THE TRUMPETS SHALL SOUND AND THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED

Yes, I go to the same barber as Lady Sir Paul McCartney
We're much of an age, you know.

Born to a very wealthy family, Fatty Lawson wasn't what you would call a self-made man;  as is the way with this lot,  he  fucked about as a money journalist for a while and then the usual path for rich Tory boys -  safe seat  in Leicestershire and into Whiskey Maggie's cabinet of spivs.  He always repelled me,  just viscerally, when he was bloated and then, when, after his second - or third - marriage  failed  he slimmed himself down.

It's his bullying I-Know-Bestism, he can't hide it,  not like he hides his proper hair colour.  It's a weirdness, that, it's like Terry Wogan's wig, or Andrew Neil's, everybody knows they're  fake, pathetically so, yet nobody mentions them, just like nobody mentions the noncing.  There's some level of power that these arseholes reach where  they think they can enslave everyone in their own pathetic self-delusion.  And generally they do.

Lawson is a freak.  He called his daughters, Thomasina, Nigella and Horatia, all men's names, crudely feminised; has there ever been a Nigella,  before this irritating soft-pornster cum cook?   His fat son, Dominic, ran the Sunday Telegraph, in Conrad Black's day, like a family newspaper, the Lawson family, shamelessly full of himself, his sister, his dying brother-in-law and his Da' and now, without an editorship, Dominica whores around writing columns nobody reads and fucking about on Sky's midnight news review. With the drunks.

All Nigel's  marriages were shit  - well they would be with him in them - and he, now, at seventy-nine, let's call it eighty, courts a woman half his age,

 Vampire love.

 Yuk

they must be well-met, or she must be a canny and thick-skinned gold-digger, to chance, as she does, Death's coitus interruptus, if coitus it be, with this old coffin-dodger.

He eventually flounced out of Maggie's cabinet after a couple of years of her humiliating him with an unofficial chancellor of her own and has spent his time since then disputing global warming or EarthCrime as we call it here - an old boy needs to do something useful in retirement.  Look, these icecaps melting like never before, there are plenty of reasons for that to happen and good reasons for us not to be alarmed.  No, Nigel, there aren't.

Anyway, the spiteful old fart, like so many of them, sees a new lease of life in CallHimDave's inept knee-trembler with Clegg;  as their hasty passion subsides,  now, as they wipe their cocks, shove them back in their trousers and hope nobody's seen their mutual discharge, all the aged vermin,  the half-dead and the undead sniff the rank wind and sense their own, albeit momentary,  resurrection, maybe one more hard-on before they die forever.

And out they crawl, among their familiars, Nick Robinson and Adam Boulton, mouthing, from dribbling lips, their slimy worldview.  We must leave Europe trans: if the nation calls on me  to serve, I stand ready to do my dirty, I mean duty.

Does anyone in their right mind, apart from his  freaky totty,  give a flying fuck what Nigel Lawson has to say?

And then there's this shameless old cocksucker.

Mine's a pint of B Rhesus negative, please. 
 

Baron Samedi of Lerwick.
"Rising unemployment and the recession have been the price that we have had to pay to get inflation down. That price is well worth paying."

from wiki: Three weeks after the government's massive loss in the by-election, on 27 May 1993, Lamont was sacked, (technically resigning from the government because he declined a demotion to become Secretary of State for the Environment), throwing (by his own account) Major's letter of regret at his departure unopened into the wastepaper basket, and giving a resignation speech in the House of Commons on 9 June, that made clear his feeling that he had been unfairly treated, saying that the government 'gives the impression of being in office but not in power'; the then Party Chairman Norman Fowler dismissed the speech as "dud, nasty, ludicrous and silly".^[47] Major and Lamont agree that Lamont had offered his resignation immediately after Black Wednesday and that Major pressed him to remain in office. Lamont came to the view that Major had sought his survival in office as a firebreak against the criticism of the ERM policy rebounding on himself.

Lamont,  the staggeringly incompetent author of Black Wednesday, slithers out from his lair, too, where he hedge-funds and investment-banks and does all the usual forms of uppercrust thievery, the mangy-looking ponce, and, scenting blood, lisps Out of Europe, Now. 

And this one, Mr Shouty  Rifkind.

In Google Images, Rifkind  has more "posed" photographs even than most of the filth in showbusiness.

Quite the Christine Keeler, our Malcy.
wonder if he's got any trousers on.
Hold that thought, it's what they're like, these people.

"Conservative Malcolm Rifkind got 3,066 pounds ($4,800) last year for flights to his home in Scotland -- though he represents a district three subway stops from the Parliament in London.

