Although not a fan of Malaysian PM Najib Razak, his approach to the MH17 disaster has been more diplomatic than the angry rhetoric of both the US and the UK. Indeed I would go further and say that it demonstrates the difference between Cameron and Obama, who are simply politicking and the governments of Malaysia and the Netherlands who are attempting to recover the bodies of their citizens and understand why MH17 is spread across 8-miles of a Ukrainian war-zone.
Lessons have been learned Da yadda Da yadda Da yadda… Oh no they fuckin haven’t!
Yes it’s Trougher Tim the Trencherman who always eats his Greens and was making sure that you did too, especially if it added oodles to his bank balance.
Well done South Suffolk Constituency party! It does no harm to remind the over Great and Good to whom their responsibility is supposed lie, even in these times of Westminster being merely a sham front of puppets for the real string pullers in Brussels, now does it? That’s two useless wastes of space, salary and expenses de-selected in a week on the Conservative side. Any possibility of the same thing happening on the Labour and Lib/Dem side? None whatsoever.
And will it affect his bank balance, directorships etc etc ? I seriously doubt it. He will probably be caught in a Channel 4 sting next year, peddling access to Ministers at the DoE for ten grand a pop or so, and still get away scot and pension free.
Chris Huhne, a convicted criminal, has hardly slunk away in shame, silence and contrition now has he? Nope, he has a column in the Guardian, and all his directorships intact too. Ah the Guardian! The thinking man at the BBC’s ethical Bible. So much more to be trusted with the truth than the Telegraph or the Mail, don’t you think?
Apparently Jezza and Piers have been feuding for 13 years.
Battle of the big-heads: Fisticuffs. Hissy fits. For 13 years, Jeremy Clarkson and Piers Morgan have waged a hilariously juvenile feud… and now it’s hit new depths
I would question the use of hilarious here for they are both epic bell-ends. As you can imagine it isn’t Oscar Wilde and James Whistler.
Apparently… Piers Morgan calls Jeremy Clarkson a ‘muscle-depleted Chihuahua’.
Ohh… man-bags at the ready. The only thing that needs to be depleted here is the uranium in the shells from the A-10 used to turn them into force-meat. Or how about this…
Round four: October 2003
The supersonic passenger jet Concorde makes its final scheduled flight for British Airways from New York to London. Among the celebrities onboard are, yes, Piers Morgan and Jeremy Clarkson.
Despite the fact that Clarkson has told other passengers that Morgan ‘is a little ****’ and he’s going to ‘punch his lights out,’ BA put Clarkson in the seat directly in front of Morgan. As Clarkson takes his seat he says, ‘Oh, ******* hell, I’ve got a **** behind me.’
‘And I’ve got one in front of me, too,’ Morgan replies. Further potty-mouthed badinage ensues and Morgan taunts Clarkson: ‘Come on big man, show me what you’ve got.’
Clarkson then tips a glass of water over Morgan, much to the amusement of fellow passengers, including Joan Collins and Jodie Kidd.
Later Clarkson calls Morgan while the latter is chauffeured back from Heathrow. ‘This is all getting very silly. Let’s put it behind us. Please,’ he says. But is the feud put behind them? Not for long.
I have seen such “hilarious” antics before on a flight. It was a budget airline from Prague to Manchester. Some lads in front of me decided to be generally obnoxious and ultimately staged a farting contest in a row just ahead of me and my wife. They were “telt” by the Flight attendants in no uncertain terms to pipe down or there would be a taxi with flashing blue lights to greet them at Ringway. They shut it because they were “proles” so bad behaviour isn’t “hilarious” unlike with “celebs” like Jezz and Piers. The Flight Attendents looked more like nightclub bouncers than “trolly dollies”.
Round five: March 2004
Morgan and Clarkson both attend the British Press Awards. A thoroughly refreshed Clarkson makes his way to the table where Morgan, who has just begun his TV career alongside editing the Daily Mirror, is sitting.
