Valentine's Day Again

Once again 14th February,, "Valentine's Day" has come around.

 

Five years ago I wrote about this  - to me - grievous topic.  Sympathetic people advised me that "time is the great healer" etc.  A psychologist friend told me that "it will take six months"

 

It didn't: it took almost five years.

 

I shall never trust a woman - emotionally - again, and indeed I sincerely hope that the opportunity to do so never arises again in my lifetime.

 

Until the next time

Disingenuous Twerp

Today's headline could refer to a great many politicians - though not the egregious Trump; nothing disingenuous about that bastard.

 

No, today I am talking about that well-known wimpy weather-vane. Nick Clegg, erstwhile leader of the sinking Liberal Democratic Party here in England.

 

During Prime Minister's Questions today in the House of Commons, Clegg's performance was reported by the BBC as follows: 

 

He [Clegg] accused Theresa May, "prime minister of our country, with no mandate of her own", of having the gall to tell her Conservative Party conference that if "you believe we have a natural affinity with other countries", British internationalism, "you are a citizen of nowhere".

 

Typical bloody leftie tripe.  The socialists often like to try this one on as well.  What does this ineffectual buffoon mean by "mandate?"

 

Mr Clegg: (time you studied British Constitution isn't it?) here in Great Britain, we elect PARTIES not "presidents".  We have an excellent Head of State in the person of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. 

 

Try to keep up.

 

Until the next time

Another New Craze For Me

No, I am not planning any drastic terminal action - in this regard it is worth recalling Dorothy Parker's poem:

Razors pain you,

Rivers are damp.

Acids stain you,

Drugs give you cramp.

Guns are unlawful

Nooses give,

Gas smells awful,

You might as well live!

 

 

For the past eight weeks or so I have been shaving with what is popularly known as a "cut-throat" razor, more correctly called a straight razor.  When all goes well, there is nothing quite like a straight-razor shave.

 

Typically as a hopeless collector, I have accumulated quite a few already; they are lovely things - I love the look of polished steel and have enormous respect for the craftsmanship that went into making them.

 

It started when, following the death of my mother in February this year, I found in her effects my paternal grandfather's straight razor. I had this professionally honed and thus the rot set in!

 

I am now trying to learn how to hone the razors myself and I can assure you that it is no picnic. The cost of suitable stones is very high and there is an enormous amount of debate about the merits of various types.

 

There are of course forums for enthusiasts, for example Badger & Blade to which I am subscribed.

 

Straight razors are quite a big thing in the USA and once upon a time, when things were actually manufactured in England, many razors made in Sheffield were exported to the US.  Almost unbelievably (to me at least) at one time many of the razors manufactured in Germany's famous cutlery town, Solignen would carry the proud slogan "Finest Sheffield Steel" so steel was exported to Germany to make razors.  Hard to believe today isn't it?  Sheffield-made razors enjoy a very good reputation in the States. Makes me sad, frankly.

 

Today I doubt that there is a single firm in England making razors, yet they are made still in Solignen and in Japan.  The Chinese also make razors, but you wouldn't want to shave with one - that is not until a great deal of work has been done to it!

 

To close here's a snap of a couple of vintage German razors:

 

 

With so many (I have about thirty already) it is always a struggle to choose one - or two - with which to shave.  (Un)happily most of them are not yet properly honed or "shave ready" as they say so the choice is relatively limited!

 

Until the next time.

Begging Your Indulgence

Four and a half years ago, I opened my heart to you all regarding the disaster that occurred on 26th January 2012.

I know that this is most likely of little interest, but I have to say something - for purely selfish reasons - there! I have admitted it!

I just want to say that I would give anything for it to be five years ago - right now.

Those of you who have loved and failed (and made a commitment that you prefer to keep despite the actions of the other side) will understand.

Until the next time.

Bloody Fools

The headline above is not a reference to the outcome of the recent referendum concerning the Untied Kingdom's membership of the European Union; I made my views clear in my previous post here and I have not changed my mind.

 

No, I am referring to events last weekend in Turkey.

 

First I must make clear that the deaths of several hundred people is tragic.  Equally I must say that had the people ignored President Erdogan's request to come out into the streets and instead remained at home, perhaps there would have been less bloodshed.  Of course, there is in Turkey a long tradition of military coups and perhaps collective memory inspired the popular support for the president.

