Coincidences and bare truths

Odd, isn't it--Thatcher's going out to controversy over Ding Dong the Witch is Dead (from the Wizard of Oz (with possible royalties to Lording-it-up Andrew Lloyd Webber)) and the one person who stands up in Parliament to decry Mrs T is Oscar winning actress Glenda Jackson.

Some might have spotted the close coincidence: in the Wizard of Oz, the Good Witch of the North appears when the wicked witch has a house dropped on her. The Good Witch's name: Glinda.

Glinda...Glenda?

Coincidence, right?

And the bare truth...Thatcher is still being touted as the daughter of a greengrocer, as if that puts her roots as coming firmly from the working class.

Oh, puhlease.

Okay, I concede: her old man, Alf Roberts (not to be mixed up with the more lovable Alf Roberts of Coronation Street fame), actually was a greengrocer. It's true.

But he was also a Justice of the Peace, president of the Chamber of Trade, President of Rotary, a director of the Grantham Building Society, a director of the Trustee Savings Bank, chairman of the local National Savings Movement, a governor of the local boys and girls grammar schools and chairman of the Workers' Educational Association. During the Second World War (note 1 below) he was Chief Welfare Officer, directing civil defence, and soon became Chairman of the Finance and Rating Committee. In 1943 he was elected by the council as an Alderman and then served as the Mayor of Grantham for a year.(amusingly, calling for 'a large programme of expenditure to rebuild the roads, public transport, health and social services for children and to "build houses by the thousand. (Wiki bio)

But fuck it, let's just call him a greengrocer, shall we? And while we're on, let's belittle him a little more, by pointing out that there's strong evidence to suggest he was also at the very least, a sex pest who groped employees bums and looked up their skirts, and maybe even a groping sex offender, depending on how you want to grade the offences

When you consider the accusations that Thatcher knowingly employed paedophiles, and had Jimmy Savile around for seven (or was it eleven?) New Years in a row, things start to look a little like what went around was still going round. Some have nodded a wink to Denis Thatcher being one of the club, as it were. Who knows? We might never find out...or maybe we will.



[Note 1: The first World War was actually the Seven Years War (1754-1763) (which you might have noticed was actually nine years not seven.) You also have to watch what historians tell you.]

Why it's important not to piss people off

I'd forgotten about this until I came across it on another blog. (from: http://goo.gl/iTHz8)

This is what Chuck Pahalinuk, author of Fight Club said,

“Years later, in London, a young man pulled me aside before a book event. He was a waiter at a five-star restaurant–one of only two five-star restaurants in the city–and he loved how I depicted waiters spoiling food. Long before they’d read my book, he and other servers had messed with the food they served celebrities.

When I asked him to name one celebrity, he shook his head. No, he couldn’t risk telling.

When I refused to sign his book, he waved me closer and whispered:

‘Margaret Thatcher has eaten my cum.’

He held up one hand, his fingers spread, and said:

‘At least five times. . .’”

There's a moral there for all of us.

Valentine's Day fiction

According to Bob.

Bob and me would meet up in the Ram’s Head, once or twice a month, have a couple of pints, and go out for a bite to eat.

This one night, we had our usual window seat, and with a full moon hanging over the fields, I joked how this was all nice and romantic-like, considering it was Valentine’s Day.

“Romantic?” he said. “Nah. Valentine’s Day is all about sex, mate, not romance.”

Bob, he’s never wrong, you know.

“I thought it was all about love,” I said, and he looked at me without speaking for a moment.

“Where’s it come from?” he goes.

“What—Valentine’s day?”

“Uh-huh.”

I knew that one. “Saint Valentine.”

And he nodded, with one of those smug looks which said I was wrong, even if I was right. “Valentine was a priest,” he said. “This was back in the days when the Romans liked to throw priests to the lions.”

“You keep pets, you’ve gotta feed them something,” I said.

“They put up with him until they found out he was marrying people against the rules, so they put him in jail.” Bob sipped his pint, and licked his lips. “In jail, him and the jailer’s daughter were having it away with each other, so they decided to execute him.”

“A bonking saint…” I said.

