Stanislav tackles question of sexual ethics:
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What was on Telly?
As I believe you now call yourself and nothing wrong with that,
perhaps you’d recite one of your very clever, if I may say so, poems.
The
Michael Parkinson Show, along with the A Life In The Day feature, in
the back of the Sunday Times Colour Supplement, these were the dawn of
celebrity culture, these were the somewhat shocking days when
showbiz Gods stepped down from screen and stage and shared their
wonderful lives with us, American stars, coyly baring their arses for media 's energetic tongue; Cleo Laine, writing, or having
ghost-written, a page of snooty, self-serving drivel about life in the
Laine-Dankworth household - I remember that the vastly over-rated
chanteuse had trouble with staff, couldn't get them, it seems.
Parky's journalistic raison d'etre fecal was that he was from Up North, and in some imaginary childhood of deprivation his woeful, jambutty and rickets, British way of life, had been transformed by Hollywood stars, larger than life, in some flickering Odeon or Gaumont and By 'Eck, now that he had a chance to lick them arses nowt'd stop him. How we watched from the other side of the screen as Yul Brynner, for instance, boasted of his innumerable achievements, his mastery of languages, of dance, of athletics, of the guitar, of remorseless self-promotion; we thought this was true grit, unaware that like dinner plates on sticks in an ailing Variety act, we were being fervently spun by the infotainment industry. Others soon followed, chat-showing, Des O'Connor, Swinging London's Simon Dee, Terry Wogan, eventually the format reinvented itself in the form of poor, mad, loony witch, Caroline Ahearn, Mrs Merton her nightmare baggage, Coronation Street on bad brown acid, and then that awful motormouthing lawyer, Clive Davis, what a cunt. The essence remained the same, though, promotion of the latest book or record or film, in exchange, generally, for a wee bit of banal chitchat. There is also, of course, a gaggle of presenters, skilled in the cheap black art of goading the inept, Jerry Springer was the leader of the pack, followed by the sanctimonious, simpering Trisha, dangerous if employed as Community Psychiatric Nurse, apocalyptic on National TeeVee and then there's the monstrous Jeremy Kyle - regular readers will know that we are opposed to capital and corporal punishment, but I could suspend my judgement to watch this man beaten to death, over, say seventy-two hours; hard not to think that he's an agent of skymadeupnewsandfilth, engaged in the ruination and capitulation to ShitCorp of the entire nation. The States has studiosfull of chatarses, notably our own Mr Piers Moron, who manages, nevertheless, to get in deep with the stars every week or so, here, in Blighty, a true moron for our times.
Back then, though, we thought all this stinky, watery shit was truly revelatory, well, I did, anyway, as it splattered around the toiletbowl of my consciousness. And I remember watching Mohamed Ali on Parky. A great man, I thought, bold, witty and intelligent. When he described the white man as his enemy, I almost cheered, that's how dumb I was. Wasn't he a draft dodger, too? And the way he danced around in the ring, that was magic, that was, for a negro to do all that. That was showing them.
And that, I am ashamed to say, has, remained, more or less, my opinion of the young Cassius Clay. At least it was, until Joe Frazier died and I became, belatedly, refreshed by the truth of the matter. Ali never did a day's proper work in his life, he was groomed for the Olympics and after winning there he just moved from one huge paycheck to another; Frazier, on the other hand, was nigger trash from Carolina, who started working in the fields at the age of seven.