“It’s amazing some of the things they’ve given themselves over the years,” said Andrew Rawnsley, author of “Servants of the People,” a history of Tony Blair’s government. “Why on earth would you need to visit Scotland in order to represent people in London? It’s all within the rules, but it all repels voters.”

"Sir Malcolm Rifkind, the former Tory Cabinet minister, raised eyebrows by claiming £499 for three trips by his wife. His constituency is Kensington and Chelsea, three miles from London”

from The Motley Fool blog 

Old ShoutyGob Rifkind, briefly foreign seckatry,  enjoys, too, in these troubled times, a rebirthing, shouting about Iran, Syria, China and of course Europe.  A CallHimDave loyalist, maybe hoping for office, hoping for an Indian Summer of bullying and fiddling and all the vices his skill set lends him to, the horrible fucking bent Anglo-Jock bastard  hedges his bets on Europe, Well,  I'm not persuaded of this and I'm not persuaded of that, he shouts to a dwindling Newsnight audience and to the bombastic Jocky Neil on his  many platforms.

Mr Politics, resting from his demanding job at  the Paedo Broadcasting Corporation.

And, finally, for now, old FishHead, himself, old no-balls Portillo, 

Of course, I'm half-Spanish, half-English, half-American and three-quarters Shirtfish. So I can talk about all sorts of things, as long as the taxpayer keeps on coughing-up.

 
journalist, broadcaster, moral-maze-ist - mind-boggling that, eh? -  and now Tory grandee, Portillo, all innocent-like, as though he were really a right honourable person, writes in Murdoch's madeupnewsandfilthTimes that actually he's always been against Europe - not Spain, especially Guernica, which was bombed in his father's honour, and not the European railways, from which he may yet wrest one more episode of  his dire, stuttering, corpsing teevee show - or at least he's against the bits which everybody else is  banging-on about.

Unlike, let's see, where to start....unlike the pisshead, Roy Jenkins, the obnoxious fascist, Leon Brittain, his grace the Lord Kinnock and LadyStickyFingers Kinnock et famille, her grace the Lord Mandelstein, his excellency Baron Robertson of the Secret Dunblane Massacre and her grace the Lady Ashton, none of the above were ever pensioned-off to Europe, on half a million quid a year, plus all the expenses they could dream up,  the Kinnocks especially.  There must be more, I just can't remember them.

Maybe, if Brussels could do a job creation number for every shopsoiled and discredited politician in  the entire continent then we wouldn't have these half-dead night creatures crawling about, howling their  hunger, frightening the children.  They've done enough of that already.

RURITANIA NEWS

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

EVENSONG. IN OUR HEARTS WE CRIED TO EACH OTHER'S HEARTS FOR REFUGE, JACKSON BROWN AT GLASTONBURY, BEFORE THE DELUGE

COMMERCIAL BREAK

Hello viewers, if you're in poverty and desperate for a bit of money, I have somehting really important to say to you, in my cultivated but genial, erudite but friendly way.

 And you just know you can trust me, because I'm off the BBC, I'm that decrepit old queen who's been poncing a living there for, well you know, sometimes it seems like forever and then, at other times,  it seems like Just A Minute!

 Mr Nicholas Parsons of WongaRobUBlind plc

The thing is, you see, that at Wonga Loans you can decide how quickly you want to repay the loan - and some of our customers actually do - or, when you fall into difficulty, here at Wonga we'll only charge you interest at just over two thousand per cent per year.

It doesn't matter how poor you are, here at Wonga we'll take you on and in less than JustAMinute! you'll be even poorer.

Go on, get into more debt than you ever dreamed of. Trust me, I'm Nicholas Parsons. Off Radio Four.

They should sack this rancid old creep. 

Not bad enough that my license money goes to keep nonces in  fresh young meat

 but now this slimy old shitbag, whose only credential is his BBC presence,  is encouraging diabolical usury.  

US HORROR STORY, INNOCENT VICTIMS HELD IN DREADFUL CAPITIVITY FOR TEN YEARS, TREATED LIKE PRISONERS

WHY DIDN'T ANYONE STOP IT?

PEOPLE MUST HAVE KNOWN OR SUSPECTED.

HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN IN AMERICA? 

The United States was enraged today at the news that innocent people had been kept in awful conditions, abused and tortured, while nobody did anything about it.

These folks is bein' tortured an all kindsa shit , said FBI director, Hiram T Cheeseburger the Third.
An' LawNforcement don't seem to wanna do Jack Shit about it.

