You can usually tell just by looking at them. The human race has evolved pretty accurate warning systems about wrong uns. But we suppress our instinctive reactions for social reasons, career progression or economic advantage, or fear of offending the DEI lobby. Or because we're just scared of them.
This last one was a horror show all by himself. I'm sure you will have heard, or read about the abuse perpetrated by John Smyth, Q. C., and Recorder, educated at Trinity Hall, Cambridge - if not, Wiki has a thorough account -John Smyth (barrister) - Wikipedia . The Makin Review, an independent review published on the 7th November, concluded that this Christian married man subjected more than 100 boys and young men to "traumatic physical, sexual, psychological and spiritual attacks" over a period of four decades. The sadistic, partially clothed beatings he administered drew so much blood that his wife supplied the victims with adult nappies to prevent them from bleeding on the furniture. He regularly assaulted boys with implements at his home, where he had a special garden shed designed, soundproofed and equipped with a variety of canes. Whilst beating boys a white yachting pennant would be planted on the lawn so that his wife Anne and other family members would know that he was not to be disturbed. Justin Welby, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, forced to resign over his failure to take action against Smyth, is on record as saying that Smyth was: "charming, delightful, very clever, a brilliant speaker".
Smyth's predilection for sadistically beating boys was not a secret. Just like Jimmy Saville, it was known about and covered up. The cult Iwerne Trust's camps had successfully indoctrinated and broken the spirit of its graduates over generations, who conspired in keeping Smyth away from the police and Court and allowed him to continue his ready access to further victims - because they didn't want to "endanger the work".
Makes you really glad you attended a state school.
Smyth was a lay reader in the Church of England and chair of the Iwerne Trust, which ran evangelical, Christian camps for posh boys. The Iwerne Trust was a cult instituted by Eric "Bash" Nash (22 April 1898 – 4 April 1982) a conservative evangelical Church of England cleric. His work of Christian evangelism and camp ministry in the top thirty public schools of the United Kingdom from 1932 onwards was highly influential in the post-war British evangelical resurgence - Christianity having become quite unpopular on account of the First World War, when God unaccountably allowed 40 million humans to die - maybe he got confused about which side he was supposed to be rooting for, having been invoked by all the Christian nations at war with each other.
Over 7,000 boys attended the Iwerne camps under Nash's leadership. The ostensible purpose was to instruct boys from public schools in Muscular Christianity and with a conservative evangelical theology, to become future Christian leaders, especially within the Church of England. Muscular Christianity is a religious movement that originated in England in the mid-19th century, characterized by a belief in patriotic duty, discipline, self-sacrifice, masculinity, and the moral and physical beauty of athleticism. All of which sounds very gay to a modern sensibility.
Now, I cannot believe that adult men, past the age of youthful belief and romanticism, actually believe any of this Christian crap. Spending half an hour researching the origins and development of the Christian Church would rapidly convince anyone with half a brain that it was made-up nonsense, which has been very useful politically to keep the underdogs under by promising rewards after they were safely dead. But I do believe that it is woven into the class structure of Britain, that it still wields power and provides, as it always did, a lucrative career structure for posh boys. And a hunting ground for paedophiles and sadists.
Church and State,
Monarchy, prelates of the Church, aristocrats, legislature, Courts, defence forces - indivisible; posh boys the lot of them, carefully groomed into their leading roles by their public schools and spurious christian nonsense, then growing up to become groomers of the next "elite" generation.
So who is next for the Archbishopric of Canterbury? I really don't care - just so long as it's a woman.
Kemi Badenoch, God bless her, is a posh girl, but last month she claimed: "I grew up in a middle class family. But I became working class when I was 16 working in McDonalds". That caused a furore. Not least among the majority of the working class who are not going to become Leader of the Conservative Party after a teenage stint working in McDonalds. Britain is sick with class, rotted with class, fungoid with class, the networks of which define every citizen of these islands. George Bernard Shaw, in his prologue to Pygmalion, stated: ‘It is impossible for an Englishman to open his mouth without making some other Englishman hate or despise him.’
Interesting that it is now aspirational to be working class - the Prime Minister carries his "my father was a tool-maker" line like a sub machine gun.
Here in Orkney, the local paper carries full crime reports every other Wednesday, which is the Court day, when our Sheriff, Robert McDonald (honest, not invent), flies down from Shetland to sort us out.
So when it came to the diet of James Farquhar, Sheriff McDonald might have been excused a little levity. Farquhar was on trial for possession of drugs with intent to supply. They'd got a police drug expert up from Aberdeen, who informed the court that Farquhar had two packages of cannabis in his car, divided into baggies of "a recognised deal size", for onward sale and supply. The defence position was that the cannabis was for personal consumption, to assist Farquhar to overcome his cocaine addiction. Farquhar is a roofer by trade and the drug expert opined: "I'm not sure I would be trusting someone on the roof if they were having three grams of cannabis per day." A small snigger might have been heard from the Bench. Maybe he'd seen Farquhar's work? The trial continues in December.
Staying in Scotland, but abandoning the McDonalds, can I bring Baldy Stephen Flynn to your attention?
leader of the SNP in the House of Commons. He's the MP for Aberdeen South. You'll recall the almost-scandal surrounding the resignation of his predecessor, Fatty Blackford?
