My martial arts training in hapkido is one of the real joys of my life.
It keeps me relatively fit, it helps me calm down and focus on objectives much better, and I can sometimes look pretty tasty throwing punches and kicks around. Well, sometimes…
It also ensures I drink much less than was once the case as I’d now rather wake up and train than wake up with a hangover the next day.
So I was quite chilled and relaxed after two hours at the dojang this morning before work. Then somebody rather innocently mentioned Rupert Murdoch and I went off like a rocket on a two-minute tirade than included at least three f***s, two c***s and a few b******s.
I ended it with ‘…and when companies belonging to the crooked Ozzie shit pay taxes in this country then, and only then, will his newspapers have any right to voice opinions about what goes on in this country!’
My friend looked at me. Perplexed. He’d only wanted to discuss Sky TV…
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
More Mail Pride…
After getting a very bad letter from a theatre when I got back from holiday I got a very good letter when I got home late from getting booted at pool by several of my county colleagues last night.
The most important sentence reads:
‘I believe that this play is worthy of attention and the author should be encouraged to do another draft.’
Obviously this means nothing and it’s no guarantee of a production but it’s better than outright rejection. And it means somebody has read the play (that nobody else apart from me has liked) and totally got it.
So consequently I’m quite happy at the moment.
And the moral of the story… When things turn to shit go out and drink and play pool and it will all be better.
The most important sentence reads:
‘I believe that this play is worthy of attention and the author should be encouraged to do another draft.’
Obviously this means nothing and it’s no guarantee of a production but it’s better than outright rejection. And it means somebody has read the play (that nobody else apart from me has liked) and totally got it.
So consequently I’m quite happy at the moment.
And the moral of the story… When things turn to shit go out and drink and play pool and it will all be better.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Mail Pride…
I’m back from holiday and I’m now back into the swing of family routine and work and coming back in normality is not a bad thing. It’s familiar and it’s comfortable…
Sadly the first thing that greeted me on my return home, apart from the cats, was perhaps one of the most critical and brutal rejection letters I’ve ever received from a theatre company who’d read a play I’d submitted.
The script reader had done a real hatchet job on it and clearly didn’t like it, even though several of the questions he raised were answered in the script if he’d bothered to read it properly.
This majorly hacked me off for a day or so as it’s a play I have real confidence in and still have, but sadly everybody who has read it has universally disliked it.
Rejection is, of course, any would-be writer’s lot and, even worse, it feels I am now further away from achieving my goal of getting anything on at a decent theatre than I was two years ago.
I cheered myself up, however, with the thought that rewrites on one play are going well and I have a few more ideas for new projects. And I am also back training at hapkido. And I used the rejection letter as a taunting toy for the cats and they ripped it to fucking shreds.
Petty. Moi?
Sadly the first thing that greeted me on my return home, apart from the cats, was perhaps one of the most critical and brutal rejection letters I’ve ever received from a theatre company who’d read a play I’d submitted.
The script reader had done a real hatchet job on it and clearly didn’t like it, even though several of the questions he raised were answered in the script if he’d bothered to read it properly.
This majorly hacked me off for a day or so as it’s a play I have real confidence in and still have, but sadly everybody who has read it has universally disliked it.
Rejection is, of course, any would-be writer’s lot and, even worse, it feels I am now further away from achieving my goal of getting anything on at a decent theatre than I was two years ago.
I cheered myself up, however, with the thought that rewrites on one play are going well and I have a few more ideas for new projects. And I am also back training at hapkido. And I used the rejection letter as a taunting toy for the cats and they ripped it to fucking shreds.
Petty. Moi?
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Portugal: Week Two Continued Even More…
Day 12-14: I’ve been a very busy boy over the past three days and have nearly finished rewrites on Touch, my play about the breakdown of a marriage that I need to resubmit to a potentially interested theatre company. I am also preparing to do a major overhaul of Trust, my play about local politics and it is because of the latter I figured I’d take in King Lear on my iPod.
