The Sunday Ishmael: 15/02/2026

Fuckin' aunt Nora - have none of these goons the slightest acquaintance with realpolitik? At least I am not alone in questioning the sanity of taking the nation to war in objection to what the Russian government chooses to do to a Russian citizen in Russia. Laura Kuenssberg  interrogated the dreadful Foreign Secretary twins Cooper and Patel,

suggesting that all this posturing about frog poisoning is to nudge the British public towards accepting an increase in defence spending. This was robustly denied, because it seems, that whilst other foreign governments can murder their own citizens without Britain raising a whimper, Russia is entirely different  because, Cooper alleges, they attack us daily and pursue their treasonous citizens onto our streets to kill them. Time for a little pragmatic politics, surely?

And, in Scottish news, Peter Murrell, the former chief executive of the Scottish National Party (SNP), and former husband of Nicola Sturgeon who knew nothing about it of course and divorced the little shit the minute it looked like the turds were floating to the top, is accused of embezzling nearly £460,000 from the party over more than 12 years. The charges include:

1. Embezzlement of £459,046.49 of SNP funds over the period from August 2010 to January 2023.
2. Purchase of a £124,550 motorhome using SNP funds for personal use.
3. Creation of false duplicate sales documents relating to the motorhome.
4. Use of £16,489 of SNP funds towards a £33,000 Volkswagen Golf.
5. Claiming £18,408.91 in expenses he was allegedly not entitled to.
6. Spending £159,757.39 of SNP funds at 82 retailers on items allegedly for personal use or others.
7. Spending £81,610.19 of SNP funds on Amazon purchases allegedly for personal use or others.
8. Claiming £12,500 on an SNP credit card in October 2020.
9. Claiming £112,050 on an SNP credit card on December 7, 2020.
10. One charge says he created a “false invoice” to provide party accountants, which led to “false and inaccurate” information being recorded in an “accounting system used by the Scottish National Party in an attempt to disguise the true nature” of the purchase of a Jaguar car. The indictment states that in August 2021, the car was sold to We Buy Any Car in Glasgow, and £47,378.76 was paid into Murrell's personal bank account.

The charges against Murrell are included in an indictment, pending a court appearance scheduled for next Friday. He is yet to enter a plea.

Murrell held the rather lucrative post of SNP chief executive from 2001 to 2023.   

There now. Isn't that nice.

We've been following the case in these pages as the police agonisingly slowly investigated the embezzlement of S.N.P. Party funds, in Operation Branchform, questioning Murrell, John Swinney, current leader of the S.N.P. and Nicola Sturgeon, previous leader of the S.N.P.

An Independence activist badgered the Police into investigating the disappearance of funds amounting to over £600,000 raised for another referendum on Scotland leaving the United Kingdom. Many goods were seized by the police in an unprecedented police raid on the home of Murrell and his wife,  and a very expensive motor home was impounded by the police from the driveway of Peter Morrell's mum. Here's a conversation as imagined by Stanislav, the young Polish Plumber between two imaginary characters on the eve of the police raid. 

A Thistle Jig of Shit.

Ah, a life on the open road, the wind blawin' up ma kiltie, I deserve it, hen, after a' these years, toilin' fer the peeple, lang oors in stuffy rooms, handies blistered frae pullin on the levers o state.

An' you, get ye oot an awa' frae the ungrateful bastards an accoontants an journalists (spits). 

Ah, but the matchie tartan face maskie was such a grand fashion statement, showed aff yer bog-brush hair-cut.

Nay, lassie, it won't be a £40 grand piece o shit, just load o plywood an teak-effect plastic shoved inside big, noisy Citroen diesel van, bangin an fuckin clatterin to wake they Labour voters, engine sound like stanislav shakin set of spanners inside biscuit tin, with shit cassette under feet. I'll no' have to go and stumble round in dark, thistly wilderness while you tak a wee dumpie in van and vicie versie. Look,  top o' range camper van.  Joined together in holy deadlock was fine when we was sitting pretty in Holyrood on top of all the money but is only for sick and health and rich or poor and not for content of bowels, we're no' Liberal Democrats.

