This weekend’s song to end the weekend on is ‘Calypso‘, John Denver’s tribute to the great Jacques-Yves Cousteau who, in his ex-RN boat the Calypso, opened up the secret, hidden world of the sea to human beings without harming or disturbing anything.
It makes me feel cold and longing to just hear it. The old desire to travel wakes up and looks around. A sweet agony, almost unbareable.
So,
enjoy and. . .
A good week, even though you’re stuck in one place you’d rather not be, and you can’t do much to alter it.
SONG TO END THE WEEKEND ON : ‘CALYPSO’
‘STEPTOE AND SON’ A PERSONAL CRITIQUE
I was a female Harold Steptoe.
From the death of my Dad in January 1998, to finally leaving home in June 2005, it was just me and my Mother, human-wise. She had her sub arachnoid haemhorrage in October 2001 and finally was well enough to get up and get on with it in October 2003 (now she’s better than me health-wise and is the only person I know of who completely recovered, without any kind of unwelcome left over, from a head bleed). In that time, apart from over-crowded Saturdays when The Family turned up, it was just the two of us. (in fact, when my Mother and me were together, human beings turning up was a lot more frequent than now, with just me.)
So, Steptoe and Son, the Brit sitcom, has more meaning for me than just a comedy. I’ve dug out and dusted off my DVD copies and been watching them, and it brings a lot back. And, to say it was a joint effort, it is so real-like. I know, for I was there.
In fact, some people see it as more than just a comedy. It is a tragedy. Try watching the episode entitled ‘Homes Fit for Heroes’ to see what I mean. And it’s painful to watch ‘A Star Is Born’, especially the last few scenes.
Get hold of a copy of the DVD’s. Any will do. You’ll see what I mean.
I know that one day I will be a Harold Steptoe again, when my Mother get too old and infirm, when her boyfriend dies and she is lost and alone, I will be there for her. But when my turn comes, there will be no one to look after me.
Human beings; the only species that can override the genetic dictatorship which insists that a person gets to a certain age and then makes more of themselves, to carry on their genes. After all, what is the evolutionary sense in giving up your chance to reproduce to look after the previous, no longer productive, generation.
NOT FAIR : ARGUEMENT FROM BOTH SIDES
Robert Mugabe does it again.
Myanmar under the rule of a junta military style.
So, where are the protesters?
You know, the long haired green combat jacketed types who line up outside embassies with coloured posters and childish chants whenever the US or Israel or the UK look like they are trying to dare to break some international law.
Everyone has heard of Guantanomo Bay. How come very few care or even know about the doings in Beslan?
Why is the left always right?
Why are the black nations able to persecute their white occupants without a word said?
Why are the eyes of the world on the doings in Iraq yet nothing is said about what’s happening in Myanmar?
Why is it all right for Muslims in some nations to gun down and or hang anyone they feel like, and treat women like hollow baby providing machines in the name of culture when if European nations call for equality for artistic licence they are labelled racist?
I know, I’ve been there. To my eternal shame I marched against the imperalist crimes of the US in the early Eighties, but turned a blind eye to the massacres of the Soviet Union and Communist China. I spoke up for the right of Nelson Mandela and for sanctions against South Africa, but not for the rights of the people of the Soviet Union, Jewish Refuseniks, to have the right and freedom to leave. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve matured, but now I can see from my position of comfort in the middle of the road to both sides, both wings, and they are as bad as each other. Even though I have a slight hangover from that time, a sneaking preference for Communism, if it’s done properly (the original followers of the Christian Way were Communists)
to not say IT’S WRONG just because it’s not the right kind of persecution or massacre or ill treatment, is something we of the Left have to say sorry for.
And remember, persecution does not have colour.
Or a nationality.
Or a wing.
Or religion.
Or an outlook.
Persecution is bloody murder, bullying of the weak, and that is wrong no matter which wing it hides under.
End of discussion.
‘YOU CAN BLAME THEM ALL’, ALERT
This place is, sadly, for real.
