This is an extension of my comments on Spinsterella's post on not wanting Children. I dont have the wizardry or patience to fuck with Google to make this happen naturally so apologies if you took a while to find this.
I have kids, lots of em and I like it. I see many people who have kids, lots of 'em, and clearly don't like them.
They are not an accessory as some seem to believe and you REALLY need to want them for whatever reason to actually have them. Far to many are born out of duty or expectation or even more often ignorance to mums and dads who are not equipped (and money is not a factor here) or just feel trapped either from the start of pregnancy or when they realise after two years that there is a very long time to go before you can come first again.
Prospective parents need to be honest and admit to not wanting them before it is too late. For the teenage mums amongst you perhaps someone can explain something to me. When is it right for a girl under say 17 to have children. Under what circumstances is this the right thing to do. Kids have sex. No problem. Kids having kids- disaster. It is never good for either girl (boy/father) or child to have kids so young. In fact it is a social nightmare providing another generation of poorly raised council house vermin (originator of the word Chav for those who didn't know- CHV's) .
Setting aside my fascist tendencies, even for the most liberal, please explain to me when it may be in parent or childs interest to give birth at 14.
If it's the guilt of abortion for those involved, forget it. Make it law rather, shift the guilt to the state, far better than the cost to the state of raising this underclass. Maybe, just maybe, some of thsoe blighted by teenage pregnancy or whatever will be able to climb away from the cycle of poverty they are so totally locked into.
The stories in the mail of the grandmother at 35 or the great-grandmother in her forties, these fuckers are proud of themselves- how can this be?
Compulsory abortion under the age of 17 may appear a little extreme but WTF else can you do ?
Next week a treatise on the targetting of minorities in stop and search!
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Belgium
Belgium has a reputation for paedophilia that perhaps I thought was undeserved. Yes it is a dull place and no there are no famous (real-life) Belgians, only dodgy fictional detectives with suspect moustaches.
So the visit. Brussells nice, Pissing Boy- Good. Grand Platz- Good. Not alot else (oh yes, plenty of strip clubs and sex shops- presumably aimed at MEP's and their expense accounts).
Ghent, "third city." I know, we will visit the modern art gallery known as SMAK (which becomes appropriate) en famille. The kids have been to the Tate, liked it, they will surely love this.
No. In fact it is hard to believe anyone would love this. A poisonous demonstration of the worst aspects of modern art. I am not particularly prurient, I like Albert and George's work in faeces and am not embarrassed by nudity or sexual references, the kids are pretty au fait with art in general terms as well.
The principal exhibit is a take on Pirates, presumably spawned by a reaction to the series of films. Its nexus appears to be coprophilia and dismemberment with angle grinders shown on a variety of video loops projected through the husk of a runied pirate galleon. In isolation I would go along with this exhibit as an interesting take on the subject and enjoyed some of the parody involved. That it had been expanded to fill the space available implied that elements of the video and display were a little superfluous but nevertheless, reasonably good.
However, setting aside the mechanical Pig (yes - I want one!), and a film exhibit of asexual dancing with accoutrements, every other exhibit in the place involved cocks and shit. George Bush fucking a pig (twice) is not a mature political comment or an attractive image even if well executed in modelling clay. Butt Plug Chair is more of a practical joke than an art installation and justaposed with men smearing poo on themselves on video makes for an attractive family outing.
To say that most of the work on display was immature, obvious, salacious and in general bad taste would make me sound like some form of Mary Whitehouse but there is nothing else to say. The work was immature, pathetically so, and in large part embarrassing.
It seems the worst proponents of amateur horror movie making have moved on to call their work art. Rather than exhibiting in flea-pit cinema's they now get paid by an idiotic and desensitised euro art scene where curators buy crap (in some cases quite literally) presumably from their mates to display in state sponsored cock fests.
So the visit. Brussells nice, Pissing Boy- Good. Grand Platz- Good. Not alot else (oh yes, plenty of strip clubs and sex shops- presumably aimed at MEP's and their expense accounts).
