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."
------------------------------------------------------------
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
NEWS FROM CHIPPING SODOM,
HOME OF DESPERATELY WANNABE WARMONGER, FATBOY CAMERON; OF FAT, INFANTILE, MURDOCH BUFFOON, CLARKSON; OF WICKED, WITCHY BECKY BROOKS & HER HOUSEBOY, FAT PORNO CHARLIE AND OF POOR LITTLE RICH TROLLOP, FORTY-SOMETHING PLAYGIRL, JEMIMA KAHN.
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.
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| 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.
Russy, you see, darlings, had met the dear departed one,
 |
| 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 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.
.........................................................................
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| Just leave it to me, Foreign Secretary. |
16 comments:
Always was a horrible wee shite.
Although, I would prefer our executions to follow a fair trial rather than a prime time no smoke without fire TV spectacular.
The Filth-o-graph says the BBC are conducting an urgent investigation. Surely this is a kob for the boys in blue?
More hilarity from Mr Sam.
That's some fine AI software you have, Mrs I.
Shrinking his cock to Lilliputian size.
But, mr mike, whatever makes you think that it is not an authentic cock-portrait of the dirty little bastard? Clearly suffers from small-cock syndrome.
The evidence is clear, Mrs I.
Jemima was married to Imran Khan. Imran, apart from being a great test bowler, was well liked by the ladies when he spent time at Oxford on account of his fabled large manhood. Ergo, Jemima is a large cock person. To go to a hairy bastard with a micro-cock seems out of nature?
I'm not saying he doesn't have small-cock syndrome, by his own words it seems he does. I'm simply saying you have some powerful AI.
The latest development in the Dirty Little Bastard story is that there is now lobbying by "Alice", now a mature woman in her 30's who had a consensual sexual relationship with the DLB when she was 16 and he was 31. Reflecting on that period of her life and the huge distress of her mother, who had no legal ability to intervene to separate her from the DLB, she realises that she was groomed by him, that there was a massive power imbalance and that she was too immature to have been able to form meaningful consent to a conventional relationship with a man 15 years older than her, let alone the sort of wilder sexual excesses so enjoyed and boasted about by the DLB. We now know that the human brain reaches its full maturity around the age of 25. The prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and controlling impulses, is one of the last areas of the brain to develop - hence those risky behaviours of teenagers. So there is considerable merit in "Alice's" reflections. She is now lobbying for an increase in the age of consent to 18 to relationships with an older partner, although sex between 16 to 18 year olds would remain legal. This would be an extension of the existing situation in Britain, where 16 to 18 year olds are protected from predatory teachers who risk imprisonment if they do engage in sex with their pupils.
It wasn't my AI, by the way, mr mike, teasing apart - the photo was sourced by mr ishmael, who must have lifted it from an internet source that had already bowdlerised the DLB's tackle. Interesting speculation about Imran Khan. Things haven't turned out so well for him.
The answer to the first thing... A grown man, a beast, tries to entice your 16-y-o daughter into sexual activity? Buy a rope, tie a noose and affix it to a tree in his garden. Knock on the door. Indicate the tree from which he will hang if he lays a finger on her. "That one there, boy, and your cock will be in your mouth while it happens."
It is interesting, mrs i. The DLB is quite obviously a notorious fucker of the first water. He makes, and made, no secret of it and the modern people laughed and even applauded. His behaviour, his vile manners, his piggish preeening, and ghastly lisping spittle-flecked girlish bleating are enough to turn a man's stomach let alone a woman's. And yet, none of this is illegal. There can now be no actual evidence of crime. All we have now is me-too-ism, no smoke without fire, the daily hate. I'd say good riddance to the prat except Pastor Niemoller thought this through a long time ago.
Every day a schoolday, mr mongoose - I had no idea the Columbian neck-tie was a thing in your neck of the woods. Brand being the dandy twat that he is, I'm sure he'd wear it well.
Gagging aside, you're dead right, it's a nasty conundrum. Due process is either worth having or it isn't, there's no middle ground - at least not in theory. In practice, lately, not so much. (Rather a lot of negatives, there, but that's probably apt as there's nothing positive about any of this.)
cheers
v./
Point of order, Mr verge: A "columbian neck tie" is when they slit your throat and pull your tongue through the slit. Just in case this little factoid is needed for an upcoming crossword competition.
Cheers
I shall take that under advisement, mr mike. Thanks.
yikes. ditto.
v./
According to the Urban Dictionary, what we were referring to was a Russian Cock-Block. Live & learn (& blanche.)
cheers
v./
Mr verge: the Russian aspect has history. In the 70s I think it was, the PLO made the error of kidnapping a Russian ambassador. The KGB promptly captured a close relative of the PLO leader. They cut off his tackle and delivered it in a parcel to said leader. Needless to say, Russia never had any more trouble with the PLO.
Presumably Lebanon, mr Mike? (Speaking of which, have you seen the Apple Tv doc about Carlos Ghosn? Sounds like a chancer to be sure, but by god you wouldn't want to get in legal bother in Japan.)
cheers
v./
It was in the Lebanon, Mr verge. I haven't seen that doc but will look for it. Sounds interesting. I can't recall what happened to Gohsn after he escaped.
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