Parky's journalistic raison d'etre fecal was that he was from Up North, and in some imaginary childhood of deprivation his woeful, jambutty and rickets, British way of life, had been transformed by Hollywood stars, larger than life, in some flickering Odeon or Gaumont and By 'Eck, now that he had a chance to lick them arses nowt'd stop him. How we watched from the other side of the screen as Yul Brynner, for instance, boasted of his innumerable achievements, his mastery of languages, of dance, of athletics, of the guitar, of remorseless self-promotion; we thought this was true grit, unaware that like dinner plates on sticks in an ailing Variety act, we were being fervently spun by the infotainment industry. Others soon followed, chat-showing, Des O'Connor, Swinging London's Simon Dee, Terry Wogan, eventually the format reinvented itself in the form of poor, mad, loony witch, Caroline Ahearn, Mrs Merton her nightmare baggage, Coronation Street on bad brown acid, and then that awful motormouthing lawyer, Clive Davis, what a cunt. The essence remained the same, though, promotion of the latest book or record or film, in exchange, generally, for a wee bit of banal chitchat. There is also, of course, a gaggle of presenters, skilled in the cheap black art of goading the inept, Jerry Springer was the leader of the pack, followed by the sanctimonious, simpering Trisha, dangerous if employed as Community Psychiatric Nurse, apocalyptic on National TeeVee and then there's the monstrous Jeremy Kyle - regular readers will know that we are opposed to capital and corporal punishment, but I could suspend my judgement to watch this man beaten to death, over, say seventy-two hours; hard not to think that he's an agent of skymadeupnewsandfilth, engaged in the ruination and capitulation to ShitCorp of the entire nation. The States has studiosfull of chatarses, notably our own Mr Piers Moron, who manages, nevertheless, to get in deep with the stars every week or so, here, in Blighty, a true moron for our times.
Back then, though, we thought all this stinky, watery shit was truly revelatory, well, I did, anyway, as it splattered around the toiletbowl of my consciousness. And I remember watching Mohamed Ali on Parky. A great man, I thought, bold, witty and intelligent. When he described the white man as his enemy, I almost cheered, that's how dumb I was. Wasn't he a draft dodger, too? And the way he danced around in the ring, that was magic, that was, for a negro to do all that. That was showing them.
And that, I am ashamed to say, has, remained, more or less, my opinion of the young Cassius Clay. At least it was, until Joe Frazier died and I became, belatedly, refreshed by the truth of the matter. Ali never did a day's proper work in his life, he was groomed for the Olympics and after winning there he just moved from one huge paycheck to another; Frazier, on the other hand, was nigger trash from Carolina, who started working in the fields at the age of seven.
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The Religious and Cookery Pages
I think we
should burn all of them, really; Hubbard's Scientology rubbish, the
Book of Mormon, the Koran, the Torah, the Bible, Old and New - apart
from the Sermon on the Mount and maybe Proverbs and Psalms, of course -
the birth of the Blues, by the waters of Babylon, there we sat down,
yea, and we wept, when we remembered Zion . Burn them all up,
scriptures. Google, now, is my rod and my staff, my comfort, my help
cometh even from the Web.
God said to Abraham, Kill me your son.
Abe said, Man, you must be puttin' me on
God said, No.
Abe said, What?
God said,You can do what want, Abe
But the next time you see me comin', you better run.
Abe said, Where do you want this killin' done?
God said, Out on Highway Sixty-One.
from Highway Sixty-One Revisited, by Bob Dylan, born-again Christian and Jew.
These
Abrahamic religions, they are the very fucking Devil, aren't they?
Anger and vengeance and guilt and slaughter, idolatry and superstition,
punishment and damnation. Warmongering Yids, screeching, hysterical
Ragheads and noncing Micks; Anglicans, Methodists, Godless heathen
bastard, snot-eating Presbyterians; Jovas, Christian fucking
Scientists, Pentecostalists, Anabaptists, Salvationists, Plymouth
Brethren and Rasta fucking Farians; Greek orthodoxes, Russian
orthodoxes. Tony Blair and George Chimp, praying together, make you puke
your guts up. Jesus fucking wept, what a bunch.
Regulars
here will know that we love the sacred music of the Abrahamic
religions; we love the architecture of Cathedral and Mosque, the art of
the Nativity and the Passion and that we are comfortable, sort of, at
least accustomed to, the Mosaic law which underpins our Norman
jurisprudence, but, Oh, these fucking Christians and Jews and Moslems;
God spare us, Ghastly blood-drenched, noncing Popes and prelates and
rabbis and ayatollahs.
