The Sunday Ishmael 18-10-2020

Scottish political commentators are crowing over the forthcoming disintegration of England, hailing gorgeous, pouting Andy Burnham

as the new leader of the North, successor to Edgar Atheling and Harry Hotspur and gleefully anticipating a Harrying of the North by Boris to subjugate northern England; which can only further stir up anti-southern sentiment, already fuelled by the gaping economic and attainment gap between North and South. Boris says the situation is grave. Andy says he's exaggerating. Boris says Sir Keir should give Andy a good metaphorical slapping. Michael-can't-stay-out-of-a-good-fight Gove says Andy is posturing and must bend over to Tier Three restrictions.

 Andy says he will take legal action as the current furlough system is not fair to low paid workers. Boris says he will intervene if an agreement cannot be reached. Sounds like a Harrying brewing.

Boris Johnson visited Orkney in July this year, as you will remember.

It was not his first visit. Some years previously, before our Gnasher was mistress of all she surveyed, and before she was First Minister of the Scottish Government (honest, not invent, that's what they call themselves - not surprising that 25% of Scots believe that they are already independent of the United Kingdom), back when Scotland had a mere Scottish Executive, mr ishmael was privileged to attend a meeting of the Orkney Tourist Board at which the Executive Director of Visit Scotland, Willy McCloud, and his chum, Boris Johnson, assured the local tourist industry that they were working flat-out to promote tourism to Orkney.

Here's mr ishmael's report to the local paper on the event:

 Head Line: Jive Talking at the AGM

By-line: Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter and Superman's friend:

 Mr. Willy McCloud is acclaimed by all in the multi-trillion dollar global tourist industry, most of which he, personally, is going to bring to Scotland. A former accommodation provider and a man of such immense personal charm and warmth it is easy to see how his customers would have felt about a repeat taste of his hospitality. A higher calling, however, diverted young Willy's stellar talents to the world of tourism consultancy, management and promotion. His many talents were showcased last night to the primitive fisher folk and cave dwellers who make up Orkney's miniscule, faltering tourist business.

His facility with his sometimes discernible magic lantern show was dazzling; that it was disordered, uninstructive and flashed before us in a second or two was neither here nor there: who needs a professional approach to presentation when addressing savages dressed in sealskins? If Willy's department organises similarly smooth presentations for potential tourists to Scotland then those engaged here in tourism will really have to reappraise their approach to making a living; if it answers genuine questions with Willy's forthright courtesy and mastery of numbers and if it displays Willy's approach to alternative suggestions it is difficult to see how, in partnership with the Scottish Executive, VisitWilly'sScotland can fail to emulate the success of, for instance, the Holyrood parliament building - only a couple of years late and just under one thousand percent over budget.

Orkney tourism providers were also, at last night's AGM, thrilled to see Boris Johnson wearing one of his many hats  - this time as the proprietor of something called seeBorisinthehighlands.com

Boris treated us to a revised, motivational version of the Eton Rowing song: rah! rah! rah! money! money! money!go!go!go!  or words to that effect. That he had come here with no expense spared to so inspire us brought further ecstatic applause from an audience now whipped to a frenzy known only to Orkney hillbillys enraptured by their suited visiters from Sooth.

So much applause was there for Willy and Boris that some present felt that a hat should be passed round at this juncture without more ado; instead, displaying a uniquely sensitive approach to its employees, Orkney Tourist Board insisted that, despite their embarassment, they stand up to be inspected like a bunch of heifers and take a bow. Truly, there is no business like show business.

 Willy said that he could guarantee the quite satisfactory status quo at least until he was on the flight back to his executive suite in Edinburgh. The Chair invited those present to dig deep into their pockets to fund a fictional and powerless status quo to run in tandem with Willy's Brave New World status quo-to-come and soothingly told us that we could sleep safely in our caves for she would be deserting neither us nor her salary, we would always be able to come and be talked-to by her. Thus reassured, we trudged off in the northern night to our chilly caves there to watch, on our car-battery-powered televisions, a restorative episode of the more mundane, less fanciful reality portrayed in Little Britain.

Boris in the Highlands - summer hols, August 2020

 

Boris' tent in the Highlands, August 2020

 

 

 Yes - the Scottish tourist industry was safe in their hands, although the idea of the Prime Minister sitting in a damp field in a badly put-up tent being eaten alive by midges has a certain charm to it.

Dramatis Personae:

1. Willy McCloud (real name, honest, not invent)  Executive Director, Scotland  UK Hospitality Nov 2011 - Present

2. Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (real name, honest, not invent)  Mayor of London 2008 to 2016, Foreign Secretary 2016 to 2018, Prime Minister 2019 to the present and, second only to Ringo Starr, the luckiest man alive.

3. Jimmy Olsen cub reporter on the Daily Planet November 1938 to the present, also known as Ishmael Smith.

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Stanislav on pandemic viruses:

Fuck me, bird 'flu now, as well as Alan Johnson's disease. Good job we have hereditary Plagues minister Rosemary Benn at the helm, as we slide back into Middle fucking Ages. Maybe Lady Sir Iain MachineGun Blair send merry men out, blast birds from sky with Hoekkler and Koch. At least do something useful with mad gunslinger psycho-cops. Maybe Tony Benn wrap-up warm in cardy, go out in field with flask of tea and shout at naughty bird, go away, I am old Labour. And vegetarian. Maybe Foetus Hague go and point finger.