I directed the play when I was 19 and I have always thought the play itself (rather than my direction of it) is a truly marvellous achievement. In my humble opinion (prepare for pretentious statement here) it is the Bard’s defining work, but for current purposes it’s a play about two old men who are betrayed and lose power and go through major trauma because of it.
This fits in quite well with Trust as it’s not only a play about local politics but about the tragedy of two old men who lose everything through a combination of betrayal and their own folly.
Listening to Lear again after all this time opened up all sorts of ideas and I’d now definitely like to add a storm scene. But the delights of Trust will be truly pondered when Touch is done and dusted. And that may be another two weeks yet…
Day 15: Planned to go the famous (well, for the Lagos area anyway) Gypsy Market today but in the end we decided we couldn’t be arsed. This was because rather than have hundreds of stalls selling ethnic jewellery and Romany clothes and Portuguese nick-naks it was actually a few hundred stallholders selling fake La Coste, pirate DVDs and knocked-off trainers. Like Wembley Market but with better weather.
So we bought custard tarts and pottered about while packing.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Portugal: Week Two Continued...
Day 11: The missus has read my previous day’s entry and is not amused.
‘People I know read your blog and it makes me out to be some kind of harridan.’
‘But I only write the truth…’
‘Well you can’t because I never said “Of course…” when I mentioned you were my second husband.’
‘You did!’
‘I didn’t!’
‘Well you meant to. I could hear it bubbling under the surface.’
The missus smiles. This is sometimes not a good thing.
‘What I meant to say was that I married a blithering fucking idiot. And don’t include that either!’
‘I won’t…’
I lied.
‘People I know read your blog and it makes me out to be some kind of harridan.’
‘But I only write the truth…’
‘Well you can’t because I never said “Of course…” when I mentioned you were my second husband.’
‘You did!’
‘I didn’t!’
‘Well you meant to. I could hear it bubbling under the surface.’
The missus smiles. This is sometimes not a good thing.
‘What I meant to say was that I married a blithering fucking idiot. And don’t include that either!’
‘I won’t…’
I lied.
Portugal: Week Two…
Day 8: The woman next-door neighbour and wife of Bigot Cop has a pair of binoculars. She stands in the doorway of her balcony and watches people on the beach. She does this a lot. I am convinced Binocular Lady also has our apartment bugged. Just to be on the safe side. In case anything interesting happens…
Day 9: I am about to embark on Stephen Smith’s Underground London, which as its title suggests is a book about what goes on beneath the feet of Londoners and which bits of the capital are hidden from view and form part of the buried history of the city.
Day 10: The missus is talking to Binocular Lady as our balconies are next to each other. It’s like listening to two chess grandmasters trying to outwit each other and see who can trick the most information from the other.
The missus is well in the lead by my reckoning because Binocular Lady has had to sacrifice big pieces of information (years married, number of kids, the fact her daughter is a major disappointment, etc) to kick the exchange off. But this seems to have worked as the missus is now countering with her own gems. Then I hear my wife say the following:
‘Of course, Paul’s my second marriage...’
So I am now part of the ongoing exchange of information. I am now part of the data being sacrificed in order for my wife to grasp more information. I am a commodity in conversational terms, a piece of linguistic meat. I feel cheapened.
Then I realise there was an ‘Of course’ in the sentence too. In other words it’s as if I am part of some ongoing collection, I may be number two but number three will be an even better improvement. The finished model, perhaps.
I spend the rest of the day preparing myself for the inevitable marital deletion…
Day 9: I am about to embark on Stephen Smith’s Underground London, which as its title suggests is a book about what goes on beneath the feet of Londoners and which bits of the capital are hidden from view and form part of the buried history of the city.
Day 10: The missus is talking to Binocular Lady as our balconies are next to each other. It’s like listening to two chess grandmasters trying to outwit each other and see who can trick the most information from the other.
The missus is well in the lead by my reckoning because Binocular Lady has had to sacrifice big pieces of information (years married, number of kids, the fact her daughter is a major disappointment, etc) to kick the exchange off. But this seems to have worked as the missus is now countering with her own gems. Then I hear my wife say the following:
‘Of course, Paul’s my second marriage...’
