Archive for November, 2008

Mother’s Death

November 26, 2008
And beneath me
The ground yield.
My origins are at an end.  I cry out
Greeted only by silence.
Only the grief remains with me
Along with the death drive.
It emerges.  It merges.
She will never be back.
All that is left is her plain gold
Wedding band
and the residue of her deathbed agony
And although in life we denounced you, in death
Your stamp, your mark, your bond is firmly
Imprinted upon us

Because You’re There

November 25, 2008


becauseyourethere1Are you malevolence personified?
Are you the servant
Of the antichrist?
Probably not
But every day
You give us
More witches to burn
And one day I am sure
I will be among them
There is one bullet left in my gun
and if it’s the last thing I do
I’ll use it on you
I claim no moral authority
But vengeance is fun
And I’m feeling slightly bloodthirsty
Because I am only half blind
And I can see enough to know
That you and your kind
Have ensured
That there is no room
In the vastness of the world
For me.

You Want Collective Guilt?

November 23, 2008

Gravity Is Nothing to Me

Ani Difranco

I’m cradling the softest, warmest part of you in my hands 
Feels like a little baby bird 
Fallen from the nest
I think that your body is something I understand
I think that I’m happy
I think that I’m blessed

But I’ve had a lack of inhibition
I’ve had a loss of perspective
I’ve had a little bit to drink 
And it’s making me think 
That I can jump ship and swim 
That the ocean will hold me
That there’s got to be more
Than this boat I’m in

They can call me crazy if I fail
All the chance that I need is one-in-a-million, 
And they can call me brilliant if I succeed
Gravity is nothing to me
I’m moving at the speed of sound
I’m just gonna to get my feet wet until I drown

I teeter between tired 
And really, really tired 
I’m wiped and I’m wired
But I guess that’s just as well
Cuz I’ve built my own empire 
Out of car tires and chicken wire 
And now I’m queen of my own compost heap 
And I’m getting used to the smell

I’ve had a lack of information
I’ve had a little revelation 
I’m climbing up on the railing 
Trying not to look down
I’m going to do my best swan dive 
In the shark-infested waters
I’m gonna pull out my tailfin 
And start splashing around

Because I don’t care if they eat me alive
I’ve got better things to do than survive

I’ve got the memory of your warm skin in my hands
And I’ve got a vision of blue sky and dry land

I’m cradling the hardest, heaviest part of me in my hands 
The ship is pitching and heaving
Our limbs are bobbing and weaving 
I think this is something I understand
I just need a couple vaccinations
For my far-away vacation
I’m going to go ahead and go boldly 
Cuz a little bird told me 
That jumping is easy
That falling is fun 
Right up until you hit the sidewalk
Shivering and stunned

They can call me crazy if I fail 
All the chance that I need is one-in-a-million
And they can call me brilliant if I succeed
Gravity is nothing to me 
I’m moving at the speed of sound
I’m just gonna get my feet wet until I drown

Underclass?  Why don’t you people use the word untermenschen because you know that is exactly what you mean?  And Mr Littlejohn, why don’t you tell us exactly what you do that is so essential to the survival of humanity? The existence of untermenschen doesn’t make you an ubermensch. And this is going to sound a little petty but who the fuck are you to call someone a ‘ghastly-looking woman’?  I suggest you purchase a mirror  but I can promise you that you won’t like what you see staring back at you.  

By the way, I know a war veteran who’d really, really like to meet you. He inhabits a ‘scruffy council garret’. I’d like to see you telling this 92 year old gentleman who fought in North Africa and Sicily and has lived in council accommodation since the ’50s just how ‘worthless’ you think he is. Go on, I dare you.  (Posted to the Daily Mail but will never be published on their site.)  He utterly despises Mr Littlejohn mainly because of the disparaging comments he made about the servicemen and woman taken hostage by the Iranians in 2007: ‘The international image of Britain as Churchillian bulldog has for ever been replaced by this bunch of hapless stooges grinning and waving for the cameras like [game show] contestants . . . I don’t blame the unfortunate human ingredients in this pawn cocktail. They were only obeying orders — which, ludicrously, amount to ‘surrender first and apologise later’.  When did he ever serve his country?  Nobby says he could have found a use for him during the war – cleaning up the Sergeants’ Mess. In short, he thinks Mr. Littlejohn is (to use his favourite epithet) ‘scum’. And I can’t help but agree. ‘Scum’ is an apt description of someone who acquired a criminal record for brawling outside a nightclub and then has the audacity to lecture those who dwell in ‘scruffy council garrets’ on morality. It is, quite simply, criminal.

