Bollis, who want to leprace Mr Ken as Chairman of Rundon at next erection, and Mr Dave, who want to be Plime Minister. His ploper name is Mr Camelon but he say "corr me Dave". I decide to corr him Mister Dave, it is more porrite.

"What ho, Mr Sam!" say Mr Bollis. "We're rooking for a gland tleat tonight."

I say "I hope you not cause tloubre preese. I lead about your planks in Burringdon Crub when you fring prant and spratter ceiring with Blanston Pickle and Rea & Pellins blown sauce.

"Good glief no" say Mr Dave. "We just sirry correge boys at Oxblidge then. We glown up now. We not do Burringdon planks and levels. Take no notice of flog in Mr Bollis's tlousers".

Mr Bollis say "Sprended prace you have here, old chap. Can we rook at menu?"

I bling them menu.

"Clikey, rot's all this?" said Mr Bollis. "Spare lib, clispy bled lorr, clabmeat, alomatic loast pork, lice, beansplout, plawn with remon, duck with prum sauce. It rooks rike FOOD!!"

"Natularry" I say. "This is lestaulant. Hi-crass Chinese lestaulant."

"Brimey, Dave, bigtime cockup!" say Mr Bollis. "Lather, no cock up tonight!"

"What you mean?" I ask

"We see your card in terephone box. It say "For your preasure... most dericious Olientar explelience... exotic grills... tastiest Chinese in Rondon."

"That's light" I say.

"We come here for GRILLS!! You know, get raid! Copurate with renches and froosey! A bit of lumpy-pumpy! I expect on menu Rotus Brossom, Calma Sutla, browjob. Plaps a rittle tantlic lub".

"No Mr Bollis" I say. "This is NOT BLOTHER. No grills, onry Miss Yasmine waitless".

Mr Bollis say to Mr Dave "Dlat and borrocks. Long prace. Shall we get old Dallius to give it a luffing up?"

"No" say Mr Dave. "I leckon it's good glub here. We come again rater."

"OK Dave" say Mr Bollis. "Ret's reave it and go down the Bangkok Briss Crub."

To be continued...

.......The time I have wasted, listening to poor or indifferent music has been the next best thing to a recurring, crippling vice. Indolent and indiscriminate, I have wasted years, listening repeatedly to stuff which I could already recite backwards, standing on my head, not knowing - until recently - quite how much music there was, even in the Western canon, never mind the Asian or Arabic - although I would prefer never to hear a note of Oriental music. I'll just digress, on that, a moment. I recently watched a 10,000 strong, well-scrubbed and uniformed Chinese choir perform the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth symphony with some state orchestra, they must have hundreds of them, in China.
I daresay that every last one of the choristers sang every last note absolutely correctly for fear of a glorious, People's Republic bullet in the back of the neck but fuck me, Jesus, it was awful.
Too many people, too many voices. Sound travels at 1100 feet per second, not fast enough to usefully cover the distance from the orchestra to the back rows or even the middle rows of the vast choir. You'd expect the Chinks to know that stuff, physics, acoustics but no, they were all toothily singing their hearts out in perfect, unsynchronised dissonance, a seething cauldron of noises, all a split-second out of synch. Beethoven, if he could've heard, would've pissed on them.
I though it all dismally emblematic of NewCathay - copying the West, bigger, brasher, more ambitious, cheaper but useless, good for fuck all.
We must, thanks to Junky George Osborne, hope that their understanding of nuclear fission is greater than their understanding of Western music, lest the South Coast go molten.
Part of this govament's long-term economic wotsaname, to get the country back on its knees, I mean feet.
Chinese nuclear power? Right, that's the stuff. Ah, so, Confucius, he say: Oh, freunde, nicht dieser tone....

No, he fucking didn't.

You do hear this stuff, all the time, from luvvies, that culture, like gender, knows no borders but that's rubbish. Oh, I like the Art of War and Zen in the Art of Archery as much as does the next clapped-out old hippy wastrel but, y'know, play the white man, gimme the King James Bible any day.

By the Waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, and we wept, when we remembered Zion.

