What we choose not to say

1 04 2012

The newspapers are full of coverage of the recent by-election in Bradford west, or as George Galloway refers to it – Blackburn. The other story sharing the headlines is the recent fuel shortage fiasco and Diane Hill that managed to suffer 40% burns after unwisely decanting petrol in her Kitchen next to a lit stove . In both cases the media is avoiding telling us the obvious and probably for the same politically correct reasons.

Number one, Gorgeous George’s victory comes in an area heavily populated by Muslim voters. His pro-Arab anti-western and often anti-Semitic views echo their own, except they like him more because it adds legitimacy to their insular and hatred infused views when they are perpetuated by a white catholic. This isn’t labour’s failure nor the conservatives, this is a sign of things to come and Galloway is just a sensationalist puppet for those that would gladly form the fifth column when called for.

Diane Hill is an idiot, the likes of which we have not seen in sometime. Common sense and logic dictates that there are far safer place to decant petrol than next to a lit stove. But the papers are championing her as a victim of minister Francis Maude’s gerry can gaffe. Calls for his resignation are sensationalist and represent the paper’s braying call for blood because it will sell more papers. What no one has failed to state explicitly is that regardless of how ill advised Maude’s comments were, this woman is incredibly stupid and the only person responsible for her actions is the woman herself.

When the press in this country grow a moral backbone and start calling things for what they are, the closer we will come to having open conversation about the things we fear the most.





Dreams

31 03 2012

You know when you wake up in the morning and there’s something troubling you, but you can’t quite work out what it is? Like you had an argument with someone but can’t remember who or why?

That happened last night and it’s left me feeling disorientated all day. I did my usual getting up with the kids. I didn’t want to, I felt tired as hell and lazy to the point of exhaustion.

At this point you do whatever you can to get through the day, get towards bedtime and then there’s clear space and quiet to think without constantly tending or telling off. And then it hits you. You are so tired that you don’t want to think and the evening is wasted sitting in front of the idiot box watching crap.

Halfway through watching this crap, I realise that Bruce Springsteen was in my dream. He didn’t do much except for sit there occasionally picking at chords on his guitar. Now, I know this wasn’t a construct of my mind, I know that it was identical to that film High Fidelity where Springsteen cameos in exactly the same way. Trouble is, I can’t remember what was said or why my subconscious would try to offer up that bit of Springsteen film cameo??

I am not much of a Springsteen fan, in fact I find the whole big stadium working man anthem stuff a bit too much for me. So why Springsteen?

I think I ended up calling him by his nom de plume The Boss. It’s all getting a bit weird up here.

Maybe tonight we’ll get an encore performance and a bit of explanation.





Battling the nothingness

3 03 2012

The funniest thing about all of this is that normally, I’d be having this conversation with my therapist. Only he’s dead.

It’s unfortunate but the mighty Malcolm Omar, whom I foolishly regarded as a friend passed away a couple of years ago and there’s no one that’s filled that gap for me yet. I say foolishly because I doubt he ever regarded our interaction as friendship, rather simply a client therapist relationship. Despite this, I would still rather count him amongst my friends as he can’t answer back now to deny this. If he could I am sure he would remind me that I owe him forty quid.

My wife, who has similar ambitions to become a therapist, has told me that in her professional opinion, I have not inherited my mother’s bipolarism. That’s as may be, but I have more than my fair share of depressive bouts and times where I feel I am unable to produce anything of worth, where it counts.

At the moment it is one of those times. A real low point where everything seems bleak.

I was sat in a restaurant listening to a character assassination the other evening. Every word was deserved. My reflex reaction was to blame my parents. But that’s all too easy and a cowardly side step away from confronting the truth.

The family at the moment and by family I mean my wider family, outside of my home unit, is fragmented. I haven’t seen my sisters in ages, my mother too. My father, despite the sporadic contact, is an entirely different person nowadays to the father I grew up with. It’s like I’ve lost a family and have had to start again.

Work is hard and constant. Fulfilling in some respects and but never fills my pockets enough and those pockets seem to be getting ever deeper. I’m immensely proud of what we’ve achieved, I’m just not sure if it will ever make me a rich man.

Today I woke up after having slept almost 12 hours, for the first time in a long time. I woke up feeling empty, like the tiredness had left nothingness in its place.

I’m battling, I can’t articulate my thoughts very well at the moment. There are things I want to say but every time I open my mouth nothingness falls out.





The world’s gone flotilla mad.

27 06 2010

Flotilla is one of those words that doesnt really get out much, but when it does, oh boy does it have a lot of making up for lost time to do.

Surely, the flotilla, or at least the idea of a flotilla as some sort of expression of protest is now so over done that we have all lost interest?

First there was the ill fated Turkish Flotilla, with its quest to batter the living shit out of a few Israeli commandos. That didnt go too well.

Then there was the Irish attempt, which was an anti-climax in which no one really got hurt or killed, although I did hear of more than one case of Israeli caused, sea-sickness. Those bastards, have they no decency?

Now we have the Flotilla of the daughters of Mary, Flotilla against peace, Flotilla for Peace, a US Flotilla (only once around the statue of liberty, alas) in aid of kidnapped Israeli Soldier Gilad Shalit.