So I am now part of the ongoing exchange of information. I am now part of the data being sacrificed in order for my wife to grasp more information. I am a commodity in conversational terms, a piece of linguistic meat. I feel cheapened.
Then I realise there was an ‘Of course’ in the sentence too. In other words it’s as if I am part of some ongoing collection, I may be number two but number three will be an even better improvement. The finished model, perhaps.
I spend the rest of the day preparing myself for the inevitable marital deletion…
Portugal: Week One...
I could bore the arse off anyone bothering to read this blog by going into minute detail about two weeks in Portugal’s Praia de Luz but here are the potted highlights:
Day 1: Cab from home to Gatwick and that was the last reliable transport we saw for 24 hours. The Monarch plane was buggered, the trolley carrying the suitcases was wonky and the coach that took us to the overnight hotel because of the plane delay took an hour to find us. It was a transport black hole and my family could have become part of a seething mass of 370-odd passengers! Remarkably, however, we remained quite relaxed about it all. Even the missus – and she can go off over me brushing my teeth too loudly. Honest…
Day 2: The plane finally takes off to cheers of relief from our Gatwick-stranded mob then lands three hours later to more cheering. Inbetween a very nervous but polite pilot pleads for the passengers to be nice to his cabin crew. ‘It’s not their fault you were delayed…’ he simpers. We arrive at the place. It is very sweet but populated with ex-pats. Like a posher version of the Costa Del Sol.
Day 3: The beach starts 10ft from our apartment. The sea is 60ft away – and it’s sodding freezing. It’s off the Atlantic and not the Mediterranean. But when I observe local children putting up with it I see it as a matter of national pride that I venture in and stay, remarking as often as I can that ‘It’s not as bracing as Cleethorpes in March!’ People stare. Oddly…
Day 4-5: We find a quiet pool nearby. We stay here under a kabana, read, swim and relax. Sadly, somewhere during this time I manage to burn my legs to buggery. My head and shoulders are brown, my body is white and my legs are bright red. I look like a Dulux colour chart. ‘Here’s fiery red flesh but he doesn’t like albino white because he’s got his eyes on sultry brown.’ I suffer in silence…
Day 6: Met the older retired couple next door who are our neighbours. I was training in the private courtyard area outside our apartment, which their apartment overlooks, and they offered to lend me their copy of The Sun.
‘That’s very kind but I don’t like the paper. Thank-you for the offer, though.’
They looked a little perplexed but I later got talking to the guy who’s a former Army chap and retired policeman. He told that he didn’t like Scotsmen running the UK, he didn’t like socialists and he didn’t like immigrants. I very politely told him I had no problem with Brown as Chancellor and that I was pretty much a socialist.
I then offered the view that immigrants prop up the National Health Service and all manner of other UK industries and that perhaps if we didn’t go around the world exploiting already impoverished countries and making them even poorer then perhaps so many people wouldn’t need to come over here.
He hasn’t offered to lend me his paper since.
Day 7: The boy provided the comedy highlight of the week so far when we were on our way back from a meal out and we passed an English pub having a quiz night. The question “What was the one-word spin-off series from Buffy The Vampire Slayer?’ and as we walked past the door the boy screamed ‘Angel!’ We walked on but I did catch a flicker of the entire pub turning round to see where this disembodied voice had come from which was now echoing around the narrow street.
Day 1: Cab from home to Gatwick and that was the last reliable transport we saw for 24 hours. The Monarch plane was buggered, the trolley carrying the suitcases was wonky and the coach that took us to the overnight hotel because of the plane delay took an hour to find us. It was a transport black hole and my family could have become part of a seething mass of 370-odd passengers! Remarkably, however, we remained quite relaxed about it all. Even the missus – and she can go off over me brushing my teeth too loudly. Honest…
Day 2: The plane finally takes off to cheers of relief from our Gatwick-stranded mob then lands three hours later to more cheering. Inbetween a very nervous but polite pilot pleads for the passengers to be nice to his cabin crew. ‘It’s not their fault you were delayed…’ he simpers. We arrive at the place. It is very sweet but populated with ex-pats. Like a posher version of the Costa Del Sol.