I'd burn them all, all the holy books, especially the Torah, seeing how much trouble it's causing in the Middle East, fuck the IsraeliJews and their elastic arithmetic, insisting that any Jew ever born, anywhere, now or forevermore, can go and live, impossibly, within their borders, which won't be expanding constantly, into the lands of the Arab untermenschen; cunts they are, Israelis, they'd see us all burnt up in a Holy NukeBonfire, just as long as they live and die according to some rubbishy old book of superstitions and ethnic cleansings and hatreds, bastards, just as long as they go to Heaven and the rest of us get fucked; that fucking gangster, grunting Benjy Netanyahu, makes South African apartheid look respectable.
The Bible, old and new, full of piss and vinegar, full of guilt, Christ you only gotta think about the Bible to start sweating, everything you do, eating, fucking, thinking for yourself - well, you better look out becuse here comes Guilt and right behind him is Redemptions's tantalus, all you gotta do is beat yourself up and you'll be saved, the Lord thy God is an angry God, but He'll forgive you your libido, if you're lucky, and if you kill things for him. They need burning, all of them need burning, those fucking Gideon things, reproaching you in hotel rooms, the New English type, every piece of literature erased from the King James version and substituted with antiseptic bilge. I have one of those big fuck-off Victorian family bibles with the footnotes and the gold edges, sometimes I keep it open, on a stand, taking the piss. Lamentations and Leviticus and Judges are a steep price to pay for the Sermon on the Mount, I always thought.
I don't know what it's like down Washwood Heath these days but it used to be a Muslem enclave, where you feared to go, the laws weren't enforced and courtesy was exiled, they were a hateful bunch of veiled, ill-mannered women and scowling, beardy Pakis and Afghanis who looked as though they'd like nothing better than to saw your head off with a blunt knife . This was before the Iranian revolution, before a global, politicised Muslem consciousness but even so, the unifying, hateful force was the veil, the revolting halal butcher, the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon his name and the Koran.
I'd burn them all, all the holy books, especially the Torah, seeing how much trouble it's causing in the Middle East, fuck the IsraeliJews and their elastic arithmetic, insisting that any Jew ever born, anywhere, now or forevermore, can go and live, impossibly, within their borders, which won't be expanding constantly, into the lands of the Arab untermenschen; cunts they are, Israelis, they'd see us all burnt up in a Holy NukeBonfire, just as long as they live and die according to some rubbishy old book of superstitions and ethnic cleansings and hatreds, bastards, just as long as they go to Heaven and the rest of us get fucked; that fucking gangster, grunting Benjy Netanyahu, makes South African apartheid look respectable.
The Bible, old and new, full of piss and vinegar, full of guilt, Christ you only gotta think about the Bible to start sweating, everything you do, eating, fucking, thinking for yourself - well, you better look out becuse here comes Guilt and right behind him is Redemptions's tantalus, all you gotta do is beat yourself up and you'll be saved, the Lord thy God is an angry God, but He'll forgive you your libido, if you're lucky, and if you kill things for him. They need burning, all of them need burning, those fucking Gideon things, reproaching you in hotel rooms, the New English type, every piece of literature erased from the King James version and substituted with antiseptic bilge. I have one of those big fuck-off Victorian family bibles with the footnotes and the gold edges, sometimes I keep it open, on a stand, taking the piss. Lamentations and Leviticus and Judges are a steep price to pay for the Sermon on the Mount, I always thought.
I don't know what it's like down Washwood Heath these days but it used to be a Muslem enclave, where you feared to go, the laws weren't enforced and courtesy was exiled, they were a hateful bunch of veiled, ill-mannered women and scowling, beardy Pakis and Afghanis who looked as though they'd like nothing better than to saw your head off with a blunt knife . This was before the Iranian revolution, before a global, politicised Muslem consciousness but even so, the unifying, hateful force was the veil, the revolting halal butcher, the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon his name and the Koran.