Awa' an' bile yer heed, yer dam' stupid ex-Chief Exec, I'll nae go near yer mobile toilet. How would it look in car crash, shit flying all ower the shop an' bog roll, only not proper bog roll but that stuff, thin and cold, IZAL, good for fuck all, not even for wiping of arsehole; every bastard with mobile home has IZAL toilet paper. Is bad enough  take dump in van like fucking Englishman but then can’t even wipe Former First Ministerial pass clean but instead smear shit all over bottom, or finger go through and get all filthied-up with spread-out bit of shit, better would be with handful of grass from roadside and never mind IZAL trick bogroll.  Manufacturer of IZAL is rolling about on floor, laughing off bollocks at mobile home driver and boy scoot. 

But, ma sweet former First Minister, we can pull in by a lochside and you can make me a cup of smug tea and nae milk because I am watching my cholesterol and I drink Fairtrade tea because I like to think that everytime I have a cuppa some money is going to those huge traditionally-built women in Botswanaland, even though it isn’t. 

Ye can mak yer ain tea, if smirking gay crewcut Polis Scotland lets ye  oot o jail lang enough. I'm nae tea-wifie. Fred West had a fucking camper van an' look at him, spent his spare time choppin' people up, squeeze into box and bury under patio, like on Brookside. Fred was made mad  having to cope with life inside rubbish camper van, driving round Forest of fucking Dean, banging fucking head and choking on shit fumes and pots and pans falling out from cupboard every bend, no fucking wonder was serial killer.  Was very nice bloke by all accounts, apart from being raving lunatic and him and Rose killing people, mainly children. 

But, ma shouty wee dwarfie, it might become  politically expedient to hae an exit strategy an' become better acquainted with the beauties of the Heelands and Islands of oor  magnificent nation. 

Are ye serious, ye bald fat wee git? We havenae dualled the A9 yet. 

Ma dear wee gurrul, jes' as high as ma heart, the £110 grand camper van we'll be tourin' in has a bicycle compartment to hold a bicycle for me an' one fer ye. We can park by a loch and cycle through our Heather and Gorse lands, wi' nae worries aboot goin' to work....... nae need to rush the gorse.....

Ye want to join they band o' nutters who jump on a bicycle and pedal like demented hobgoblin speedfreaks  up the  highest roads in the country shouting Gimme A Fucking Heart Attack, I Can’t Stand Being A Teacher For Another Twenty Years!  Driving in Highlands is rubbish anytime  (we needed the upgrade money for trams in Edinburgh where the voters are) but filled-up in Summer with Herman lesbian Hells Angel and  demented lunatic nutters on bikes and smug bastards in camper vans is like something off Prisoner programme with Patrick McGoohan, dead now, of course, but was nearly a hundred and so never mind. An ye better get used to it - that Prisoner programme.

How can I put this, my wee Pigmy of stature but Giant propensities, we may need to get out of Dodge fast. In this case, Glasgae. A lonely mountainside, in pitch black, the twa o us an a wee pup, a Greyfriars Bobby, is looking like the better option.

Ye're going frae bad tae fucking worse, ye Fat SilverFox Retired Loony. Is not just poxy shit van clogging-up Afucking9 and can’t even stop in layby because of too many smug old bastards like you sitting  at table outside van, drinking FairfuckingTrade cuppa, not too strong and made with  pissmilk and handful of sweetener for heart and horrid old legs all fucked-up with varicose veins and every bastard can see because of shorts or kilties, even though brass bollocks would freeze-off from monkey, up there in Highlands. No fucker wants to see countryside all fucked up with horror show of pasty old bastards sunbathing in fucking public and probably piles hae got, too, all around arsehole, and maybe hanging-out, from sitting outside in kilties with fucking gale blowing up arse from Arctic fucking Circle and mean tight-fisting use of Izal joke bogroll (but isn’t roll but leaves of piss-thin hard shiny so-call toiletpaper) and good for fuck all is and not only hand goes through and gets covered-up in shit but fucking watertap in van is nae working as usual and nae matter if ye stand with airse cheeks as far apart as possible which is not very far, as we are nae Liberal Democrats, and keeping shitfinger hand up in air and trying hard not to do breathing-in and stomping on little foot switch to make water come and at least can wash fucking shit off from hand but instead of water coming from tap fucking hazard light is coming on instead. And radio. Is Radio Scotland an' is just dreadful noise of bagpipe, fuck me, sounds like massacre in cat sanctuary, run by mad old lady who is dead in living room from hypothermia from Westminster Fuck-Up Economy,  spent all money on Kit-E-Kat and cruel, wicked bastard at Scottish  fucking Gas has cut off power and local nutter with chainsaw bought from car boot sale  has seized golden opportunity an'  old lady’s assorted cats disembowlering is being, one at a time, by giggling nutter, Here, Kitty-Kitty, Here Kitty- Kitty so even cats not actually being mutilated to death is all freaked out and screeching and climbing up walls, Radio Scotland bagpipe concert is worse than massive cat massacre.  