Day 3: The beach starts 10ft from our apartment. The sea is 60ft away – and it’s sodding freezing. It’s off the Atlantic and not the Mediterranean. But when I observe local children putting up with it I see it as a matter of national pride that I venture in and stay, remarking as often as I can that ‘It’s not as bracing as Cleethorpes in March!’ People stare. Oddly…
Day 4-5: We find a quiet pool nearby. We stay here under a kabana, read, swim and relax. Sadly, somewhere during this time I manage to burn my legs to buggery. My head and shoulders are brown, my body is white and my legs are bright red. I look like a Dulux colour chart. ‘Here’s fiery red flesh but he doesn’t like albino white because he’s got his eyes on sultry brown.’ I suffer in silence…
Day 6: Met the older retired couple next door who are our neighbours. I was training in the private courtyard area outside our apartment, which their apartment overlooks, and they offered to lend me their copy of The Sun.
‘That’s very kind but I don’t like the paper. Thank-you for the offer, though.’
They looked a little perplexed but I later got talking to the guy who’s a former Army chap and retired policeman. He told that he didn’t like Scotsmen running the UK, he didn’t like socialists and he didn’t like immigrants. I very politely told him I had no problem with Brown as Chancellor and that I was pretty much a socialist.
I then offered the view that immigrants prop up the National Health Service and all manner of other UK industries and that perhaps if we didn’t go around the world exploiting already impoverished countries and making them even poorer then perhaps so many people wouldn’t need to come over here.
He hasn’t offered to lend me his paper since.
Day 7: The boy provided the comedy highlight of the week so far when we were on our way back from a meal out and we passed an English pub having a quiz night. The question “What was the one-word spin-off series from Buffy The Vampire Slayer?’ and as we walked past the door the boy screamed ‘Angel!’ We walked on but I did catch a flicker of the entire pub turning round to see where this disembodied voice had come from which was now echoing around the narrow street.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Read All About It!
Rather fantastically I have had nothing much else to do on holiday apart from read and swim and one of the literary highlights of the past fortnight in Portugal has been Banana Yoshimoto's novella Kitchen.
It's a love story. Of sorts. Its a bit adolescent, a bit magical, a bit brooding and it's pretty bloody splendid.
Mark Thomas' As Used On The Famous Nelson Mandela, which is part-expose and part diary of his experiences exposing the iniquities of the arms trade, is also a good if at times disturbing read. And Rupert Thompson´s thriller Soft is also compelling stuff. I will be buying everything else the latter has written on my return.
The holiday so far has had many other highlights, all of which will be documented on my return...
It's a love story. Of sorts. Its a bit adolescent, a bit magical, a bit brooding and it's pretty bloody splendid.
Mark Thomas' As Used On The Famous Nelson Mandela, which is part-expose and part diary of his experiences exposing the iniquities of the arms trade, is also a good if at times disturbing read. And Rupert Thompson´s thriller Soft is also compelling stuff. I will be buying everything else the latter has written on my return.
The holiday so far has had many other highlights, all of which will be documented on my return...
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Snooker Loopy!
Went to have a knockabout with a chum from work at a pool club in town because I’ve recently joined a pool team out of a club called JFK’s in Peckham. So I’m quite keen to get some practice in and pot a few balls.
My first trip to JFK’s saw me get off the train and walk out of the station to be confronted by an ageing rasta who made the following offer:
‘You want some weed, man?’
‘No thank-you.’
‘You don’t want any weed, man?’ he asked looking perplexed.
‘No. I don’t smoke.’
‘So you don’t want any weed at all, man?’
‘No thank-you.’
He shook his head and walked away, tutting, as though I was the one who was odd for not accepting a kind offer to buy drugs from a total stranger at 6pm in the evening in broad daylight on a main high street.
