The Sunday Ishmael: 12/10/2025

 

I hope that Monday goes well and that the remaining 48 hostages are released in the deal brokered by President Trump. It is thought that 20 are still alive - I hope more have survived their ordeal. Israel has announced the names of the 250 Hamas/Palestinian prisoners, most of them convicted murderers, that it will release in exchange. 

The friends and comforters of Palestine are strangely not delighted by this ceasefire and the release of hostages, the taking of which was, after all, the casus belli of this latest round in the never-ending Middle East war.

The protests on Saturday were, it seems, worse than usual, with tens of thousands of pro-Palestinians converging on London for an extra-special intimidation event, chanting their racist slogans, calling for the murder of Jews in Israel and wherever they may be found, in obedience to the hadith of Abu Hurayrah that the Messenger of Allah (blessings and peace of Allah be upon him) said: “The Hour will not begin until the Muslims fight the Jews and the Muslims will kill them, until a Jew hides behind a rock or a tree, and the rock or tree will say: O Muslim, O slave of Allah, there is a Jew behind me, come and kill him. Except the gharqad (a thorny tree), for it is one of the trees of the Jews.” 

Jeremy Corbyn was there. I really do have poor political judgement. (At last! We know - ed.) When Corbyn got the top job in the Labour Party, I genuinely thought it marked a return to politics, that Labour could return to being a socialist party, that those who denounced his anti-semitism were just spiteful. That's one thing we can be grateful to Starmer for - despite his spreading creamed sweetcorn everywhere he goes, he did cleanse the old stables of anti-semitism. Anyway, after his partisan espousal of the "Palestinian" cause, that's me and Corbyn done. And his new racist party. Which is not doing very well.

There was lots of tut-tutting on the politics shows this morning, politicians  distancing themselves from the anti-Jewish sentiment that stalked Saturday's streets. Anodyne Phillipson, wearing an unflattering red, white and blue outfit for her appearances, was absolutely clear -

no, really let me be absolutely clear, that the University protests  which she is, kind of, responsible for, being Education Secretary, are not on and they should just stop it. But the really important thing is that she is the continuity candidate for Angela Raynor's old job as Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, on account of being Northern and a woman - a Northern Woman with an accent, even Northerner than Raynor - Gateshead, no less. And she deplores child poverty and wants to spend more of my money on big families.
Nadine Dories is even better value since she shook off the Conservatives to be embraced by Farage's Reform. She had fun slagging off both Conservatives and Labour for their failure over the last two years to do a single thing to release hostages and achieve a ceasefire, and she's now a Trumpian. The only thing that has made a difference to the Middle East, she declared, has been the election of Trump and his willingness to stop the war. She was also caustic about Starmer and his European chums rushing around setting up meetings and conferences, pretending that they had anything to do with the Trump Solution. You could say, actually, that Starmer, Macron and Co. had made things worse with their diplomatic recognition of the "State of Palestine". Just set up people's backs. Od's bodikins, I hope that Trump doesn't get bored and wander away from the Gaza Question, now that he's been denied his Nobel Peace Prize out of spite. Keep your eye on the prize, Mr. President, just think of all that ocean-front property and Trump Towers on Sea.

In Scottish Conference news, the Swine Swinney has been working his SNP faithful into a lather with his promise that if the SNP doesn't get 65 seats in the next Scottish elections (May next year), he's going to bugger off. Yeay! Result! Swinney the Spin reckons that the election will be all about Independence and that his 65 seats will give him a mandate to ask Westminster for another referendum. Westminster will, of course, say no. The next Scottish election should be about the abysmal Scottish health system, education failures, cost of living crisis, the highest level of drug deaths in Europe, the north/south divide, the disgraceful and possibly criminal management of SNP funds - but no, Swinney reckons Scotland needs its Independence, so it can surrender its Independence immediately and beg admission to Europe. Really. When Martin Geissler pointed out in his interview with the Swine that Europe wouldna' want Scotland, what with its multiple lacks of economic independence, its own Bank and currency and the fact that the country is a basket case and would be a net loss to Europe, John Swine shook his tortoise head sadly and said "that's gloomy, Martin, that's gloomy."

What else? Oh, yes,  further evidence that Starmer hates the British working class. Starmer has been to India on a trade mission, alongside Scottish Secretary Douglas Alexander and Business Secretary Peter Kyle.  The spin would like us to believe that this was a massively successful jaunt, which will deliver 6,800 jobs to the UK along with £1.2 billion in investments from India, including £16 million worth of investments for electrical engineering firm Allenwest from Indian metal and mining companies. Oh, that's nice. Even better, Linkfields, an AI tech company, is investing £10 million to create 100 jobs in Edinburgh and Glasgow.

Trinity Infra and Projects, a construction and property development company, will also create 25 jobs in Glasgow.

Wee Dougie said: “These investments, which will create more than 100 new jobs across Glasgow and Edinburgh, are an unmistakeable example of how the UK Government is driving home the benefits of our historic trade deal with India for Scotland.....our new trade deal galvanises our economic partnership, brings our two countries even closer together and ultimately delivers economic growth right across Scotland.”

So, what's the catch?

Those 6,800 jobs - they are for Indian workers, not British workers. They will come to Britain on 3 year visas, and will not be required to pay National Insurance in Britain. Told you Starmer hates the British working class. He is letting in, quite legally, a small flood of Indian workers who will be able to undercut the British worker by not having to pay National Insurance.

They never disappear, these politicians - they are endlessly recycled. Here's mr ishmael writing about the Dwarf Alexander 15 years ago, when he was fucking things up in a previous Labour Government. 

Small Mercy

Wee Dougie, brother of Wendy Fishface Alexander, the cheap lying wretch who briefly led JockLabour until she became an embarrassment even to that shower, Wee Dougie is in a class of his own.