On the bright side, though, a good outbreak of plague would clear out the old and the sick and the poor - although, thankfully, none of the establishment who will be inoculated up to their bollocks - and leave so much more money for houses of parliament pensions.

Leicester Royal Infirmary, flagship NewLabour disease pit, and employer of mad ventriloquist McCann, has a mission statement which says: Doesn't matter if our incompetent actions result in your death as you would have died eventually anyway. Honest. Stanislav not invent. The government could display real vision by adapting this to any outbreak of plague. Hard choices. Not come in Downing Street to be popular (just as fucking well, really, considering.)Trust me I am son of fucking Manse. Many must die in order that few remain rich. More joy in heaven over poor bastards flung in plague pit and cover-up with lime and forget about. May as well go now as hang around with arthritis, dribbling. Only die in hospital anyway, lungs fill up limbs drop off from AJD. Better off fucking dead, really. Not like us who is left behind to grow old and spend pension. At going down of sun and in morning will remember bird flu death millions. Age shall not wither. Maybe dig-up Bernard Matthews and give peerage for solve pension crisis. Lord Levy negotiate price with family, oi vay. Have Nagilah. Don't work Saturdays.

Stanislav go now in Tesco, buy whole stock of own brand Beechams Powder, come home, seal-up doors and window, not go out, not do plumbing job. Kill budgie. 

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In house of reptile last week is opposition debate on cuntus johnsonitis fatalis, named after singing postmistress and head of National Death Service, Mrs Johnson. This is epidemic of mildly sick people go in hospital and come out in box dead as fucking mackerel. Thousands of people is already dead, killed by useless private cleaning firm, Germs&Corpse U Like, lazy foreign nurse terrorist, greedy dirty doctor bastard and pension-mad chief executive of hospital. Is most serious health problem in country. Thousands more destined for slow, dirty extermination. Even fucking dogs catch cuntus johnsonitis fatalis from owners. Is worse, much worse than evilest evil ever committed on nine-eleven, is murder on a grand scale and yet, yet……in the debate is hardly no fucker to be seen. Handful of sleeping drunks; mad pizza saleswoman, maybe twenty, out of over six hundred MP, is lying about in chamber, farting. No Lib Dem at all. No Paisleys. No Jock Nazi Party. All must be in restaurant, knocking shop or public toilet with Michael White and Kevin Maguire, proprietors of Gay Toilet Sex Is Us.

Speaker Gorbals Mick is absent probably queuing up outside toilet - because is nobody on Labour benches need protecting from tricky question, his only purpose on Earth. Health minister “Cocaine Carol” Flint is off doing worthy relief work in streets of Kings Cross and singing postmistress, Alan Johnson, herself, is busy putting finishing touch to new album, Songs from a Mortuary. Department of Extermination is represented only by grey-haired old biddy, used to be dinner lady in Rowley Regis, now, fuck me, minister of state.

Madam Deputy Speaker, says veteran Tory nobody, Is fucking shit, all this, get letter all day long from constituent, father go in local hospital, Madam Deputy Speaker, share fucking bed with two other people, roll around in shit, get some slap from nurse, get no food, starve and then fucking die, Madam Deputy Speaker; yes I will give way to the Honourable Drunk opposite…

I thank the honourable gentleman, said Barry Knuckles (New Lab, West Bromwich) and wish to tell House that I get these fucking letters, too, all fucking day long, Madam Deputy Speaker. Fucking constituents pestering fucking life out of me. I mean, Madam Deputy Speaker, what the fuck do they expect me to do about it? Work in fucking warehouse before I came here. Do I look like a fucking doctor? Is very real problem for honourable and right honourable members. Need pay rise, Madam Deputy Speaker, need more staff, need less hours and more holiday, Madam Deputy Speaker. Otherwise attract wrong type of person in House. Put people off voting for me.

I thank the honourable member for his intervention but back, Madam Deputy Speaker, to this old bastard in my constituency….Yes I will give way to the right honourable lady…

I am grateful to the honourable wotsisname and might I just say Madam Deputy Speaker that my pizzas are on sale in the lobby of this house and outside the other place, too, at an introductory price of three for two and they are, if I may say so, like yourself, Madam Deputy Speaker, and myself, hot stuff…

The House rang to shouts of Siddown; Tory Slag; You must be fucking joking and Show us yer tits then, this last from Mr Knuckles of New Labour.

Order, order, the right honourable lady must be heard.

Thank you Madam deputy Speaker and as I was saying to my friend His Holiness Pope Nazi only the other day over lunch in the Vatican, these pizzas of mine really do, Your Holiness, represent outstanding value and maybe you would consider a bulk order for your Paedophile Escape Committee Working Lunches. I know you have a lot of hungry mouths to feed on these occasions and I could get you one fucking Hail Mary of a deal on a lorry load of the five-cheese variety. The Lunch is a-over, fuck off in a-peace, was the Holy Father’s strange response. Got enough-a on-a my gold-a salver with those-a fucking McCann nutters a-coming around here every five minutes with a fucking film crew, saying darling you were lovely but can we do that again, just-a one more take, darling, Capiche ? Shower of a-fucking heathen cunts. Go on, fuck off back to the nutter house before I-a fucking excommunicate you, you-a mad old bitch. Take your fucking pizzas a-with you. This is-a fucking Italy. We don’t-a want-a pizza made in-a fucking Milton Keynes. Anyway, thought-a you was a fucking M-a fucking P, eh ? Not-a fucking fast-a food-a salesgirl. What next-a happen? Is-a whole fucking house of commons go on-a fucking Tesco advert, every fucking little help-a. Fuck-a me, great Catholic, Napoleon, was-a right, is a nation of-a fucking shopkeeper, go-a straight in-a fucking Purgatory or my-a name-a is-a not Joseph Mengele, Butcher of-a fucking Poles, Scourge of-a fucking Jews and-a Protector-a General of-a sacred brotherhood of-a Nonce U Like. These geezers, blessed be the name of the Lord, is as much-a sin against as-a sinning, these kiddies is all tarts, always asking for it. Not fucking grateful. So what if holy man of God fuck up arse of few altar boys in otherwise life of service to one true religion. Issa perk of fucking job. Little bastard get used to have insertion of Holy Ghost. Don’t get fucking manse to live in like heretic fucking Presbyterian. Dominus Vobiscum and suffer the little children to-a come unto me. O sole mio, arrivederci Roma, issa Walls-a Cornetto, give-a it to me.