I for one am amazed at this maritime madness. I can only assume that ALL of the aforementioned Flotillas are organised by people with absolutely nothing better to do.

Jaysus, get up, go to work, pay the mortgage and feed the wife and kids; or get on a boat and pick a fight with one of the world’s most aggressive military outfits? Mmmm, no brainer really.

Personally, I just have to so much look at a boat and I get sea sick and the word Flotilla instantly casts images of unflushable faecal matter which is precisely what these ill advised so called humanitarian efforts amount to.

What next? Bono, Chris Martin and Sir Bob Geldoff getting together to arrange Flotilla Aid? A concert put together by do-gooder idiots to raise much needed funds for the world’s most violent terrorists?

Its all a matter of taste. Bad taste.





Hung, drawn and quartered

10 05 2010

Hung Parliament

The recent political situation has left most of the UK wondering what happens next. This isn’t as some are painting it, a classic exercise in UK voter apathy. On the contrary, the public have spoken and it is as many predicted, to0 close a race to call.

There is one thing that is certain since Gordon Brown sacrificed himself in front of the nation this evening, to allow some sort of coalition hope to be fostered between the Lib Dems and the Labour Party- its less about the party and its more about the man.

On balance, I think that Gordon Brown has taken a lot of unnecessary flack in the aftermath of the “global” economic crisis. The English have run out of heroes and instead we prefer our effigies.

Whilst he might not be the most charismatic of men he is certainly about the only one of the bunch with the political pedigree and experience. But like many have said, we don’t need two chancellors, we need one clear leader. In the aftermath of what is being hailed as a “farce” of a general election, Britain is far from being led by one clear leader.

The electoral reform proposed by the Liberal Democrats seeks to put an end to the two party system and by and large the majority of the public would probably be in favour of this, if they actually understood it in the first place. The tories have been too slow in coming forward with their willingness to accept this and hastily seemed to have issued some form of “referendum based” compromise on the matter in light of increased chance of a Labourt -Lib Dem coalition.

This might not be the most straightforward situation that Britain has found itself in,  but it certainly is the most interesting General Election outcome for some time. In many ways, the stale mate between the parties has promoted further interest in the archaic voting system and revived political interest amongst sections of the public that considered the results of elections a foregone conclusion.

As David Cameron wakes up to the realisation that despite his majority win, he might yet wake up to being the leader of the opposition against a Lib Dem – Labour Coalition Government, the real winner is the British public who’s message has been clearly heard by all three parties: There is such little difference between the soundbite lead policies of the big three.





The importance of being stupid

9 01 2010

One could well mistake this particular blog for being the hastily written ramblings of a drunkard and for the most part you’d be right. However, i choose to believe that there is genius behind my excenticities. There has to be or else all of this has been in vain.

I have spent most of the past week battling with depression, ignoring important matters and generally burying my hand in the sand. It might be the inclement weather, but it feels as if it has snowed in my head and the council will not be gritting these roads anytime soon.

The heavy snowfalls coinciding with the return to work for the first working week of the year has aided in prolonging the disjointed, temporary nature of the festive period. In short, we dont feel like it is business as normal.

There is so much i have to get done , this is no way to avoid it, but avoid it I have, quite well, until now.

Sometimes in my more somber and solemn moments, I imagine myself as a metaphorical glider pilot, desperately trying to catch a decent enough thermal gust to keep flying above the mountains. Instead lacklustre thermals come my way keeping me inches above the jagged rocks and although i can see my bitter demise very clearly ahead of me, some part of me will not cease to believe that the major thermal is a mere few inches away around the next corner. These are my own delusions. Some would call them futile and condemn me to my own failure.

Of course, i am being spectacularly self indulgent in writing this and publishing it to a blog that no one reads and no one recognises. The potential for some poor sod to stumble upon these inane ramblings is little comfort.





What women want

20 12 2009

image

Firstly, if you are looking to the answer to that question, let me put your mind at ease by telling you it is not here.
Its not here because human beings cannot be honest with one another and the greatest cold war type paranoid relationship has been ongoing since the garden of eden, making it impossible to be reasonable after all these millenia.
But what women want and men want is in reality, not too disimilar. We both want what we cant have. She wants a good looking, smart, wealthy husband and we want a good looking, er, good looking wife.
She wants to be romanced and charned into bed, with mood lighting and candles. We want it by suprise whatever and wherever the location, the more random the better. Infact in this respect men are like little boys, the more it seems like theyre not meant to be doing it. The better it is.
She wants to sleep in and have breakfast in bed, we just want to sleep.
She wants a nice home with smart furnishings and a tidy interior. We want a couch, preferably one we can recline on and a tv the size of a football pitch. We also want to be able to use it when noone else is around. Its the law.
But of all the things that women want it is the perfect husband that they know does not exist. And the men? They just want a bit of peace and quiet once in a while, perhaps a five minute break from the incessant whining, complaining and moaning (not good moaning, bad moaning).
In summary and to paraphrase Jagger, you cant always get what you want, but it doesnt stop you wanting it.








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