This person was ripped off by someone claiming to be a Romani fortune teller, then, unaware, passed from one to another in an attempt to make life right again. (Whatever happened to taking control of your own life? If an old demmick like me can, surely. . .)
This person was made a fool off, conned violently and cheerfully, and therefore they’re all scammers (especially the women) who laugh at everyone non-Gypsy and exist to steal.
It’s this kind of talk that leads to a dusting off of the Zyklon B cannisters and a reopening of the gas chambers, in an attempt to purify good non-Romani blood.
They’re all thieves, anyway, and deserve it.
It’s a pretty exciting story, a marvellous inventive tale involving human demon hybrids, candles made by nuns from a nunnery which doesn’t exist, a load of psychic blackmailing, and, worst of all, as it’s possible (I know) a girlfriend who won’t admit she is responsible for her own life and can’t decide what she wants, and expects you to make her mind up for her, so she can blame you when it goes wrong. Then there is handing over lashings of money, more than can be afforded on the present income. But the denouement ruins it all. . .
This kind of racist quasi-Christian shite makes me want to spew up things I’ve never eaten.
I can’t say I have not had my own run-ins with our Romani cousins.
The nearest I have come to being conned by a ‘Gypsy’ psychic was in Manchester town centre about six years back. Maybe further. This little parasite followed me round St Anne’s square, told me she could help me with my troubles, sat me down on a form, took my hand and looked into my eyes and proceeded to tell me about my life and everything she told me was 100% wrong. I mean, she was so bad, she was good. I could honestly believe in reverse psychic abilities, in her case. I mean, it seemed impossible to be so totally spectacularly wrong on just guessing. Then she tried to flog me some ‘lucky stones’. Pure jade, they were. If I purchased them, everything that wasn’t going right in my life, which she was wrong about, then things would go right. Ten pounds per stone. About as big as your thumb.
And, just beyond, was the place where she had picked up the stones. Scattered on the cemetery area of St. Anne’s church. As an art statement or to make the place look brighter. In full view.
As I sat there, remaining totally unimpressed (I was a Christian then, just about, so I suppose I could say that I believed that my imaginary friend was tougher than hers, and would keep me safe. I was at that stage where I didn’t really believe. In fact, I kept my god in a box and let him out to defend me against the spiritual parasites and psychic bullies that my vicar said the air was thick with) she began to catch on the fact that I was not going to had over any money, so then began to hint about curses, what would happen to me unless I went along. She talked of people who had not ‘paid their dues’ and what happened to them. No names, just ‘people’ and what had happened to them. Famous people, too. As if being recognised on the street made you more likely to be listened to when giving warnings about curses.
This attempt at psychic blackmail for protection money went on for a while then I stood up and said;
“Look, love, curse me. I don’t think I can be any worse off than I am.”
And I’m still waiting for the curses to hit home. In fact, ever since I gave up my belief and came out as an unbeliever, relying on myself has made things generally better. There is nothing like realising you have to take control to help you manage.
Curses are for children and the mentally unformed. But condemning a whole section of humanity for the actions of a few is pure evil.
ARMAGEDDON
Armageddon is the name of the last battle in the bible, or rather a Westernised version of the name of place where the last battle is to take place.
But today, when we think of Armageddon, we think of the end of the world, maybe not the world itself falling apart or something, like an apple hit by an arrow, but maybe a releasing of a poison of some kind that kills everything off.
And of course, there is the return of the saviour, to scoop up everyone who believes in him and is persecution for their beliefs.
Which leads to the game called guess when the end of the world, which is mostly played by the believers in the saviour, whether the saviour is the god of the Christians or appears in a UFO to direct the exodus to safety, after all a loving creator who only wants our salvation would really have to destroy everything and there is nothing like sharpening one’s appitite for being in a superior position, ie, one of the saviour’s team, the elect, than gleefully working out when everyone else is going to be tipped into some kind of eternal punishment.
But, I don’t see it like that.