 

We are informed that this is a triumph for "democracy" that much over-used concept used to justify all sorts of rubbish - if in doubt consider e.g. the late and unlamented German Democratic Republic, or the appalling Democratic Republic of Congo.

 

Can the Turkish people not see what Erdogan is doing? 

 

He is destroying Mustapha Kemal's (Ataturk's) brilliant modernisation and secularisation of the country.  And he is doing his best to become a new Putin - or even worse, possibly aping some of those bandits who rule a sea of corruption in such countries as Kazakhstan, Azerbijan or Belarus, with iron hands.

 

Moral?  Get democratic and cut your own throat - why not ask some of the journalists currently imprisoned in Turkey?

 

Very sad, and I am certain that the great Ataturk is spinning in his grave.

 

Until the next time

23/vi/2016

That's what I shall do.

Absolutely no offence to my European friends:  I like Europeans - it's the EU that's the problem.  Should they recant and restore the Common Market then I may well change my mind.

Until the next time

A Bunch of Shits

Al-this, al-that - all a bunch of horrible wankers.

The latest shower of shit, I have mentioned before on this blog; this is those pathetic and equally terrifying Afs - "Al-Shabab" (I like the idea of "Al-Kebab" - has anyone done that yet?).  These are the arseholes who like to whip people for the appalling"sin" of dancing...

These untermenschen are have apparently threatened to carry out attacks on shopping centres in the USA and in England and elsewhere.

Why do they do this?  Why don't they just remain in their African shithole, where there is plenty of room, and spend their days on their knees worshipping their stupid god?

Remember al-this and al-that, god did not make man! No - it was the other way around!

WAKE UP!

Oh gawd, I am an infidel - it keeps me awake at nights - does it mean I don't get the 72 virgins? Well pay attention Al-kebab: I don't want any bloody virgins, so just piss off all right?

Until the next time.

(Charlie is very cool)

14th February 2015

St Valentine's day is always the lowspot of the year for reasons recorded here three years ago.

Those of you who talk of "time, the great healer" don't know what you are talking about.

This year the blues are worse because of this nightmare:

Bluetooth: the most infuriating, time-wasting, frustrating pile of piss-useless crap  with which I have ever had the misfortune to deal.  I have wasted countless hours trying to make this rubbishy system work; if it NEVER worked that would be one thing, but here it works when I don't want it to, or it works for a while and just stops or as now it doesn't work at all.

Surely there must be millions of fellow sufferers out there in the "Blogosphere"; you have my sympathy and understanding.  

It ties in with one of the greatest all-time lies (like "the cheque's in the post) which is "Plug and Play".

I have complained before about this LIE.  And I have also pointed out, entirely fairly that if motor-manufacturers produced cars as useless as some of this junk, there'd likely be murder done, which in my view could rightly be called "justifiable homicide."

Not a happy bunny today.

Until the next time.

650: A Tract for the Times

It should be abundantly clear to any of you who have read my articles, that it is in my nature to deplore the present and so-called progress; I suppose that I am one of those people one hears or reads about that seek an England, or perhaps a world, that never existed.  To this suggestion – accusation – I say “guilty!”

My way of adapting to this shortcoming – if indeed it is (I am not convinced) – is to escape into the sort of literature that takes me into the past – at least, largely before 1950. 

 

Mark Twain famously described the Classics, i.e. in literature, as “something that everyone wants to have read and that nobody wants to read."  Having not had what I would call an education, this observation has a special relevance to this writer.  And in consequence, my reading is to say the least, indisciplined, my selections being somewhat haphazard.  Of two recent examples, one was a great disappointment, whilst the other – a success – has helped reinforce the opinion I expressed here in my first paragraph. 

The first one is quickly dealt with; for years I had intended to read Michael Arlen’s famous novel set in 1920s English high society: The Green Hat.  I do not know why I had not addressed this earlier, but there it is.  Well I received a few days ago, a copy of the book and immediately started on it; I managed to get halfway through and then, wearied by a lot of pseudo-psychological meanderings, I cast it aside: a washout.

Ah! But the other one!  This is a gem – a veritable treasure, happily discovered at the charity bookshop at which, for two pleasant afternoons a week, I work as a volunteer.  The book carries the title Our Village and was written by Miss Mary Russell Mitford.  It is a collection of articles published in the 1820s, which described life in Three Mile Cross, a Berkshire village three miles south of Reading.  The stories are delightful, taken as they are from the reality of the rural life of the period.  No-one could possibly deny that life was hard for most of the people, but I sincerely doubt that on the whole they were any less happy than their descendants today – and indeed I suspect that they may actually have been happier, or at least less discontented.  The clear message that I get from the stories is the “naturalness” of life as it was then lived – and Miss Mitford’s writings have led me to believe that this life really did exist! 