This, however, was nothing compared to my trip with my work chum.
On entering our local club in town we learnt my membership had expired so I had to renew this. Sadly the lovely German chap Herman who runs the place was using a quiet afternoon to train a new member of staff called Myers. And he was useless.
My friend and I grabbed a table and started playing only to have our game interrupted by snatches of shouted conversation from the bar.
‘I am ordering a pint of Coke so press Coke and Pint on the till.’
‘OK…’ Press, press, till roll rotating.
‘So how much is that?
Pause.
‘£1.40?’
‘No.’
‘£1.50?’
‘No. How much does the till say?’
‘£2.00?’
‘So how much is a pint of Coke?’
‘£1.40?”
‘No!’
This went on for an hour and it just got worse for poor old Myers, especially when Herman tried to explain the workings of the bandits and the poker machines.
I fear for the place as me and my Other Woman have spent many pleasurable evenings in there after hapkido.
Sadly it may be bankrupt by the time I return from holiday…
My first trip to JFK’s saw me get off the train and walk out of the station to be confronted by an ageing rasta who made the following offer:
‘You want some weed, man?’
‘No thank-you.’
‘You don’t want any weed, man?’ he asked looking perplexed.
‘No. I don’t smoke.’
‘So you don’t want any weed at all, man?’
‘No thank-you.’
He shook his head and walked away, tutting, as though I was the one who was odd for not accepting a kind offer to buy drugs from a total stranger at 6pm in the evening in broad daylight on a main high street.
This, however, was nothing compared to my trip with my work chum.
On entering our local club in town we learnt my membership had expired so I had to renew this. Sadly the lovely German chap Herman who runs the place was using a quiet afternoon to train a new member of staff called Myers. And he was useless.
My friend and I grabbed a table and started playing only to have our game interrupted by snatches of shouted conversation from the bar.
‘I am ordering a pint of Coke so press Coke and Pint on the till.’
‘OK…’ Press, press, till roll rotating.
‘So how much is that?
Pause.
‘£1.40?’
‘No.’
‘£1.50?’
‘No. How much does the till say?’
‘£2.00?’
‘So how much is a pint of Coke?’
‘£1.40?”
‘No!’
This went on for an hour and it just got worse for poor old Myers, especially when Herman tried to explain the workings of the bandits and the poker machines.
I fear for the place as me and my Other Woman have spent many pleasurable evenings in there after hapkido.
Sadly it may be bankrupt by the time I return from holiday…
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Book 'im Danno!
I left work early last night in a very grumpy mood as my body has developed yet more niggling injuries.
I went back to Hapkido in the morning but had managed to rip muscles in my chest the previous night so I couldn’t train properly, then it was a press day – which is never a good thing when you are the last line of defence between your magazine and embarrassing mistakes or potential libel suits.
So I decided to cheer myself up and buy some holiday reading and spent a very pleasurable hour wandering around Waterstones. The sort of hour of indulgence you sometimes really need, whether it’s for books or clothes or whatever floats your boat.
Now I utterly adore bookshops but I am increasingly realising there are so many great books I will never read. This is outweighed by the amount of good books I will read, though, so a recent discovery via a friend like Rupert Thompson, who wrote a fascinating novel called The Book Of Revelation, is a major boon.
And I think I am quite taken with a Japanese writer called Banana Yoshimoto who I will start to read soonish. And Michael Chabon and Joe R Lansdale both have new books due too.
Then, of course, away from the fiction is the history and politics section which is always worth a browse. And the biography section too. And the crime and horror sections. And the drama sections…
In fact an hour wasn’t long enough really but I am now furnished with holiday reading aplenty so Portugal here I come! Reading, swimming, eating – and a bit of writing thrown in too.
And the missus and the boy as well. Bloody lovely…
Monday, July 17, 2006
When Goths Go Bad…
The missus is telling me off…
‘I just think it’s really churlish. You’ve joined a dating website with no intention of going on any dates and now you’ve created this ridiculous picture to further take the piss out of them…’
‘I just wanted to be Goth Model of the Month…’
‘Goth Model of the Month? Rubbish… You’re ripping into people to keep yourself amused.’