Ghent, "third city." I know, we will visit the modern art gallery known as SMAK (which becomes appropriate) en famille. The kids have been to the Tate, liked it, they will surely love this.
No. In fact it is hard to believe anyone would love this. A poisonous demonstration of the worst aspects of modern art. I am not particularly prurient, I like Albert and George's work in faeces and am not embarrassed by nudity or sexual references, the kids are pretty au fait with art in general terms as well.
The principal exhibit is a take on Pirates, presumably spawned by a reaction to the series of films. Its nexus appears to be coprophilia and dismemberment with angle grinders shown on a variety of video loops projected through the husk of a runied pirate galleon. In isolation I would go along with this exhibit as an interesting take on the subject and enjoyed some of the parody involved. That it had been expanded to fill the space available implied that elements of the video and display were a little superfluous but nevertheless, reasonably good.
However, setting aside the mechanical Pig (yes - I want one!), and a film exhibit of asexual dancing with accoutrements, every other exhibit in the place involved cocks and shit. George Bush fucking a pig (twice) is not a mature political comment or an attractive image even if well executed in modelling clay. Butt Plug Chair is more of a practical joke than an art installation and justaposed with men smearing poo on themselves on video makes for an attractive family outing.
To say that most of the work on display was immature, obvious, salacious and in general bad taste would make me sound like some form of Mary Whitehouse but there is nothing else to say. The work was immature, pathetically so, and in large part embarrassing.
It seems the worst proponents of amateur horror movie making have moved on to call their work art. Rather than exhibiting in flea-pit cinema's they now get paid by an idiotic and desensitised euro art scene where curators buy crap (in some cases quite literally) presumably from their mates to display in state sponsored cock fests.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Mice
We have a mouse (or even some mice) in our kitchen. Right there in the drawer under the cooker where we keep the peanut butter. Little grey fella with the Tom and Jerry ears. Definately grey not brown. Seen quite alot of him actually, often. But more later. Quite cute but boy does he shit. Anyway to resolve the hygene issues we decided humane traps were the way ahead.
Day one. Humane trap purchased. Grey box with see through lid. Mouse smells food, enters via ramp, spring- ramp comes back up and mouse is trapped. No.
Bait is installed and we wait, not watching with a torch but almost. Eleven o'clock, night one. No sign of mouse, mint kitcat remains untouched inside box. Mouse seen leaving vicinity, apparently in no hurry when drawer is opened.
Day Two. Inspect trap. Kit Kat is nibbled. Trap is filled with mouse-shit, no actual mouse in trap however. At this point we decide that the equipment is not so much a trap as a feeding station. We presented it to the hardware store that sold it and on the obvious evidence (ie box full of mouse shit and no mouse) they agree to replace the trap with an alternative, again humane device. This one is a black plastic tunnel with a central elbow. Food is placed at the end of the tunnel, mouse enters tunnel, crosses elbow and unbalances the trap, door swings too behind the mouse and hey presto he is caught. Feeding station number two.
Day three exploration of the trap discovers that all of the peanut butter has been eaten from inside the trap but mouse has then reversed out and wandered away,he was again seen leaving the scene with a degree of unimaginable nonchallence- is that the best you can do? Houdini mouse two, humane traps nil.
Day 4. Traditional murderous mouse trap installed (fingers sore) alongside trap number two- humane option. Mouse has choice, go with the humane solution or die. Simple. Mouse fails to grasp nature of deal and eats food from both traps. Little furry bastard. Attitude walking off waving two fingers in the air. We persevere with both options.
Day 5. Home from pub in evening around midnight. Check for dead vermin. None in murdering trap. Partner picks up humane trap, gives a little shake. Door has shut. Partner opens door and replaces trap in drawer. Mouse exits trap left. Not only waving two fingers but whistling the great escape.
Day six. Mouse now eating more peanut butter than one critter alone could possibly manage. Feeding stations frequently replenished. Idea that mice may be like labradors and will eat and eat and eat until they fall over and cannot get up again. Fat little bastards time is ticking away. Thinking of taking up falconry with garden kestrel if I ever catch the little shit. Swing it around head on string until hawks come.