Wee Dougie, like lots of them, went off to the States to learn politics, returned to Britain, took a meaningless law qualification, a safe  Labour seat  and joined Gordon Snot's cabal of  yesmen fellators. An irritating, gobby little prick, Alexander is never short of the phrase which conveys how very much we misunderstand, underestimate our masters, if only we were as clever as he then we would never have got into this awful financial  mess, a regular on those shitty  Dimbleby programmes which masquerade cuntishly as Democracy on the Airwaves, Dougie probably sits up at night, rehearsing his dwarf statesmanship in front of the mirror.

Along with the greedy, hypocritical toerag, the windbagging Welsh arsehole,  the grinning smug ginger fuckpig,  the spectacularly incompetent election-losing embarrassment, Kinnock, Alexander, then Scottish Secatry tried to fix the last Holyrood election so that Labour won,  he made a complete bollocks of it, postal votes were not sent out in time,  the papers themselves were nothing like as he had trailed them to be and electors were confused by a whole raft of matters being ambiguous or just plain wrong.  The result, of course, was that Fat Alec Salmond snatched a victory -- decent people would have sought a new election, but there are no decent people in Holyrood and a full and far reaching cover up found that, Yes, it was all shit, but no-one was to blame, not really.

After this triumph, Dougie the Fixer masterminded the catastrophic Yes-He-Will, No-He-Fucking-Won't, snap election  strategy of his master, Snotty, when that revolting man  finally bullied his way into Number Ten, (allowing Blair to get off, virtually Scot-free, blameless for the current chaos).  Gordon was going to call an election, having personally foiled the flaming ayrabs at Glasgow Airport and sorted the foot and mouth outbreak and all the other stuff he took credit for. And then he wasn't, he was gonna stick it out, the rotten cowardly bastard, and have Dougie mastermind  the UK general election.  The one they just lost in historic fashion. The one for which Snotty shoulders full responsibility - ie no blame, no censure, no loss of pension rights.

But even so, Dougie's history did not deter the fantastically prescient, adroit, capable, gracious and intelligent fuckwit David Banana;  David had Dougie run his Labour leadership election campaign,  the one he lost to his gormless brother, the Ed-thing.  Doubtless they had ruled nothing in and ruled nothing out but we can be sure that Wee Dougie would have been anticipating sitting up there with the Big People, maybe as shadow Foreign Seckatry, had he not fucked Bananaman six ways to Christmas, left Mrs  Bananaman in floods, simply floods of tears, silly cow and upset the gentry of the party, the thieving, lying, warmongering, degenerate, arsehole-munching parliamentary Labour Party, New, Old or completely, as they now are, fucked. And serve them right.

If they had any sense it would have been Burnham or at a push Balls, at least he can dish it out. Squabbling like an  ancient witches' coven over these two vapid fucks, cheer-led by the likes of the unbelievably  talentless Alexander - not even Machiavellian, just transparently thick as horsehit -  the stringpullers and kingmakers, vile old tossers, reprobates like Barry Sheerman, nincompoops like Kinnock and necromancers like Straw,  the  detritus of NewLabour,  the turds on the tideline, with the incomparable expertise of Douglas Alexander have just given CallHimDave a most welcome, early Christmas present;  that they have simultaneously fucked the rest of us, just once more for old times' sake, seems, if it means the disappearance of Dougie the Dwarf, a price almost worth paying.

Ed Net Zero Milliband and Dougie the Dwarf, back when they were young and beautiful

There are four splendid anthologies of the writings of stanislav and mr ishmael, 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.

Rowan and Apple Jelly

450g rowan berries

225g cooking apples

Water

Juice of 1 lemon

Sugar - don't stint on the sugar - rowan berries are bitter as hell.

•  Rinse and dry the rowan berries, then chop the apples - there is no need to peel them or core them.
• Put the berries and apples into a pan with 150ml to 200ml. of water.
• Bring the fruit to the boil then simmer it gently for 20 to 30 minutes.
• Ladle the fruit into a jelly bag suspended over a bowl or large measuring jug, and allow to drip overnight.
•  For every 600ml  add 450g of sugar to the juice and lemon juice.
•  Boil for 10 to 15 minutes, or until the setting point has been reached.
•  Ladle into hot, clean and sterilised jam jars, and seal whilst still hot to create a vacuum.

Jenrick is right - Handsworth is a Shithole

The Villa Cross, Handsworth

Villa Cross, Handsworth is the junction of Heathfield Road, Villa Road and Lozells Road. The crossroads was shown on the 1st Series Ordnance Survey map of 1834 as Aston Villa.

The Villa Cross Tavern  stood at the junction between Lozells Road and Heathfield Road. It was certainly there in 1879 by that name and may date from the first half of the 19th century. It isn't there any more. The pub was closed after the Handsworth Riots of 1985 - basically it was burned out. The riots were sparked by a police raid on the Villa Cross public house. 

As you can see from its location, the police, who went in mob-handed, were able to surround the pub one evening, forming a cordon, and just walk in, drawing the net in. They arrested everybody in there, and there were a lot to arrest, because it was Birmingham's drug-dealing pub in the middle of a black area. Handsworth was black, back in the day - still is, if Robert Jenrick is to be believed, and I see no reason not to believe him. I don't get back to Birmingham much, but last time I was there, there were few white faces. Some would say - and, indeed, are saying, that it is a successful example of integration and multi-culturism. If you leave indigenous white people and their culture out of the integration equation, you could say that - and some are saying just that.

After the Villa Cross customers were all removed to police stations, the police then went in with brushes, sweeping up the ankle-deep drug-deals that had been speedily dropped onto the floor by their owners. The haul represented thousands of pounds.

This set-back to a thriving business was deeply resented by the local black drug entrepreneurs, who forcefully expressed their displeasure.