Time is running out, ma wee Princess of the Steamie, Drastic action needs tae be ta'en an' I'm the man to rise to a Crisis, trust me. There's some lovely little villages in the hills around Inverness.......

What? Go down Clackmacfuckery Village Hall tae the tea-dance, tae listen to some fat old fucker playing a wheezy old accordion,  made oot o' shiny tin and plastic and sackin' and hunnerds o' fucking keys and buttons so many that playing it must be hit and fucking miss like an Oompah band from the Black Forest, but backwards. And watch decrepit old boys  in wigs and false teeth and kilties seducing old wifies and feeling-up  bony old airses before the bus comes tae tak them back to the Hame. The one wi' the Polish nurses. And would ye be doin’ me the honour of having the next Polka with me, Jings, but you’re a right bonny lass, indeed y’are, he leers, at a spindle-thin, one foot in the grave,  ninety year old,  the dirty filthy old bastard. Then it'll be back to the van frae Hell, hazard light flashing off and on, nightmare noise from radio, and can’t wash hand or wipe arse  and  would be better off dead, or at very least wanting to get back in fucking Polis Scotland's cells where there's a flushing toilet (the polis watch you take a dump in your cell in the toilet wi' nae seat and then hit the flush switch from ootside the door); so ye'll hae to go outside with yer kiltie tucked around yer waist and grab handfuls of grass and wipe arse and fingers like the fucking savage ye are and fucking van cost £110 fucking grand and every bastard knows that grass up airse is primary cause of piles, especially when is  not even fucking grass but fucking thistle. And people going past in proper car all shoutin' and hootin', Look at silly old Ex Chief Exec sticking thistle up airse, must be demented, maybe attempting suicide by anal lacerations off thistle, is fucking really mad, fuck me, don’t wanna get that dementia rubbish and run around like loony, with  kiltie up roond waist and  thistle and nettles up airse and shit on fingers.

 Best thing in situation like this is stick shitty fingers in ground and keep on stabbing until hand is covered in just dirt and not shit and can touch clothing, then remove kiltie and wipe off arse and when no-one is passin' in proper car, throwaway  in hedge,  only not where dog, Bobby, can go and pull out and start to eat and maybe get sporran stuck over head and normal bastard, going past in proper car is on mobile phone to cop and RSPCA,  Allo? Allo? ….Is polis? Right… SeeYouJimmy?.....   Is fucking pervert here, on A9,  and dog has got head in sporran  and poo….  Nah, is not skidmark,……is proper poo…dunno…..might be dogpoo…but might be yuman poo…bloke looks like fucking nutter an' thistle has sticking out from airse…I know….all sorts takes,….but fuck me, Jesus….an' shit has got all over hand….no….is not car…is van….with awning and elevating roof….is some foreign shit…..is  Niesmann + Bischoff, all filled up with plywood furniture and things that don’t work. Better come and arrest him,  aye, before he starts sticking yon fucking thistles up the puir wee  dog’s ….Aye, Edinburgh by the look o' him.

So, former First Minister wifie, will ye nae come and hae a wee lookie at it? I've parked it round ne maw's, discrete-like? 

That'll be a no, then? You'd rather go on our usual S and M holiday, dress-up in leather and rubber and plastic and smack my airse with thistles?

Now, that's beginning to persuade me - nae danger of falling-off bicycle, probably even have proper toilet in S and M hotel and nae shit cassette, sliding about, under drivin' seat;  is much easier than this shit and not cost £110 grand and then £3 grand for bikes to tie on back. No, bike on back of grossed-out plumbervan with inoperating integral sanitation and plywood furniture and trick toilet paper, is all bollocks.