Everyone, States-side,  was too busy stuffing their fat faces and watching Fox TeeVee and Momma'sOwn PornoRama,  to even think about such brutality happening on their watch. And anyway,  even if'n they ain't all terrorists, they're all fucking niggers. Or half-niggers, which is the same thing. Only worse.

President Obie  has vowed, again, to put all his weight behind stopping this un-American shit.
It isn't who we are,  he says, Can we stop it, he asks?  
Yes, we can't.

US torture house in Cuba.

Kidnappers humiliate captives, year after year.

These are the victims' teevee-watching shoes,
(honest, not invent)

 

A hundred people, declared innocent of terrorism charges by good old fat Uncle Sam hisself, are on hunger strike, after ten years of unlawful detention without charge or trial.

 

Never mind fucking China and the Dalai Lama.

 

Why isn't the British PM speaking out about this shit, maybe suggesting that Uncle Sam belongs in the Hague, on trial, the fat greedy thugbastard.

 

No, it's alright, I know why.

VICIOUS OLD MONGREL TO BE PUT DOWN

SEEYOUJIMMYREF...?

I was an infant when the Manchester United football team was almost destroyed in a plane crash at Munich airport.  My older brother told me all about it, about Duncan Edwards and Bobby Charlton and Matt Busby, the manager. Full of What-ifs and If-onlys,  It was a hushed and haunted national tragedy.

Funny though, when you look at it, even in the 'fifties, the ruinous power of celebrity was huge; some deaths, like some lives, more important than others. We never, for instance,  hear the name of the pilot in the Buddy Holly 'plane crash, it was Roger Peterson but, Hey, this was the day the music died. Not the pilot.

And of 23 fatalities  only seven were United team members, only seven.  Then, as it would be now, it was only the footballers who were nationally mourned,  the ordinary people, the co-pilot -who'd won a DFC in the war-   the cabin steward, the journalists,  these people didn't play football  and were never mythologised. Fuck 'em. They were nobodies; nobodies don't sell 'papers.

Four of the aircrew, nine of the football team, the team manager and a half a dozen nobody-others survived but forever after that event, Man U, crawling from the wreckage, in the person of Bobby Charlton, bless him, would be the Munich Deceased, and thus the world's favourite team;  dead men marking the opposition,  haunting their corner kicks, tripping them with ghostly boots.

Busby  and his assistant manager rebuilt  the team and it had some great, sporting  days in the 'sixties, before before;  Busby's greatest protege, George Best, autobiography fodder tor grave-robbing cocksuckers  like Michael Parkinson, was - tut-tut - an erratic genius but he was  the most dazzling footballer of my lifetime

 and the whole team was  a joy to watch, none of to-day's snarling, petulant, primma donna behaviour, hurtling from matches in mindered, gold-plated Bentleys,  still, then  in handshake  touch with its supporters, was football. Now, of course, Man U players are superbeings, albeit snivelling, shithead morons;  Michael Owen this morning tweeting repeatedly of his anguish about Sir Matt, his honour at playing for him;  he's like a twelve year old girl, that bloke. I don't know about Sir Becks, he'll probably get his people to contact Sir Matt's people, as long as Sir Matt doesn't throw any football boots his way.

Talking of grave-robbing cocksuckers I must step aside here, for a moment. Professor Germaine Greer, at the time of Best's death, confided to any 'paper that would pay her that in the 'sixties George 


Porn, it's a feminist thing.

was gagging for Germaine, above.But she wouldn't let him.  Germaine, by her own account, would fuck a mangy dog off the street but she wouldn't fuck Georgie Best. Or so she said. That'll be twelve hundred guineas, please.

There is a lesson, here, in the Manchester United story, a story of greatness not burnished by success but tarnished.  Once a local club, now owned by fuck knows whom, it's players from all over the world, winning for the owners  its only raison d'etre, the fans just, well, fanatics.

The Football Asociation was started as a working man's recreational activity with seasonal tournaments fostering healthy competition. Some of the clubs had Wednesday in their names because Wednesday afternoon's half-day off was when they played their fixtures.  And all of the then teams drew  members from their local  areas.  But then, as ever, came Ruin and his henchmen.  Clubs were making huge sums whilst paying their players a pittance and in the 'fifties  the maximum players' wage  was £20 per week. Action by their union, led by Jimmy Hill, broke that ceiling and swiftly Jimmy Greaves became the first £100 a week player.

 You can argue that it is the players' greed that now sees so many of them earning huge sums of money, more in a year than many earn in a lifetime but  when clubs are earning so much money why shouldn't they ? The labourer is worth his hire.  