‘Ripping into them? They’re my own flesh and blood…’
‘You are not a Goth.’
‘I am in spirit…’
‘You listen to Gene Pitney! Look they may be Goths and therefore worthy of ridicule but they are people too. You could upset somebody…’
‘And if they get upset they’ll be miserable. Then they’ll be even more Goth. It’s a sort of community service, really…’
‘You’re an idiot…’
‘I just think it’s really churlish. You’ve joined a dating website with no intention of going on any dates and now you’ve created this ridiculous picture to further take the piss out of them…’
‘I just wanted to be Goth Model of the Month…’
‘Goth Model of the Month? Rubbish… You’re ripping into people to keep yourself amused.’
‘Ripping into them? They’re my own flesh and blood…’
‘You are not a Goth.’
‘I am in spirit…’
‘You listen to Gene Pitney! Look they may be Goths and therefore worthy of ridicule but they are people too. You could upset somebody…’
‘And if they get upset they’ll be miserable. Then they’ll be even more Goth. It’s a sort of community service, really…’
‘You’re an idiot…’
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Snappy Days...
The boy is on work experience with a photographer chum and he’s having an absolute ball.
My worry, however, is that he will now become convinced that every working day involves taking snaps of celebs or being treated to agreeable dinners in pleasant eateries.
The good news, though, is that he has discovered he likes photography and he’s already arranging work experience for the summer holidays and learning how to use Photoshop so he can manipulate images.
Who knows, he may follow in the footsteps of his uncle (www.simonharsent.com) and make a career out of it.
In fact he is so enthused that he asked me to carry on training in the garden a few nights ago so he could take some snaps and experiment with his camera. I obliged – until I pulled a muscle in my leg.
This is why the shots start off aggressive then end with me holding an ice-pack on my leg.
At least he found it amusing…
My worry, however, is that he will now become convinced that every working day involves taking snaps of celebs or being treated to agreeable dinners in pleasant eateries.
The good news, though, is that he has discovered he likes photography and he’s already arranging work experience for the summer holidays and learning how to use Photoshop so he can manipulate images.
Who knows, he may follow in the footsteps of his uncle (www.simonharsent.com) and make a career out of it.
In fact he is so enthused that he asked me to carry on training in the garden a few nights ago so he could take some snaps and experiment with his camera. I obliged – until I pulled a muscle in my leg.
This is why the shots start off aggressive then end with me holding an ice-pack on my leg.
At least he found it amusing…
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Table Mountain…
My pool room is finally no more. The pool table departed Tuesday morning in the company of two friends who bought it from me and promised to give it a good home.
Getting it from the large bedroom, across the landing, down the stairs and out of the house was no mean feat and my back and arms and the backs and arms of three chums all bear painful testimony to the struggles of domestic pool table extraction.
It was with mixed feelings I watched the van bearing it to its new home pull away as now I will have to go out to practice. But I wanted the house back to normal.
The missus, of course, was delighted to see the back of the sodding thing and she spent several hours dancing a merry jig around our empty-but-soon-to-be-redecorated-and-reclaimed master bedroom.
But at least the makeweight in the deal was that I could claim my office back. So my pool game may go on the slide but I should at least be writing something very good very soon.
I hope…
Getting it from the large bedroom, across the landing, down the stairs and out of the house was no mean feat and my back and arms and the backs and arms of three chums all bear painful testimony to the struggles of domestic pool table extraction.
It was with mixed feelings I watched the van bearing it to its new home pull away as now I will have to go out to practice. But I wanted the house back to normal.
The missus, of course, was delighted to see the back of the sodding thing and she spent several hours dancing a merry jig around our empty-but-soon-to-be-redecorated-and-reclaimed master bedroom.
But at least the makeweight in the deal was that I could claim my office back. So my pool game may go on the slide but I should at least be writing something very good very soon.
I hope…
Monday, July 10, 2006
Picture Perfect...
