“And Gordon fell in with Kinnockio the Clown and Blair the Grinning Butcher and Imelda the Greedy Scouse Gob and was at once at home among them for they were all useless, idle, thieving cunts……”
“Useless, idle, thieving cunts.”
“…. Feuding, hating each other, bound together by Treachery’s harsh cords, steeped in offence and foulness, pious and righteous their discourse, squalid and filthy their habits, all, as the Ancients said, fur coat and no knickers.”
“All fur coat and no knickers.”
Kinnockio the Clown was then leader of Gordon’s Tribe but was an piece of worthless garbage, tripe; an spluttering charlatan. stanislav tells how Kinnockio, the Welsh Git, could not walk in an straight line without falling over on top of his woman, Greedy Glenys; could not speak but only issue interminable, repetitive proclamations and in a contest between Kinnock and an twittering, walking fencepost called The Major, the people of the Ancient tribes so detested the worthless, spluttering Kinnockio that he lost the contest, even though he should have won, the horrible, thieving Welsh bastard.
“The horrible Welsh git. Up against the wall, motherfuckers and ginger bastards.”
“Kinnockio whined and windbagged that the place of England deserved to have him botching things up, deserved his sticky Welsh fingers in their pockets, his cawing, sing-song reproving voice in their ears, bleated that the scribes had done for him, The Last Pilgrim Exeunt Must Snuff out the Candle, they had said, should Kinnochio become Chief of Chiefs. And after the horrible and stupid Welsh git was sent to Away in Brussels, a place of thieving and embezzlement and perversion, where he and Glenys and their vile spawn made merry, came another Jockman to lead, an oily, puffed-up sanctimonious bastard, an lawyer, which is an Ancients’ word for thief, and his name was called John Smith – or, in some versions of the Saga, John Smith’s Best Bitter – and he anointed both the Grinning Butcher and the Snot-eating Freak as his heirs and not an moment too soon, children, for Old Smith did die straightways, from an sudden illness or was poisoned and killed by younger men of his own tribe – Byersites, Milburnites, Boatengites and by their witches, Margaret and Patricia and Ruth Man Kelly and Harriet SourSister and by Imelda the Cavernous Scouse Gob, who stood to profit the most. – Quick, fresh shitcakes for the fire, the blood thins and chills the heart as the Saga of Ruin unfolds.
And after the Deceasement of Smith, Gordon did plot and intrigue against all and blackmail and bully any in his path to secure unto himself the Chieftain’s role which was his by right, he claimed, as a Son of the Fucking Manse. But his tribesmen knew that others too, in addition to his kin, would see Gordon as defective, misshapen, maladroit and untrustworthy and Gordon’s paramour, call-ed Sneaky Pete, acclaimed, instead, Blair the Grinning Butcher and his woman, Imelda, which event threw Gordon into an rage for the rest of his life, the horrible bad-tempered tantruming snot-eating fucking bastard.
“The horrible bad-tempered tantruming snot-eating fucking bastard.”
“Rejected thus for his vileness and ugliness of spirit, Gordon the Ruiner, cursing, thwarted, secured unto himself an place behind the Throne, as Treasurer, from whence he harried and disrupted the doings of Tony and Imelda the Freeloader, who, thieves, cowards and liars themselves, could not restrain the malice of Gordon the Ruiner, nor withstand it. Gordon, feuding, even, in Night-time’s foetid loneliness, with himself, and plotting, whispering contagion and malfeasance, spiteful and vindictive so conspired against the Grinning Blairs they were compelled to abandon the Cunt Throne to Gordon and set themselves to mendicancy, to begging, in the place called All Over The Fucking World, which no longer exists. And by means of numbers pulled from the air – or, as stanislav tells it, Rubbish fucking tractor production statistics – Gordon persuaded some, called Hefferites and Kavanaghites and Toynbeeites and ToiletsMaguireites that he was an genius and an saint when in truth he was nothing but an fucked-up mouthy cunt with shit for brains, with an disposition so vile that people cowered from his rages, which were frequent and Gordon the Ruinous spared not even himself from his rages, so stupid was he that he had once bashed an eye out from his own head and was good even for fuck all… “
“Good even for fuck all..”
“…….and since youth he had blethered, Oh, Forgive me for being a useless, cack-handed, clumsy, ham-fisted, lumbering, pasty-faced, lardy, spluttering nincompoop, it is because I am a person of one-eye-edness, not that I ever mention it to gain sympathy (wink, wink).
stanislav is not clear about the legend of the rocking horse but it is fabled among other Ancients scholars that Gordon, among his male intimates, did often act and dress as an infant, an gross, vile, bloated infant wearing nothing but an cloth around his privates, into which cloth he could warmly and moistly soil himself and be, for a few minutes, happy, squelching in warm shit, shit filling his snotty nostrils, shit oozing-out from the towel, down his fat thighs; shit Paradise. And it was said that one of his counsellors did fashion an image of Gordon the Shitty Ruiner, sat astride an rocking horse, a pink, naked, blubbery babyman, clad in only a shit towel, or an nappy, pouting. And, for fear of it being shown to the Ancients in the place of England and in All Over The Fucking World, Gordon, the Ruinous Shitman Gordon, would permit the image-maker every license, tolerate his every offence until, eventually, terrified, he appointed him as Deputy Ruiner, which, for the Ancients, marked the true beginning of the end, with the coming anew of Sneaky Pete, now Lord Peter, the Foul Cocksucker, the Age of Ruin had properly commenced……”
“The night blows, now, cold and rainy; the wind howls like an hammer and we must find shelter from the storm, behind piled rocks with sticks sharpened against Beasts and Others, who would bite and tear at us, steal our shitcake, our dried ratflesh and all our treasures. Tomorrow is an day of Scavenging, we might find an tin or two of baking beans, in some Holy Retail Ruin. And if so there will be Feasting and I shall continue the Saga of Gordon the Ruiner. Make, friends and children, the Sign of Ruin to one another and say, after me, the second commandment of stanislav the plumber:”
“And they shall be taken, all, and given an quick rub-down with an housebrick and dropp-ed down an mineshaft”
“And so should it have happened, Sleep well, itinerant paupers, ragged and frightened, cold and hungry, in the wreckage and squalor left us by Gordon the Ruinous. Amen”
To be continued.
© stanislav the Polish plumber 2009. Website – Call me Ishmael
The Goodnight Vienna Audio file