Hundreds of people attacked police and property, looting and smashing, hurling Molotov cocktails and setting off fire bombs. Buildings were burned out, including a post office. Two brothers, Kassamali and Amirali Moledina, died in a fire at their post office and 35 people were injured. Over 45 shops were torched and looted and 1,500 police officers were drafted-in to bring order back to the streets.

The  Villa Cross Picture Palace opened in 1912. It was built in the neo-classical style of an 18th-century non-conformist chapel and had a very large rose window filling the upper part of the round-arched doorway. During the Handsworth riots of 1985 the building was badly damaged by an arson attack and demolished in 1989.

Robert Jenrick was only 3 years old when the '85 riot kicked off. I suppose you could say that 40 years on, Handsworth is immeasurably safer than it used to be. At least he could walk the streets.

The Bishop of Birmingham, the Right Rev Dr Michael Volland accused Jenrick of "generating anxiety" that "fed a fire of toxic nationalism" after he was recorded comparing Handsworth to a "slum" and "one of the worst integrated places" he had ever been.

The fire storm that has greeted Jenrick's remarks demonstrates that The Establishment simply will not allow the truth to be told. We all have to pretend that Handsworth is not a slum, that it is a happy, well-integrated, law abiding place. That it is not populated by the '85 rioters, their children and grandchildren. Draw a line and move on. The British public are being gas-lighted by an Establishment using a concerted plan that swings into action when there is any hint of civil unrest, any speech that might cause disquiet. A plan that firmly tells us that we are living in the best of all possible worlds.

It took a Nigerian woman to support Jenrick and give credence to his remarks. I'm liking Kemi more and more.

There's actually worse places in Birmingham than Handsworth, as mr ishmael described:

"Last time I was in Alum Rock, about twenty years ago, it was like a foreign country, peopled by rude, nasty belligerent  arseholes who looked like they'd cut your fucking head off, soon as look at you, and that was just the women;  it was like a no-go area for whites.  I couldn't believe it, it used to be an Irish enclave, some Poles, too. I lived there, briefly, as a child. It was always a shithole and the flowing waters of the bourgeois gentrification which has transformed places like Moseley bypassed Alum Rock, it was always a poor shithole of a place but on this occasion it was truly  frightening and  after five minutes I jumped in my car and fucked off out of it as fast as I could. It was broad daylight and  at that time of my life I had been accustomed to walking around Handsworth at any time, day or night;  I was never worried about blacks or maybe it was that they were never worried about me but that ferocious hostility from Moslem men, women and children in Alum Rock really shook me.   I am not surprised to hear that it is now barricaded-up against the Infidel, its schools teaching alienism." 

The Sunday Ishmael: 05/10/2025

 Britain's Home Secretary, the unpardonably ugly Shabana Mahmood, has a problem with her eyebrows. I know I'm not supposed to be lookist, but I can't get past those eyebrows.

See what I mean? God didn't give her those eyebrows in a fit of whimsy. I think she paints them on. If so, that is a serious error of judgement. There's the hair: box-dye shiny black. She's a Birmingham lass of 45, so you'd expect a decent smattering of Gravitas Grey in there. It would be an improvement. And then there's the full-face hard make-up, presenting the appearance of early-onset dementia or a toddler let loose in her mummy's make-up drawer.

She failed her 11+ (I didn't, just saying, and I have zero arithmetical ability. I still struggle with my 8 times table). So, having failed her 11+, we might assume that her attendance at King Edward's Camp Hill was a bloody lucky break, King Edward's being a rather prestigious Grammar School. So, after a shaky start intellectually, she then did rather well - Oxford, Inns of Court Law School, Labour Party, Lord High Executioner

No, mrs ishmael, that's Gilbert and Sullivan, not real life.
Chum of Keir Starmer, and a passionate supporter of Palestinian rights, as she said on her website. Back to the error of judgement. Like the eyebrows, but infinitely more serious. In 2014 she took part in a demonstration outside a branch of Sainsbury's in Birmingham city centre. She said "We lay down in the street and we lay down inside Sainsbury's to say we object to them stocking goods from illegal settlements – and that they must stop. We managed to close down that store at peak time on a Saturday. This is how we can make a difference."

 The Jewish Chronicle reported that she was criticised for this by members of the Board of Deputies of British Jews and the Jewish Leadership Council. Okay, it was 11 years ago - but she was 34, all grown up, a legal professional, and really, really, should have known better. It gave Laura Kuenssberg ammunition to fire a round of fucks into her in the politics show today.

Fuck Gun

D'you know, I would really rather not have a Home Secretary who used to lie on the floor in Sainsbury's with the intention of preventing shoppers doing their Saturday shop, disrupting Business and attempting to economically disadvantage an allied nation, in order to support the non-nation of Palestine in the far-away Middle East. 

It has compromised her in the response to the 9th October atrocity by Jihad Al-Shamie, who was attempting to kill as many Jews as he could, two years after the 7th October invasion of Israel by Hamas, and 52 years after the Yom Kippur War, also known as the 1973  October War, (6 to 25 October 1973) after a coalition of Arab states led by Egypt and Syria, invaded Israel in a surprise attack. 

October - really bad month for Jews. The Arab nations chose Yom Kippur to invade Israel, no doubt thinking it would give them an advantage, the Israelis being at prayer. Like Jihad Al-Shamie choosing Yom Kippur to attack Jews at prayer, using his car as a battering ram, dressing himself up in a fake bomb vest to inspire terror and stabbing anyone he could get his knife on.