But
it isn't just scripture. What else is there, on the holy books shelf? Das
Kapital, Chairman Mao's Little Red Book; the Socratic dialogues, silly old fag,
mincing about, fucking teenage boys, as though it was the height of
sophistication; slavery and sodomy, the pinnacle of civilisation,
turd-burgling made noble, so long as it took place amid disquisition,
dialectic, enquiry and paradox. Douse it in petrol. What's that Hindu
nonsense, is that the Baghavad wotsit? Throw it on the fire. John Stuart
Mill On Liberty ? Prolix, showy, pseudo-elitist convolutions. Throw it
on the fire. The Wealth Of Nations? A Shopkeepers' Handbook, burn it.
If
there's one thing in this life I can't abide it's a fussy eater.
Somebody like me, now, loitering in Mr Death's anteroom, there's an
excuse for me, being careful, fussy even. I recently discovered pure
Pomegranate Juice, the new, anti-oxidant superfood, and I drink about a
tenner's worth a week, and since I substituted hot water for tea,
coffee and milk it sort of works out, financially. I drank twenty cups
of milky coffee a day, at least, and anyway, it wouldn't matter what it
cost, if, as is reported, it clears clogged arteries. But big healthy
blokes, they should eat what's put in front of them, clear their plates
and do the washing-up, instead of gorging on food pornography, a la
Jamie, Heston, Rick, Michel, Marco fucking Pierre and Delia, brains of
a dishcloth, her, all these performing re-tards who dismiss our lives
as shit, lacking finesse and imagination, our clothes, our homes, our
cars are shit; a parade of gobby morons, Fatso Spoiled Mummy's Boy
Clarkson or simpering, ethical Monty Don in his woollies and braces, the
cheap cunt, with his mental breakdowns, we pay them all a
fortune to make ourselves feel bad about our own decent, industrious,
tax-paying, honourable mundanity, gazing, as we do, through
Celebrity's tawdry window, yearning for the granite-topped, fibre
optic, tasteless dwellings of playactors, sluts and footballers. No,
Dad, say what you like about Jordan, least she has a really nice house.
And she loveserkidstobits.
But
the Jews, they take the fucking unleavened biscuit, don't they?
Marching through Edgbaston of a Saturday, in their stupid hats. Large
parts of our population starving to death and these fuckers are whining
on about kosher food, gotta not eat this shit or that shit, because
Jehova'd get his hair off, maybe turn me into a pillar of salt, like he
does, because He loves us so much, or a burning fucking bush, Oi vay,
fuck me, Hymie, anchovies for breakfast, that's the thing.
And the killing, the kosher slaughtering, gotta be done just so, my son, otherwise Jehovah, well, you know what Jehovah's like. You can't stun the animal, gotta just quickly almost saw its head off with a good sharp knife, says so in the book. Well, OK, what if many countries have banned it as barabaric, if it says in the book that its kosher, that's good enough for me. The world is always ganging-up on us Jews.
And the killing, the kosher slaughtering, gotta be done just so, my son, otherwise Jehovah, well, you know what Jehovah's like. You can't stun the animal, gotta just quickly almost saw its head off with a good sharp knife, says so in the book. Well, OK, what if many countries have banned it as barabaric, if it says in the book that its kosher, that's good enough for me. The world is always ganging-up on us Jews.
 |
| A rabbi at work. |
I
read some ree-surch a while back; seems that at that time, when those
punitive old Hebrew motherfucker patriarchs were codifying all this
dietary rubbish, there were very good scientific reasons for people not
eating pigs, for instance, some regional combination of environmental
adversities had made the pig then unfit for human consumption,
shellfish, too, I think, anything without scales or fins was deemed filthy.