Now then, a message from today – a parallel perhaps? – reported by the BBC and incorporating the wonderful photographs of Asher Svidensky.

Look at the pictures below: a thirteen-year-old girl in Mongolia who hunts foxes with a golden eagle.  Does she go to a discotheque, drive a Ferrari? have a 96-inch TV set?  I doubt it.

  
And does she look unhappy?  Wonderful this girl, now a sort of heroine to me; she has everything to piss off the lefty namby-pambies in this country: she HUNTS foxes (shock) has a real fur hat (double shock) uses an eagle taken from its nest as a chick (outrage) - not to mention the 'elf 'n' safety aspects (treble shock horror).  Mr Chris Packham would be truly disgusted I am sure.

And does the eagle look unhappy?

Actually, no!

Now compare those images with this picture: English schoolchildren, all prepared to play conkers, with safety goggles. Dear God!  When I told someone about this, I had to work quite hard to convince him that this was actually true.

 Source

Where did we lose the plot, with our hygiene, health and safety and so on?  Have YOU had your "five-a-day" this week and not exceeded the recommended number of units of alcohol (whatever they might be)? I do hope you've kept to the speed limits, eschewed tobacco etc., etc. ad nauseam.

Please hand me the keys to the time machine.

Meanwhile today I visited the village of Three Mile Cross and had lunch in the pub next door to Miss Mitford's former home.  I'll write something about this trip very soon.

Until the next time.

649: Fancy a Laugh?

 

Source

The "personage" portrayed in the image above rejoices in the jaw-breaking name SHREE KASHTABHANJAN DEV HANUMANJI. Hilarious isn't he?  Les Dawson had nothing on him!

The Wikipedia piece on Exorcists includes another image of this bloke with a caption that reads: The image of Hanuman at the Hanuman temple in Sarangpur is said to be so powerful that a mere look at it by people affected by evil spirits, drives the evil spirits out of the people affected^[4]

Oh really? Well I say "bollocks," although I would like an introduction to his dentist who, judging by the gnashers on display appears to be an altogether superior being.

For some reason, which escapes my memory I started today to investigate "demoniacal possession" which of course led me to exorcism, exorcists and some of the rest of the associated ridiculous mumbo-jumbo that has collected around the subject over the past few thousand years.

I have posted here before about the pathetic and indeed ludicrous beliefs of the so-called "creationists" who apparently imagine that earth is about 6000 years old.  And as for those who believe in demoniacal possession - well - I don't know whether to laugh or cry.  This tragic case - a relatively recent one that occurred in a civilised country - frankly beggars belief. 

I wonder that these fruitcakes don't summon the Witchfinder-General, and I remain amazed that people can be so incredibly stupid and gullible to believe in this rubbish.

I was unfortunately baptised and brought up a Roman Catholic - a fine source of superstitious nonsense - and in later life (i.e. now) a source of considerable distress to me - to think that these perverted bastards tried to corrupt my mind  - and may well in fact have done; how can I know?  An especial bugbear is the wonderfully- named the Index Librorum Prohibitorum - a list of books that the Catholic Church in its "wisdom" decided that the faithful should not read.  This nonsense lasted from 1529 - 1966. For a long time various scientific works (e.g. Descartes, imagine!) were banned and of course sex, unsurprisingly was off the menu (except of course for a number of VERY naughty Popes). Please click on the link and read for another belly-laugh.

Until the next time

 

648: A Sharp Reminder

 Le Comte d'Orsay

In an attempt at self-reassurance I have to say that I firmly believe that everyone, at some time or another has discovered to their regret that someone has "got there first." To be reminded of this problem at my time of life is singularly distressing; after all, one - in theory at least - would like to imagine that such discoveries are normally made at an early(ish) age!

By now you are wondering (or at least I hope you are wondering) what I am rambling about; well, this cri de coeur has been prompted by discovering a piece by one of my most favourite writers, Sir Max Beerbohm, entitled Dandies and Dandies.