And you can argue that season ticket prices are ludicrous, and they are - Mrs Ishmael often says to me, Why do we have three cars, there's only two of us, so I explain why we need the Smart Car,  the redhot Citroen F111, and the old four-litre Ford SUV and then I say, and anyway, I like'em, I like cars. And I don't do clothes, I don't do pubs  and I don't have a season ticket to a football match -  they're more than four figures I believe, some of them. But tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people buy season tickets.

 And then you can argue that, Well, if Man U wants to issue a dozen different "strips" every year so Dad LuvMyKids2BitsMe can keep on buying his little consumer brat each successive edition, well, what's wrong with that?  'Sjust the market. Right but 'sjust not football, is it?             

There was a time, not long ago, when Sport was on TeeVee on Wednesday night and Saturday afternoon. And then came Murdoch, ghastly old shit, buying up all the rights to everything. And so everybody else in TeeVee, including all those fine, underpaid Oxbridge brains at the BBC

 Well, we could all earn a good deal more in the private sector;  half  a million pounds a year?  It's peanuts.

 followed suit.  And now football is not an afterthought, it is, for many, not only the news but the national wallpaper; that it is rigged at a global level, that it is vulgar in the worst way, that it is uniformly unsporting and that its characters, players and managers,  are madly  bizarre grotesques; that professional fouling, kicking, spitting and biting, abuse of the ref, gangraping,  drugtaking and unparallelled stupidity are the behavioural norms of professional football,  well, that's cos it's the beautful game, innit? Don't for fucks sake talk about role models, that died with Stanley Matthews and Fred Perry.  No, these changes, this filth and  vileness these, not exclusively but  in large part, are due to Mr Bad Example himself. 

Ferguson is a win-at-any-cost gabshite; he is a graceless,  bad-tempered, snarling, conceited Glasgow bullyboy, trophies or not, the man's a cunt; Hitler built the autobahns and won the odd battle, Mussolinini made the trains run on time;  what price a few football matches?

I watched him at the funeral of the late Jimmy Reid, union activist and sell-out, in Glasgow, last year or the year before. His eulogy bore all the hallmarks of his slagging-off  of a referee - grunts and grimaces, menacing mutterings and SeeYouJimmys. But the strange thing was  that even though I didn't understand a word he said, I knew exactly what he meant. 

Now, there's a proper bully.

Fuck Alex Ferguson, here's wishing him  a short and unpleasant retirement.

And no injury time.

                                                

THE SOUTH BANK SHOW SPECIAL: THOU SHALT KILL.

         KISS, I MEAN KILL ME QUICK.         

                      

Bragg, arts sweetheart turned walking Dead.
                                

                           Heddo, Belbyn Bagg, here, and dis is just do say dat I bill be tobbing byself if I go barmy.

His Lordship has pronounced on death, joining the irritant, wotsisname, Pratchett, that's it, in promulgating the assisted suicide, ie murder, approach to dementia. PratchettGob, by the way, has gone quiet now that he's not finding dementia as bad as he expected it to be, not jumping up and down all day long, demanding to be killed by someone else, the horrid little coward.  The wretched  Debbie Purdy is still around, too,  Christ,  the way she was carrying on she should've been dead, or at the very least have shut the fuck up, years ago.

Bragg continued his proclamation by saying  I hab told all ob by friends dat I bill not carry on and dat day are to help be wid a boddle of bills and a boddle of Scotch - single balt ob course -  once I hab pud by affairs in order.

The pestilential culture vulture may have a book to promote or some new rubbish on Sky Arts or he may just be doing a Germaine Greer - talking about some aspect of her noisesome,  shopsoiled  self for money, the girl can't help it - and is just attention seeking. Seems that Bragg's old Mum died, just like everybody's does,  and went a bit loopy at the end and Bragg, of course, wrinkling his nose in distaste,  defined her condition as Undignified,  therefore murderable. And the law must be changed in line with Baby Boomers' displeasure with their elderly parents.

I wonder how  his Lordship described them when he found his infants rolling around in their own shit, if he projected his own concept of Dignity  onto those at a different stage of Life, and if he murdered them, out of respect, for their lack of Dignity. Man's a cunt, Bragg,   spent his life, like Parkinson,  fawning and brown-nosing luvvies and artists, grubbing for lustre by association and latterly feigning an intellectualism  which he does not have.  I don't care how he lives and dies, sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned.  But his promoting, as he is, the idea that we should murder one another almost as a matter of course, once we start getting confused  and incontinent, is, rather like his own books, abominable.

