Learn Economics with mrs ishmael
Jeremy Cunt was on the Laura Kuenssnose show this morning. He accused her of having a hard nose. Steady on, old boy - pots and kettles, not so bad in the hard proboscis department yourself:
Anyway, turns out Britain is suffering from Inflation and Recession. Which is a bit of a problem, the remedies for I&R being diametrically opposed. Inflation = Caused by too much money chasing too few goods. Remedy - stop people spending so much. Increase taxation and increase interest rates so they haven't got any bloody money.
Recession = Caused by people not buying stuff because they haven't got any bloody money. Remedy - get people to spend more by reducing taxation and interest rates.
There you have it - the impossible equation. Jeremy Cunt will give us his solution on Thursday. He's already told us that everyone will pay more taxes and that there will be spending cuts. This will inevitably cause the existing recession to worsen. Cunty said that he hopes that it will be shallow and short-lived. Yes, I hope so, too. Not holding my breath, though.
Also appearing on the Hard-Nosed Laura Show was Simon Bloody Schama, there to promote his latest TV piece of popular history. He told us that the Arts are not a luxury. Oh, yes, they are, dearie - just ask the single parent in the substandard tower block or the Albanian migrant in the Dover processing centre. He wanted to address the elephant in the room,
Sweet Old Simon Bloody Gay-Schama saying the crops are rotting in the fields due to a post-Brexit lack of European slaves to pick them. He hasn't moved on to the current Ukrainian Elephant.
The huge drain on the economy of supporting the belligerent Dwarf Zelensky with weaponry and military training; the consequences of sanctions against Russia and the downright idiocy of blowing up the Nordstream pipelines seem to have slid right on by Simon Bloody Schama. (Why is he Simon Bloody Schama, mrs ishmael, you may ask? Seems an inoffensive old git. Now that you ask, 'twas all that striding prettily along Orkney's beaches, hair twirling in the breeze, camera lingering on stone circles, stone tables, mysterious monoliths and burial chambers
that brought Orkney to the attention of mr ishmael. And the rest, as Simon Bloody Schama might say, is history.)
Fortunately, Radakin was there, all medalled and poppied up, to let us know that there's a war on and that we have to resist the assault to our beliefs and values that's going on, not just in London, but in Edinburgh, Belfast, Cardiff and our towns and cities all across the globe. Bit worrying that the Chief of the Defence Staff appears to be labouring under the misapprehension that Britain has towns and cities across the globe - but then he's not looking too good these days - it must be the strain of running the secret war. Laura Hardnose told him that last week a Russian aircraft released a missile in the vicinity of a British plane, at which the good Admiral looked a little surprised, but rallied rapidly and riposted that we have to be clear with our leadership. Undaunted, Laura told him that he had been to speak to Prime Minister Rishi and Jeremy Cunt last week to tell them how much money he wants to run the war, and could we know how much, please? Struggling to avoid any sort of meaningful answer, Admiral Tony committed to saying that the Ministry of Defence doesn't want any cuts in defence spending as there are long-term threats so there must be long-term investment.
There always are. Threats, that is. And if there aren't any, the clever fellows with the medals will poke about until there are some. I have come to the conclusion that human beings, a fairly flawed species, enjoy war. It is just the way of it. Human nature. I was at a Remembrance event in a little, isolated church, where the tiny congregation had knitted 600 poppies to commemorate the fallen of their parish. The local children had researched the stories of the fallen. One widow's three sons had all gone off to the Great War and, one by one, each had died. It was policy to keep brothers and friends in the same unit as they would be less likely to run away - the only sensible action, having committed the folly of going in the first place.
Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it.
9,750 veterans were expected at the Cenotaph in London today, parading for an audience of 10,000. See, Simon Bloody Schama, you can make Art out of anything. The number of veterans the highest ever. Why's that? Because we have been in a state of perpetual war during the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.
The War Queen
Apparently someone chucked eggs at Mr & Mrs KC3 in York
earlier. Missed, of course - probably went to the wrong sort of school
and never learned to throw properly. This is the statue of the QE2 that the Betters were on their way to view. She looks up for a scrap. That's what you need in a War Queen - belligerence in a long dress with a ceremonial
doughnut on her shoulder.
Here's a poem and an essay by mr ishmael.
AT THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN
11.11.2010
I
wrote this last year, Kipling's not the only poet I know, some of my
best friends, if I had any, would be poets. I say I wrote it but maybe I
just, what's the word, channeled it, wrote it straight down without a
correction. I like it better this year, it rolls along with an
unstoppable venom, who knows where it came from, the shitegeist, maybe.
And given the rubbish that will be published along these lines, I make
no apologies for posting it again. The names and faces have changed,
even though it's the same old names and faces, spouting the same old
cant, just playing musical chairs, with the quick and the dead.
It
is now the eleventh day of the eleventh month; if you are visiting
here, maybe summonsed by a cyber prompt, maybe just wandering, spare a
moment or two.
POPPIES.
Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all, lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.