‘Now that you’re in my world of telly, I can tell you you’re ****,’ the Top Gear star remarks.
A heated conversation ensues, in which Morgan sees Frances Clarkson, staring daggers at him from her table. ‘Why does your wife always blame me for everything you do?’ he asks.
Clarkson is outraged. He swings a right hook at Morgan, followed by more blows, hitting Morgan’s temple and forehead.
The following day, Morgan tells reporters: ‘He then tried to headbutt me — missing my nose by about an inch. I think it’s fair to say he was a little inebriated. I’ve frankly taken worse batterings from my three-year-old son.’
Clarkson admits: ‘He’s won really. This is just one in a long line of clashes. We’ll have to kiss and make up.’
And there is much more “antics” between these two.
Apart from the simple fact they fight like girls if you or me had done this we’d have another appointment with the paddy wagon Indeed if you or me had done this we’d be accused in The Mail of “The sort of yobbery that is typical of ‘Broken Britain’” and not of “hilarious” japery.
For the record I used to find Clarkson May and that little fella’s antics amusing but he’s just become a pathetic self-parody of himself who has jumped more sharks than an Orlando water-park does in a season. I mean how many ways can the Top Gear lads wreck a caravan – again. Morgan is though just a total and utterly irredeemably unmitigated cunt of the very first water.
But when two such “characters” go to war you don’t pray for a victory, you pray for a bipartisan dual smiting in the Biblical sense.
And you also wonder at the Mail thinking this light-hearted hi-jinks. I suppose because neither are Rommanians coming over here to get a job in Burger King.
The Daily Mail are deranged gits as well. The great myth of many that immigrants are a “burden” perplexes me but that’s for another post. I’d much rather have a Bulgarian nurse and a Romanian waitress over here than Jezza and Piers. I doubt though Sofia or Bucharest would play swapsies. I wouldn’t.
Remember when you were at school and the finest entertainment on offer was either a ZX-Spectrum or a fight?
This wasn’t a fight as such. It was more of a clinical chinning carried out with strength and skill.
Side note – the chinner, N, I subsequently had a fight with over a complete misunderstanding and we both escaped unscathed because I guess his heart wasn’t in it, I’m good defensively and he fought like a gentleman (as did I). I once had the greasy acne ridden face of the vile D in my hands and just couldn’t bring myself to use my advantage and push those thumbs into his eye-sockets. I guess I learned then I’m not a fighter. I’m nowhere near dirty enough.
Anyway, onto the subject. Or object? Hawthorne was a vile piece of work. He was only at Ryton Comp because he’d been kicked-out of everywhere else. We took a lot of them. Anyway he wandered the school invariably with with his concubines each under an arm in an ape-like progression and wearing knock-off Raybans. He was an amoral cunt of the first water. I mean utterly amoral. And utterly a cunt. He used his size to intimidate and the fact that he very clearly didn’t give a tinker’s for anything good or decent and set himself-up as a sort of spectre of menace on the corridors of the school. I mean like most of us wanted to just get through school with qualifications for jobs or university or the military or something. Hawthorne didn’t give a toss about anything. Even the girls he “squired” were a rotating smorgasbord of slags.
One day though he got too artistic. N had come into the school yard after running training (he was a county sprinter) and put his sports bag down (Head bag – standard issue in the ’80s) with all his stuff in it. Now N was widely regarded as the hardest lad in the year, if not the school and I bet this riled Hawthorne who coveted this “prize” (I use the quotes because N never sort fame or domination or such) so Hawthorne in what can only be described as an “Imp of the Perverse” moment urinated into N’s open bag.
What happened next ought to have been filmed Matrix style with a cool soundtrack. N got the mist and it was red. All his PE kit, his books, everything had been pissed on. I don’t know the time of this action but I can still guess at the distance and it was probably less than 10m. N went into overdrive and Hawthorne went continually backwards under a hail of blows that would shame Jackie Chan. He lost consciousness and also bladder control just against the chainlink around the yard. The teacher on yard duty kept on sucking sweets the whole time – which wasn’t long. A number of things resulted from this…
Hawthorne’s attempt at behaving as an object of menace ceased. I mean after several hundred kids had seen him comatose and spread-eagled with wet trousers his stock as a gangster had diminished.