To be continued.
Day one. Humane trap purchased. Grey box with see through lid. Mouse smells food, enters via ramp, spring- ramp comes back up and mouse is trapped. No.
Bait is installed and we wait, not watching with a torch but almost. Eleven o'clock, night one. No sign of mouse, mint kitcat remains untouched inside box. Mouse seen leaving vicinity, apparently in no hurry when drawer is opened.
Day Two. Inspect trap. Kit Kat is nibbled. Trap is filled with mouse-shit, no actual mouse in trap however. At this point we decide that the equipment is not so much a trap as a feeding station. We presented it to the hardware store that sold it and on the obvious evidence (ie box full of mouse shit and no mouse) they agree to replace the trap with an alternative, again humane device. This one is a black plastic tunnel with a central elbow. Food is placed at the end of the tunnel, mouse enters tunnel, crosses elbow and unbalances the trap, door swings too behind the mouse and hey presto he is caught. Feeding station number two.
Day three exploration of the trap discovers that all of the peanut butter has been eaten from inside the trap but mouse has then reversed out and wandered away,he was again seen leaving the scene with a degree of unimaginable nonchallence- is that the best you can do? Houdini mouse two, humane traps nil.
Day 4. Traditional murderous mouse trap installed (fingers sore) alongside trap number two- humane option. Mouse has choice, go with the humane solution or die. Simple. Mouse fails to grasp nature of deal and eats food from both traps. Little furry bastard. Attitude walking off waving two fingers in the air. We persevere with both options.
Day 5. Home from pub in evening around midnight. Check for dead vermin. None in murdering trap. Partner picks up humane trap, gives a little shake. Door has shut. Partner opens door and replaces trap in drawer. Mouse exits trap left. Not only waving two fingers but whistling the great escape.
Day six. Mouse now eating more peanut butter than one critter alone could possibly manage. Feeding stations frequently replenished. Idea that mice may be like labradors and will eat and eat and eat until they fall over and cannot get up again. Fat little bastards time is ticking away. Thinking of taking up falconry with garden kestrel if I ever catch the little shit. Swing it around head on string until hawks come.
To be continued.
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Top Table
In every walk of life thesedays someone is making a fast buck for doing fuck all. For introducing you to services, people, movies, tickets, trains, bookings etc that you could previously have found yourself. The internet is encouraging this business not withstanding that it is now easier to do all of these things for yerself. Recruitment, holidays, hotels, rentals, everything now has a middle man- even booking a restaurant.
Effortless restaurant booking- thats the promise, secure a table wherever you like and just turn up.- No not really. Suckered in by this ridiculous concept I booked two tables for two restaurants over two weeks. First Up Asia De Cuba- this is not a review by the way but the food was fab. The booking on the other hand was for dinner at 9 pm (in the evening-yes) with Top Table whilst the restaurant considered that it was for lunch on the same day. But for the good manners of the restuarant for checking the booking themselves (as they clearly don't trust Top Table) this mistake was discovered and remedied in good time.
Second booking, two weeks later - Floridita - Yep- Cuban theme emerging! One week after booking this restaurant also called to check the booking and said sorry, no we cant take you that night we are having a private do (two weeks ago remember) try this alternative - OK thanks- meal booked. Message today from TT- Remember your booking and enjoy your meal at Floridita. Never existed. Wank.
If booking tables phone the fucking restaurant and don't bother with the idiot middle men- they haven't a clue and take a rake from the restaurant for doing precisely nothing or worse still for providing the wrong service and making the wrong booking.
About as useful as Last Minute.com, experts at selling over-priced holiday packages and weekend breaks specifically designed and priced for those with no alternative ie crap hotels in out of the way streets at exhorbitant prices. Last minute dodgy gifts for the thoughtless designed to support the tat, hotel and flights industry. Go direct. Always. Better value, better service and more certainty that you have got the right thing.