“Story is, on the day he was being cut in half and stuff, he sent the girl a letter. On the front, it read: From Your Valentine. And that was the first Valentine card.”

“Aww, sweet,” I said, “but I didn’t know saints could be randy old goats.”

Bob grinned. “Funny you should say that, because Pope John Paul thought that, as well.”

“What—the John Paul?”

“That’s the one. He took away Valentine’s sainthood, and dropped him like a sac of hot testicles.”

“Nooooo…”

“Saint Valentine is plain Valentine.”

“Well, you learn something new every day,” I said.

Bob leaned forwards. “And guess what year they dropped him from the saints list.”

I shrugged. “Go on…”

“Sixty Nine.”

All things considered, that seemed fitting. “It really is all about sex, innit?” I said.

“Well, why do you think they chose this date for Valentine’s Day in the first place?”

I didn’t know, but I was sure he was going to tell me.

“The church was covering up all the pagan celebrations with something of their own,” he said. “Christmas, Easter, Halloween—they were all dates in the Pagan calendar.”

“And Valentine’s Day?”

“It's all about sex,” he said. “Way before Valentine was on the scene, young Roman shepherds would run up and down the streets stark-bollock naked, with a pouch made from the ram's nut-sac.”

“Bless them Romans,” I said. “They knew how to party, didn’t they?”

“This was a fertility rite thing. Women who wanted to get pregnant had to jump in the way, and stop the men with the nut-sacs.”

I could see how that might’ve worked. “And magically they became pregnant.”

“You got it,” he said. “Pope Miserable Git Whatever-his-name-was put an end to it, and picked it as Valentine’s Day.” 

“I get it,” I said.

“Noooo, you don’t,” Bob said. “Where did Rome come from?”

I shrugged.

“Romulus and Remus.”

I groaned. God, yeah. I knew that one. The two babies abandoned and suckled by a wolf.

Bob said, “That fertility rite festival, with all those women getting pregnant—it was called Lupercalia.”

This was all adding up. “‘Luper’, as in wolf,” I said.

Bob grinned, and nodded slowly.

And now I got it. “So Valentine’s night is really Wolf night!”

“Bingo!” Bob said, and downed his pint. He nodded to the big old moon outside. “So, I’m hungry—are we gunna go kill something, or what?” he said, and drummed his claws impatiently on the table.

I finished my drink. “I thought you said tonight was all about sex?”

“Playing with your food?” Bob said. “You’re sick, mate.”

I brushed beer froth from my fur. “Hell, yeah, I know, but don’t spoil my fun n-o-o-o-o-ooow.”

Prediction Lowdown...

So how did it go?

Well, I didn't predict I wouldn't make another post all year, but other than that...

Another ash cloud grounding flights. Tick. Yup, it was only for a day or two, but it happened.

At least one country trying to get out the Euro...right now it looks like all the countries will be getting out the Euro, as Europe falls apart. I won't claim a tick, but I do claim I spotted serious problems

Queen Cat pregnant...there were rumours during her Aussie tour, but no tick because it hasn't been announced (yet).

Injunction against photos...ah, I didn't allow for super-injunctions where we're not even allowed to be told there's an injunction. No tick

Rock Legend...Bye bye Amy Winehouse, hello tick.

Nick Clegg stepping down...no tick, but you'll notice how he might as well not be there anymore.

Cameron shot? Nah. Bollocks. Still the year's not over yet. No tick.

Fuel shortages causing riots? Nobody knows what caused the riots, but I'm claiming the fact I knew there'd be serious riots as a tick because those riots were worse than we've ever seen before.

Flooding...yup we got it, and so did loadsaplaces. Tick.

Reality show tragedy...now there's an interesting one. I claim a tick after Freddy Starr nearly died after a food challenge on Get Me Out of Here. We're going to see that makes a difference to who they have on their shows, or even their validity as entertainment.

5 out of 11 with a provisional extra two ticks for the two about Queen Cat.

Predictions for 2011

If psychics can do it, so can I. How hard can it be?

1...Get ready for another ash cloud grounding European flights.