Anyway Madam Deputy Speaker it occurred to me in my lunch with il Papa that prayer might be the solution to this cuntus johnsonitis fatalis business. If only people in hospital were to pray to the Lord God who made them all, only not of course those beardy cunts and carpet munching vicars in the C-of-E, then our hospitals would be much better places. Prayer is the answer, Madam Deputy Speaker; prayer and pizza; a few Our Fathers and a warmish slice of Widdecombe’s Fair Pizza can ease an old person’s unnecessary passing no end. And I commend them both to the House.

Fuck off you mad old bat. Shove yer pizzas up yer arse. Show us yer tits. (hon. Mr Knuckles) Resign.

If I may, for the Government, Madam Deputy Speaker, reassure the House, said the dinner lady from Rowley Regis, the right honourable Madge Atkins, minister of death, that in conjunction with my right honourable friend, the hereditary minister for plagues, Mrs Rosemary Benn, we have carried out reee-surch into this whole matter and rather than bring in the bulldozers and waste public money on culling these patients and having huge funeral pyres darkening the fucking skies and feeding the frenzied, if diminutive literary skills of Mr Toilets Maguire - skies black with the smoke of infected old age pensioners being burned alive, and so on; cull of infected elderly spreads to Northampton, fire pits smoulder for days as government appeals to UN for airdrop of firelighters and lighter fluid, Nazi doctors roasted my sick father alive - we all know what the press would make of such a solution. So instead, members and right honourable members, we have decided to enlist the services of New York demolition expert, Mr Rudolf Fire-In-The-Hole Giuliani, who assures me that he can demolish all the hospitals with the patients still in them: we’ll put explosives in every floor and they’ll all come down sweet as a nut, right in their own footprints. Just be like mincing everybody up. It’s all quite humane, they don’t feel much and its better than the daily beatings and torture from the Sri Lankan nurses. I mean, I wouldn’t shit you, lady, its not nice or anything, but they were all probably going to die at some point, so fuck ‘em. We hoover up all the debris and ship it out to India to be turned into curry powder or whatever the fuck they do with it. And if the relatives complain you just say it was the ragheads did it and then invade Pakistan. It worked for us. That’ll be ten billion dollars, please.

I would further advise members that I spoke, through the door of the Michael White Exclusive Toilet Suite in Downing Street, to my right honourable friend, the prime minister, who, whilst terribly busy, found time to approve this visionary measure in order to deliver on the aspirations and values of the British people. Well, those British people not clogging-up the hospitals, anyway. Doctor Nutter McCann has offered to lend his expertise, too, as he became familiar with barbecue techniques during his recent sabbatical in Portugal. All he needs in return for doing his act is a donation to he and his wife, Myra’s, personal mortgage charity, from every grateful citizen. This, therefore is the government’s solution to the cuntus johnsonitis fatalis epidemic; never mind killing the sick old bastards slowly, by thirst and starvation and beatings and infection, lets just blow them, Madam Deputy Speaker, all to fuck. Rally round the flag, y’all
 

Hear-hear, hear-hear. Three cheers for Uncle Sam. Peerages all round. The House will rise. ( and go in search of joyful relief from Michael White and Strict David Aaronobitch.)

Stanislav advise only go in hospital with body armour and AK 47. (Most Reverend Bishop Jonathan Spank-Me Aitken can get cheap from friend down Turkish bathhouse)

Historical note: Alan Johnson served under Prime Minister Gordon Brown as Secretary of State for Health from 2007 to 2009 . At the age of 18 he was employed a s a postman.

Professor Quatermass - not really professor, well, maybe of advanced cheese studies or history of mobile telephone ring tones at University of Ashby de la Zouch, but not of politics; said:“Take country from this moment to next....?” Is shit, right, bollocks. Country and all things else take self from one moment etc. Happen anyway. Is no “moment.” Show Stanislav where is “moment.” Tell Stanislav when is next “moment.” Professor Q talk like any number of cunts on Today programme. At this moment in time. Devil, as ever, is in details. In very real sense. Is bottom line. At end of day. Prof Q is:“Desperate to see people works in offices...” God fucking help us all. Is height of ambition, eh? Everybody work in fucking office, be optimistic, be faintly artistic, listen to PotatoMan Mark Lawson blether and whine about Japanese cinema, like expert; watch Paul Morley on hundred best whatever programmes. Every fucking day. Is little known connection between punk rock and Medici Rennaisance. Oh yes. Make BBC cheque to Paul Morley RentAGob Ltd. Fuck me. 

Great Polish painter Rembrandt is art. But Balinese people have great saying, is “We Have No Art. We Do Everything As Well As We Can.”