Whatever was his father thinking of, calling his baby boy "Jihad"? Nominative determinism, or what? Did the kid stand a chance of growing up half-way sane? Did Daddy say your brothers Jawad, Generous and Noble and Kenan, Possession,  can lead normal lives, but you, Jihad, you will be a warrior for Islam. Anyway, to borrow our new chum, mr maledictus' terminology, Jihad was a wrongun. Unable to hold his marriage together, heavily in debt and on bail for alleged rape. Now, those things won't get you into heaven... but, there's a sneaky way of wiping out these misdemeanours. Muhammad, Peace and Blessings be upon his name, said

“the sword wipes away all sins” and “being killed in the path of Allah washes away impurity”. Jihad is one of the means to Paradise. All sins (except debt) would be forgiven for the one who dies in it. Participation in jihad had to be voluntary and intention must be pure, as jihad requires man to put both his life and wealth at risk. It is ranked as one of the highest good deeds; according to one hadith it is the third-best deed after prayer and being good to one's parents. 

What we fail to understand in the irreligious, secular West, is that people actually believe this Mediaeval shit. No, really believe it. The life to come is more important, significant and real than this life. It is a death cult. I believe, on fairly good evidence, that I have just the one precious life and, again quoting mr maledictus, that dead is dead. 

The Al-Shamie family were Syrian in origin, but came to England when young Jihad was 6 years old. He had the advantage of an English education. Even if his family were rabid Jew-haters, why didn't the education system instil religious tolerance in the child? Jihad became a British citizen when he was 16 - was citizen-ship just handed out, without any attempt to determine if the new young Briton was aligned with the values of the country he wanted to become a citizen of? 

For adults, citizenship requires the following:

• Naturalization: You must be at least 18 years old and have lived in the UK for at least five years (or three years if married to a British citizen) before applying. 
• Residency Requirements: You cannot have spent more than 450 days outside the UK in the five years prior to applying
• Application Process: You will need to complete an application form, provide supporting documents, and pay a fee.
• English Language Requirement: You must demonstrate proficiency in English, Welsh, or Scottish Gaelic. 
• Life in the UK Test: You will need to pass the Life in the UK test, which assesses your knowledge of British history, culture, and laws. 

Kemi Badenoch has set out her stall to deport 150,000 undocumented migrants per year, using a new Removals Force and is committed to taking Britain out of the ECHR. These will be very popular policies - and they need to be, if she is to get the Tories into power again. But she will also need to think carefully about those legal British citizens who are so alienated from Britain's history, culture, values and laws that they, like Jihad Al-Shamie, are prepared to wage war on other British citizens in the cause of conflicts originating 2,383 miles away.

The carefully-edited propaganda flowing out from Hamas and uncritically foisted on the British public by mainstream telly has been hugely successful in persuading the foolish to align themselves with the "Palestinian" cause. Why was it not possible to stop the pro-Palestine protests on Saturday? Eyebrow Mahmood weakly asked the Protesters to have a little think and stay home, exercise a little decency and restraint, respect the feelings of their fellow British citizens who had been attacked in the place where they should feel safe, in their place of worship. The Protesters said, in effect, Fuck Youse and continued to march in support of an illegal organisation. They even made the police carry them away when they were arrested. One ridiculous middle-aged white woman declared to camera that Israel started the war on Gaza. 

A Home Secretary so weak or so ideologically compromised that she cannot direct her police force to prevent a demonstration in these circumstances is pretty bloody useless. As bad as the Oaf Lammy.

Kemi says she's going to pass legislation to prevent vexatious demonstrations. Trouble is, she won't get the chance.

You can drive yourself mad thinking about this stuff. Let's have some mind-bleach. Over in Belarus, which is not a member of the ECHR, the lads have got the cladding on the forest house. They've put it on across the ways, whereas in Orkney we put it up and down the ways, (vertically, not horizontally, to help stop the rain getting in). They've also installed the log-burning stove.

There are four splendid anthologies of the writings of stanislav and mr ishmael, 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.

Elderberry and dark chocolate muffins

Ingredients

150g elderberries

300g plain flour

200g ground almonds

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

250ml almond milk

200ml maple syrup

4 tablespoons melted coconut oil

80g dark chocolate, roughly chopped

1 teaspoon vanilla extract (or one pod)

Method

Preheat the oven to 180C fan (gas mark 4). Line a 12-hole muffin tray with muffin cases. Add the flour, ground almonds, baking powder and bicarbonate of soda to a large mixing bowl and stir together until well combined, with no lumps.

Pour in the almond milk, maple syrup, melted coconut oil and vanilla extract. Mix well until the batter is thick and smooth. Gently stir in the elderberries and dark chocolate pieces. Fill the muffin cases and bake for 25 – 30 minutes until golden, risen and cooked through. 

Afterwards

 

The three travellers sat together. Unaccustomedly, they all wore good suits of English tweed and brown boots, for were they not all English? By birth or examination?

"A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;

A body of England’s, breathing English air"

 

The travellers were slightly fuddled - it seems as though from forgetful sleep, for it was a long time since they had left the station, and they each bore injuries.

The noise, smoke and shouting had been lulled by the heat of the afternoon and the motion of the train.

They did not converse, 

but when the train drew up unwontedly by a bare platform and no-one left and no-one came, one of them coughed. 

The Conductor immediately appeared, dapper in his railway uniform of black trousers and neat white jacket. His name badge said Abraham.

A breeze stirs the heat. Somewhere, a bee hums. The train waits.

One of the three asked: is this a scheduled stop? How long is the delay?

Abraham replied: the wait is very long. Do you three martyrs wish to take tea while you wait? 

The three stir, confused, the city already far away in corrupted memory.

Abraham pauses. The train breathes steam. Outside, the trees are still.

"You are three, and yet not alike. You are not equal in deed. But you are equal in ending".

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

with thanks to Edward Thomas for Adlestrop and Rupert Brooke for The Soldier

Obituary Corner

 Scene: The River Styx, mist curling like old cigarette smoke. A rickety ferry groans at the dock. Charon, the boatman, looks mildly irritated.

Tony Harrison (clutching a notebook):
“This is no Tyne ferry, mind. No brass bands, no bairns, just bloody oblivion. I’ll write a sonnet about it — ‘Styx: A Crossing in Iambic Regret.’”