Here’s my own version of what these plotting humans are to expect, and I call it;
THE PARABLE OF GUESSING ARMAGEDDON
There is a room, white walled, with a table and wooden hard backed chair, with a closed door and a closed window looking out onto infinite eternity. I see a person in this room, leaning with their fist on their chin and elbow on the table, asleep, snoring softly.
In the distance, aeons away, there is a slight, muffled crashing sound,
“Uh?” The sleeper stirs slightly, barely lifting their head, eye lids flickering, before relaxing down back into sleep.
Think about it. . .
GORDON BROWN = THE BUSINESS!
You know, you can be minding your own, wandering along this road we call Life, and occasionally pausing to jump up to see if you can see a bit further along the road over the next hill, to see what’s in store for you, when you come up alongside something without warning, an event that makes it all worth while, makes it all mean something.
I’ve always had time for Gordon Brown, our latest PM, although the tune of cynicism has somewhat drowned out his quiet back-room-boy-efforts, but now.
I heard part of his speech and by gum, son of the manse or not, Johnny Foreigner he may be, (Scot = Johnny Foreigner in the eyes of some REALLY English types) but what he had to say gives this ageing cynic reason to believe that the old Labour party ideas are not dead, just well hidden, found by use of a torch light in the dark, rarely traversed back rooms of New Labour, and brought forward into the light of everyday life.
No cheap shots at the Conservatives.
Pride in what we are and we have to offer.
Putting our own before the needs of others.
Honest words for the beleaguered, virus riddled NHS.
Same for the disillusioned poor ordinary sods who are expected not to have a say and just get on with it.
It’s just possible that, if there are enough left to believe in Mr Brown’s vision, Britain might heal itself and take it’s place, better than ever, on the world stage.
I am still a cynic, and sick of living on hope, but if he delivers just a few of the promises his words are leading to, well, all will be well.
SONG TO END THE WEEKEND ON: ‘MONTEGO BAY’
This weekend’s song to end the weekend on is Bobby Bloom’s ‘Montego Bay’.
It’s to be found on ‘YouTube’ which has it’s uses, and if you’re like me and not keen on graphics, just click on the link then do something else. (This is especially if your browser provided a tabbed browsing facility for you) and listen the song itself.
Brilliant.
And,
a good week, even though you’re about as far from objectively happy as it’s possible to get.
REVISIONIST HISTORY OF COMMUNISM
The great mind behind the philosophy of Communism was, inarguably, Karl Marx.
But he had a pal, a fellow German named Fredich Engels, who, while Karl spent his days in the British Library and Museum reading room, London, went out to discover the facts behind a need for the Communist Manifesto.
In Manchester, where his Dad owned a few businesses, he met a young woman who he kept in a flat on Deansgate, behind the store called The House of Fraser (once known as Kendal Milne).
The story goes, that she led him away from his well off friends and posh German society, and into the REAL Manchester, full of degradation and want.
In fact, what Engels saw in Manchester convinced him that Communism was the right way, which isn’t that scary if applied correctly, and which comes under the doctrine of;
From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.
That is, the Communist idea, put into practice, works so well, that everyone has enough. And, yes, if everyone was willing to try their best, for the good of all, and everyone was given a chance, it would work. No one Capitalist organisation to look down upon those who have to hire themselves out and be used by their boss.
So, next time you hear someone mention Marx, and Engels, then talks of Lenin, who picked up the broken remains of Communism dropped by a childish, ignored German faction, and brutally applied it to the section of the planet known as the USSR, followed by Stalin and Mao, and Pol Pot, remind them of the nameless little Manchester mill girl who caught the eye of her German capitalist boss and led him home to show him exactly WHAT was happening in everyday working life, and why Communism was THE only way.
Now, this is the kind of revisionist history that I have time for.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN. . .
Of all the Theistic beliefs, religions, the only one I have got any time for is Judaism.
Having said that. . .