2...Get ready for at least one country trying to get out of having the Euro as a currency

3...Kate Middleton (I hope she takes on the title Queen Cat) will announce she's preggers.

4...Before or after the pregnant announcement, there'll be a court injunction to stop the press printing nude/topless photos of her (from her Uni days, and from sunbathing on holiday)

5...Another rock legend will die, and album sales will rocket

6...Nick Clegg will do another U Turn and say he's not up to running the country, and step down

7...David Cameron will join the Spencer Perceval club. So far, Perceval is the only British PM to have been assassinated-- Cammo is going to be the second.

8...Fuel shortages will wreck the summer, due to oil blockades, and riots over fuel pump-prices

9...and unseasonal weather will lead to flooding, once again.

10...There'll be a serious incident at a UK airport

11...and a tragedy on a 'reality show' which will lead to its end.

11 for '11. Sounds like an Aussie test match score

Now I'll sit back to watch how many are hits.

"The chances of northern Europe facing a new ice age, or of catastrophic sea-level rises of almost four metres that swamp the planet over thenext century, have been ruled out by leading scientists." (http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/dec/06/climate-change-tropical-forest-greater)

Considering the Met Office has given up trying to predict weather over a week away, I'm shocked anyone would try to predict what the world climate conditions will be 50-100 years in the future.

We are, however, a threat to the Rain Forest. No change there, then.It always amuses me that people go on about the Arctic Ice melting as proof of the dreaded 'Global Warming'.

Yeah, it does that. And yeah, it looks like it's doing it faster and further every year. In the past few of years, a couple cruise ships have been able to sail through where there used to be ice. Last year, a sea-going yacht managed to find a way through using up-top-date satellite images to avoid the icepack.

But bear in mind, that 3000 years ago, the Vikings regularly sailed longships through the Arctic. And bear in mind that 500 years ago, when the route became known as the Northwest Passage, trading ships were using it all the time to get round trading restrictions laid down by the Pope. Yet 100 years ago people couldn't get through, and were dying in their attempts. Only hardened explorers like Amundsen managed to take expeditions through the pack ice, and it could take them a year or more to cross the Arctic Circle.

Guys, we're still recovering from the Little Ice Age (1500's-1800's). A good 300 years of advancing glaciers and expanding icepack.

'Climate Change' = 'returning to normal conditions'

I often wonder if writers predict the future or if the process of writing it actually makes it happen.

A guy I know has just injured his wrist punching boards at Taekwondo classes. If he'd waited until he'd read my collection of short stories (due out next year) he might have avoided some pain.

On the other hand, maybe because I wrote it, it was going to happen, no matter what.


Here's the relevant section from the story Marital Bliss. I've run on a few paragraphs more as an extra warning to anyone who wants to heed it.

Kaz, they teach her in Fight Class: ‘when you punch someone—if you have to punch them—lead with the first two knuckles.’ If you hit with the ring finger and little finger knuckles first, they’ll dislocate, they’ll break.

And they teach her: ‘fist and wrist’.

You have to keep them straight. In line.

Boxers strap their wrists with bandages so they can’t bend them. If the wrist bends, all that power, all that momentum, it snaps the bones.

And they teach her: ‘hit the stomach, hit the ribs.

Never punch the mouth’.

Never.

Punch them in the mouth and you can knock teeth out, you can bust lips, you can end a fight there and then—but the mouth is a sewer of bacteria.

Break the skin on your hand, break the knuckle capsule with a tooth, and that bacteria, it’ll make your hand swell up, then your arm. You’ll blister, your fingers blacken. You’ll run a fever, you’ll be throwing up, and without medical help, you’ll be dead within a week.

At the hospital, at the mortuary, they’ll call it Fight Bite.

The guy you smacked in the mouth, he’ll still have thick lip, and he’ll look like a dork when he smiles, but he won’t give a fuck when he’s grinning all the way through your funeral.

Not that you’ll see him, because the coffin will be closed. Your face will be black, with infectious pus oozing from your nose and mouth, so don’t expect your loved ones to kiss you goodbye.

--from Marital Bliss by Jim Corwell