A Cross Stick

Bathtime is always portrayed as a curse on the young, but when I was a child I looked forward to my Sunday evenings, splashing around with my 'toy' boats that I had made out of lollipop sticks in school. Entertainment was achieved much more simply back then, and without the need to fork out ludicrous amounts of cash. Richard Gere is being a twat again, as if anyone really gives a fuck, although the Indian magistrates who are ordering him to appear before them because of his actions are behaving equally twattishly. English is something I speak but will never be able to teach. Fucked if I know why. 'Touching cloth' is one of those expressions that inexplicably sends a shiver down my spine....

Out here, and despite the wide group of friends I have, I find it easy to feel isolated and lonely, yet I have no desire to return to the bosom of my family and find myself either unwilling or unable to maintain contact with friends I left behind. Fickle fucker that I am.

I went to a St. Andrew's Society ceilidh last night, which was interesting but tame compared with the ones I grew up attending. Never done a 'Strip The Willow' in the tropical heat before, a dance that could only have been invented in a country as cold as Scotland. Societies such as this always bring out a mixed feeling of intrigue and fear in me and whilst I cannot help observe like some stalker-ish peeping Tom I have never wanted to join one. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, yet no-one has ever bothered to explain why a person so named would wish ridicule upon himself by choosing such an alliterative occupation. It would be like me finding employment balancing books for butchery and baking businesses. Rebellion itself is strangely nothing more than an act of conformity, as every generation takes their turn to do it. 'Abba-riginal' is the punchline to a joke I was told last night, but it is far too crap for me to waste your time with. 'Trochaic' is a new word I learnt only recently, which may in part explain why I will never be able to teach English, at least from a literary perspective. In the end, does any of it really matter? Once we look below the shiny trappings we have surrounded ourselves with and see them for what they really are, will they still hold the same allure? No, of course they won't......

Cheers m'dears!

Shit-faced ramblings...

Blogging. It's all well and done when you've got fuck all else to do, as a friend recently put on long term sick leave has demonstrated so well. But when you're working 572-gazillion hours a week and then trying to have a social life (one that does not involve going on-line, I mean) you don't really have much time to blog. The worst thing about this? Well, the irony that during any lazy period when you have nothing to do bugger all worth blogging about actually happens and you end up making mountains out of molehills just to rant about something, yet when you're busy events shape up in such a way that you are constantly composing blogs in your mind whilst going about your every day business but never get around to actually typing them...

This week I was going to write about the tragic Virginia shootings, linking it in to the obsessions that so many of us have with guns (do not deny this, especially if you have used Monstee's shooting gallery at Blunt Cogs - I am not a violent man, but...). I also wanted to write about whether I actually give a fuck about Prince William splitting from his bit of rough (I don't, although it amuses me that Woolworths had already manufactured crockery commemorating their impending engagement) and I also fancied having a bit of a bitch about the PM of Singapore upping his salary to S$3 million (1m Sterling, incidentally).

Suffice to say, all of the above have been amply covered by bloggers with better time-management skills than me. Which may explain why, having finally found a few hours, I am devoting my full attention to trying to forget the shit of last week (both globally and personally).

...which might just explain the title...

Cheers m'dears!

Spot the difference.

Take a look at the picture. I don't know about you but it reminds me of a scene from Schindler's List, or a million and one black and white images from the 1930's and 40's. Except these women are not Jewish. They are Palestinian.

Close to Home, an Israeli film currently on release, focuses on the role of women in Israel's armed forces. In it one of the central characters is asked to check the ID cards of any Palestinians she meets, to which she replies "How do I know who is an Arab?"

Exactly.

Let's play a game... Can you tell me the ethnicity of the following?

Or how about these...?

For fucks sake..........................................

Are ad-men simply basket-cases?

The current advert for televised basketball in Sinless City has the suitably gravelly voice-over solemnly declaring that "Success awaits those who get up one more time than they fall". Sounds good... sounds inspiring... sounds butch... sounds - wait a minute! That's fucking impossible!!

Go on, try it. Fall down a few times, counting them, and also count how many times that you get back up again. I guarrantee it will be the same number. Unless you remain prone on your last fall, which will be the opposite of what the advertisement is trying to say. It is physically impossible to get up twice when you only fell once... and so on.

Stupid cunts.

Cheers m'dears!

You say potato, I say cauliflower...

I know Katrina was a long time ago, but I just got sent this as a teaching aid and thought it was worth sharing.

It appears that black folk 'loot', but us whiteys merely 'find'.

Cheers m'dears!