And could someone please, please tell me why it is that members of the so-called ‘underclass’ are expected to be permanent ambassadors for their class and yet members of the elite are not.  Examples of the behaviour of the latter include this charming gentleman who shot his wife and daughter before setting his home alight and shooting himself  (I hope to God the two women were dead before the flames reached them because that’s a seriously nasty way to die*) and this lady who, while inebriated and driving, killed two innocent bystanders. Then, of course, there is Scott Peterson, respectable and middle class, who murdered his wife and unborn child and has been sentenced to death in the US. Why should guilt by association be confined to the ‘underclass’?  And nary a word of condemnation from the crusading journalists of The Sun and the Daily Mail. They seem to expect a higher standard of behaviour from those they deem inferior than they do from those they deem superior and that, to me, seems ever so slightly illogical.

When Nobby leaves the planet, I’m leaving too.

*See what I just did there?

For the ‘Libertarian’ in You

November 22, 2008

Government Decree

Beyond Comprehension

November 17, 2008

When I was eighteen I worked as a nanny. My charge was a beautiful little girl aged two and a half. I loved that job. Every day was unique. Every day was a new adventure. She was a bright, vivacious little girl and her joie de vivre was infectious. We would spend the days playing, making up games and stories, painting, baking, walking in the park. It was the happiest time of my life. There is nothing purer than a baby, nothing more delightful than a toddler. You are pulled into their world. You share every new and wonderful and exciting experience and sometimes you have to share their pain. You are rejuvenated by them. So how then could anyone do something like this?

I cannot have children and, given my various issues, maybe that’s a good thing. And I know that is no one’s fault but my own. Starving yourself doesn’t do much for your reproductive capacity and I think you have to have this thing called ‘sex’ and that scares me so I’m not asking for sympathy, just stating a fact. It still breaks my heart though. I think I would have made the decision not to have children anyway even though it is something I have always yearned for. And I can’t help thinking that maybe more people should make that decision. Having children is not a right, it is a privilege.

As I read about this case just for an instant I found myself hoping that the three people responsible for this baby’s death have a really, really bad time in prison. I don’t like feeling like this and I am wondering if that makes me as bad as them. My mother said, ‘no, it makes you human.’ The identities of the three perpetrators have been revealed and all over the ‘blogosphere’ people are speculating about their fate. The mainstream media have accused these bloggers of ‘encouraging vigilantism’ but their revulsion is natural and perfectly human. They are supposed to feel like this. They are shocked because it is shocking. They are horrified because it is horrific and no amount of supercilious sneering will change that. I am not saying that wishing this trio of killers dead is right, I am saying it is understandable.

Nobby once told me that when the second world war was over, he was in charge of a group of German P.O.Ws who, because they were former SS officers, were kept here until 1949 while they underwent a process of denazification (yes, they actually called it that). He described how one particularly fanatical prisoner deliberately provoked the guards by singing Nazi songs and verbally abusing them. It wasn’t long before one of them snapped. He pulled him off the chair on which he was standing and punched him in the face. He was accused of brutality and put on a charge. Nobby, who was his sergeant, spoke up in his defence saying ‘but they’d do the same to us if they could.’ His commanding officer replied, ‘Well, we are not them.’

Do not permit the incoherence of the moral universe of others to corrupt your own.

Because you are not them.  Remember that.

Auguries of Innocence
William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by woman lov’d.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer’s song
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy.

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return’d to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.
The poor man’s farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric’s shore.

One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands
Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant’s faith
Shall be mock’d in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.

He who respects the infant’s faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour’s iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket’s cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation’s fate.
The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.

The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,
Dance before dead England’s hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro’ the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

Two Minutes a Year

November 11, 2008




yup, I’m oh so fuddy-duddy

November 10, 2008


According to Vacuous Bimbo Extraordinaire.