Professor, run away from office and moments and Mark Lawson and metropolitan conservatism; make escape from Arts phonies like skriking, speech-impaired, hunchback, transexual Kirrrsty Wonk; forget optimism, just forget it. Come in Scotland and be miserable. Sit in cave, eat porridge with fingers, drink whisky, wear skirt, beat wife, read Scotsman, memorise melancholy doggerel of shit writer Burns and hate everything. Scotland is land of fathomless, irremediable, eternal grievance. Come in Scotland and dream of Vengeance.                                                                                                     Stanislav McLeodski   October 09, 2007

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Medical Bulletin 

Harris, the Blog Dog, has been hospitalised with acute pancreatitis, which is as painful as having your leg cut off without anaesthetic, according to the vet. Humans with this condition scream, but dogs hide their pain - an evolutionary characteristic developed to prevent the pack turning on them and ripping their throats out. Harris was on

Here's where my leg was shaved for my drip. I was very brave.

a fluid drip and intravenous morphine every 6 hours and lots of meds to calm everything down. Anyway, he's home now, on paracetomol syrup, probiotics, omeprazole, four meals of chicken and rice a day, and his bed next to the radiator. He glares at me a lot. Clearly blaming me.

Here's me, resting.

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Mr Ishmael and his young friend, Stanislav's essays were: 

Jive Talking at the AGM          undated -     circa 2012 

Fuck me, bird 'flu now              comment    November 13, 2007

House of Reptile                       comment -  November 23, 2007 

Professor Quatermass             comment   October 9th 2007 

 

Today, again,  mr ishmael's young friend, stanislav, a polish plumber, has been featured, to whet your appetite for Quick Rub Down with a House Brick or With love from Stanislav or Popped Down a Mine Shaft - the title is not decided yet. mr verge is currently working on the second volume, which will feature reprinted and previously unpublished stanislav. And, of course,  Honest, Not Invent is available in paperback or hardback.

 

We have stanislav from as long ago as 2007, and some of the finest ishmael essays from the present blog.  The book is available from lulu.com.   and it is now listed by both Blackwells and the Book Depository. Ishmaelites wishing to buy a copy should follow these steps:

Please register an account with them first.  This will save you a couple of quid, as going straight into the links provided below seems to make paypal think it's ok to charge in dollars, and apply their own conversion rate, which will put the price up slightly for a UK buyer.  Once the new account is set up, follow one of the links (to either paperback or hardback) or type "Honest, Not Invent" into the Lulu Bookstore search box.  If you follow a link, a pop-up box asks for age confirmation - simply set the date to (say) 1 January 1960, and proceed.  If you type the title, the anthology will not appear as a search result until the "show explicit content" box (found at the bottom left by scrolling down) has been checked.  You may also see the age verification box, as above, at this point.

Link for Hard Back : 

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/ishmael-smith/honest-not-invent/hardcover/product-njr7vg.html

Link for Paper Back : 

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/ishmael-smith/honest-not-invent/paperback/product-wq2kpg.html

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.  (ORDER10 might also work, for a 10% discount, if the 15% has expired.)With the 15% voucher, PB (including delivery to a UK address) should be £14.35; HB £23.74.  

LISTEN WITH "PAUL," FAMOUS ISRAELI BLOGGER ON RADIO FOUR.

 

"Paul," Pizzameister at the order-order PizzaHouse Of Blood,

relaxes between servings.

 Mr Colonel Guido von Fawkes, or "Paul" as he is known to his chums on the BBC, last week gave a spirited defence against an attack on rudeboy bloggers from Mr Andrew Blowjob, of the BBC. Andy, below, famously of one or two or more wives, one of them injucted, and one or two or more families, one of them lovingly injucted is the BBC's Man of the Moment, being paid fortunes of our money - probably very necessary when one has invisible, injucted families to support and possibly even more, which are so successfully and lovingly injucted that no-one, save themelves, has heard of them. Andy, below,  feels that bloggers are ugly people

 and that journalism is best left to handsome types like himself. And to proper journalists. Like Toilets Maguire. And Sir Michael Kneepads White. And Polly Mascara. And handsome 'n' sober wotsisname, thatspluttering bloke with the red face, who's always pissed, Hutton, Wilf Hutton, is it, thinks he's an unofficial member of the govament, whichever gang of cunts is running it at the time, Wilf is in it, ex officio, as he'd say, if he could get the words out. And Kirsty Hunchback. Her. too.  Has SHE any children by handsome Andy, below ?

Andy, star of Andy Marr's Sunday Blowjob Show, A History of Blowjob Britain with Andy Marr and, Start The Blowjob Week with Andy Blowjob and Jesus only knows what else, says I have a minimum  of two families which I support thanks to the license payer, who should himself shut up and leave journalism to me. I mean, just think how accurately and eruditely and presciently journalists like myself and my other Jock chums foretold the events which resulted in the forfeiture of the national wealth by the bankers. No? Well, it's all very well to say that with hindsight. And young mr stanislav may well have been predicting it for years. But that's probably all that he got right.  Along with everything else. Whereas we, we in the NUJ, proper journalists, we got absolutely nothing right, hailing Mr Prudence Snot as athe WunderChancellor, even as he was burnung all the money, under number eleven, in a great big boiler.  How were we supposed to know that? When, actually, we were all quite matey with him? O mean, what do you think we are, in MediaMinster,  journalists? Alright for Polish plumbers, they have nothing to lose. And I  do have families to support.