                THE QUIET MAN, IS TURNING UP THE GAS,                                                        

 

I MEAN THE VOLUME

I say, Mr Ishmael, old chap, steady on a minute.  I think there's a good deal in what Lord Bragg is saying here and we can always learn from our Labour colleagues.  I mean, obviously we don't want to go around killing people just because they're non-productive and costly to keep alive. At least, not at first....

                                    

RAPES OF WRATH.

:

“I cannot understand why they have been made,  the rape allegations, especially as I continued to socialise with one of the men as recently as last week.” 


If Evans is right, this, then, is a case of bitches bitching, it's what they do.  They should all settle down, get married perhaps....
 

Emeritus professot maledictus of rape studies, Mr George Gabshite, MP, said yesterday,  

Yes, this IS a member of parliament on national and probably global television.  Jesus, my father wouild turn in his grave if he saw this. The nerve of some people, who do they think they are?
 

There is no such thing, ladeezangenullmen, senators, congressmen and indefatigable dictators,  as rape among consenting adults;  it is my emeritus view that if one man sticks his John Thomas up another man's  sewer pipe one time, then the first man  doesn't need to ask if he wants to do it another time or ten.  That'll be twelve hundred guineas, please. 

 People sharing or wanting to know more of George's penetrating intellectual view of the world can read more on his website:  
www. WhyIAmACuntAnd NotASocialist.com. 


STRAIGHT SIMON SAYS

 Something queer going on behind me.

This is a grave personal tragedy for a very much respected ageing fairy, I mean, member of parliament, said Straight Simon Hughes, something in the ShitMunchers' Party - do they have a president? -   and it shows  what we have to put up with.   In my own case I was accused of gay-bashing Peter Tatchell,  even though I was.

 Section 28, oh, I can't remember, I'm much too important now to remember things like personal hypocrisy. 


You can trust members of my party to always tell you lies. My queerbashing, for instance, wasn't really queerbashing because I'm bisexual and so it didn't count as queerbashing, obviously. See?

MR TINY SPEAKER

and his wife, Embarrissima,

 said that he would stand-by Mr Evans, his deputy, until he couldn't any longer. There was No way that  he would allow his personal life to bring parliament into disrepute.  If my wife, for instance, took every foolish opportunity to expose herself on TeeVee


 then I would immediately step aside and have myself investigated by myself, even though I wouldn't.

Would he fuck, 

agreed Mrs Tiny Speaker, 

          investigate himself.     

There is a welter of these cases, Max Clifford, Jim Davidson, that insufferable old Aussie, Rolf Harris, William Roache, some other whey-faced, jumped-up nobody from Coronation Street and then there's Cameron's friend and neighbour, Rebecca Filth, and her cohort of bent coppers and rotten hacks, and her old man, isn't he an ingredient of the national Eton Mess ?

However obviously vile these people are, one must abide by the nostrum that they are innocent until proven guilty.  Because they are.

But one can legitimately deplore that fact that Evans, as a young Thatcherite, supported Section 28, a measure which most if not all homosexuals deplored and one which this heterosexual, at any rate, considered spiteful and wrongheaded, typical WhiskyMaggie, typical Tebbit, now revealed as a smoked in the blood uKipper, although even the BNPers who have slipped in to UKIP wouldn't be manly enough for his pinstripe spiv lordship. But I digress, Tebbit brings out my inner Simon Wiesenthal.

  Evans whines that he was confused.  And what about his career ?

Ah, career,  the word has taken on the timbre of a wedding vow. Cuntishness, people used to have jobs and it was only the parasite caste - lawyers, doctors, academe, the military and the noncing monsignors - who had careers;  now govament insist that burger-slinging for the minimum wage in same McDonalds shiteatery is actually, citizen, a career.  You get gold stars, don't you?

I was brought up to believe that membership of parliament was a public service, how can it be that AND a career?

And even now, when any sensible person would stand down until acquitted, Evans insists he can carry on with his solemn duties - invigilating the conduct of six hundred of his fellow frauds, slags, pimps, liars, thieves, blackmailers, money launderers, child molesters, hypocrites and degenerates.  Mr tdg, again, springs to mind, really, all you can do with one as fucked up as Evans is view him as a patient, one of the lunatics - to deploy an over-used but apt metaphor - who has taken over the asylum.          

A CLOWN'S TALE.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger; Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear,
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

 

     Whoops-a-daisie.

SITUATIONS VACANT.

A VACANCY HAS ARISEN FOR A BLOGDOG.

THE IDEAL CANDIDATE MUST BE A YORKSHIRE TERRIER UP TO SEVEN YEARS OF AGE. OR SO . AND NO MONEY MUST CHANGE HANDS.