In June 2022, Grady apologised for the behaviour in parliament after a full independent investigation and was suspended from the House of Commons for two-days over his unwanted sexual advance to a junior SNP colleague in 2016. Following this, a video emerged of Blackford encouraging SNP MPs to provide Grady with "full support" This comment was met with backlash from across the political spectrum and Blackford faced calls to resign. On 25 June 2022, Grady left the SNP whip; it was restored six months later by Blackford's successor. Blackford then announced his intention to stand down from leadership of the SNP Westminster group on 1 December 2022, ahead of the group's AGM. He denied being forced out by SNP MPs. His successor, Stephen Flynn, was elected on 6 December. They're a ruthless bunch, the SNP.
Anyway, Baldy Flynn is at it again - this time he has his sights set on becoming First Minister of Scotland - or so me and Martin Geissler believe. This morning, on the Sunday politics show, he utterly denied that his latest dastardly plan is motivated by anything other than his care for the constituents of Aberdeen South and his belief that he can represent them better than their existing MSP. He has announced his intention to stand for the 2026 Holyrood election, applying for his party's nomination for the Aberdeen South and North Kincardine seat. He says he has full confidence in Baldy Swinney's leadership. The plan means if he gets the Aberdeen South gig, currently held by Audrey Nicoll, his MSP colleague, he will simultaneously act as MSP and MP, therefore becoming Two-Salaries Flynn. He is fully confident of his ability to hold both posts and represent Aberdeen South in Westminster and Holyrood.
There are four splendid anthologies of the writings of mr ishmael and stanislav, the young Polish Plumber, compiled by his friend, mr verge, the house filthster. You can buy them from Amazon or Lulu. Here's how:
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.IIshmaelites 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
https://www.lulu.com/shop/ishmael-smith/flush-test/paperback/product-9yjvn7.html?q=Flush+Test&page=1&pageSize=4
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.
9 comments:
Presumably "diet" is Scottish-Latin-legalese for trial-date. (So "sine diet" would be Scots-Latin for an all-you-can-eat buffet? On expenses, natch, or the never-never, whichever works best for the honorable troughers.)
Three grams is about 3 average-sized joints, or was 40 years ago, when I was a young man working in the construction trades. Back then 3 joints was called "6 to 9 AM".
--Tennessee Budd
Jeez, mr budd, you were made of sterner stuff than we were. We used to buy our hash in quarters and eighths of an ounce (eighths for the expensive good stuff) and look for a quarter to last a week during the wrecking season. So that's seven grammes, or a gramme per day on average. Maybe 1/4 of a gramme per?
Who knew? I was a lightweight all the while.
Thank you for dropping in from your editorial desk, mr verge, with your customary tricksy bit of word play. Indeed, the language of the Scottish Courts is deliberately, obscurely archaic and designed to surround the pin-stripery lawyers in a cloud of smoke and mirrors to justify their elevated status and first place at the trough. As Billy Bunter frequently remarks in these pages: Good-oh! Money!
Ah, messrs mongoose and budd, a pair of potheads. You'll appreciate this story. Way back in the last century, mr ishmael and I lived in a pretty little town in the heart of England. One summer evening my sympathies were engaged by the sight of a young man stretched out on the green slope below the pool near my house. This was an unusual thing to do - night was approaching, it was a chill evening and the lad was wearing a T shirt without a coat. So I approached and asked if I could help? He was completely out of it, and told me that he was lost but thought he lived quite nearby - he told me the address and it was around 3 miles away, so I got my car, loaded him into the passenger seat and drove him home. During the brief journey he confided that he was stoned - this wasn't a surprise, and I told him that I was a Probation Officer and that he should avoid being incapacitated by drugs in public, where anyone might stumble across him. Today a Probation Officer, tomorrow maybe a Police Officer. I left him in the car whilst I rang the doorbell of the house he had identified as his. His mother came to the door and thanked me profusely when she got a grasp of the situation and told me what a trial the lad was to her. I sympathised, unloaded the lad into his mother's retributive arms and went home. When I got there, I discovered a package in the passenger footwell of the car. I offered it to mr ishmael for identification. Do I take it to the police station, I enquired? Are you mad? It's sinsemilla. Well, what should we do? Smoke it, he firmly replied, and proceeded to do so.
Next evening, there comes a knock at the door. it's the teenage miscreant from the day before. Sorry about last night, he apologised. Think nothing of it, I replied. Thanks for getting me home, he offered. You're welcome, I responded. He didn't go. I wondered if you found anything in the car, he asked, I think I may have dropped something. Nope, I said, robustly. Well, can I have a look? it may have rolled under the seat.
He wouldn't go until he'd searched the car, and, when he left, he was giving me funny looks.
Fine flowers, Mrs I; let us concentrate upon them.
Echo and fully understand your comment, Mr BB. But one has to juxtapose that with the pic of King charlie with his ill-fiiting crown and miserable looking bishops.
One day, long ago in the time of the old king, out and about misbehaving as young bloods will, we found ourselves in need of refreshment. Some hours later, I was gently nudged awake by a policeman. "And what are you doing here, young man?" "I am waiting for my mates. They're in the pub there." "It's two-thirty in the morning, son!" "Ah. I'd better be off then." Unfortunately, I better-be-offed in the wrong direction and he having spotted a student waster knew the direction I should likely be going.
All was well. No time was served. No probation officers disturbed. Innocent days.
Confirmation, if any was needed. Headline from the Telegraph: "Queen presented with honorary doctorate of literature by Princess Anne".
First, she ain't the Queen - she's the Queen Consort (aka tart). Second, who give princess anne the right to award honorary degrees? Ruritania on steroids. Time to bin it IMHO.
Post a Comment