Handsome Andrew, below, 

 

thinks that citizen journalism is all very well.  Even if its practitioners are ugly. But it should be more polite to people like him who were actually prepared to overlook the little matter of their chums, the MPs,  troughing for all they were worth,  happy to let the Iraq Occupation become a thing of the past and, best of all, happy, under a threadbare cloak of impartiality and integrity, to treat the BBC as their personal milchcow. Andy thinks the rest of us should shut up. And support his families.

"Paul", bless, said he had two million hits and seventeen thousand comments a day, all automated;  that sometime he posted drunk but he could always take it down in the morning - unlike the driving ban - and that he was a high traffic site. Mentioning that he was a high traffic site, "Paul"  in Churchillian mode, added that Andrew Marr was a jug-eared old man and that while he, "Paul," would be drunk in the morning, Marr would still be a jug eared, contemptible freak. Only he didn't say contemptible. Not tabloid, contemptible. 

Those, like your correspondent,  hoping for a serious response to Marr's impertinence, for an exposition of the historical right and custom of the people to  broadsheet, lampoon, cartoon, satirise and ridicule monarchs, aristocrats and shitrag, carpetbagging politicians, to garland them with scatological imprecations, slander and cruel mockery, waited in vain. Disappointing, inasmuch as we have already written many such scripts,  - he need ony look in his archive - in validation of some of the efforts of "Paul", in stout defence of his ouvre, and in gratitude for the door which he recognised and opened.

stanislav, a former emigre citizen journalist could not be contacted for comment but his spokesplumber said, is all bollocks, innit, Marr, is fucking tosspot and best thing is not even to talk about, only give quick rubdown with housebrick, is only encouraging him, useless fucking bastard and ScrewFix blowtorch  should take to Marr John Thomas or vasectomery give with angle-grinder, good thing is not getting child benefit no more, although can probably fiddle.  Guido Paul  good bloke used to be but sometimes is so far up own arse that plumber needs, to get head out again,  in daylight, going on BBC is like in Mother Poland working for fucking Russians, can cover in perfume and tie up with ribbon, but still shit is.

ELECTION 2010

ELECTION 20IO, THE PLUMBER'S BATTLEBUS

Is disol-you-shun of Snot parliament of thief and blackmailing,  cocksucking sonoffuckingbitch and in own shiny battle omnibus,  stanislav follows  politicians around the country, lying fucking worthless pieceofshit bastards and  news and comment is bringing back from  most pointless election in modern fucking history and may as well not bother but just give whole fucking enslaved, ruined  country, in perpetuity, to GlobaBanksRus. Will following be all three main gang of serial criminals -  the Snots, the Sam and Daves and the ShitEaters

Only proper thing should happen of course  is that house of commons bastards should all go in Wormwood fucking Scrub for good few years and no conjugal visit have off visiting taxpayer-funded rentboys, or special advisers, as is known. And no cocaine smuggle in from Mayor's office.  Anything else is bollocks. Election is bollocks. Bunch of thieving,  incompetent degenerates running around the fucking country shaking hand and slobbering poxed-up slobber all over innocent citizen and child and spreading warts,  like Mr Simon Straight of shiteating party,  saying Vote for Me, No fuck off, Vote for Me when is all fucking rotten,  criminal, babykilling, monster and fuckpig, cutpursing, malevolent blackguard, crawl out from underneath Satan foreskin and up against wall, motherfuckers, should be. Like it says on 'bus.

today, stanislav takes temperature in Birmingham, used to be workshop of Empire and manufacture every fucking thing, from tiny little needle to big fuck-off Howitzer and Spitfire and lorry and van and car and see how Brummy will vote,  now  whole fucking place  just poxy shopping centre is, Selfridges ugly building and Merry Hell Centre in Duddl-eye .

But Brummy probably not vote will because is now unemployed lazy useless bastard and can only get out of bed on giro day, and can't  arsed be to vote and no point is anyway,  although Brummy not as bad is, obviously, as Jock, ginger, mutant, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child molesting  bastard out from mind on tonic wine, cheap smack and tomazepam has gone, lying in fucking gutter in vomitstained shellsuit and tattoo on forehead saying JUCK and never day's decent work has done or even can read and fucking write, only  to scribble "please fuck my arse, the noo"  down on public toilet wall, "for fifty pee, discount for parties, arranged can be, d'ye ken. Nae English."