Menzies Campbell (adjusting his tie):
“I must say, the EU never regulated this sort of passage. No life jackets, no cushions, no safety briefing. Is there a parliamentary procedure for negotiating with the dead?”

Patricia Routledge (as Hyacinth Bucket):
“I do hope they’ve reserved me a seat near the prow. I simply cannot abide sulphurous mist in my décolletage. And I shall not share a bench with any shades who failed to RSVP.”

Jane Goodall (gazing into the gloom):
“Fascinating. I believe I saw a spectral bonobo waving. Perhaps the underworld has its own primate hierarchy. I must observe quietly — no flash photography, please.”

Harold ‘Dickie’ Bird (peering over the edge):
“I’ve umpired at Headingley in fog thicker than this. If Cerberus tries to bowl a googly, I’ll call it wide. And I’ll not be intimidated by any three-headed sledging.”

Charon (deadpan):
“No pets. No poetry. No parliamentary inquiries. And no singing. Especially not Gilbert and Sullivan.”

Patricia (offended):
“I’ll have you know I was the mezzo-soprano in the East Cheshire Light Operatic Society. I once sang ‘Poor Wand’ring One’ with such pathos that the vicar wept into his cassock.”

Tony (scribbling):
“‘Cassock damp with grief / as Hyacinth sang / the Styx hissed beneath.’ That’s a keeper.”

Menzies (to Jane):
“Do you suppose the ferry accepts contactless? I’ve only got a commemorative coin from the Liberal Democrat centenary.”

Jane (smiling):
“I think Charon prefers obols. Or perhaps bananas.”

Dickie (to Charon):
“Right then, lad. Let’s get this show on the road. Or the river. And if you see any underworld LBWs, I’ll be watching.”

Charon (sighing):
“I should’ve taken the day off.”

The ferry has docked at the ashen shores of the underworld. Our party disembarks, greeted by a customs desk that resembles a cross between a post office in Huddersfield and Kafka’s worst nightmare.

Scene: The Reception Hall of Hades. A flickering fluorescent light buzzes overhead. A sign reads “Welcome to the Afterlife. Please queue in alphabetical order unless you were famous.”

Receptionist (a skeletal civil servant with a clipboard):

“Name, occupation, and any unresolved earthly grievances.”

Tony Harrison (stepping forward):

“Poet. Grievance: the decline of working-class vowels. And the closure of Leeds libraries.”

Receptionist (scribbling):

“Noted. You’ll be assigned to the Department of Eternal Lamentation. Tuesdays are sonnet days.”

Menzies Campbell (producing a sheaf of papers):

“I’ve brought my own dossier. I’d like to appeal for a moderate afterlife with proportional representation.”

Receptionist:

“You’ll be in the Bureau of Futile Petitions. Next.”

Patricia Routledge (adjusting her handbag):

“Hyacinth Bucket. That’s ‘Bouquet,’ if you please. I expect a suite with a view and no proximity to the damned.”

Receptionist:

“You’ll be in the Department of Mispronounced Names and Social Climbing. It’s next to the Lake of Mild Disappointment.”

Jane Goodall (softly):

“I’d prefer a quiet corner with access to spectral chimpanzees. And perhaps a grove of ghostly fig trees.”

Receptionist:

“You’re in the Sanctuary of Ethical Souls. No meat, no mirrors, no monarchy.”

Dickie Bird (cheerfully):

“I’m just here to umpire. I’ve got my hat, my finger, and my moral compass. If Cerberus sledges, he’s out.”

Receptionist:

“You’ll be posted to the Field of Eternal Overs. Watch out for phantom leg-before appeals.”

Charon (muttering):

“I told you lot to bring exact change.”

Tony (scribbling again):

“‘Exact change for Charon / no card, no coin, no hope / bureaucracy floats.’”

Patricia (sniffing):

“I do hope the underworld has a Waitrose.”

Menzies:

"Has anyone seen my pile of cushions?"

The reunion tea, one year after our spectral ensemble has served their time in the bureaucratic bowels of Hades. The venue: the Elysian Lounge, a faintly glowing tearoom with ghostly scones and a harp that plays itself, slightly out of tune.

Scene: The Elysian Lounge. A sign reads “Reunion Tea: One Year Post-Assignment. Please check your aura at the door.”

Tony Harrison (arriving with a battered notebook):

“I’ve written 47 elegies and one limerick. The Department of Eternal Lamentation is a bit heavy on the sighing. I miss Yorkshire sarcasm.”

Patricia Routledge (in full Hyacinth mode, wearing a spectral fascinator):

“I spent the year organising a posthumous cotillion for the socially ambitious. We had ghostly vol-au-vents and a séance with Lady Bracknell. I was, of course, the toast of the Lake of Mild Disappointment.”

Menzies Campbell (carrying a folder labelled “Coalition Possibilities in the Afterlife” and a cushion):

“I attempted a cross-departmental alliance with the Bureau of Futile Petitions. We drafted a motion to install a second ferry. It was vetoed by Cerberus.”

Jane Goodall (serene, sipping nettle tea):

“I’ve been studying the behavioural patterns of the underworld’s primates. Fascinating creatures. One ghost chimp built a shrine to a banana peel. I’ve named him Plato.”

Dickie Bird (cheerfully):

“I umpired 312 matches, 14 of which were interrupted by banshees. I gave a phantom LBW and the crowd booed in Latin. Still, I kept my finger firm and my hat on straight.”

Charon (lurking near the samovar):

“I’ve been promoted to Head of Transport and Existential Ennui. I now operate the ferry and the escalator to Limbo. It’s mostly paperwork.”

Tony (reading aloud):‘Tea with the dead / scones without jam / ghosts gossiping / like it’s a WI AGM.’”