Nothing about the Great Wall of China there, in King David's Blues.

And I can't see Junky George immersing himself in Chinese literature –
if they have any literature in that dreadful picture-writing, shit-daubing thing that they do, with fucking paintbrushes. I mean, how can you write anything with a fucking paintbrush, apart from No Entry? The way they write evening, for instance, one of the ways they write evening, is by painting a picture of a bird, sitting in its fucking nest. Imagine Geoff Chaucer, writing the Canterbury Tales with a fucking paintbrush; he'd still be at it.
- or learning Mandarin, Christ, he can't even squeak a proper sentence in English, can Junky George, he's got no chance in another language.

Oh, but mr ishmael, high-end, authentic Chinese cuisine is simply to die for.
Right, sharks bits and birds' nests and fucking noodles. And dogs' noses. I'd nuke em, me, the Chinks, just for that, just for dog-eating. Worse than fucking cannibalism, isn't it, eating a nice dogbloke. I would, I'd fucking nuke the bastards.
Evensong: Friday, 27th May 2016
So, massed Choral events - bring me from China to the Albert Hall, with the Last Night of the Proms last night conducted by a Hilary-Clinton-look-alike, Marin Alsop, who worked the crowd into a lather of fervent parrotism, lustily declaring that Britons never never would be slaves, declaring their desire for Britain's boundaries to become wider still and wider, while waving not the Union Jack, but the EU flag. 
It seems it was an orchestrated campaign by the Brusselfuckers who handed out the flags outside the Albert Hall to the simple minded, who clearly saw no cognitive dissonance in waving the flag of a foreign power at a quintessentially British event. Given the Beeb's  extensive audience camera footage, it should be possible to identify some of the traitors, round up all the Promenaders sporting blue flags and arrange them artistically against the wall. Questions are being asked, as the Beeb, yet again, displays its extreme bias in matters European. Marin Alsop attempted to gloss the faux pas by commending the Promenaders for their "flags of many nations." 

Speaking of faux pas, it seems we have a Secretary of State for Justice, who, although he is clearly an android, 
Alexander John Gervase Chalk, KC, a Winchester and Oxford man. 
is not afraid to let the nation know the low down on the under-van escape from Wandsworth prison in the week. Unconvicted twenty-one year old Daniel Khalife was being held at the prison, awaiting trial as he has pleaded not guilty to three charges: making a pretend bomb out of three cans and some wires, accessing the Ministry of Defence information system to gain personal information about members of the armed services and breaching the Official Secrets Act by collecting or sharing intelligence that could be directly or indirectly useful to an enemy. A couple of either/or charges there and you can't blame the boy for thinking the cards were stacking up against him. So, in finest Hollywood fashion, he escaped by clinging to the underside of a delivery van exiting the prison. A big fuss was made and he has been caught.
Interrogated by Laura Kuenssberg on her show this morning, 
Alex Chalk assured her that there was a full roster of prison officers in place, that the appropriate protocols were in place and the prison has a mirror-thingy for looking under vans. So the only conclusion  to be drawn is that the Minister considers his own staff were incompetent or bribed to look away at the crucial time. I wouldn't be at all surprised.
The Nation's Treasure, Giant Stephen Fry, stuck his twopenn'orth into the debate by saying Britain's prison  estate is overfull with people who would be far better off at home, or in treatment for substance abuse or mental health issues. 
Time we had some sensible policy on criminal justice, time the recommendations of His Majesty's Inspectorate of Prisons were acted upon, time for humanity, time to recognise the structural causations of crime, time to abandon this silly nonsense about keeping the public safe by sticking huge numbers of men in prison then letting them out without homes, jobs or relationships, and, most importantly, time to legalise drugs. That's the biggest single thing that would keep the public safe.

The Call Me Ishmael oeuvre now comprises four volumes, thanks to editor mr verge.

Honest Not Invent, Vent Stack, Ishmael’s Blues, and the latest, Flush Test (with a nice picture of the late, much lamented, Mr Harris of Lanarkshire taking a piss on a totem pole) are 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 :
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With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £16.84; HB £27.04.