Is not Glasgow or anything but fucking shithole is anyway,  Birmingham, these days, and good for fuck all,  now, just like all of not very Great Britain , after brilliance of KneePads Party of cocksucker governments and fuckpig billionaire  cheeky bastard shopkeeper of M and fucking S and B and fucking Q - or leaders of business as they like to be called - grubby fucking shopkeeperbastards peddling tat and junk made in Chink sweatshop and rubbish is and wanting to dictate government policy, since when is fucking shopkeeping bastard political scientist,  all can do is pay minimum wage and flog off loads of rubbish, is worse than fucking Taliban these bastards, them  and thieving bastard banking cunt are all so fucking clever we don't even make  fucking cars any more, only fucking rubbish wooden ones  -  . Morgan, they make a handful of cars and employ a handful of people, the UK car industry   - and only good for fucking Diarrhoea Balti, Birmingham  is, down Ladypool Road,  pissed up bloke and Chlamydia totty in bare leg and high heel  can eat as much rotten Halal  goat meat as possible for  three quid at Formica table and never mind poor beast throat had cut in backyard and bled to death, screaming in shit and blood, for Allah,  the merciful   and bring in own bottle of Newcastle Brown can  from paki supermarket next door,  with rotten old tomatoes and fruit sitting in  shitty old crate on pavement with dogpiss and exhaust fumes, like real metropolitan sophisticate,  for washing- down purposes and enjoy eye-watering bout of le posterieur flambee next fucking morning as  burning hot,  high pressure torrent of liquidise goat and naan bread come shooting out from arse in every fucking direction and arsehole stings just  like was swarm of fucking wasp living up Jacksie and can't even hardly stand-up straight from toilet and stink would strip varnish off from front door of hi-rise council flat and called multiculturalism,  this fucking nonsense rubbish is,  was dead ginger bastard Robin Cook who said Oh Aha, Fuck me, used to be could ask British person what was favourite dinner and roast fucking beef with pudding of Yorkshire would be answer, but now, aha, ahum, answer would be chicken tikka fucking masala and that goes to show how very far we have come as a nation under New Labour, going down Ladypool Road pissed up and scoffing condemned, unfit for human consumption  meat and arse-destroying spices, according to Cook, is equivalent of two-year tour of Indian sub-continent,  stupid ginger Jock bastard, as though eating shit curry same thing is as studying Paki history and writing and music, is not very much,  is true,  of history, because Paki country has only been here fifty fucking years or so and might not last another six fucking months and could disappear  and us too if Talimen cop hold of nuclear PakiBomb and have to get terminated with extreme and I mean fucking extreme prejudice, what with militantbastard and terroristbastard and  mullahbastard and insurgentbastard and bent governmentbastard  and Bhutto dynastybastard,  worse than house of fucking Windsor is and Prince of fucking Wales, not to mention applepie-eating, crewcut, granny-raping CIA murdering psychobastard gonzo and  embittered belligerent lesbian lunatic  Hillary Trousers flying all over the fucking place shouting at people as though it was the whole world what pissed on her wedding vows and not just Spunky Bill, the murdering, thieving, bullying, coke-snorting, whoremongering arsehole and soon to have heart failuire, with any luck is. Fucking place could go up in garlic mushroom cloud any day.  And anyway Pakistani founder  bloke, Jinnah the Paki,  only set up muslim  country in first place because he and fellow head-chopping, women-stoning hysterical beardy  maniacs and worshippers of Allah the wise and merciful, peace and blessing be upon his name can't get on with neighbouring Sikh and Hindus all down together there,  shitting in the Ganges and holy bathing all at the same time, with cow and buffalo wandering in and out from house and  shitting sacred shit on carpet  and  some bastards  so  poor are that unfuckingtouchable is. Unfuckingtouchable, worse than piece of shit. Who wants to  multicultural, all men are pluralist brothers be,  with bastards like this, fucking savages, punch in fucking mouth should get and turban set on fire and never mind pushing-in to queue down at Post Office.  The very idea.  First thing should happen when Hindu or Sikh or Muslem bastard come in country, even if is Krishnan Guru O'Murphy, off C4 news with Jon Sox, or famous gobby cricketing bastard playboy, Imran Khan,  is give good swift punch in nose, not bit of slap, good proper thump, broken cartilage and hot blood choking in throat and seeing stars and told, we don't do that untouchable shit in this country, is fucking rubbish.  And we don't slaughter goats in the back yard, neither. And No, you can't burn your dead uncle's body on the municipal fucking bowling green, fuck off and I don't give a flying fuck what it says in the European Human Rights Act;  is that fucking clear?  And while is here, is no more mosque or fucking temnple to go up, is plenty alfuckingready. Is fucking England here and not fucking Asia.  Understand?  Is fucking England, Have come to fucking England and is Christian culture and architecture and not homeland of Ali Baba and Forty Fucking Thieves with minarets and flying fucking carpet and bullock shitting in the middle of the A45 and nobody can shoo the bastard away.  Fucking England is  - or Wales or Scotland, best part is of England -  no point is trying to make home from fucking home, better off is to stay at home and use Mosque already there. Or Temple. Can build Mosque, OK,  but has to be in line with local planning and look like decent proper Norman C-of-E church, with spire. And fucking clock. And graveyard.  And gay mullah living in loving partnership before God with young rentboy. Okay, fuck off, now,  and Hare Krishna.  Is in England now and best to behave is like decent English bloke and not elephant-riding Mahafuckingrajah, with slaves and concubines. And all this Mrs  shit, her all wrapped up in head to fucking toe binbag  and walking four paces behind you down a Woverhmapton street  with her eyes cast down in the gutter, like  repentant fucking sinner from Middle fucking Ages,  you can forget all that bollocks, Ahmed, me old son;  same with your daughters, you and your half-shaven fag sons try any of that honour killing nonsense and you'll get a good fucking kicking , you heathen fucking cocksucking bovverboys.   And if only some bastard had said this all along, in best proper polite English terms of course and maybe no effing and fucking blinding, or not so much, then proper understanding and mutual respect would have been develop. Instead, bent,  jumped-up councillors and stupid,  gobby MPs have hung everybody out to dry in  deranged and chaotic equal opportunities climate, too timid, too cunning, maybe,  certainly too hungry for votes to tell our newcomers the score.