Jane (smiling):

“I do hope Plato can join us next year. He’s learning to knit.”

Menzies (to Dickie):

“Do you suppose we could form a cricket caucus? I’ve drafted a charter.”

Dickie:

“Only if we play on the Field of Eternal Overs. And no sledging from the damned.”

Patricia (raising her cup):

“To the afterlife — may it remain moderately tolerable and tastefully lit.”

All:

Hear hear.”

 The setting: a dimly lit parlour in the Elysian Lounge, with ghostly tea and suspiciously sharp cake forks.

Scene: The Elysian Lounge, Thursday afternoon. A sign reads “No Necromancy During Tea.” A spectral grandfather clock ticks backwards.

Patricia Routledge (straightening her lace cuffs):

“I propose we form a club. Not a bridge club — too many ghosts cheat. A murder club. Thursdays. With proper minutes and refreshments.”

Tony Harrison (scribbling):

“A club for the dead to solve the deaths of the dead. I smell irony. And possibly ectoplasm.”

Menzies Campbell (producing a binder):

“I’ve drafted a constitution. Clause one: all murders must be metaphorical, historical, or committed by someone with a peerage.”

Jane Goodall (nodding thoughtfully):

“I’m in. But only if we investigate the mysterious disappearance of the underworld’s fig trees. And the suspicious behaviour of ghost baboons.”

Dickie Bird (adjusting his umpire’s hat):

“I’ll keep score. And if anyone tries to bowl a red herring, I’ll call it out. No foul play on my watch.”

Charon (lurking near the biscuit tray):

“You lot are the reason I applied for early retirement. But fine. I’ll be the driver. And the occasional suspect.”

Patricia (beaming):

“Splendid. We’ll meet every Thursday. Dress code: spectral chic. First case: who poisoned the custard at last week’s tea?”

Tony (reading aloud):

“‘Custard of doom / spooned with intent / Thursday’s club / plots its ascent.’”

Jane (to Menzies):

“Do we need a permit for interrogating the damned?”

Menzies:

“Only if they’re unionised.”

Dickie (brandishing a ghostly magnifying glass):

“Right then. Let’s solve some murders. Or at least stir up some gossip.”

Patricia (raising her cup):

“To the Thursday Murder Club — may our mysteries be murky and our tea eternally warm.”

All:

“Hear hear.”

Our spectral ensemble gather once more in the Elysian Lounge, sipping ghostly Darjeeling and casting their dream team for the inevitable adaptation of The Thursday Murder Club: Underworld Edition. The casting conversation is spirited, theatrical, and just a touch competitive.

Patricia Routledge (adjusting her spectral pearls):

“I insist on Helen Mirren. Regal, poised, and capable of delivering a withering glance that could curdle ectoplasm.”

Tony Harrison (scribbling):

“I want Christopher Eccleston. Northern grit, poetic soul, and he can scowl in trochees.”

Menzies Campbell (leafing through a casting directory):

“I rather fancy Charles Dance. Gravitas, diction, and a brow furrowed by centuries of constitutional ambiguity.”

Jane Goodall (smiling gently):

“Emma Thompson. She’d bring warmth, wit, and a certain irritating  respect for ghostly gorillas.”

Dickie Bird:

“I’ll have Jim Broadbent. He’s got the hat, the twinkle, and he knows how to call a phantom LBW.”

Charon (deadpan, sipping tea):

“I nominate Steve Buscemi. No one does weary ferry operator with existential dread quite like him.”

Patricia (nodding):

“Excellent. We’ll need a poster. Something tasteful. Perhaps Helen in a misty fascinator, holding a poisoned scone.”

Tony (reading aloud):

“‘Mirren in mist / Eccleston grim / Dance with the dead / and Broadbent’s whim.’”

Menzies:

“We should include a parliamentary subplot. Perhaps a prime minister buying a donkey field. 

Charon:

“I’ll be in my trailer. Which is also a boat.”

Five souls. One ferry. Infinite regrets. And someone’s been tampering with the custard.

• Helen Mirren as Patricia Routledge — the imperious hostess with a poisoned teacup and a flair for fascinators

• Christopher Eccleston as Tony Harrison — the brooding poet who suspects everyone, including the furniture

• Charles Dance as Menzies Campbell — the constitutional ghost with a monocle and a motive

• Emma Thompson as Jane Goodall — the primate whisperer with a knack for solving crimes and calming banshees

• Jim Broadbent as Dickie Bird — the umpire of the afterlife, calling foul on phantom foul play

• Steve Buscemi as Charon — the weary ferryman who’s seen too much and rowed too far

• Scriptwriter:

September Song

 Tomorrow is October - yes, I know - how did that happen? Where did the year go? What about my one precious life, slipping past me day by day at jet speed? It is already dark at 7.30 p.m. and it is just going to get worse, until, if you don't get out of bed of a morning sharp-ish, you'll completely miss any day light - if you can call it daylight, so weak and watery is it in these far northern November latitudes.

So, while it is still September, we'll celebrate with a bit of elegiac misery.

The Earl's Palace, Kirkwall, was built around 1606 by Patrick, Earl of Orkney, cousin of James VI. He was a bad bastard, known as ‘Black Patie’, and ruled the Northern Isles from 1592. Earl Patrick's financial corruption, his brutality and torture of the local population led to him being summoned before the Privy Council in 1609, and then imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle. Whilst imprisoned, he sent his bastard son Robert Stewart to raise a rebellion in Orkney. Robert seized the Palace of Birsay with thirty companions in May 1614, then occupied the Earl's Palace and St Magnus' Cathedral in Kirkwall. 700 rebels joined Robert, claiming to restore royal justice in Orkney during the Black Patie's absence. The Earl of Caithness defeated Robert at the end of September, after a five-week siege of the Earl's Palace, battering the Palace with 140 cannon shots; he said the Palace was so strong that some of his cannonballs had "brokkin lyk goulfe balls upoune the castelle and clovin in twa halffis". Twelve of Robert's men were hanged at the castle gate. Black Patie was executed for treason in 1615. His Palace was built by slave labour. Here it is, brooding over Kirkwall.

