I awake this morning to a feeling of powerlessness.
It's the day of the big bunfight across the pond and there's nothing I can do about it.
The news announces that no more than a forty percent turnout is expected. What the fuck are the other sixty percent thinking? Probably nothing at all. Anyone who has the power of a vote and doesn't bother to use it (even tactically) deserves everything they get.
Wankers.
My Favourite Americans (TM) will all be exercising their constitutional right to kick some ass, so I'll support them the only way I can by standing here waving my pompoms and high-kicking. Rah! Go Team!
Meanwhile, on the rest of Planet Earth, a couple of reassuring snippets of news:
As I sip lovely Cuban coffee from my Nicaragua Solidarity Campaign mug (www.nicaraguasc.org.uk; and buy more of their stuff from my Marxist Shopping link in the sidebar), with its picture of Augusto "Mad As A Chocolate Hat But At Least He Kicked Yankee Butt" Sandino on the front, I am warmed to hear that old Sandanista pal Daniel Ortega looks set to regain power in that CIA-blighted country.
Monkey Boy sent his disgraced, senile and incompetent evil sidekick Ollie North down there during the campaign, where he bumbled around, more like Ollie Hardy, ranting about Ortega being "Hitler". Ortega's opponents hung their heads in disbelief and stated that US interference in their elections has been "clumsy and embarrassing".
Nothing new there, then … except at least this time they didn't bring guns …
And a glimmer of hope for a future Iraq with the news that today, Vietnam is to join the World Trade Organisation.
Decades after kicking the US out of their country (sorry guys, but to paraphrase Clausewitz: "Strategic withdrawal my ass! Getting soundly beaten and running away is 'defeat' in my book"), the ex-"Gooks" have rebuilt and at last rejoined the world.
Once America gets the hell out of the Middle East, give it a few decades and they might do the same.
Mind you, Vietnam didn't have oil …
So. In a few hours the bunfight will start and I'll have to watch from the sidelines.
And if any of the sixty percent are reading this; get out there and vote Democrat, you morons!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Robot Laura Bush Nuisance Call
I learn from an American Democrat whose blog I haunt (Just what do you call blog-friends? Is there a word for it? "Virtual friend" sounds too much like a Tamagotchi …), that she has received a cold call from a pre-recorded Laura Bush.
Yikes! That is scary.
There you are, lying on your couch of a weekend, watching an old movie with a tub of Ben and Jerry's and the phone rings and it's a robot first lady, exhorting you to vote for Monkey Boy.
Other than the obvious tactic of annoying the opposition and gauging just how many swear words the average Democrat voter knows, I can see little point in this excercise.
And I suppose they chose Laura because even a Republican would swear at George these days …
The Tories over here have inherited this unpleasant practice, perhaps feeling that as they cannot get in power, they can at least annoy a few Socialists. As your token blog-Marxist, I await my call from the robot David Cameron with Old Knudsen's Big Book of Profanity ready beside the phone.
I was born with both a brain and a conscience, which makes me genetically Socialist, and from which I have developed a simplistic and facetious little theory …
If you're born with both a brain and a conscience, you vote Socialist;
If you're born with a brain and no conscience, you vote Tory (Republican over the pond);
If you're born with no brain but a conscience, you vote Green;
If you're born with neither brain nor conscience, you end up running the country.
Good luck lefty America. Do us proud tomorrow.
Yikes! That is scary.
There you are, lying on your couch of a weekend, watching an old movie with a tub of Ben and Jerry's and the phone rings and it's a robot first lady, exhorting you to vote for Monkey Boy.
Other than the obvious tactic of annoying the opposition and gauging just how many swear words the average Democrat voter knows, I can see little point in this excercise.
And I suppose they chose Laura because even a Republican would swear at George these days …
The Tories over here have inherited this unpleasant practice, perhaps feeling that as they cannot get in power, they can at least annoy a few Socialists. As your token blog-Marxist, I await my call from the robot David Cameron with Old Knudsen's Big Book of Profanity ready beside the phone.
I was born with both a brain and a conscience, which makes me genetically Socialist, and from which I have developed a simplistic and facetious little theory …
If you're born with both a brain and a conscience, you vote Socialist;
If you're born with a brain and no conscience, you vote Tory (Republican over the pond);
If you're born with no brain but a conscience, you vote Green;
If you're born with neither brain nor conscience, you end up running the country.
Good luck lefty America. Do us proud tomorrow.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Blowing Shit Up
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot …
I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Kinda crap as a poem, but any day when the whole country celebrates religious extremists trying to blow up Parliament gets my vote.
