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
This morning on The Sunday Show (special news for Scotland), Martin Geissler said he had no doubt that we are spying on the Chinese,
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| James Cleverly, UK Foreign Secretary, visited China in August to complain. |
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.
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,
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| 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 :
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.
7 comments:
Speaking of discordant rubbish, mrs i, the Rugby World Cup has started. (NB the Jocks lost their opener but not so badly that y'all cannot be tortured by a another couple of weeks worth of fruitless hope. But I digress.) Before the start of each game, the Froggy announceress orders everyone to "stand up for the national anthems of" the two teams. The anthems are then sung by a choir - apparently of reformed ruffians and sans-culottes. Alas, the arrangements of the various anthems are not of the traditional form and the recordings of the choir are played quite quietly. Thus at every game we hear a contest between the choir and the increasingly loud crowd singing. Add in footage of the teams singing which is out of sync with both the choir and the crowd, and you have two or three minutes of completely useless and irritating telly. I don't know whose idea it was but he needs a quick trip up the guillotine steps.
Too true Mr mongoose. I also find that choir shit irritating, a lot of that French choir are girls, or identify as girls. Its a feature down here also. I'm also annoyed by big brutes who have just been pumped up with orders to smash the other side walking out hand-in-hand with little kids. Can't we have a proper men's rugby world cup without all this inclusivity stuff?
BTW, Mrs I, the chinaman stuff was hilarious, I hadn't seen that before. (material for a fifth book, maybe?).
There isn't much of of it, mr mike, but I'm sure mrs ishmael can be persuaded to feature another selection in due course. (And I love that "how can you write anything with a fucking paintbrush, apart from No Entry?")
cheers
v./
Ys, of course, messrs mike and verge - now that Rishi Sunak has confronted China’s premier over his country’s “unacceptable” interference in British democracy - he told Li Qiang at the G20 summit on Sunday that all this is simply not on, and Li Qiang replied: You fluck off, rittle man; there will be lots of opportunities for Mr Sam to grace our pages. Editor verge found a small cache of Mr Sam during his indefatigable researches for the four anthologies. There is still a treasury of material extant, but it is just cruel to ask mr verge for a fifth book.....although I loved your idea of a Cooking with Stanislav book, mr mike. And maybe a book on spiritual reflection and aphorisms: I came across one scribbled on the back of an envelope the other day = "the road to enlightenment is paved with dog turds". Or there's the one we all know and love from the Chicken Shit Blues letters: "if you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him".
I know about the Rugby, mr mongoose - in fact, I'm almost an expert now, on account of my friend said to me t'other day: you'll not have seen a Haka, mrs ishmael, on account of your complete indifference to matters sportif. I jauntily riposted, maybe not, but I'm a whizz at Sashiko and Applique. This was loftily swept aside and I was required to watch the opening preparations for France v. the All Blacks. I saw the Big Men coming down the tunnel, holding small nervous children firmly by the hand and wondered about child molestation (once a social worker, always alert to child protection possibilities), but was reassured - "it's more like the Jesuits, you know: "give me a child to the age of 7 and I'll fuck his head right up"."
Then I watched the grown men sticking out their tongues at their opponents and had a good laugh, followed by appreciation of the way these big chaps can run about, massive thighs a-quiver.
Probably best to turn the sound off during the mass singing.
Are the ‘researchers’ responsible for the ‘gift’ of five hundred thousand fucking pounds, that mr Barry Uphill Gardner received from the Chynee state?
Most likely an MI5 asset the escapee, and another ‘look a squirrel’ moment, whilst they quietly pass, on a Sunday, the latest energy bill to criminalise everyone of us, for not fully committing to NetfuckinZero. Fifteen thousand pounds fine, twelve months in chokey for not wanting a smart meter. The use of ‘reasonable’ force, whatever the fuck that means, to enter your property, with police assistance, cunts.
The police have morphed into the Pretorian Guards, of the state. Fuck the law-abiding, tax paying citizens, fuck the the people who pay their wages, “let’s bash down some pensioner’s front door, give ‘em a bit of a kickin, an force ‘em to accept the meter. We can get usell’s a new tattoo to mark th’occasion, eh?”
As for the Rugby, they’ve tuned it into a game for Nancy boys, trannys an woofters, much like football.
Ah, mr inmate, that would make a great name for a lobbying group: Nancy Boys, Trannies and Woofters.
Thank you for reminding us about Barry from Brent. 'Twas Christine Lee, Chinese agent, who gave Junior Shadow Minister and Labour MP, Mr. Gardner, £500,000. Lord, what fools these politicians are. He employed her son in his parliamentary office. He's been a bit quiet of late. Apparently, his wife, Caroline Anne Smith, is standing by him.
Honestly, these people aren't fit to be let out alone.
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