Effortless restaurant booking- thats the promise, secure a table wherever you like and just turn up.- No not really. Suckered in by this ridiculous concept I booked two tables for two restaurants over two weeks. First Up Asia De Cuba- this is not a review by the way but the food was fab. The booking on the other hand was for dinner at 9 pm (in the evening-yes) with Top Table whilst the restaurant considered that it was for lunch on the same day. But for the good manners of the restuarant for checking the booking themselves (as they clearly don't trust Top Table) this mistake was discovered and remedied in good time.
Second booking, two weeks later - Floridita - Yep- Cuban theme emerging! One week after booking this restaurant also called to check the booking and said sorry, no we cant take you that night we are having a private do (two weeks ago remember) try this alternative - OK thanks- meal booked. Message today from TT- Remember your booking and enjoy your meal at Floridita. Never existed. Wank.
If booking tables phone the fucking restaurant and don't bother with the idiot middle men- they haven't a clue and take a rake from the restaurant for doing precisely nothing or worse still for providing the wrong service and making the wrong booking.
About as useful as Last Minute.com, experts at selling over-priced holiday packages and weekend breaks specifically designed and priced for those with no alternative ie crap hotels in out of the way streets at exhorbitant prices. Last minute dodgy gifts for the thoughtless designed to support the tat, hotel and flights industry. Go direct. Always. Better value, better service and more certainty that you have got the right thing.
Monday, 2 July 2007
Rain (pt3)
According to these guys the floods are due to the intolerance of God. We in the liberal world who give succour to homosexuals have offended god and he has made it rain in Yorkshire. Given my understanding of tolerance in Yorkshire that would be the last place one would expect it to rain.
Its nice to see that the church has moved on since the dark ages. It would be too simple for them to take some unexplained natural phenomenon and to preach that it was gods retribution for not behaving according to gods rules.
I trust these Bishops consider that this approach applies to all natural disasters over the years from Noahs flood to the Tsunami, to earthquakes, hurricanes, and every other "act of god".
As a fringe Christian who at least believes in some degree of spirituality I am more convinced than ever that the mainstream church as an organisation is no longer relevant or credible.
In view of this enlightened approach by senior figures in the church I guess we should either sacrifice a virgin or burn a witch to make amends for our mistakes.
Its nice to see that the church has moved on since the dark ages. It would be too simple for them to take some unexplained natural phenomenon and to preach that it was gods retribution for not behaving according to gods rules.
I trust these Bishops consider that this approach applies to all natural disasters over the years from Noahs flood to the Tsunami, to earthquakes, hurricanes, and every other "act of god".
As a fringe Christian who at least believes in some degree of spirituality I am more convinced than ever that the mainstream church as an organisation is no longer relevant or credible.
In view of this enlightened approach by senior figures in the church I guess we should either sacrifice a virgin or burn a witch to make amends for our mistakes.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Yet More Rain
OK so its still raining. I however remain resolutely cheerful in the face of inclement weather and lunatic suicide bomb threats. Bring it on. This is not some crappy spirit of the blitz approach however, Englands stiff upper lip has never been my forte.
Oh no. My joy derives from Wimbledon. Ever since I was a child I have had a loathing of the whole feckin thing. Strawberries, Cravats, queing for crappy tickets, blazers and Pimms (well actually not Pimms).
As a kid you would arrive home from school for those glorious two hours before tea and homework, flick on the TV and see nothing but tossers running about in white. There was no multi-channel options, that was it. No apologies. Nothing. Tennis or vets in the outback. In the early evening the parents would be glued to it.
"Shut up Fidel, we're watching the tennis."
I wouldn't have minded quite so much but neither of them had ever, to my knowledge actually hefted a tennis racket and I doubt they knew the rules.
Then, when Borg passed his crown to Boom Boom Boris, then boring Pete then on and on and on and on. (I appreciate this glosses over the good bit with McEnroe) No. No. No. Its not right. Thats the men.
The ladies - Navratilova (wasn't she also known as the Fridge or was that Betty Stover?), Graf (Battle ship not battleaxe) and every year a smattering of half dressed blonde russians (Pornicova?) Come on. Get over it.