Nothing happened to N. It was generally seen as a Good Thing.
The chainlink had to be fixed. This is because it partially collapsed due to the crush of kids wanting to see the action.
N continued his athletics and it held him in good stead because the next time after leaving school I saw him was on TV being interviewed by ITN. He had joined the merchant navy and was a junior officer on a tanker that collided with another vessel in the Channel. He got off sharpish when it burst into flames and was one of the few (the only?) survivor on the ship. He ran the length of the deck and leaped to safety into the briny and swam like hell. I suspect if anyone had been there to time it Usain Bolt would be looking a bit sheepish now. I saw him in a local pub shortly after (he’d been given leave) and bought him a pint. A lot of people did.
What happened to Hawthorne I neither know nor care.
But that was an epic fight.
Given that the wit and wisdom of Mandy Rice Davies is becoming all the rage with the upcoming Andrew Lloyd Gargoyle’s production of Stephen Ward… The Musical (yes I’m trying and failing to get my head round that one frankly). John Selwyn Gummer (fangs are a memory) as was, Lord Deben, as now is…and Chairman of the Uk’s “Independent” Committee on Climate Change, has smugly waded into the Global warming debate condemning the Media for even bothering trying to find a balance in the conflicting views of a very complex subject. According to Gummy…
Evidence in favour of climate change is so strong, he said, that it could be compared to evidence linking smoking to cancer or evidence that the Moon Landing was not staged.
Not the best analogies I have ever come across your Lordliness. Gummy has a degree in History and probably hasn’t enough science to wire a plug properly, but he is so certain that man made Global warming is a fact that he wants all dissenting voices silenced. Yep that’s Democracy in action alright !
But I wonder why he is so certain given his complete lack of scientific knowledge? Could it be that he is a smug, self satisfied, venal troughing bastard (just LOOK at that pic), filling his boots at the expense of the rest of us, just like Tim Yeo, Ed Davey, and that still on Licence old lag, Chris Huhne? Why yes it could!
Whatever the fuck happened to declaring a conflict of interest?
“I swear by my life, and my love of it, that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.”
CCiZ is not really a forum for book reviews, but to try and introduce myself without reference to my nom de guerre, the fictional John Galt, hero of Ayn Rand’s 1957 epic novel of libertarianism Atlas Shrugged is impossible.
I know that many readers of CCiZ have not read “Atlas Shrugged”, due to being put off by the sheer impenetrability of Ayn Rand’s prose, which is torturous at best and diabolical at worst. In fairness, I agree…but it beats Dan Brown any day.
Suffice to say that John Galt was a freedom fighter in a dystopian vision from half a century ago that increasingly resembles the world we live in today, especially the United States. (more…)
…and the wilfully blind donkey you boomeranged back in on.
That goes double for our Westminster village idiots who for years have been turning sinister somersaults [see what I did there?], while waving the flag of anti-terrorism, to grab a piece of this fascist action.
Oh, a final word for our unelected EU puppet-masters just in case you’re listening – f**k you too!
Back in the days of the iron curtain, the East Germans had department stores and they were ‘open’
Open in the sense that the doors were open, but not open in the sense they could discharge their raison d’etre, namely supplying goods people wanted to buy with hard currency. This was not entirely their fault. The East-Mark was a joke currency and whilst people would go in and buy anything that was for sale, it was simply a case of get it whilst it was available, because the supply chain wasn’t exactly efficient either.