And you'd think that they was 'oly, with their kissers all turned down
And a look so bleedin' pious you'd think the angels 'ad come down,
The angels 'ad come down, me lads, the angels 'ad come down
And blessed 'em all, for bein' such a sorry bunch of clowns.
A sorry bunch of clowns, me lads, all standin' in a row.
Got-up like tailors' dummies, the lowest of the low.
They do this once a year, me lads, the flags and all the tears
But we live with their rottenness, for years and bloody years.
Was the improvised explosive, done the damage to the lads
And they might have fared right better had they been in armoured cabs,
But they never spent the money, so the lads all 'ad it rough
While Bobby Bleedin' Ainsworth, 'ad is nose stuck in the trough,
'is nose stuck in the trough, me lads, 'is nose stuck in the trough.
'E 'ad 'is fingers in our pockets, an' 'is nose stuck in the trough.
Some is living in an 'ostel, some is livin' on the street
There's some 'as got no ears, no eyes, and some 'as got no feet.
And some 'as got no feet me lads, and some 'as got no feet.
Oh, it's hard to go a-marching, when you hasn't got no feet.
And some 'as melted faces, make the children look away,
Make their wives and girlfriends shudder, though they'd never like to say
That there's worser things than dyin', like comin 'ome this way.
They can do wonders, now, with plastic
Or so the doctors say.
And some is off on jailhouse leave, and can't be here today,
The Judge, y'see, he banged 'im up for ever and a day.
'E banged 'im up for fightin; but that's what soldiers do
And when he's got no war to fight, 'e 'as trouble getting through
Trouble getting' through, me lads, when all the shootin' stops
And no-one wants to know 'im, just the prisons and the cops
The prisons and the cops, me lads, stick in a soldier's craw
Cos those what sent 'im killin' is far beyond the law.
If I but stole a fiver, now, from comrade next to me
I'd be on charges, sharpish, there, for everyone to see
They'll never get their collars felt, however much they steal
It's like that Alan Duncan said, a splendid fucking deal.
They write the rules, then break 'em, say they didn't understand.
They're shitting in our faces, up an down the bleedin' land
Shittin' in our faces, just as hard as e'er they can.
Pissin' in our pockets and spitting in our eyes
And travellin' on the gravytrain to the house of bleedin' lies.
An Armistice, all of their own, and no-one got no blame
They just paid a few shillings back and carried on the same.
Carried on the same, me lads, for now and evermore
Stuffed like pigs and drunk with power, while we go off to war.
The members and right honourables know only how to lie
And cheat and steal and fornicate, whilst we march off to die
In some benighted wogland, some jungle, veldt or bush
Or in the hills and mountains of the Hindu bleedin' Kush
The Hindu bleedin' Kush, me lads, you'd think they'd understand
That the killing fields of Afghannystan are No Man's Bleedin' Land.
No Man's Bleedin' Land, me boys, and it was ever thus
They shoot from caves and run away, in the Hindu bleedin' Kush.
There's Charlie in 'is medals, heir to the bleedin' throne,
The one what we're out fightin' for, while he's sitting safe at home.
E'll 'ave yer Mrs, like as not, you give 'im 'alf a chance
He just takes what he wants, you see, it only takes a glance
For he is true nobility, the country's pride and joy
Whilst we are noble savages, cannon fodder to deploy.
They'll send us up to fiery death, and out in unsafe trucks
And when we're blown to Kingdom Come, why, no-one gives a fuck.
But when we come in sixes, with coffins draped in flags
They look a bit embarrassed, like, they're just a bunch of slags
Just a bunch of slags, me lads, all standin' ramrod straight
They'll smile and say So sorry, just a simple twist of fate
I would have gone myself, you know, but I'm important here,
We also serve, we lousy pricks, who only stand and wait.
You can put your bleedin' poppies where the Sun don't never shine
For hypocrisy's your only creed, you ain't no friend of mine
You ain't no friend of no-one's, if the truth was only told
To the boys you send to bleed and die and never to grow old.
It wouldn't do for your sons, all to the manner born
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
To die alone in foreign fields, forgotten and forlorn
That's the stuff for me and mine, our bodies ripped and torn.
So you can put your bleedin' poppies where the monkey put his nuts
The only thing we've seen from you is cuts and bleedin' cuts'
And some ain't got no bullets and some ain't got no boots
And some are boys of seventeen, just bleedin' young recruits
Bleeding young recruits, me lads, all blown to smithereens,
They never saw their twenty-first, they never left their teens.
See, they're only paper flowers and you're only paper men
And if the call to valour came you'd cut and run again.
But paper flowers, that's the thing, to show you are sincere
And shiny shoes an' overcoats, that's why you're standin' ere.
We're soldiers of the Queen, me lads, and not this sorry bunch
Who steal their houses, dodge their tax and steal their bleedin' lunch
They're one step down from parasite, a squalid learning curve
Lets hope before they meet their end, they get what they deserve.
Oh they're wearing fancy poppies, as they're lined-up in the Mall
But they're no-good, thieving bastards, rotten cowards one and all
Rotten cowards one and all, lads, rotten cowards one and all
And they're wearing solemn faces, as they're standing in the Mall.
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