Too late, now, anyway, hen.

 Grooming of the Nation

Which segues rather neatly, talking of airses and S&M, into my review of Pillion. Those of the readership who have been following my adventures for some time may remember that for a quarter of a century I was employed as a Probation Officer in inner city Birmingham, for several years in the Sparkbrook Probation Office. In the adjoining Sparkhill ward a convicted terrorist, Shahid Butt, is standing as an independent councillor in May's local elections. The constituency has a 91 per cent ethnic minority population with around 70 per cent practicing Islam. In 1999, Butt was sentenced to five years in prison in Yemen for terrorism after being convicted with five other UK nationals of conspiracy to blow up the British consulate, an Anglican church and a hotel in the city of Aden. Butt says that his confession was tortured out of him, and there were no actual bombings, just talking about it. Since returning to Birmingham in 2003, Butt has worked with the Home Office's anti-terrorism Prevent strategy and spent over 20 years counselling young people away from extremism - presumably on the basis of "who better qualified?"

Actually, I didn't set out to talk about Mr. Butt, who has an unfortunate name and a very unfortunate past, but looks like a nice man now that he is pushing 60.

No, I was actually setting out my credentials by way of introduction to my review of Pillion, a film featuring Alexander  Skarsgård and Harry Melling. I've had a lot of conversations with dangerous men, some in my office, some in prison, once while acting as a decoy for the police, to engage the perpetrator whilst the police crept up to snatch the little girl he'd abducted, once whilst being held prisoner in the kitchen of a council flat for the meagre contents of my thin wallet. I've provided a lot of dangerous men with a lot of coffee and cigarettes.

And I can assure you that not one of them looked like this:

If they did, there would be even more prison officers having sex with them and posting the videos on wherever these things are posted. And there does seem to be a bit of an epidemic of in-cell sex between guards and inmates.

Nope, Skarsgård is a fantasy. The camera loves him. He's big, blonde and Aryan. The reality is that abusive men tend to be deeply unattractive, undersized in an inner city rat-like way, inadequate, living on benefits, a bit thick and dead eyed. That's why they are abusive - their self-image is so low that it needs constant bolstering by controlling their victim, beating them up, (now look what you made me do), raping them, imprisoning them and pimping them.

Any other dangerous fantasies in the film? Depicting the anal penetration of a virgin by a substantial penis adorned with a thick Prince Albert, without also depicting the blood, shit and anal tears requiring an A&E repair job. A bit like Erica Jong's zipless fuck.

The reviews adore the film. Edgy, they say, a tender love story, sexy, an exploration of BDSM, and, worst of all, a comedy. It is not a comedy, unless you find buttocks and humiliation endlessly funny. If you find it sexy, then the film has done its job and corrupted you. 

Because it deals with homosexuality, audiences are blinded to the reality of the grooming, coercion and abuse - after all, it's blokes, innit, and the Sub has consented to his humiliation and abuse and he learns to enjoy the sex, (no kissing, though), sleeping on the floor, the group sex en plein air.

 Remember, though, there are acts that you legally cannot consent to. Like nailing your penis to a work bench.  In the Spanner case judgement - R v Brown [1993] 2 All ER 75

HOUSE OF LORDS, consensual sado-masochistic homosexual encounters which occasioned actual bodily harm to the victim were assaults occasioning actual bodily harm, contrary to s 47 of the 1861 Act, and unlawful wounding, contrary to s 20 of that Act, notwithstanding the victim's consent to the acts inflicted on him, because public policy required that society be protected by criminal sanctions against a cult of violence which contained the danger of the proselytisation and corruption of young men and the potential for the infliction of serious injury. 

If you are against me in considering Pillion to be a film which is likely to deprave and corrupt, switch the gender of the naive, lonely and vulnerably young man. There. He is now a young woman. Now you can see the abuse for what it is. Look at the submissive young men, serving their "masters" who they believe to be in love with them. Now see the girls, victims of Pakistani rape gangs. It is all about a corrupted sex drive, power, control, and jerking off because humiliation and contempt get your motor running.

I daresay my view is not widely held.

.............................................................

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.