A minority sport played by an elite for too much money and with little or no actual effort or excitement (except of course the tension of finding out how many millions you are due to earn this year). Even the useless cretin Henman earned an absolute fortune and for what? To artificially get pushed unrealistically up the rankings every June only to dissappoint a load of menopausal old Tory birds yet again? The fateful and pathetic perennial "Femail" pin-up. ***
But then it got worse. Not only was it on the telly but the whole country got taken over by "Henmania." Previously as a nation we'd never tried to be any good at it and had accepted our fate of going out in the second round surrounded by much handwringing in the papers and the annual "What can one do?" from the LTA*.
All of a sudden we supposedly had a contender. NONSENSE- he was crap**.
Anyway, this year normal service has been resumed, pissing with rain and all Brits out in the second round. Thank fuck for that.
*What you could possibly do at the LTA is stop tennis from being the preserve of the elitist middle class tossers who run most tennis clubs. As with all sports a little bit of aggression, drive, hunger and desire can make up for an awful lot of pampering, simpering and expensive coaching. Get rid of the Ruperts.
** Yes Henman fans, he is crap. He has that most frustraing of habits of nealy pulling it off every time he plays but somehow manages to lose all nine match points. Sorry for him? No Chance. Glorious British hero or Failure, Bottle job, choker, arsehole. Call him what you like- no- really call him what you like. I do not give a shit.
***Yes I hate Femail almost more than the Sunday Observer.
Oh no. My joy derives from Wimbledon. Ever since I was a child I have had a loathing of the whole feckin thing. Strawberries, Cravats, queing for crappy tickets, blazers and Pimms (well actually not Pimms).
As a kid you would arrive home from school for those glorious two hours before tea and homework, flick on the TV and see nothing but tossers running about in white. There was no multi-channel options, that was it. No apologies. Nothing. Tennis or vets in the outback. In the early evening the parents would be glued to it.
"Shut up Fidel, we're watching the tennis."
I wouldn't have minded quite so much but neither of them had ever, to my knowledge actually hefted a tennis racket and I doubt they knew the rules.
Then, when Borg passed his crown to Boom Boom Boris, then boring Pete then on and on and on and on. (I appreciate this glosses over the good bit with McEnroe) No. No. No. Its not right. Thats the men.
The ladies - Navratilova (wasn't she also known as the Fridge or was that Betty Stover?), Graf (Battle ship not battleaxe) and every year a smattering of half dressed blonde russians (Pornicova?) Come on. Get over it.
A minority sport played by an elite for too much money and with little or no actual effort or excitement (except of course the tension of finding out how many millions you are due to earn this year). Even the useless cretin Henman earned an absolute fortune and for what? To artificially get pushed unrealistically up the rankings every June only to dissappoint a load of menopausal old Tory birds yet again? The fateful and pathetic perennial "Femail" pin-up. ***
But then it got worse. Not only was it on the telly but the whole country got taken over by "Henmania." Previously as a nation we'd never tried to be any good at it and had accepted our fate of going out in the second round surrounded by much handwringing in the papers and the annual "What can one do?" from the LTA*.
All of a sudden we supposedly had a contender. NONSENSE- he was crap**.
Anyway, this year normal service has been resumed, pissing with rain and all Brits out in the second round. Thank fuck for that.
*What you could possibly do at the LTA is stop tennis from being the preserve of the elitist middle class tossers who run most tennis clubs. As with all sports a little bit of aggression, drive, hunger and desire can make up for an awful lot of pampering, simpering and expensive coaching. Get rid of the Ruperts.
** Yes Henman fans, he is crap. He has that most frustraing of habits of nealy pulling it off every time he plays but somehow manages to lose all nine match points. Sorry for him? No Chance. Glorious British hero or Failure, Bottle job, choker, arsehole. Call him what you like- no- really call him what you like. I do not give a shit.