I can't fully remember it but archaeologists and radiocarbon daters had
found this blip a few thousand years ago, in parts of the foodchain
and it therefore made very good sense to dissuade people from eating
pork chops and prawn cocktails and I don't know what else, lotsa stuff,
but once they started on FoodSin those fuckers were not gonna give it
up. Eggs, no, you must only eat them if they have a round end and a
pointy end, like so - Gullivers Travels stuff - they got two round
ends or two pointy ends and you must sell the unclean, filthy little
things to the Gentiles, fuck them, anyway, and you must never eat the
fish and the meat at the same time, or you will die from leprosy or some
other, nasty shiksa disease, these are the rules, more shit to feel
guilty about, as if they haven't got enough, nailing up our Lord and
Saviour, like they did. But these things, these food scares, were
temporary, like John Selwyn Gummer's Mad Cow Disease, only rabbis,
indeed any form of clergypersonbastard, don't do temporary, they only
do eternal, don't they, and rules and prohibitions and punishments and
tut-tutting but mainly the withholding of God's red-hot angry love,
these claimed special knowledges are what give them power; priests,
rabbis, imams, gurus, all claiming a special, knowing, interpretive
intimacy, a special acquaintanceship with God and his Heavenly diets,
His menus; christenings, bar mitzvahs, marriages, funerals,
confessions, penances, noncing, inquisitions and
excommuni-fucking-cations, this has always been their shit, guilt and
fear, horrible, wailing, chanting bastards.
The
old Hebe boys could have said, after a while, Okay, schmucks, maybe the
pigs are cool again, maybe you can all try a bacon sandwich, now, but
just hold fast with that HP sauce, all sorts of spicy Goyim shit in
that, but no, chicken soup and flat bread, that's the way to please
Jehovah, the miserable bad-tempered fucking old git. Says so, right
here in the Book of Leviticus, as true now as it was three thousand
years ago, it's right next to the bit about arsebandits like Steven Fag
being an abomination in the sight of the Lord, even if he is a Jew, and
how it's cool to smite the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.
The
blessed putrid virgin, Anne Widdecombe, formerly an Anglican and now a
devout Mick, a follower of his rottenness, Pope Nazi, keeps her own
anti-jewishness clean, sort of;
 |
| Dancing Queen, Roman Catholic Style |
once
saying of her then boss, There's something of the Yid about Michael
and indeed there was. When he was Whiskey Maggie's Trade Seckatry,
My-Kull Howard
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| Oily Bastard. Prison Works. That's the Thing. And lots of it. Gimme that old time religion, an eye for an eye! No, two eyes for an eye! |
shoved
through the Smash the Sabbath Act, otherwise known as the Sunday
Trading Act, destroying, like Tories do, anything and everything - in
this case something quite special, something born of, but beyond
religion, the British Sunday - which stands in the shopkeepers' way,
(Growth, they like to call it, people spending money they don't have and
doing it over a longer period) and in the way of their donations to
Tory HQ. Oh, come now, Jeremy, we don't want to be bound in this day and
age by old superstitions, do we? lisped the ghastly Howard,
indignantly. No,of course we don't, only if we're Jews, you see, and
special.
Howard was an elder or whatever they call them, down his local synagogue and in the very same week as he was mocking the Keep Sunday Special folks, was shown there in a documentary, nodding his head like a numpty, wrapped in a shawl and muttering warnings of damnation and fire from some pretend scrolls, celebrating his Sabbath, like a mad, miserable old prophet. Don't know if he does kosher, probably not, he's a proper Tory hypocrite, probably eat a pork and stuffing and apple sauce bap with anyone who might vote for him, bung him a few quid, for his think tank, God fucking help us and anyway, he probably lost his whole family in the Death Camps, like they all did - you know that thing they do, the Jews, as if they own Sorrow, as if the Death Camps were a private matter, which only they can own and understand, cheeky fucking bastards, as though Horror and Depravity shock only them, as if they are the Keepers of the global conscience, fuck the gippoes, fuck the queers, fuck the trade unionists, fuck the tens of millions killed by Mao, the tens of millions killed by Stalin, it's the Jews who count, because it's all written down in the Book. A sanctified sort of hypocrisy, that of Howard and his ilk. My-Kull Howard's holy books, they'd be first on my fire.
I was trading myself, in those Howard days, and immediately had to start opening Sundays, the whole country, aside from orthodox Jewry, being led into the mad, unsatisfying world of 24/7, as they stupidly call endless shopping, endless, banal, recycled infotainment; Howard really did help make the world a worse place. Still, he only had to open his oily gob for you to know that such was his purpose. The same smirking mendacity, first aired on the Today Programme, repeated, embellished with further lies, further Aren't-I-cleverings, at Newsnight's opposite end of the day. If he had said, Let's abolish the Jewish Sabbath, while we're at it, get these po-faced, miserable gits out working all hours, too, then you could have respected him. A bit. But the pro-Israel Jews fund many of our politicians, as many as they can, so they need special treatment. And don't forget the Holocaust.