September, Kirkwall

Slow, sad September drapes the town,

With mist that holds the rooftops down.

The black hulk of the Earl’s domain

Lurks in the dusk like anchored pain.

No laughter spills from stone or stair,

Just silence thick in Orkney air.

The palace dreams of fire and feast,

Wearing the twilight like a beast.

Thin arms lifted, not in praise - just habit.

The skyline bruises into evening tones,

No wind, no birds,

just the hush of ending.

Bird huddles close, all daylight shed,

A crown of leaves above her head.

The sun slips low, a molten thread, 

unspooling gold where day has fled. 

Blooms still hold a blush of flame,

Too bright for dusk, too soft to name.

 Petals curling as shadows grow,

A slow retreat, a final show.

Yet in the dim, they seem to gleam—

Embers flickering in a dream.

Leaning against the weathered stone,

They bloomed too late, too far alone.

The sea is iron. The wind is keen.

The Sunday Ishmael: 28/09/2025: The Musical

Bel and Keir's duet at the Labour Party Conference Musical: 

🎤 Bel:  
I’ve read your memos, seen your polls,  
Can justice come in electoral goals?  
You say we must be prudent, smart—  
But Keir, just means-test my heart.

🎤 Keir:  
I fear the headlines, fear the spin,  
They say compassion’s not how you win.  
But your voice cuts through the party chart—  
And maybe I should means-test my heart.

🎤 Both:  
Let’s raise the rate, let’s raise the roof,  
Let’s tax the rich and tell the truth.  

No more half-measures torn apart—  
Tonight, we means-test our hearts.

Like a super-size Kemi Badenoch, 

Bel Ribeiro-Addy was on Laura Kuensberg's political panel in Liverpool, because the BBC are covering the Labour Party Conference. The other, less woke, political parties might go to the posh, slightly faded seaside, but Labour knows that its black conference goers will feel more comfortable in a grimy, northern city. And they have to do something to keep their Northern onside.

Keir Starmer was the interviewee of the morning, winning my heart with his sweet little smile and touching little donkey story.

The Sunday Times broke a story that Keir bought seven acres of agricultural land behind his parents' home in Surrey so that his parents could set up an animal sanctuary, and gave the land to them through a structure designed to exclude the field's value from their estate after they died. You can imagine the glee with which the Sunday Times was all over the story - especially after Angela Raynor's recent stamp duty difficulties. But Keir smiled a little sadly as he told the nation the Times had got things wrong. "I was a lawyer at the time and the land was only £20,000". Laura jumped in to say £20,000 is a lot of money to a lot of people - she could have added that when sold, in May 2022, Keir's share of the proceeds was around £295,000.

But Keir continued that he gave the field to his mum and dad, because they loved donkeys.

'My mum was very ill and she couldn't move around anymore. She, by the end of her life, had her leg amputated and she could barely communicate. She was very, very ill. She loved her donkeys and I wanted her to be able to see her donkeys.' He gave the field to his parents but retained the title - which kind of sounds like a life interest trust. He should have declared the field in the Register of Members Interests and an investigation by the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards in June 2022 into his failure to register the field ended in Mr Starmer apologising and the register being retrospectively amended.

So that got conference off to a good old fashioned money scandal start. Not that he did anything wrong. He's a lawyer, after all.

Back to Bel Ribena-Addy. She is at odds with Keir Starmer and Rachel Reeves concerning their handling of the economy and she never hesitates in setting out her economic position - that the Government should invest in the public sector to stimulate growth, Reeves should junk her fiscal head-roomery, the two child cap on Universal Credit benefits should be removed and the Winter Fuel payment fully restored.

No, come on - it's a legitimate economic theory. Post-Keynesianism. Basically, give the poor money and they will spend it and that is a good thing because it stimulates the economy - more goods are made and sold, more take-aways consumed. Whereas, if you give the rich money - or don't stop them from grabbing it for themselves, they will hoard it. Rich and poor will drift further apart, the middle-class will be beggared and Austerity will drive down growth. 

Time for another song from the Tax the Rich Musical:

Dancing Civil Servants

🎤 Civil Servants:  

We shuffle funds from here to there,  

Pretend we’ve got a plan to spare.  

The numbers dance, the figures prance—  

It’s time for the Budget Dance!

🎤 Chancellor (spinning):  

I cut, I freeze, I allocate,  

And blame the poor for the interest rate.  

I twirl through debt, I leap through loss—  

While dodging every moral cross.

🎤 Chorus:  

Oh spin the stats, disguise the pain

And waltz through cuts like summer rain.  

The rich applaud, the poor revolts—  

But still we dance the Budget Waltz!

Gary Stevenson, former trader, author of the Trading Game, is of very similar view. 

 “We’re heading for collapse if we don’t act.”

“I’ve seen the numbers. The rich are getting richer at a pace that’s unsustainable. If we don’t tax extreme wealth, we’ll end up with a society where the top 1% live in luxury and everyone else is in economic freefall. It’s not just unfair—it’s economically suicidal.”

“Bel is absolutely right to call for wealth taxes. We need to stop pretending that billionaires are job creators. They’re asset hoarders."

Passport stamps for travellers to two-state Britain: 

Travelling to two-state Britain? Here's some Tips to help fit in:

• Language: In Rich Britain, “we’re tightening our belts” means switching from Dom Pérignon to Veuve Clicquot. In Real Britain, it means skipping dinner.

• Dress Code: Rich Britain wears tailored suits and moral ambiguity. Real Britain wears school uniforms bought two sizes too big to last the year.