The missus thinks I am obsessed but I now have a new ambition – and that’s to be crowned the gothicmatch.com Goth Model of the Month!
Sadly I am neither Goth nor model material so one of my art desk chums took a picture of me in the office then weaved his art magic on it.
I think the transformation is spectacular. It’s a definite winner but judge for yourself…
Before
After
Sadly I am neither Goth nor model material so one of my art desk chums took a picture of me in the office then weaved his art magic on it.
I think the transformation is spectacular. It’s a definite winner but judge for yourself…
Before
After
Friday, July 07, 2006
One Year On…
As one of the people nearly caught up in the Edgware Road blast (myself and the missus were one stop away when we had to get out of the train – boarding a train three minutes earlier and it would have been us) the date 7/7 has added significance in the family calendar.
The boy could have lost two out of his three parents, the girl could have been a widow, I could have been a widower. It doesn’t bear thinking about but we did start to catch separate trains into work for the next week or so.
It’s still something I ponder every day, though…
But something to also ponder every day is the fact that a bunch of young men can have their minds filled with so much hatred that they see acts like this as legitimate warfare.
The 50-odd lives that were lost was a barbaric death toll, but it’s no more barbaric than the Iraqi civilian death toll (anywhere between 20,000 and 200,000 depending on what you read) caused by our latest war in Iraq.
It’s also no more barbaric than the estimated 500,000 Iraqis who have died through malnutrition brought about by the food blockade against Iraq that the British government enforced since the first Gulf War.
And it’s also no more barbaric than the massive increase in cancer and birth abnormalities caused to Iraqi children brought about by the use of depleted uranium shells in Southern Iraq after the first Gulf War that have still not been cleaned up.
I don’t defend the action of suicide bombers in any way but they’re not the only terrorists in this equation. The British government are terror mongers too and all their actions are doing is ensuring events like 7/7 will be the norm rather than the exception.
And yet certain right-wing rags genuinely can’t see that breeding yet more mistrust and hatred is not helping to solve the problem.
There are times I am ashamed of my profession…
The boy could have lost two out of his three parents, the girl could have been a widow, I could have been a widower. It doesn’t bear thinking about but we did start to catch separate trains into work for the next week or so.
It’s still something I ponder every day, though…
But something to also ponder every day is the fact that a bunch of young men can have their minds filled with so much hatred that they see acts like this as legitimate warfare.
The 50-odd lives that were lost was a barbaric death toll, but it’s no more barbaric than the Iraqi civilian death toll (anywhere between 20,000 and 200,000 depending on what you read) caused by our latest war in Iraq.
It’s also no more barbaric than the estimated 500,000 Iraqis who have died through malnutrition brought about by the food blockade against Iraq that the British government enforced since the first Gulf War.
And it’s also no more barbaric than the massive increase in cancer and birth abnormalities caused to Iraqi children brought about by the use of depleted uranium shells in Southern Iraq after the first Gulf War that have still not been cleaned up.
I don’t defend the action of suicide bombers in any way but they’re not the only terrorists in this equation. The British government are terror mongers too and all their actions are doing is ensuring events like 7/7 will be the norm rather than the exception.
And yet certain right-wing rags genuinely can’t see that breeding yet more mistrust and hatred is not helping to solve the problem.
There are times I am ashamed of my profession…
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Black To The Future...
The wife is in full flow…
‘You’ve done what? I can’t believe I married you sometimes! You are a retard…’
‘But I made it perfectly clear I wasn’t on the market.’
‘The thought of infidelity is not the problem here. It’s the fact that you’ve actually joined the bloody thing in the first place… I have married a 100 per cent bonafide freak…’
‘Is he bigger than me?’
‘Christ…’
After having chanced upon the dating site for Goths (gothicmatch.com) last week, I decided to join so I could access the more interesting bits of the site.
In my defence I made it perfectly clear that I was not in the market for any funny business as I was a happily married man. Remarkably the missus isn’t bothered at the prospect of Goth adultery (‘They can bloody have you!’) but is disturbed by the fact I am increasingly drawn to this particular phase from my youth and is concerned I will start to dress in black and wear eyeliner.