THE SUCCESSFUL CANDIDATE WILL BE WELL-FED AND CLOTHED; WILL BE ALLOWED TO SIT ON THE FURNITURE, SLEEP ON THE BEDS - ALTHOUGH, IF ANYONE ASKS WE MUST ALL SAY HE SLEEPS IN THE LAUNDRY -  TRAVEL IN THE FRONT OF THE CAR AND SLEEP, AS REQUIRED,  IN BLOGDOG-FRIENDLY HOTELS.  HIS OR HER HEALTH INSURANCE WILL BE PAID BY HIS OR HER NEW PEOPLE.  HE WILL HAVE AS HIS DAILY TERRITORY A ONE-ACRE WALLED GARDEN AND A SMALL, QUIET SHORELINE.

HIS OR HER DUTIES WILL INCLUDE BARKING LOUDLY AT STRANGERS AND BITING THE LEGS OF VISITING MORMONS,  JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES OR ANY OTHER SORTS OF TRAVELLING SALESPERSONS AS WELL AS THE USUAL SITTING IN PEOPLE'S LAPS AND BEING STROKED AND TOLD, THERE'S A GOODBOY.  OR GIRL.

THIS IS AN IDEAL POSITION FOR A BLOKE WHO, THROUGH NO FAULT OF HIS OWN, NEEDS A NEW HOME. THE SUCCESSFUL APPLICANT WILL BE COLLECTED FROM ALMOST ANYWHERE IN ENGLAND, SCOTLAND OR WALES.

APPLICATIONS AND EXPRESSIONS OF INTEREST IN THE POST TO:  callmeishmael@live.co.uk or VIA THIS BLOG.

EVENSONG. MAESTRO COODER AGAIN; A SONG, PERHAPS, FOR STUTTERING ED MILLIBAND, A MAN WHO SHOULD BE THE VERY FIRST CASUALTY OF FARAGE'S REDNECK REVOLT

Maestro Cooder again with a Bobby Womack song made famous by the Rolling Stones. Just a while after they did this Cooder spent an afternoon in the studio with them, and from what he learned, that day - and from clandestine tapes made of the session, Keith Richards forged his entire musical career - slight variations on the open G tuning shown him by Cooder. The Stones' lifetime keyboard player and founder member, the late Ian Stewart, although always on stage, was never made an official member of the band; Brian Jones, the most inventive, multi-talented and creative of the originals was sidelined and Mick Taylor, scorching guitar player on their trio of good albums, was, in the 'eighties, peremptorily denied all royalties due to him for his playing. Cooder calls them larcenous reptiles. Glastonbury will, of course, hosannah their plagiarism, their noncing, their junky posturing and sing along to antique greatest hits made great by others. No business like showbusiness

ZERO TOLERANCE?

Stewart Hall OBE and hugely successful BBC nonce,

 no, sorry, this is Lord  Dr John Drunken Brawler Shirtsleeves  Reid of Afghanistan, where no Tommy will be killed. Just four hundred of them, all for fuck all, only don't say it out loud, 'sbad for morale.  Aplogies to his Lordship.  Wee Big Man Johnny isn't a nonce, just nearly one, just a  bully.  There's no law against that when you're shadow defence seckatry.

from the Mail on Sunday 13 May 2007
the second incident, shortly before the death of then Labour leader John
Smith in 1994, when Mr Reid was Shadow Defence Secretary, was witnessed by
several people. One said: "John came lurching up and said to Dawn 'I want to
have sex with you, I want to f*** you, you want it as well." Ms Primarolo's
friend and neighbouring Bristol Labour MP Jean Corston intervened and, according
to a source, told Mr Reid: "You are a disgusting creature. Get away from her,"
adding: "That's it, I'm going to report him." Ms Corston, who is now a Baroness,
told colleagues she raised the matter with John Smith, commenting: "It won't be
happening again." One Labour insider said: "Dawn was on the verge of tears. She
said Reid had been harassing her over a period of years and had propositioned
her in the bar. It was very painful for her." When Mr Reid was summoned by the
Labour leader, he gave Mr Smith a sealed envelope containing his resignation and
told him that if he misbehaved again, Mr Smith should open it.

How very gentlemanly of them both, Smith and Reid.

The nonce-propre is the one below......

 ......this one, another family institution bites the teenage pubis, I mean the dust. Revolting and infuriating. All-round TeeVee personality and child-fucker,  Mr Stewart Hall, of the BBC.