But, Bel and Gary, what about Trickle Down? You know, the more they have, the more wealth is in the economy:

The Trickle Down Tango - 

We dance in suits, we dine in jets,  

We say the poor should pay their debts.  

We build our wealth on borrowed hope,  

Then blame the poor who cannot cope.  

Trickle down, trickle down, we swear it’s real—  

Just ignore the hunger, and sign the deal.

Bel and Gary take the view that Trickle-Down Economics is horse-shittery. That wealth inequality is systemic and dangerous, that a wealth tax is essential to rebalance the economy, that austerity has failed and deepened poverty, that public sector investment is key to long-term growth and stability and that without intervention, collapse is likely. The we're all doomed argument.

Well, what of the Laffer Curve?

What indeed? the Laffer curve illustrates a theoretical relationship between rates of taxation and the resulting levels of the government's tax revenue. The Laffer curve assumes that no tax revenue is raised at the extreme tax rates of 0% and 100%, meaning that there is a tax rate somewhere between 0% and 100% that maximizes government tax revenue. The more you tax, the less incentive there is to work and the more likely it is that your whoreson millionaire will bugger off abroad. It was made up by Arthur Laffer in 1974, when he sketched the curve on a napkin to illustrate his argument, during a meeting with Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld, and has been held in due reverence by economists ever since. But is there any evidence in practice of it working? Most countries are not near the “revenue-maximizing” point. In other words, cutting taxes often leads to less revenue, not more, and critics argue that the curve has been weaponized to justify tax cuts for the wealthy, without evidence that these cuts benefit the broader economy. The Kansas Experiment was a tax-cutting policy initiated by Governor Sam Brownback in 2012, citing the Laffer Curve which aimed to stimulate economic growth through significant tax reductions. The experiment involved the largest tax cuts in Kansas history, but it ultimately led to budget shortfalls and economic challenges, prompting the Kansas legislature to repeal the tax cuts in 2017. 

Ribeiro-Addy advocates higher taxes on the ultra-rich to fund public services, the opposite of Laffer’s tax-cut logic and Stevenson argues that concentrated wealth is economically destabilizing, and that redistribution is essential—not optional.

Welcome to The Curveball: Laffer versus Reality:

Host:

“Tonight, we welcome the man who turned tax theory into a cocktail napkin legend—Arthur Laffer!”

(Applause. Laffer enters holding a napkin framed in gold.)

🧠 Arthur Laffer (smiling):

“Let me be clear: if you tax people too much, they stop working. It’s basic math. Or napkin art. Either way, I’m very good at this.”

💼 Gary Stevenson (guest economist):

“Arthur, with respect, Kansas tried your theory. They slashed taxes, and the economy tanked. Schools closed. Roads crumbled. The only thing that trickled down was despair.”

🏛️ Bel Ribeiro-Addy (guest MP):

“And let’s not forget the UK. Austerity didn’t unleash growth—it unleashed food banks. Your curve is less economics, more economic fan fiction.”

🎤 Arthur Laffer (defensive):

“But Reagan loved it! And he had great hair. Besides, the curve is elegant. It’s shaped like a smile. Don’t you want a smiling economy?”

📈 Audience Member (shouting):

“Your curve looks like my mortgage graph—up, then disaster!”

“The Laffer Curve”

A full-cast number featuring Arthur Laffer, hedge fund managers, and a confused Treasury intern.

Style: Vaudeville meets cabaret, with tap dancing economists and a chorus line of tax forms.

🎤 Arthur Laffer:  

I drew a curve upon a napkin,  

Said, “Cut the tax, the cash’ll happen!”  

They cheered and clapped, the rich got thrilled—  

While public services got billed.

🎤 Chorus:  

It’s shaped like hope, it dips like lies,  

It’s sold as truth in bow-tie guise.  

But every time we slash and swerve,  

We crash into the Laffer Curve!

🎤 Treasury Intern:  

I studied graphs, I did my best—  

But this one failed the fiscal test.  

It’s not a plan, it’s just a squiggle,  

And now my pension’s just a giggle.

Les Misérables: Political Edition

In foreign news, we are delighted to report that the Dwarf Sarkozy has finally been sent to prison. You remember Sarkozy? Former President of France, and, as Wiki so elegantly puts it: "Nicolas Paul Stéphane Sarközy de Nagy-Bocsa, born 28 January 1955, is a French politician and convicted criminal who served as President of France from 2007 to 2012." Ha ha, ho ho, hee hee. 

The only question remaining is: how did he get away with it for so long? m'sieur ishmael on le dwarf Sarkozy: "An' weel ze French people now consider ze dwarf, Sarkozy, a dirty, underhanded, lying, thieving, baby-killing sonofafuckingbitch and throw 'is scabby arse in ze Bastille, after first keecking  eem up an' down ze Champs Elysees?"

Well, m'siur, they finally did, and le dwarf, like any other convicted prisoner, is now saying his nightly prayer: "and that's another one up the Judge's arse."

Le petit provocateur, Sarkozy, was charged with passive corruption in the long-running case involving alleged illegal campaign financing from Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi. However, in September 2025, the Paris Criminal Court acquitted him of passive corruption, along with other charges like illegal campaign financing and concealment of embezzlement. He was found guilty only of criminal conspiracy - he allowed close associates to seek Libyan funds for his 2007 campaign, but there wasn’t sufficient evidence to prove he personally received or knowingly benefited from corrupt payments.

It's like getting Al Capone on tax irregularities.

Passive corruption, by the way, is a Frenchism, meaning the intentional act of an official, directly or via an intermediary, who requests or accepts benefits of any nature for themselves or a third party, or agrees to a promise of such advantage, to behave or abstain from acting according to their duty or in carrying out their roles in violation of their formal duties in a way which harms, or has the potential to harm, financial interests.

Five years. Merde.

There are four splendid anthologies of the writings of stanislav and mr ishmael, 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.

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