***Yes I hate Femail almost more than the Sunday Observer.
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
Rain
First Spinsterella dissappears, then LC gets pathological and threatens to kill everyone and now Patroculus is depressed because she hates sunshine (even if there isnt any). Flirty Something is miserable because of an unspecified mid 30's birthday, having no job and living in her sisters flat. This is what I have found out in blogland today. The art of the blog will die if everyone continues to be so bleedin' pathetic. Get positive.
Use your browser to see the world for what it is- one great big human-freindly biosphere of possibilities.
It has been raining everyday for the last month( of summer??)- so what. Last year it was too hot to travel to work and you all wittered on about global warming and water rationing. This year well- its just wetter. We are waterproof. In fact we are life-proof. The only real thing to worry about is death and for most of us that is a long way off (relatively speaking).
For those who do not have so far to travel- well I hope you have lived life in the knowledge that someday you will die and that its approach does not come as a surprise.
Regrets? - bannish them. You cannot go back. Worries about the future ? - yep. Shit happens. Get over it. Worries about other people- They are probably worrying about you. Turn the switch to positive. Press the banzai button (see LC)
Jealous of what others apparently have? - ask them whether they have what they want. No one actually does. Relationships- take them at face value and as they come. Everyone is insecure. Everyone is scared of commitment. Everyone is tired of being crapped on. Everyone should be open to new and unexpected things and they will happen to you if you put yourself into a place and a frame of mind where they might. Go somewhere new. Do something new. Everyday.
Welcome change. Don't be afraid of the future.
Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. Everything will be.
Thats better. Feel good about yourself. Put on your new shoes (figuratively) and dance out the door.
NEXT?
Use your browser to see the world for what it is- one great big human-freindly biosphere of possibilities.
It has been raining everyday for the last month( of summer??)- so what. Last year it was too hot to travel to work and you all wittered on about global warming and water rationing. This year well- its just wetter. We are waterproof. In fact we are life-proof. The only real thing to worry about is death and for most of us that is a long way off (relatively speaking).
For those who do not have so far to travel- well I hope you have lived life in the knowledge that someday you will die and that its approach does not come as a surprise.
Regrets? - bannish them. You cannot go back. Worries about the future ? - yep. Shit happens. Get over it. Worries about other people- They are probably worrying about you. Turn the switch to positive. Press the banzai button (see LC)
Jealous of what others apparently have? - ask them whether they have what they want. No one actually does. Relationships- take them at face value and as they come. Everyone is insecure. Everyone is scared of commitment. Everyone is tired of being crapped on. Everyone should be open to new and unexpected things and they will happen to you if you put yourself into a place and a frame of mind where they might. Go somewhere new. Do something new. Everyday.
Welcome change. Don't be afraid of the future.
Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. Everything will be.
Thats better. Feel good about yourself. Put on your new shoes (figuratively) and dance out the door.
NEXT?
Wednesday, 20 June 2007
Girl on a train
Dark hair pulled back (no not as extreme as the Croydon facelift), beautiful green eyes, pale skin, skulpted bones and a full mouth a la Angelina, late 20's at a guess. Tailored pale pink shirt, grey check "A " line skirt (it looked better than it sounds...). Tall, very tall, not skinny, but statuesque or amazon. Strong Handsome Woman. Glances once as she gets on, again, this time I catch her, she looks down, again I catch her, she looks left. She's trying not to look again. Train fills up, she still catches my eyes occasionally while glancing around. She leaves at Baker Street.
It must be pheromones. Those of the bloke behind me possibly. I am not that cute, in fact cute would be a distinct misnomer. Cute descibes small and perfectly formed, non threatening, neat packages. Not scruffy, rough, outsize and unfinished which is genernally how I appear. Maybe I appeared so abhorrent that, like a car crash she had to keep glancing back. Maybe I look like her long lost uncle/brother/grandfather, maybe she's trying to determine where the smell is coming from. All of these cross my mind and are dismissed.
I am male obviously and have an ego therefore she must, despite the obvious indicators to the contrary, be one of the more derranged women that could find such a beast attractive. Clearly. It will be a better day now.