I have told her she has nothing to fear and, even if I did go down the eyeliner route, she has no worries about me borrowing hers as she doesn’t do make-up. But I think she’s still worried…
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
The Chuckle Brothers…
I started a pointless discussion at work the other day as I wanted to know how the Chuckle Brothers (‘From me…’ ‘To you…’) made the discovery that they were gifted children’s entertainers.
Was it a vocational thing, did they come up through the holiday camp circuit or did they suddenly realise that the market for comedy Hitler impersonators had dried up and they had to find work elsewhere?
It’s not perplexing me yet but it may do soon…
I had a similar problem a while ago when discussing the difference between a dwarf and a midget and this had me puzzled for a good month until I hit upon the answer.
So any help on the Chuckle Brothers question will win a prize.
Probably. If you work near me, live near me, do hapkido with me or play pool with me…
Otherwise if I turn up on your doorstep with flowers you may think I’m a bit of a stalker…
Monday, July 03, 2006
Portuguese Team Talk
On good authority I understand that this is how the pre-match team talk before Portugal played England went in the Portugal dressing room:
'Right. The English team won't realise that we dive and go looking for fouls at every opportunity because Sven won't have thought to warn them so it's business as usual, lads. Do your best Greg Louganis.'
'Also they have an educationally subnormal Scouser up front who has major temper issues so wind him up whenever you can because sooner or later he'll forget it's the World Cup and he'll descend into behaving like a lager-fuelled neanderthal thug outside a provincial nightclub at 2am in the morning.'
'And don't worry if it goes to a penalty shootout lads because they think conviction and power are new types of car.'
You read it here first...
'Right. The English team won't realise that we dive and go looking for fouls at every opportunity because Sven won't have thought to warn them so it's business as usual, lads. Do your best Greg Louganis.'
'Also they have an educationally subnormal Scouser up front who has major temper issues so wind him up whenever you can because sooner or later he'll forget it's the World Cup and he'll descend into behaving like a lager-fuelled neanderthal thug outside a provincial nightclub at 2am in the morning.'
'And don't worry if it goes to a penalty shootout lads because they think conviction and power are new types of car.'
You read it here first...
Saturday, July 01, 2006
England Expects…
It’s hard work following England. The press builds them up into world beaters then the buggers only go and let you down on the field time and time again…
If my relationship with England was a marriage it would be so abusive and one-sided with me giving them support and them giving nothing back that no divorce lawyer in the country would defend the object of my affections and loyalty when it came to a split. Even if they were offered loads of cash.
Take today’s game against Portugal. In a World Cup populated by largely mediocre teams, England had a genuine chance to win the sodding thing. The whole thing too. And properly. Like outright. And I believed in them yet again.
But the so-called ‘golden generation’ didn’t get gold and now won’t even be in the fight for bronze.
Basically lots of big names with bigger salaries didn’t live up to their billing and the nation mourns yet another glorious defeat. And as for the Manchester United thug who was sent off for committing an assault that would have got him arrested if it had happened on the street… How galling is that?
But if the country pins its hopes to a brutish retard what do you expect.
Gutted...
If my relationship with England was a marriage it would be so abusive and one-sided with me giving them support and them giving nothing back that no divorce lawyer in the country would defend the object of my affections and loyalty when it came to a split. Even if they were offered loads of cash.
Take today’s game against Portugal. In a World Cup populated by largely mediocre teams, England had a genuine chance to win the sodding thing. The whole thing too. And properly. Like outright. And I believed in them yet again.
But the so-called ‘golden generation’ didn’t get gold and now won’t even be in the fight for bronze.
Basically lots of big names with bigger salaries didn’t live up to their billing and the nation mourns yet another glorious defeat. And as for the Manchester United thug who was sent off for committing an assault that would have got him arrested if it had happened on the street… How galling is that?
But if the country pins its hopes to a brutish retard what do you expect.
Gutted...
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