This vile old git tried to front it out, scorning his accusers, until, presumably, his brief saw the evidence and he had to put his hands up and offer an insincere apology  to those he was,  just a few weeks ago, damning as liars, those whose lives he violated, whose dreams and fantasies he will have polluted.  This piece of shit isn't some lonely fuck-up, some sick, mad freak, like your man in Wales;  this is someone who for a lifetime, just because he could,   because people let him,  abused his position, a position afforded him by we, the Paedo Broadcasting Corporation license-payers.

 I don't know how many men like this I know, have known, see around the towns, up and down the country.  They all look the same, sound the same. Chiefs of this, assistant chiefs of that. Smug gits in suits and ties, oozing entitlement and pomposity., running their probation services or police forces like private harems. The councils are awash with them, directors of some ever  metamorphosising service or other, all-together, bivouaced in  some defensive charmed circle of mutual protection, elbows locked together against the ratepayer;  fiddling their expenses, fiddling the planning applications, copperbottoming their pensions and early retirement packages, unaccountable, unsackable.  And they all look and dress and sound the fucking same.

Reid is currenty peddling his home office connections like the political slag he is.  Security consultant, they call it, Reid's game, when actually it's decent, ordinary people who need security from the likes of him.  Worthless little shit.


He turned up on the wretched Newsnight the other night, a would-be  eminence gris et petit.  What he said was that it is vital that we have a minister for cyber-security, whole country's going to fuck if we don't have one, as if he and his  erstwhile honourable colleagues hadn't already accomplished that - the country going to fuck.   Do we remember Geoff Hoon, Bob Ainsworth, Gordon Snot, Blind Boy Blunkett, Hazel Blears, Gorbals Mick Martin  and all of  Reid's other Ninety-Day-Detention/ Identity Card partners in crime - Mandelstein, Lord John Pies, the famous cock-waving, inarticulate  buffoon;  big Al Campbell,  drunk, depressive, forger and conspirator; and Tony and Cherie, a pair of filthy, greedy bastards who whored the office of prime minister like none in history ?   Don't we need a minister to protect us from that gang, and maybe throw them all in jail, where they belong?

But no, drawing himself up to his full five feet five, wee John Reid insisted that the next war - he's an expert in war, Reid, just not a very good one -  would be fought among the servers and mainframes of the world, as unspecified baddies  hacked into this and that, unleashing unimaginable  blizzards of shit.  What we need is a high-powered IT security set-up, maybe operated, he acknowledged, by casually dressed young people but overseen by respectable men like him, with suits and haircuts - no, that's what he said.  And what's the betting that he, Shirtsleeves,  works for just such a company, one that can keep all our data safe. For a price.

If I had, as defence seckatry, sent British troops to a place which I declared as more or less safe for them and then, a decade later, four hundred of them were dead and thousands of them injured, not to mention the whole mission being a fuck-up,  I think I'd just keep my head down and live on my pension, it's not as though it's a hundred quid a week.

Reid's earlier behaviour, anyway,  should have seen him deselected by his constituency and thrown out of the Labour party; he
  remorselessly sexually harrassed a female colleague and yet, without  any form of censure, was fast-tracked and went on to fuck up nine different departments of state, notably the home office,  in quick succession.  Anyone in parliament who saw  his sexual misbehaviour just turned their heads. Zero tolerance of speaking out, then.

And it was the same, obviously, at the BBC, with Hall.  There was some Corporation biddy on the box, tonight, laughing that Hall had a unique accommodation set-up at the BBC, he had a former medical room, where he would entertain the ladies, between broadcasts. We not only overpaid him for his dire, talentless performances but we funded a kiddy-banging suite for him, too. And no-one said Boo!

Talking at High Table, tonight, Lord Chris Pooh, chair of the BBC Governors  said

Well, quite frankly, none of it is anything to do with me and at the very least you should pay me a jolly good deal more than you are at present. Do you know who I am?
 

EVENSONG. BLUES IN THE NIGHT, RY COODER AND DAVID LINDLEY., JESUS ON THE MAINLINE

NO RETREAT, BABY, NO SURRENDER

I went to a Roman Catholic christening, oh, fifteen, sixteen years ago;  it was the grand-daughter of a friend, being christened, and her father - my friend's son  - had been an altar boy,  you'd think he'd know the form,  the son -  and my friend, the grandfather,  the nephew of countless nuns and priests - would know that this was a solemn occasion and if you're not going to do it solemnly, you shouldn't fucking do it at all  But no, it was a lovely day and all the young women were half-naked and bare-headed, and the adults not much better, Mrs Ishmael, alone, had a shawl around her head and shoulders - everybody was there to BeThere4 the young parents and the christenee and then to go and get pissed.