Anyway, Jinnah and Co said fuck all this superstitious shit, is only one god and Allah is his name and peace and blessings be on it and anybody disagree get  Fatwahed and beheaded on TV and we can't be doing with all these long beards and fucking turbans and mad sexual intercourse all day long,  all twisted-up like made of rubber was in Hindu book of Kama Sutra, filthy fucking bastard nignogs, we off out of it are, in new place and call it Pakistan, is long way of saying Paki.  And from there  we invade Birmingham. But if Paki bloke cannot get on with Sikh and Hindu what fucking chance is with Godless, heathen bastard Aston Villa-worshipping Brummie nutcase? Is not integrate, anyway, no matter what City fathers say, no matter what Baron Hatterjee of Sparkbrook says, horrible spit-spraying old faggot,  is just ghetto of Labour-voting shopkeeper and cash 'n'carry wallah. Or disgusting banana  republic, as High Court Judge, Mr Justice Knobrot QC, said, a few years back. 

Is hardly no bastard in work anymore here in Brum apart from probation oficer and outreach worker and fucking imbeciles in Selly Oak Job Centre or Restart. Anybody hear this cunt of a man, manager of Selly Oak Pisshole Job Centre on skymadeupnewsandfilth's Radio Four Programme?  Radio Four does worthy and concerned  programme, all  shit fucking rubbish  with no advert or jingle like decent station and daytime or early evening is like wander into world of phony, thoughtful, sanctimonious  caring, is fucking endless, Woman Hour with wretched old fucking boot, Jenny Murray and  Pee Em with Eddie Smug and WATO with Martha Kearney and MoneyBox and some tight-fisted, mean as fucking dirt busybody  old fucking bastard from Hemel fucking Hempstead or Tunbridge fucking Well  phone-in, whining and  screeching, Can get extra farthing per month on pension, please? miserable, grumbling skinflint old  codgers and fucking tied-up and tortured should be in own home by Hoodies and set on fucking fire or  else is, Hello...Hello..can you hear me ...I want to give money to poisonous fucking bastard grandchildren to help them through Uni - Uni is what used to be called college of fucking cooking and hairdressing and watching telly studies and is run on cheap by local council with wanker lecturers who can't write a fucking sentence in decent fucking  English and need themselves Educayshun, Educayshun, Educayshun - and fund their fucking Gap year, obnoxious, smirking luttle consumerist pricks, and what best way is to pay no fucking tax? Oh, fuck me, thanks for your call, Margaret,  there, in Saffrron fucking Walden and I am joined in the studio by an accountant, another accountant and another accountant, none of which fuckwits saw the credit crunch coming until it had wiped out all their clients' monies  but they'll be able to advise you, becuase they are the experts.......Anyway was programme on about Selly Oak Job Centre and was interviewing clients - ie deadbeat bums on fucking dole,  most of West Birmingham - and everybody says is all shit, no courses, no advice, no funds, get treated fucking worse than  whore at hockey match, come in the door and get fucking ignored by staff and eventually told is that  nothing fucking doing is and that all the jobs on the board are all made fucking up, honest and not invent, all made up, no point applying is because what happens is Ree-surcher from Job Centre telephones employer and says Any Job Going ? And employer says No, fuck off, be down there meself, soon, in fucking Job Centre. But might be jobs, one day?  Well, might be. Can put you down for twenty, then? Do what the fuck you want. Okay, then, forty. And soon all the boards and computer screen is fill-up with jobs which aren't, but might be. And government lying bastard minister for benefits can say, Oi, citizens, look,  here is million or two of jobs unfilled, better get off down Job Centre of Shit and get one, even if is all imaginary, imaginary job is better than no job, innit, and better watch out or will imaginary benefits be collecting.  Interviewer says to Job Centre Manager, Wossallthisshit, then, made-up jobs?  No, is straight up, meet all criteria of Department of Work and No-Pension, which is main thing, otherwise I get the sack and is coming in here myself and applying for jobs which figment  of statistical imagination are, and not really there at all. No, no,  no, is plenty of courses, paint and decorate and cv writing, to name but all of them...But Mr Smith says your staff told him no course was and to fuck off and get course from private firm...No, no, no, I do assure you he is wrong.....Is not fucking wrong, is fucking outside, Mr Smith,  go and fucking ask him, has sorted out course for himself which you useless fucking bastards should have sorted out.  Have spoke to dozens of fucking people and all the courses which they should be able to get for retraining for new fucking jobs in the new fucking economy of the fucking future and which Gordon fucking Brown and Ed fucking Balls are always going on about, and that useless  walking disease, Lord Nothing-Wrong-With-My-Arse Was -Just -Routine- Emergency-Arsectomy Requiring-Few-Day-In-Royal-Hospital-For-Officer-And-Poof, well, your staff have never fucking heard of them.  No, no, no,  I assure you and your smugbastard RadioFour listeners that this will be just a question of minor adjustments as the new programmes are rolled out across the country. And can't fucking obviously, comment on individual case, So there. Bollocks. Restart, down SellyOak Job Centre of Shit is,   like every other fucking thing, whatever we say it is.

And Redditch, too,  just down the A435 is. Is Birmingham overspill town and full up of  hereditary burglar and violent car-booting nutter.  And unsafe seat of Jackie Smith, cookery teacher from Leys High School - motto Average age of pupil pregnancy is fourteen and falling - former  worst fucking Home Secretary in history of law'n'order and wanky husband, Richard. And one thing for fucking certain is that Jackie is out on fat arse, Redditchean is thick like pigshit but even so, is not standing for that nonsense. So, can see Dimblebum on telly on election night Redditch, Con gain, Redditch Con gain.