This weekend, from dusk on the 21st September to dusk on the 22nd is a celebration of Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, the day when a Jew looks back on the year and his or her doings within it, and tries use what they have learnt to make up for their mistakes, and to improve their life for the future year. We would call it New Year, but to Jews, it’s much, much more than that.
In case anyone is reading this and it concerns them,
All the best to you all and a good year to you.
Next year in Jerusalem.
No, I’m not returning to the Monolithic worship of the one true god, from a different angle. I’m still a non-believer. It’s just that religion fascinates me, so long as it doesn’t get in the way, and of the three faiths of the book, Judaism is the one that doesn’t interfere in my daily life.
WHEN THE IMPROBABLE HAPPENS TO YOU
All right, yes, I’d be the first to admit, the idea of DNA from everyone stored in a database appeals, as someone on the receiving end of a genetic accident in the womb. When something connects wrong, then you suffer. You end up a genetic demmick, in prison for something you never did, so to speak. If collecting and storing examples of our DNA saves future generations from going through the same (and I would not wish my condition on anyone, except maybe a select few who I really do not LIKE). If my DNA is collected and probed and something is discovered that can be altered, for the good of some poor as-yet-unborn sod, then go for it.
And yet. . .
I am also a freethinker, a libertarian, which basically means, do whatever you want, but not near me, and don’t make me pay for any consequences. It’s none of my business. And that bit of me is not happy with the idea of ME, my DNA, my essence, my soul, if you like bad poetic analogies, stretched out on a slab, or in a bottle somewhere for anyone to come along and mess around with. Maybe take a bit and create some worst case scenario.
On top of this, I am a misanthrope, which means I distrust people. If I was not a misanthrope I doubt I would be a libertarian. (Most people deserve all they ruddy well get, and don’t come running to me when things go wrong. AND it is possible to be a misanthrope and a libertarian. They are the best kind.) I am not happy with the idea of my DNA being interfered with for pleasure or profit. I don’t trust my doctor or the police or a council official or anyone from the authorities, or someone who lives next door, to look after my soul and not be tempted, no matter who they are, no matter how well thought of. As my Dad used to quote;
“A man’s a man for a’ that.”
And a genetic scientist (I know the word, I just can’t spell it) is as just as capable of committing a crime against me as some cleaner person who accidently stumbled upon my DNA, left out carelessly when the scientist when for his tea break.
Just imagine, if someone takes a bit of your DNA and leaves it at a crime scene.
Or commits a crime and leaves your DNA as the perpetrator for the police to find.
Or alters it in some way. To provide evidence for a court. Or creates a clone of you*.
Or maybe discovers that you have a gene that could predisposition you to becoming a serial killer, or a rapist. Or just someone with severe mental problems. Then rings you up and tells you and then says;
“It’s all right, no one has to know this. Just see to it I get an amount of your wage every week in this bank account and all will be well. Or else your family and boss will discover you are a potential killer or paedo. THEN how will you feel.”
Or maybe, if the price is right, your DNA is for sale on the open market.
Just pretend; you’re lay in your bed, getting your zed’s in when the front door bursts in and a pack of coppers drag you out and throw into the back of a van and when you reach the station confront you with the evidence that you are a terrorist, because acts of terrorism have been committed and your DNA has been found to match that found on the car steering wheel or the room where the bomb was placed. (Not all terrorists are suicide bombers). Or this proves you are some kind of Mr Big, head of a Kray Firm type operation.
Or your DNA is available to insurance companies that refuse to take you on because a gene for a heart condition or cancer is found in your DNA.
This all sounds improbable, after all, there are safeguards against such things in place. But, such is the inventiveness of the human capacity to do bad, just for the heck of it, I would not trust anyone with my DNA, just in case.
You can bet that if the chance to do bad is there, for fun or profit, then it will get done.
After all, the Internet began with groups of like minded types gathering to chat on various subjects. They looked after themselves. Didn’t want anything terrible to happen. Didn’t think it could. Doubted it would. And now it’s been compared to the wild west, with chronic unpleasant interference getting into every aspect of the WWW, and the innocent having to lock themselves in with firewalls and security and all kinds of safety devices, with the criminals always one step ahead.