The poor kid (Georgina Whatserface, that is) is an aspiring model, not an actress.  By the standards of the fashion industry she’s probably too short and too fat.  The only way she’ll achieve that ambition is to break both her legs in two places and starve herself to the point of emaciation.  What fun! I’ve tried the last but never the first.  Still, maybe someday.

Addendum: I have to add though: who could fail to be moved by this ? (I like the pic of Stalin in the background. Very subtle.) He’s endearing, I’ll give him that. Get rid of Wossy and keep him.  At the very least, he’s rather appealing eye candy for the lay-dees. He may also have a role waiting for him as poet laureate (I’d like to apologize for those terrible attacks/Andrew Sachs/I’d like to show contrition to the max/Andrew Sachs/I’d like to create world peace/Between the yellows, whites and blacks/Andrew Sachs). He couldn’t be any worse than the one we’ve got – Andrew Motion who sucks and sucks and sucks some more. He sucks more than anything’s ever sucked before.

Top Cat

November 9, 2008

Ginger Cat

It’s 5 am

November 5, 2008

I fell asleep.  Well done, America.  Now for that healthcare free at the point of delivery.  I really, really hope Obama delivers.  I guess socialism is no longer a dirty word in the U.S.  Maybe it will cease to be a dirty word here too.  Some of my natural cynicism has been eroded.  I have never been so pleased to be wrong in my life.

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven!-

William Wordsworth


November 2, 2008

I don’t get Jonathan Ross. I never have and probably never will. I am simply unable to see his appeal. Perhaps his humour is far too sophisticated for my humble tastes. I most certainly don’t believe he is worth six million pounds a year of license payers’ money. Russell Brand is more talented but given that I don’t credit Jonathan Ross with any talent at all, that’s not much of a compliment.

One person who appreciates them both and credits them with an abundance of talent is Vacuous Bimbo Extraordinaire Polly Hudson. In her column in that bastion of intellectualism The Daily Mirror she claims that those who do not appreciate the gruesome twosome’s ‘unique’ brand of humour are either too old or devoid of a sense of humour. Now, I’m guessing that Ms. Hudson is not celibate. I’m also guessing that she has at least one living grandfather. If someone telephoned her grandfather and informed him that he had ‘slept with his granddaughter’ would she find it quite so amusing? Somehow I doubt it. Perhaps one of her former boyfriends could put that sense of humour of hers to the test sometime.

Ms. Hudson goes on to claim that: ‘The most annoying thing is that the person who’ll benefit from this saga the most is the only one involved with no talent.’ Don’t knock it, sweetheart, lack of talent doesn’t appear to have hindered your progress. You have the journalistic acumen of my dead cat. If she were even remotely perspicacious, she may well have spotted the subtext which was that Ms. Baillie had dumped Brand and this was his thoroughly nasty revenge.

Ms. Hudson omits one crucial fact: Jonathan Ross (or ‘Jon’ as she calls him) is 47. He is not young in anyone’s estimation. He is also a father. Someday he may well be a grandfather. I wonder what reaction such a telephone call would provoke from him. What goes around comes around, Mr Ross. What a neat little piece of poetic justice that would be and if that day ever comes I will be convinced that there really is a God.

Addendum: Oh yeah, and FYI I couldn’t give a toss what Ms. Baillie said to The Sun because it is irrelevant. I am not subsidising her.  I am not compelled, on pain of imprisonment, to purchase that truly repellent ‘newspaper’.  I am however forced, on pain of imprisonment, to subsidise the twuly wepellent Wossy and, fwankly, that pisses me off.  Comprendez-vous?

Another Addendum: It would appear that the young woman at the heart of this saga is making the most of her fifteen minutes of fame. Unlike many I don’t have a problem with this. She didn’t initiate this unfortunate episode. When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. As for Wossy and Bwand, expect to see them soon on a TV near you, starring in Celebrity Strictly Come In My Mouth closely followed by I’m a Celebrity, Give Me a Lethal Injection.  But they won’t, they’ll carry on as before because they’re blokes and blokes are expected to be foolish and juvenile.  They even get paid for it. None of this is their fault, it’s all down to the way they were made. The women in this affair, as always, are held to a much higher moral standard.   As they say, ‘Cherchez la femme‘.  And we do – time after time.

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