There was a new priest, however, a mean-looking little black guy, just in from Africa, and he was having none of this BeThere4U shit.  He'd obviously cast his eye over the congregation and decided, as I had, that this was a bunch of GodlessHeathenBastards, that, effectively, they were wasting his fucking time.  He launched into one, fired a round of fucks into the putative Godparents and the parents.  Have you got the first idea of what it means  to be a Godparent, he thundered?  No, you don't, it's obvious, you need to choose people who will aid the child's path to God, who will, lifelong, stand-up for the child, guide her and support her in the ways of the Lord; these, he said, gesturing at the BeThere4Us, these are just people you met in a nightclub. You can't make Godparents of people you meet in a nightclub.  But, bless him, the wee black priest, he finished the service and everyone got into a hotel down the Hagley Road as quick as possible  and got blootered, in a very real BeingThere4U sense..

And so it came to pass, within only a handful of years, that  young mother and father put themselves asunder and nary a one of the BeThere4Uers, did any BeingThere4Anybastard. The wee priest was right, we had all been, all of us, non-believers like me, partial-believers and washed in the blood of Christ, cast-iron believers had all been mocking God, taking the piss.  Oh,  the wee girl still sees her Dad, who is on his second or third partner, whilst living with her mother, who is - tu-tut - on her sixth.

And it came to pass, further, that grandfather died and on the morning of his funeral, I was in a Black Country hotel, reading the Filth-O-Graph on my laptop, biding my time until the service. There was an Archbishop, it reported,  ranting in Australia.  Next time any of you sonsafuckingbitches wanna get your arses buried by my guys, there's gonna be none of that MyWay shit.  I am up to my ecclesiastical  arse in all this pop music at fucking weddings and christenings and burials.  Now that I'm archfuckingbishop, cobbers, it'll be hymns or you can plant the bastard's your fucking selves, no more of this sorryassshit blaring out from  loudspeakers, yuz can sing or yuz can fuck off.

I feared the worst at that morning's funeral and I wasn't disappointed.  At the church service it was a crackly, weedy tape of Keep Right On To The End of the Road by Harry Lauder, this, by all accounts, was a favourite at Birmingham City Football Club.  So that's alright, then.  At the cremation the music was some growly, macho drivel, sung by Bruce Springsteen,  the Roy Rogers de nos jours.  You'n'me pardner, when they made you, they broke the mould. My friend's remains hymned-away, not by us, his friends, joining our voices, but by some dreadfully immature, gyrating popstar.  I didn't make a fifteen hundred mile journey to hear a fucking CD.

Although not  uncultured my friend didn't know a line of Shakespeare or a bar of Bach - time that I spent doing that stuff , he spent following Birmingham City, like a hopeless groupie - and I wasn't expecting a string-quartet.  But I'm sure that everybody participating in, for instance, The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, is Ended would have been infinitely more compassionate than was everybody listening to some guff which  they could, anyway,  play in their car.  Down by the River, maybe.  With their Baby.

And so, for the last couple of days, I've been wondering who to blame for this shit, here.

        

These two are going into the trial of the man accused of kidnapping and killing and LordKnowsWhatElseing their daughter.  And they look as though they're going down the pub.  Maybe, like mr mongoose, I have lived so long that I do not understand what I see but I am appalled, speechless, really, when I see this stuff.  The courts,  the regiments of Mr Justice Slaggs, of nincompoop home and justice seckatries, of Chief Superintendent Gobs and all the filthy lawyers, stooging about, moneygrubbing, the courts are home to all these filthy and wretched parasites.  But they are also places of final deliberation, of guilt, innocence, mercy and punishment. You could at least put a fucking tie on.

   

And these two grubby bloaters are the relatives of the victims of the Prestatyn arson murders, outside court, blethering-on about justice for their toasted angels, whilst matey cares so much that he can't even be bothered to shave.

  These grim portraits, above  are a long way from Grey's "short and simple annals of the poor,"  these people are not scruffy and ill-kempt as a result of penurious hard work, they appear thus out  of indifference and sheer, pig-ignorant bad manners.  Even if they lack the funds, themselves, there must be a dozen victims' charities which would furnish   those bereaved parents with a formal suit of clothes for this, the most formal event of their now forever wretched lives.

But it's me's to blame, me and those like me.  I should have applauded that wee, black priest, he was talking sense, by his lights, in a church filled with nonsense; instead, I just turned my head, embarrassed.

And forty-year friendship or not I should have walked-out at that Bruce Springsteen impertinence.  I should've grabbed Mrs Ishmael and said   We're outta here, Baby, let's just leave these other people where they are, this isn't a funeral, this is Dancing in the Dark.