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These people, at skymadeupnewsandfilth, that's all they print, said the Attorney General, Dominus Vobiscum, - the geeky one, in the glasses - made-up news and filth, apart, of course, from when they say, quite properly, in my view, Vote Tory, for a soaraway future. I mean, Mr M is a wonderful employer and everyone in cabinet and in the police enjoys being on his payroll and more importantly we all appreciate him not printing any unfortunate stories or photographs he may have of us, indulging, perhaps in a little harmless corporal punishment or bestiality or necrophilia; we are all menoftheworld in these matters but the public can be a little touchy so we appreciate Mr M's discretion. Blackmail? Gosh no, I wouldn't call it that. Well, as for why he doesn't, never has, paid any tax in this country that's, a matter for my right honourable friend, the chancellor.
Howard was an elder or whatever they call them, down his local synagogue and in the very same week as he was mocking the Keep Sunday Special folks, was shown there in a documentary, nodding his head like a numpty, wrapped in a shawl and muttering warnings of damnation and fire from some pretend scrolls, celebrating his Sabbath, like a mad, miserable old prophet. Don't know if he does kosher, probably not, he's a proper Tory hypocrite, probably eat a pork and stuffing and apple sauce bap with anyone who might vote for him, bung him a few quid, for his think tank, God fucking help us and anyway, he probably lost his whole family in the Death Camps, like they all did - you know that thing they do, the Jews, as if they own Sorrow, as if the Death Camps were a private matter, which only they can own and understand, cheeky fucking bastards, as though Horror and Depravity shock only them, as if they are the Keepers of the global conscience, fuck the gippoes, fuck the queers, fuck the trade unionists, fuck the tens of millions killed by Mao, the tens of millions killed by Stalin, it's the Jews who count, because it's all written down in the Book. A sanctified sort of hypocrisy, that of Howard and his ilk. My-Kull Howard's holy books, they'd be first on my fire.
I was trading myself, in those Howard days, and immediately had to start opening Sundays, the whole country, aside from orthodox Jewry, being led into the mad, unsatisfying world of 24/7, as they stupidly call endless shopping, endless, banal, recycled infotainment; Howard really did help make the world a worse place. Still, he only had to open his oily gob for you to know that such was his purpose. The same smirking mendacity, first aired on the Today Programme, repeated, embellished with further lies, further Aren't-I-cleverings, at Newsnight's opposite end of the day. If he had said, Let's abolish the Jewish Sabbath, while we're at it, get these po-faced, miserable gits out working all hours, too, then you could have respected him. A bit. But the pro-Israel Jews fund many of our politicians, as many as they can, so they need special treatment. And don't forget the Holocaust.
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What the Papers Don't Say
These people, at skymadeupnewsandfilth, that's all they print, said the Attorney General, Dominus Vobiscum, - the geeky one, in the glasses - made-up news and filth, apart, of course, from when they say, quite properly, in my view, Vote Tory, for a soaraway future. I mean, Mr M is a wonderful employer and everyone in cabinet and in the police enjoys being on his payroll and more importantly we all appreciate him not printing any unfortunate stories or photographs he may have of us, indulging, perhaps in a little harmless corporal punishment or bestiality or necrophilia; we are all menoftheworld in these matters but the public can be a little touchy so we appreciate Mr M's discretion. Blackmail? Gosh no, I wouldn't call it that. Well, as for why he doesn't, never has, paid any tax in this country that's, a matter for my right honourable friend, the chancellor.
Stanislav and Ishmael essays:
Is Nothing Wrong with Poof drafted 5/03/12
As I believe you now call yourself drafted 13/11/11
God said to Abraham we should burn drafted 11/04/11
God said to Abraham we should burn drafted 11/04/11
These People, Dominus Vobiscum drafted 17/05/11