A little over two years ago, inspired by the Love of my Life, I entertained literary ambitions - or perhaps more realistically, the ambitions of a scribbler.  I cannot speak for my more erudite, dare I say it, brethren, but for me the first task was to find a subject.

Having at that time just read a biography of Beau Brummell, and having always loved clothes and costume, I immediately settled on the subject of dandies.  Enthused I began some research, in attempt to identify various notables including Le Comte d'Orsay (pictured above) Balzac, Proust etc.  And Beerbohm was indeed a dandy too, exceptionally for the time always insisting on pressing his clothes himself.

Devastated by the end of my relationship, I became totally demotivated, and it was with powerful pangs that today I discovered that the Great Max - "The Master" - had already covered the ground in his superb and inimitable style.

This I discovered in the Works of Max Beerbohm which are to be found under the aegis of the Gutenberg Project (God bless 'em).  Please, please, please, do read Dandies and Dandies and feast your eyes, brain and intellect on some truly elegant English written in great style.  Now I'm off to read Beerbohm on King George IV; I'll bet it will be wonderful...

Until the next time

647: Opening Gambit

I recall from years ago a comedy sketch on the television.  The setting was that of one of the many hospital dramas that were shown at the time and indeed are still shown today.  We were in the operating theatre, and as usual, saw only the meaningful glances above the surgical masks; we heard the surgeon, roughly as follows:

"Scalpel...forceps...probe...saw..."etc., culminating with the surgeon removing his mask saying "Well that's got it - those milk cartons really are a bastard aren't they?"

Many of you are possibly too young to remember those milk cartons - that is the cartons that were not fitted with the little screw cap one finds these days on cartons of orange juice and so on.  Here's a picture:

Source

Well thank God we no longer have to deal with those infuriating things, the suppliers having adopted plastics bottles.

Not the end of problems is it however; we have these days the infuriating ground coffee bag - like these:

Source

They carry a friendly message advising the user that in the interest of preserving flavour, the bag should be resealed after opening using the tabs provided...

What a joke!  I would love to hear of anyone who has managed to open one of these bags without using main force, which usually results in the bag splitting and a substantial quantity of coffee being spilt all over the place.

My solution?  I cut the top off cleanly using a pair of scissors, thus losing the "helpful" sealing tabs in the process.  I then "reseal" the bag by folding and holding it shut with a clothes peg or rubber band.

Progress?  I hate it.

Until the next time

646: Poetry Time

Poetry: a medium for the realist, the escapist, the romantic, the broken-hearted or even the optimist.

Though frequently baffled by the likes of Shakespeare, Donne, Shelley, Eliot and many others, I am still drawn from time to time by poetry.  This time here's a piece from one of Russia's greatest writers, Alexander S. Pushkin; it has the title Outlived Desire:

Outlived desire now departs,

My dreams I cannot love again;

I reap the fruit of empty hearts,

The fruit of pain.

The tempests of a cruel fate

My fair and flowery garlands rend;

Unhappy and alone I wait;

When comes the end?

So, stricken by the early cold,

The whistling, bitter gales of grief,

Still the autumn branches hold

One shuddering leaf.

(Tr. Frances Cornford and E. Polianowsky Salaman)

 

If the above suggests to you a particular mood on my part, then I can assure you that you are entirely correct.

Until the next time

645: Ukraine VIII - Force Majeure

This BBC photograph says it all; the photographer is a true artist.

Force Majeure - "might is right;"  who is going to stop these bastards?

No-one I suppose.

Until the next time

644: The Late Viscount Stansgate

The person named in the title of this piece also carried the name, Mr Anthony Wedgwood-Benn,  generally known to the populace at large as “Tony Benn.”

Mr Benn as he preferred to be known, has died at the very respectable age of 88 after a lifetime of left-wing campaigning.

Just like the late Bob Crowe, Benn, or more properly his memory, has been the recipient of numerous jolly nice plaudits along the lines of “I often disagreed with him but he was a doughty opponent etc., etc. drivel, drivel.”

I found the noble Viscount a profoundly irritating specimen; as far as I am concerned his one saving grace – he was after all a traitor to his class – was his happy tobacco habit.  Indeed I am surprised that his pipe and its attendant smoke have not been airbrushed from the numerous pictures shown today.

In closing I must concede that listening to his rather smug voice, however boring the content, was a far less unpleasant experience than listening to the aggressive and ugly tones of the late Mr Crowe who was a true trade-unionist in the grand Luddite tradition.  

Until the next time