Would you honestly say that this mentality could be trusted to care for something as intimate as DNA?
Just think how hard it is to get out of trouble, convince those who need convincing that you are innocent, a victim of ID theft, now. Having to prove yourself innocent when you know you are, even though the evidence is you are not. And then multiply that if someone gets hold of your very essence and uses it to commit crime.
*This would not be fair on a world only just getting used to one of me. It doesn’t deserve having to put up with two.
LOGICAL, IN IT’S OWN WAY
On my birthday, I was treated to a new neighbour and it’s a case of, I’m just glad that when a person reaches the bottom, they can’t drop and further.
She likes a drink, and drugs, and enjoys music. Because I live next door, I am suffering for her likes.
Last Thursday, she lost her key, and let herself in by smashing her front window. Glass all over. I was the only one, including those who actually witnessed her doing it, who bothered to report this.
Anyhow, I was on my way out to get some stuff and have a bit of time away on Saturday, when a lady over the road collared me and asked me how I enjoyed being next door to ‘her’.
“I’m finding it harder to endure daily.” I said.
So we chatted a bit more, and she was doing her best to hook me and dig out some emotion and get me angry. Don’t work. My days of angry are gone. Angry doesn’t get you anywhere, expect a time in a cell and more in debt to the authorities. Banging your head on a wall doesn’t alter the shape of the wall and leaves you with a wounded head. Instead, I answered her goading by saying;
“It was worse during the Blitz, wasn’t it? And they put up with it.”
“Ah,” she said, and delivered the line that should at least be entered for surreal remark of the year, “it’s different, int it? I mean, laws, they’ve changed, it’s against the law now.”
And I could see it, back during the days when the bombers came over from Germany, after dark to avoid the RAF and it’s chain home RDF stations, and the signs;
WARNING;
HEAVY BOMBING AREA.
BOMBS ARE ONLY PERMITTED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF DUSK AND DAWN AND WEEKDAYS.
ANY INFRINGEMENT OF THIS RULE COULD RESULT IN ARREST AND PROSECUTION BY THE AUTHORITIES, PLUS POSSIBLE CONFISCATION OF BOMBER/S RESPONSIBLE.
Joking apart, it’s now so bad, I can’t wait til I’ve finished my latest story and garnered the courage and chance of rejection to send it off in the hope of making money that way. I’ve had to give in and go to the local authority to put my name down for a disabled flat. (The flat itself isn’t disabled, you understand. It’s built exclusively for the protection of the disabled.) It means that I have to fill in medical forms, and see someone from social services. Ugh! I hate it! You have to search the corners of your being and seek out and destroy any sign of self respect and self reliance if you want any assistance from them.
Never thought I’d end up having to do as I was told and obey the authorities to get a bit of peace of mind.
SONG TO END THE WEEKEND ON : ‘I’VE GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO HER FACE’
This weekend’s song to end the weekend on is an absolute corker; From ‘My Fair Lady’ it’s ‘I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face’ and sung by Rex Harrison (famous left-hander and NOT a queen nor the cranky old selfish loveable bachelor he played as Henry Higgins) in that undeniably recognisable spoken-sung style.
It’s brilliant, especially if you’re a miserable old misanthropic crank like me, perfectly content alone and then someone comes into your life and without expecting it, without wanting to. . .you. . .
realise. . .
you’ve. . .
fallen. . .
in. . .
love.
Anyhow, as always. . .
enjoy and,
a good week, whether or not you trip over an emotion you never knew existed anymore in the hidden darkness of your unexplored parts.
If you’re still here;
Coming up next week on ‘All The Best!’;
‘Absolutely; Best British comedy programme EVER.’
‘When the improbable happens to YOU,’
‘John Haig; A life’.
And much, much less.
Til then;
All the best.