The only problem is I will now vainly attempt to get into the same carriage at the same time everyday, ultimately, like the Waterloo magistrate, leading to a charge of indecent exposure or stalking.
It must be pheromones. Those of the bloke behind me possibly. I am not that cute, in fact cute would be a distinct misnomer. Cute descibes small and perfectly formed, non threatening, neat packages. Not scruffy, rough, outsize and unfinished which is genernally how I appear. Maybe I appeared so abhorrent that, like a car crash she had to keep glancing back. Maybe I look like her long lost uncle/brother/grandfather, maybe she's trying to determine where the smell is coming from. All of these cross my mind and are dismissed.
I am male obviously and have an ego therefore she must, despite the obvious indicators to the contrary, be one of the more derranged women that could find such a beast attractive. Clearly. It will be a better day now.
The only problem is I will now vainly attempt to get into the same carriage at the same time everyday, ultimately, like the Waterloo magistrate, leading to a charge of indecent exposure or stalking.
Monday, 18 June 2007
Googletwats
How many times do I have to try signing in to leave a comment on somebody elses blog to be told that I need to verify my account by returning my verify my account email again and again and again and again. Ever since you tossers got involved in running blogger your stupid freindly intelligent software logon to record keeping shite has consistently prevented me from using the site the way I want to. I wanted to change my account name but had to change my e-mail address to achieve this. I wanted to produce a more anonymous blog but the fucking thing remembered my computer and so would not let me create a more anonymous persona but kept referring everyone back to the original. Why do you have to complicate everything? So you can get your poxy records and "improve your responsiveness to my requirements" or sell me some shit and sell on my details to your spineless unaccountable corporate partners. Google is no longer my freind and enabler. It is a corporate fuckwit with no joy left. Shove that up yer blogger and get busy with it.
Friday, 15 June 2007
Great British Traditions
Shakespeare, Englands most famous literary son, was a persecuted Catholic? Well no not actually but possibly. Now I am not good on religeon or history but I was surprised to learn that good old Will lived at a time post reformation when to be a Catholic was considered unholy and many were actually hanged for practising the faith here in London. The reason apparently is that good old Queenie (Elizabeth 1) was sired by a post divorce Henry VIII. So whilst leaning towards believing in the Catholic Faith if she converted then that would be to accept that Henry (daddy) conceived her out of wedlock. ie that the Queen was a bastard. This may also have had some impact on her claim for the throne. In consequence she continued the tradition of persecution out of a sense of self preservation.
Anyway Billy Shakespeare roamed around at the time and records identify that he had associations with an illicit mass that was regualrly celebrated in an old Gate House of the City of London. Not only did he know the owner and count him as a freind but he also subsequently bought the building and owned it when he passed away. In fact it was his most valuable property. So now we come to the present day and minor royals (Princess Annes son) has to renounce his claim to the throne in order to marry a catholic. presumably for the same reason as Elizabeth the first. If catholicism is accepted by any member of the Royal Family then weinstantly go way back to Elizabeth the first and under English law the Royal Family wouldnt be the Royal Family anymore as there line of descent would be broken. Now who actually would be the Royal Family and would own all of their assets woould be an interesting excercise.
Needless to say none of this really matters but it is interesting to note that the persecution of the Catholics in this country, despite what the Church of England would have you understand is based in no more theological or indeed moral or principled position than self preservation of Elizabeth I's Royal claim.
Anyway Billy Shakespeare roamed around at the time and records identify that he had associations with an illicit mass that was regualrly celebrated in an old Gate House of the City of London. Not only did he know the owner and count him as a freind but he also subsequently bought the building and owned it when he passed away. In fact it was his most valuable property. So now we come to the present day and minor royals (Princess Annes son) has to renounce his claim to the throne in order to marry a catholic. presumably for the same reason as Elizabeth the first. If catholicism is accepted by any member of the Royal Family then weinstantly go way back to Elizabeth the first and under English law the Royal Family wouldnt be the Royal Family anymore as there line of descent would be broken. Now who actually would be the Royal Family and would own all of their assets woould be an interesting excercise.