Hmm … what's wrong with that picture?
An oddly schizophrenic mood grips our crowded little island this weekend.
Here's uncle Tony ripping up human rights legislation, stomping all over civil liberties and privacy, and shooting innocent people, in a vain attempt to stop religious extremists from blowing shit up …
… while the rest of the country celebrates that very same act with an orgy of explosions, huge fires and burning effigies.
All very civilised …
I had intended to moan and gripe about the gangs of little shits who roam the streets in the early hours, setting off the loudest fireworks they can find and stopping me or anyone else getting any sleep from mid-october until the new year.
But then I remembered the more "innocent" days of my youth.
Fireworks were harder to come by (at least the ones which made a really good BANG), so we made fertilizer bombs …
This was before the IRA's rather larger scale devices made it illegal for thirteen year old kids to buy fertilizer over the shelf (yet perfectly legal for adult Irish Republicans … never did figure that one out).
But, I'm ashamed to say, having started by blowing a friend's lovely working steam engine to smithereens, we went on to gleefully blow up gullypots and drainage culverts, a telephone box (that was fun) and - to my eternal regret - a rather large tree.
The tree put a stop to it. I like trees.
These days, when Uncle Tony's gung-ho boys in blue shoot people for riding on a tube train, we would probably be holidaying in Guantanamo by now.
No idea what this post is rambling on about really. But as Yoda and the NaBloPoMo posse seem to be putting the pressure on, I thought I'd better post something.
So, Happy … er … Setting Fire To Stuff, Burning Effigies And Making Explosions In Celebration Of Religious Extremists Trying To Blow Up Parliament Day.
Now I'm off to watch V For Vendetta again (I would read the graphic novel instead, but I like looking at Natalie Portman [Kundsen would understand]).
Gunpowder, treason and plot …
I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Kinda crap as a poem, but any day when the whole country celebrates religious extremists trying to blow up Parliament gets my vote.
Hmm … what's wrong with that picture?
An oddly schizophrenic mood grips our crowded little island this weekend.
Here's uncle Tony ripping up human rights legislation, stomping all over civil liberties and privacy, and shooting innocent people, in a vain attempt to stop religious extremists from blowing shit up …
… while the rest of the country celebrates that very same act with an orgy of explosions, huge fires and burning effigies.
All very civilised …
I had intended to moan and gripe about the gangs of little shits who roam the streets in the early hours, setting off the loudest fireworks they can find and stopping me or anyone else getting any sleep from mid-october until the new year.
But then I remembered the more "innocent" days of my youth.
Fireworks were harder to come by (at least the ones which made a really good BANG), so we made fertilizer bombs …
This was before the IRA's rather larger scale devices made it illegal for thirteen year old kids to buy fertilizer over the shelf (yet perfectly legal for adult Irish Republicans … never did figure that one out).
But, I'm ashamed to say, having started by blowing a friend's lovely working steam engine to smithereens, we went on to gleefully blow up gullypots and drainage culverts, a telephone box (that was fun) and - to my eternal regret - a rather large tree.
The tree put a stop to it. I like trees.
These days, when Uncle Tony's gung-ho boys in blue shoot people for riding on a tube train, we would probably be holidaying in Guantanamo by now.
No idea what this post is rambling on about really. But as Yoda and the NaBloPoMo posse seem to be putting the pressure on, I thought I'd better post something.
So, Happy … er … Setting Fire To Stuff, Burning Effigies And Making Explosions In Celebration Of Religious Extremists Trying To Blow Up Parliament Day.
Now I'm off to watch V For Vendetta again (I would read the graphic novel instead, but I like looking at Natalie Portman [Kundsen would understand]).
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Hello World. Hello Trees
Robyn's photo search today is of her living room window "Outside Looking In".
As my windows are in need of a good clean and nowhere near as nice as Robyn's, I thought I'd reply with "Inside Looking Out" …
This is today's rather chilly view from my studio window (the Pit Of Sadness from which I type this tripe).
Lovely leaves now starting to turn, but soon all will be bare and muddy.
Roll on spring …
As my windows are in need of a good clean and nowhere near as nice as Robyn's, I thought I'd reply with "Inside Looking Out" …
This is today's rather chilly view from my studio window (the Pit Of Sadness from which I type this tripe).
Lovely leaves now starting to turn, but soon all will be bare and muddy.