Birmingham economy is fucked,  manufacturing is destroyed  by people who lied and stole and killed and cheated and blackmailed and now can only mouth jargon and fucking slogan about imaginary new economy, imaginary jobs and imaginary prosperity, thieves and jackals, good for fuck all and up against wall should go. Steven Byers, now touting his arse around Lobbyville,  gave Longbridge and its traditions away to thieving bastards, beyond the law or morality's reach, its workforce now at the mercy of government intitiatives at Selly Oak Job Centre of Shit is . And if any justice was Byers and Hoon and the rest would be in custody remanded at Winson Green and no fucking bail, pending trial for deception and theft and good kicking having off thin blue line of lazy fat screws. Only trouble is skymadeupnewsandfilth quickly hoovered-up mess of ExpensesCrime and MortgageCrime and WarCrime and JunketCrime and EarthCrime and most especially, in Scotland, best part of England, of massive NonceCrime. And business back to as usual is. Pretend election between two cheek of same poxy arse.

George Cadbury great Edwardian philanthrowotsit was, here in Birmigham and made ethical business, sort of, was better, anyway, than nasty fucking leprechaun,  Willy O'Walsh,  does at BA and now is sold off to GlobaCorp, just for fucking money. as though money was real, like people and soon Cadbury chocolate outsource will be in New fucking Delhi, with cow and buffalo wandering around production line.  End of road   for Workshop of Empire and just instead cheap corner shop will be and sharp-faced, ferrety Brummy  a citizen of depressed EuroRegion become. Like Albanian.

And testament will stand, Birmingham,  to growing our economy of goodforfuckall service industry, of worthless lying bastard financial adviser, of light regulatory touch. And culture will be of screaming  fag hairfuckingdresser  and Cruelty TV  and celebrity slapper with big plastic tits;  toolsetter and capstan operator, like  miner and steelworker and shipbuilder,  out on street with outlaw junky angel and prostitute will be, in Ruin.

So,  Asian vote will stay largely with SnotParty and so will probation officer, teacher, gay and bisexual community relations officers. And nurse and social worker. Blue collar bloke, still wiping off Byers' shit from face, will not vote Snot but will not vote Sam and Dave, either and  unlikely is to vote ShitEaters4HomeSeckatry. (Note off editor for overseas readers. In run-up, as we say, to last UK election, LibDem shadow Home Seck discovered was to be   dirty bastard copraphiliac, in house of commons was saying You watch me, voters, when I am Home Seck, which, actually speaking will be never, I tough am going to get with prostitution and stuff like that,  But and is big fucking but,  huge fucking but,  same bloke, Mark Eaton, MP, was doing unmentionanle shit with rentboy, unfuckingmentionable, in fact, in United State of Obama, would have Hizonner Judge Hymie Goldblum yelling Yes, you can't,  you miserable sonofafuckingbitch and probably go in Old Sparky and get fried-up with eyes popping out and dangling down cheek and veins bursting and cock shooting sparks out from end, like Mount Vesuvius and crowd of Anafuckingbaptist witnesses in Sunday suit singing We Shall Overcome But You Sure as Hell Won't, Motherfucker,   if caught is doing this shit . 

Was German sort of perrversion.  Everybody know that Herman the German is filthy fucking bastard and poking about in shit is every morning with Mrs and Jah,  Liebschen-ing is, dis poo is sehr gut, Liebschen,  is firm and gut colour and smell fresh and happy und look, Lieschen,   mein own poo is wunderbar, is neine  blood and full of seeds is so mein bowel is gut und cleansed, scrape clean with seeds from gut German wholemeal bread. Could probably, Liebschen,  pull rectum inside-out and eat dinner off. Come Liebschen, let's sit down together, holding hands  on our side-by-side Herr und Frau toilet bowls and do our liddle, healthy poos together, Jah? Heil Hitler.

Is famous for being romantic like that, German bloke. Only not with Jew. Or gipsy. Or poof. Well, Eaton bloke was worse than this, was worse than Herman the German. After day in Snot parliament, passing laws,  would go in rentboy flat, take off MP suit and lie under glass coffee table and rentboy poo would do on tabletop only tabletop not there was and, well, is fucking decent family blog here and not go no further but Fuck me, Jesus, what sort of people can be who would   have shit-eating freak in front of front fucking bench ? Here is our shadow Home Seckatry. And in his spare time, he eats shit, yes, that's right he eats shit, not his own mind, no, that would be disgusting,  he pays other people to shit on him and eats it. Is fucking  having fucking laugh, innit, with voter. ShitEaters might win in Solihull, which is very posh part of Birmingham and so full of poof and freak is but out of work car and chocolate egg maker will not vote for ShitEaters.)

Is some racial tension, growing unemployment and Austerity Years of National Recovery from the Bankers' Depredations are coming for all. Never mind, always is internet porn and daytime telly and burglary to fall back on. Probably political map  of Brum will remain mainly SnotGreen  with a few splash of Sam and Dave Blue and maybe little spot of ShitEater Brown, like skidmark.

Outside the fithy lens of telly,  maybe some independents, some green and UKIP fuckers, some BNPers, some lunatics may squeeze into a seat or two of disgruntled apathetic voters, voters too bad, too indifferent to make the effort to connect with the main parties of our democracy - as the BBC sees it, and skymadeupnewsandfilth - which those who have dragged it through the shit - ie all of them -  are so busy reforming for us, that we might love them the more, the better, the truer. Time is for change. But not really, absolutely not.

And now is back in studio with Jeremy. Or Kirsty.  Or Adam.

No change there, then. No busness like showbusiness is.