Needless to say none of this really matters but it is interesting to note that the persecution of the Catholics in this country, despite what the Church of England would have you understand is based in no more theological or indeed moral or principled position than self preservation of Elizabeth I's Royal claim.
Thursday, 14 June 2007
London Calling
The Thames has never been so full, inches below street level, the dark storm clouds fill the sky and there is not a breath of air, the temparature has reached uncomfortable and the humidity is around 80%. Its June in London. The city holds its united breath in anticipation of the storm that will surely come, suited men are swathed in sweat, the working women have abandonned the poise and posture of the cool trip in, the Primark clothes are sagging and the sweat stained pits of man-made fibres crying out to Bond Street for rescue.
Commuters will be bitter and spark off one another rank indignant lightening. The pubs offer no refuge as the oppresive heat, smoke and stale air, this fetid atmosphere, will overcome all but the most ardent thirst. Praying for rain to swell the current further, Ark Royal lurks at Port of London as if to effect a rescue when the river bursts its banks as some day hence it must.
But still the city's pulse is racing, the commercial whip drives on its wearied toiling ranks. The bold financial centre of the world, wilting in the summers dim light, tarnished by the greed of enterprise, today truly resembles a sweat shop.
But on and on the engines drive, to fuel the nation, to pay for property and fund the wars, to burn in the administrative boilers of a gasping health service, on its last fag before the knackers come and we the willing many, like some throwback metropolitans, trooping underground, will oil the wheels again tomorrow and struggle back to the modern mills to pull our living wage.
Commuters will be bitter and spark off one another rank indignant lightening. The pubs offer no refuge as the oppresive heat, smoke and stale air, this fetid atmosphere, will overcome all but the most ardent thirst. Praying for rain to swell the current further, Ark Royal lurks at Port of London as if to effect a rescue when the river bursts its banks as some day hence it must.
But still the city's pulse is racing, the commercial whip drives on its wearied toiling ranks. The bold financial centre of the world, wilting in the summers dim light, tarnished by the greed of enterprise, today truly resembles a sweat shop.
But on and on the engines drive, to fuel the nation, to pay for property and fund the wars, to burn in the administrative boilers of a gasping health service, on its last fag before the knackers come and we the willing many, like some throwback metropolitans, trooping underground, will oil the wheels again tomorrow and struggle back to the modern mills to pull our living wage.
Monday, 11 June 2007
Snakes
Well, sitting in the pool on Saturday and just chilling out. First we see the flicking tongue and then the entire head of a snake. A UK native snake ? Who knows. Green with black lines on and a hint of yellow on the head. Do I know what sort it is? No. Do I need to find out? Probably. Aside from a natural fear of the creatures it is obviously quite a privelidge to get these visitors but I could do without them in my pool. (Well not really in the pool but behind the lining and leaning in for a drink or to snap up some insects). Its scared of me. I am scared of it. Mexican stand-off. How does one discourage a snake without actually harming it? Any answers ladies?
Regards
Fidel.
Regards
Fidel.
Friday, 8 June 2007
The relief of Paris
Having served two days of a 40 day sentence the self obsessed serial drink driver has been released into the custody of her own Malibu mansion. The American justice system is clearly about as flawed as it can get. Obviously the influence of money power fame and vacuosity had nothing to do with the legal process in this case.
As a former jail-bird (and felon?) is she still free to come and go to the UK or does she need a special visa as would be the case in reverse?
PS: The one night in Paris video now comes as a double feature with a new short called "Banged in the Slammer."
As a former jail-bird (and felon?) is she still free to come and go to the UK or does she need a special visa as would be the case in reverse?
PS: The one night in Paris video now comes as a double feature with a new short called "Banged in the Slammer."
Thursday, 7 June 2007
Pants
While in contemplation this afternoon I read some advice inside my pants.
Keep away from fire.
As far as useless information and advice goes wouldn't "may contain nuts" have been more appropriate?
Keep away from fire.
As far as useless information and advice goes wouldn't "may contain nuts" have been more appropriate?
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