Roll on spring …
Shopping With The Elderly
Oh, fuck …
In to Norwich this morning for coffee and breakfast. Inevitably, the stripey tights brigade are conspicuous by their absence. Ever since my post on the subject, Waterstone's (née Otto's) can't have sold a single witchy book on a saturday morning; I'm ruining their trade …
So anyway; Norwich now has officially the best shopping centre in the country and I want some nice black sweaters for the winter. No problem there then …
Hah!
If I want any colour other than black, I can have as many sweaters as I want.
If I want black sweaters with fucking zips up the front, or with stupid pieces of fabric sewn on to them with meaningless numbers stencilled on, or crappy coloured trim, I can have as many sweaters as I want.
If I want plain black sweaters, I can just fuck off.
I meet little brother Phil.
"Why do you have to have black?"
"Because I LIKE BLACK!"
Its not that I look any better in black, it's just that other colours make me look even worse. And I like black … Black 501's, black hi-tops, black teeshirts and sweaters … That's me … BLACK.
I'm a grumpy fucker and it suits my personality.
And this is supposed to be the best shopping centre in the country …
Hah, again …
Phil says "Why don't you try M&S?"
"WHAT? Shop with all the pensioners in Europe's most untrendy store? M&S? The store who are so up to the minute that they have TWIGGY as their top model?" (The fact that I've fancied Twiggy since the sixties and that she's still gorgeous does not detract from the fact that she is not exactly the face of century 21) …
No way! So we pop in to Next. Same old story … I'm almost at the stage when I want to torch the place …
In the end I have to admit defeat and, grumbling and shuffling like the middle aged curmudgeon I have so obviously become, I leave the realm of the young and attractive and slope off to M&S.
This is depressing. The shop is indeed filled to the brim with the elderly. Dead people in a chrysalis state, "ooh"ing and "aah"ing over underpants and socks …
And there, in M&S menswear (men swear indeed), are racks full of lovely black sweaters. I can have V-neck, crew neck, roll neck, merino, cashmere, anything my flinty heart desires (including nice pictures of Twiggy) …
I leave with a V-neck cashmere sweater. Plain black. Perfect fit. Exactly what I wanted.
And I know that I'll be back for more.
And I know that, at last, with sinking heart, I have officially joined the ranks of the old. And that all I have left to look forward to is shuffling round M&S, moaning and bitching, then death …
Oh, fuck …
In to Norwich this morning for coffee and breakfast. Inevitably, the stripey tights brigade are conspicuous by their absence. Ever since my post on the subject, Waterstone's (née Otto's) can't have sold a single witchy book on a saturday morning; I'm ruining their trade …
So anyway; Norwich now has officially the best shopping centre in the country and I want some nice black sweaters for the winter. No problem there then …
Hah!
If I want any colour other than black, I can have as many sweaters as I want.
If I want black sweaters with fucking zips up the front, or with stupid pieces of fabric sewn on to them with meaningless numbers stencilled on, or crappy coloured trim, I can have as many sweaters as I want.
If I want plain black sweaters, I can just fuck off.
I meet little brother Phil.
"Why do you have to have black?"
"Because I LIKE BLACK!"
Its not that I look any better in black, it's just that other colours make me look even worse. And I like black … Black 501's, black hi-tops, black teeshirts and sweaters … That's me … BLACK.
I'm a grumpy fucker and it suits my personality.
And this is supposed to be the best shopping centre in the country …
Hah, again …
Phil says "Why don't you try M&S?"
"WHAT? Shop with all the pensioners in Europe's most untrendy store? M&S? The store who are so up to the minute that they have TWIGGY as their top model?" (The fact that I've fancied Twiggy since the sixties and that she's still gorgeous does not detract from the fact that she is not exactly the face of century 21) …
No way! So we pop in to Next. Same old story … I'm almost at the stage when I want to torch the place …
In the end I have to admit defeat and, grumbling and shuffling like the middle aged curmudgeon I have so obviously become, I leave the realm of the young and attractive and slope off to M&S.
This is depressing. The shop is indeed filled to the brim with the elderly. Dead people in a chrysalis state, "ooh"ing and "aah"ing over underpants and socks …
And there, in M&S menswear (men swear indeed), are racks full of lovely black sweaters. I can have V-neck, crew neck, roll neck, merino, cashmere, anything my flinty heart desires (including nice pictures of Twiggy) …
I leave with a V-neck cashmere sweater. Plain black. Perfect fit. Exactly what I wanted.
And I know that I'll be back for more.
And I know that, at last, with sinking heart, I have officially joined the ranks of the old. And that all I have left to look forward to is shuffling round M&S, moaning and bitching, then death …
Oh, fuck …
Friday, November 03, 2006
Scary Monsters And Super Creeps
Oh, this is just too sweet for words.Get on over to the Guardian's website for a good laugh.
