Posts Tagged ‘history’

Good Grief…

January 1, 2015

An extract from Deborah Lipstadt’s Beyond Belief:

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Violette Szabo

February 27, 2014

Violette2

Read It and Weep!

January 16, 2014

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Pointless Polarisation of the Universe

January 13, 2013

Is one’s morality predicated solely on one’s wealth?  If it is then maybe, as a nation, the U.S. should get rid of the plaque on Liberty Island and its poem, written by Emma Lazarus which includes the lines ‘With silent lips. Give me your tired, your poor,/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,/Send those, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,/I lift my lamp beside the golden door.’

And it’s almost certain that many of the commenters in the linked thread would strongly disagree with this: (written by Ronald Reagan in the aftermath of the assassination attempt made by John Hinckley, jr.):

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First Literary Recommendation of the Year

January 2, 2013

First Literary Recommendation of the Year

Flying Blind

November 20, 2012

I have no navigator
I have no rear gunner
I have no radar
I have no lucky charm
I have been disarmed
I am flying blind

Benefit of Law

September 19, 2012

Roper: So now you’d give the Devil benefit of law?

More: Yes. What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?

Roper: I’d cut down every law in England to do that.

More: Oh? And when the last law was down—and the Devil turned round on you—where would you hide? Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s sake.

A Man for All Seasons (1960)

Is Chivalry Dead?

January 22, 2012

Tiptoeing Across A Minefield

April 14, 2010


It has been suggested that I go back into therapy.

But there is always danger in peering into the past. It is like tiptoeing across a minefield, seeking out traumatic memories, leaping over the cracks in the landscape. It is like a room, pure and pristine but if you look too carefully with a harsh and unforgiving eye you would see the cobwebs in the corners, the layer of dust on the bureau, the cat hairs littering the carpet. Lift your head, sniff the air and that scent of apple blossom inevitably degenerates into the sickly-sweet stench of decay.

Little Chav Brats

January 4, 2009

 Little Chav Brats

I bought my mother an electronic photo frame for Christmas. She unearthed an avalanche of old photographs. The photo above depicts my brother and I, aged nine and three, in the garden of our grandparents’ council house.  The neighbourhood consisted of  ‘streets of ugly 1930s red-brick semis‘.  And no, it’s not in Dewsbury.  They were however similar to the house that my parents spent most of their working lives struggling to buy.  Oh, Mrs Thatcher, you never told us that in your utopia, in your ‘home owning democracy’, you would still be despised if you didn’t own the ‘right’ kind of house. Respectable working class people.  Respectable but most certainly never respected.  Thou shalt not suffer little chav brats to live.

Just an afterthought: the Catholic working classes deter their brats from promiscuity by telling them that God is watching and, if he sees them behaving inappropriately, they’ll roast in the fires of hell for eternity.  Of course, in the long term, this tactic results in some seriously fucked up people but, in the short term, it is highly effective.

Say it loud and say it proud: ich bin ein untermensch.

Finally, oops there goes the neighbourhood.

P.S.  The times they are a changing: illustrated here and here.


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