Impending Custard
… and speaking of China:
Spring - our lovely China Projects Administrator (yes, we have a China Projects Administrator; what are bandwagons for if not for jumping on?) - emails me this morning to discuss lunchtime Mandarin lessons.
As Sassy pointed out to me, our ability to learn languages decreases exponentially with age.
I'm about to collide awkwardly with my forty-eighth birthday and am currently learning Japanese. The prospect of simultaneously learning Mandarin at this stage of my life conjures up the delightful image of a slow motion collision between two custard pie delivery trucks.
The Dada-ist part of me likes nothing more than to creep up on my life while it's having a nice snooze and poke it hard with a stick. And as my life has a girlfriend shaped hole in it at the moment, I feel the need to cram my brain with every distraction I can find.
The possibilities for spectacular failure are legion, but hey, spectacular failure is something I've spent my life perfecting, so Mandarin lessons, here I come.
Spring - our lovely China Projects Administrator (yes, we have a China Projects Administrator; what are bandwagons for if not for jumping on?) - emails me this morning to discuss lunchtime Mandarin lessons.
As Sassy pointed out to me, our ability to learn languages decreases exponentially with age.
I'm about to collide awkwardly with my forty-eighth birthday and am currently learning Japanese. The prospect of simultaneously learning Mandarin at this stage of my life conjures up the delightful image of a slow motion collision between two custard pie delivery trucks.
The Dada-ist part of me likes nothing more than to creep up on my life while it's having a nice snooze and poke it hard with a stick. And as my life has a girlfriend shaped hole in it at the moment, I feel the need to cram my brain with every distraction I can find.
The possibilities for spectacular failure are legion, but hey, spectacular failure is something I've spent my life perfecting, so Mandarin lessons, here I come.
Foreign Policy For The Insane
A foreign office minister was on the news this morning, criticising China's investment in Africa. Apparently, us Brits are accusing the Chinese of using Africans as cheap labour and taking all the profit out of the continent …
Er … choke on my coffee or what?
Hoorah for hypocrisy. That's probably the most jaw-droppingly unbelievable example in history of the pot calling the kettle black (seems we've forgotten the slave trade, apartheid and our Imperial rape of an entire continent) …
Not to be outdone, the US is blaming Syria for attempting to destabilise Lebanon.
Those Lebanese that Israel left alive must be laughing hysterically in their bomb craters, as the Republicans search desperately for new enemies to scare voters with in the run up to tuesday's bunfight.
Foreign policy statements: the new comedy …
Er … choke on my coffee or what?
Hoorah for hypocrisy. That's probably the most jaw-droppingly unbelievable example in history of the pot calling the kettle black (seems we've forgotten the slave trade, apartheid and our Imperial rape of an entire continent) …
Not to be outdone, the US is blaming Syria for attempting to destabilise Lebanon.
Those Lebanese that Israel left alive must be laughing hysterically in their bomb craters, as the Republicans search desperately for new enemies to scare voters with in the run up to tuesday's bunfight.
Foreign policy statements: the new comedy …
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Cold, Wet And Stupid
Another of Robyn's Labours of Hercules. This one on choices.
If you could take a different road, just for one day, where would you go? What would you explore? Robyn would go to Chicago, for reasons which make it sound as genuinely tempting as the Emerald City in Oz.
This "take a different route just this once" thing; it's a feeling I get really intensely at airports. Just to get on a random plane and see where I end up. There are so many wonderful places to explore, if only I just got on that plane …
But as I cannot choose a favourite, I'll choose something simple instead … something I've done once before and, if I could find that fork in the road again, would be off down there like a shot.
In winter, I love walking our desolate local beaches in really huge storms. Like that one in Ryan's Daughter.
Any chance I get, if the weather forecast sends us a big one, I'm off to see Mother Nature throw a wobbly. To stand there and let her get all shouty at me. I love it …
One of the best I ever found was at Walberswick, some years back.
It was February. There was a thunderstorm … and I mean a fucking huge storm! All howling and swirling black sky and searing lightning. It tore over the marshes and up the valley like the wrath of God.
There's a wrecked concrete breakwater at the harbour mouth (it's the one under Peahen's bottom on that picture I posted of her). I clambered over the barrier and walked right out to the end. It's all twisted, rotting concrete with rusted reinforcing bars sticking out, and this HUGE sea towered over it.
Every massive wave pounded and smashed into it with an enormous BOOM. The whole structure shuddered and shook. It was brilliant! (and very, very cold and wet) …
It was a totally stupid thing to do but I just clamped my legs round a concrete beam and sat there for ages watching the storm, letting the waves try and knock me off while the sky tore itself to bits all around me. And it was one of the most fantastic feelings I've ever had …
Eventually I came to my senses and struggled, soaked and battered, back up the beach into the dunes, where nestles one of the very best pubs in the universe. Stone flags and high Victorian pews. Big inglenook with a massive log blaze. Wonderful local ale and fresh caught fish. The Bell at Walberswick. It's swamped by tourists in the summer, but go there in winter when there's a big old storm …
I keep going back, but there's not been a storm to touch that one …
So, young Robyn. If I could choose, then let me take that road again. The cold, wet and stupid one …
Please …
If you could take a different road, just for one day, where would you go? What would you explore? Robyn would go to Chicago, for reasons which make it sound as genuinely tempting as the Emerald City in Oz.
This "take a different route just this once" thing; it's a feeling I get really intensely at airports. Just to get on a random plane and see where I end up. There are so many wonderful places to explore, if only I just got on that plane …
But as I cannot choose a favourite, I'll choose something simple instead … something I've done once before and, if I could find that fork in the road again, would be off down there like a shot.
In winter, I love walking our desolate local beaches in really huge storms. Like that one in Ryan's Daughter.
Any chance I get, if the weather forecast sends us a big one, I'm off to see Mother Nature throw a wobbly. To stand there and let her get all shouty at me. I love it …
One of the best I ever found was at Walberswick, some years back.
It was February. There was a thunderstorm … and I mean a fucking huge storm! All howling and swirling black sky and searing lightning. It tore over the marshes and up the valley like the wrath of God.
There's a wrecked concrete breakwater at the harbour mouth (it's the one under Peahen's bottom on that picture I posted of her). I clambered over the barrier and walked right out to the end. It's all twisted, rotting concrete with rusted reinforcing bars sticking out, and this HUGE sea towered over it.
Every massive wave pounded and smashed into it with an enormous BOOM. The whole structure shuddered and shook. It was brilliant! (and very, very cold and wet) …
It was a totally stupid thing to do but I just clamped my legs round a concrete beam and sat there for ages watching the storm, letting the waves try and knock me off while the sky tore itself to bits all around me. And it was one of the most fantastic feelings I've ever had …
Eventually I came to my senses and struggled, soaked and battered, back up the beach into the dunes, where nestles one of the very best pubs in the universe. Stone flags and high Victorian pews. Big inglenook with a massive log blaze. Wonderful local ale and fresh caught fish. The Bell at Walberswick. It's swamped by tourists in the summer, but go there in winter when there's a big old storm …
I keep going back, but there's not been a storm to touch that one …
So, young Robyn. If I could choose, then let me take that road again. The cold, wet and stupid one …
Please …
Ghost In The Machine
Yikes!
Halloween!
No internet for the last 24 hours!
Thanks to all those who noticed I'd dropped off the planet. I work from home on Halloween and the ghosties have eaten the interweb.
The reason I work from home is so that I can be there with the goodies when the kids come to demand stuff with menaces. If I'm in London, I get home too late.
The first year I worked down there I got back to find my house egged because I hadn't answered the door. That stuff sets like concrete. It was all over the brickwork, the windows and in my door lock. I spent about an hour that night and several hours the next weekend cleaning it off.
Luckily, last night we had a howling northerly gale, straight down from the north pole, with horizontal freezing rain, so the miniature crime wave stayed indoors. As a result, I've got oodles of chocolate and good stuff to eat! And the ghosties have now left the machine, so my normal crappy internet service is resumed.
Hoorah!
Belated Happy Halloween.
Halloween!
No internet for the last 24 hours!
Thanks to all those who noticed I'd dropped off the planet. I work from home on Halloween and the ghosties have eaten the interweb.
The reason I work from home is so that I can be there with the goodies when the kids come to demand stuff with menaces. If I'm in London, I get home too late.
The first year I worked down there I got back to find my house egged because I hadn't answered the door. That stuff sets like concrete. It was all over the brickwork, the windows and in my door lock. I spent about an hour that night and several hours the next weekend cleaning it off.
Luckily, last night we had a howling northerly gale, straight down from the north pole, with horizontal freezing rain, so the miniature crime wave stayed indoors. As a result, I've got oodles of chocolate and good stuff to eat! And the ghosties have now left the machine, so my normal crappy internet service is resumed.
Hoorah!
Belated Happy Halloween.
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