Now what has this jaunt down memory lane got to do with contemporary events you ask? Well the media has been reporting that the Cypriot banks are now open. Of course you can’t draw out vey much or cash cheques and quite how the import supply chain is going to work seems to have been missed by everyone*
But what really got my spidey-senses tingling was a talking head on the TV this morning explaining that this was the best possible outcome for Cyprus. Now setting aside the normalcy bias this seemed an astonishing statement. Talking-head explained that if Cyprus left the Euro, their currency might depreciate by more than 40% and really the government was helping its hapless populace (sic). You see, they aren’t criminal looting scum, they are helping. Not Orwellian at all.
So let’s set aside that their banking system will now die. The currency controls aren’t worth a damn because it will just mean a slow death not a fast one. It may allow breathing space for some kind of re-capitalisation, but no-one wants to do that; that’s what started this whole farce in the first place. Let’s set aside that devoid of 40% of their cash, large numbers of businesses will clearly go bust then watch unemployment zoom (and then watch it get ugly). Let’s also set aside that the tourist industry (which I guess is their second biggest industry) will be decimated. Would you go there as a cash rich foreigner? You may as well paint a bulls-eye on your back. Let’s set aside that any kind of major purchases (cars, houses, holidays) are now more or less impossible without government permission (so bye-bye property rights) and this thieving is the kind of nonsense we expect to see in South America.
None of that matters because a new Cypriot pound might depreciate against the Euro by more than 40% so this is the best option ~ apparently. Well of course, it might well depreciate but then, imagine what a weak currency might do for the tourist industry. Perhaps not looting savers in the first place would have protected the existing banks. Even if they went bust (but were not looted) others could set-up, and in a few years the currency might recover. Currency fluctuations are temporary, looting is for life. But no, this is the best option, because the telly-box says so.
* If you can’t take money out of Cyprus, how can you import stuff?
We here all know the nature of the beast, so there is not much point me saying anything else about it, because this article says it all.
It’s crunch time for little Cyprus tomorrow. What happens to them, will happen to us the day after.
Be afraid, be very afraid…
At 8:30am I was shoveling from the council gritter into a wheel barrow. Now I don’t mean the kind of crappy ball-jobbies that lilac-shirted maker of crap vacuum cleaners (give me a Henry) James-Bastarding-Dyson designs but a proper agricultural wheel-barrow. One that I had just previously tipped-out of snow and something vaguely organic that I can only call “matter”. I may have killed an advanced microbial civilization. I frankly don’t care.
Now, the gritting of the path (and we had a collection of biddies and codgers in today and I seriously doubt if one of them fractured a hip they’d easily get an ambulance up the road so I grits the path). I subsequently have fielded two phone-calls from folk turning-up asking for advice on getting 4x4s up the road. My neighbour has a Land Rover and he told me he wasn’t driving anywhere for “Love nor money”. But I had to get a full wheel-barrow – one-wheel drive (powered by a single Nick-Power engine about 100 metres up a 45 degree slope, through the snow, in the wind.
It was emotional. At one point I stopped. At this point I learned the true meaning of the phrase, “Adding insult to injury”.
Because a dog-walker happened by. A twinkly middle-aged bell-end and Gore-Texed to the hilt – looked like Ranolph Fiennes exploring his Southern Pole and he asked me, “If I was having fun”?
Rapidly, three options presented themselves…
1. Cut his head off with my spade and hurl it into the river. Advantage: instant gratification! Disadvantage: 20 years in Strangeways.
2. Say something really sarky like, “Yeah, the last time I had this much fun I was having an umbrella drink on a private Carribean island whilst an oiled-up Halle Berry and Scarlett Johanson were wrestling over who got to give me a blow-job – oh, and I was also watching NUFC beat Sunderland 25-0″. I just couldn’t be bothered.
3. Do nothing. Say nothing. Shove that barrow up the road! Proj on!
I did #3.
There is a moral to this tale. It is that there is one born every minute and they are mainly cunts.
Oh I don’t mean Chairman Mao class-cunts! I mean the common or garden variety of cuntishness. Just the casual twattish version of cuntery. I didn’t even want him to get me a bit of momentum up. No. I just didn’t appreciate having the piss taken by a bloke who wasn’t pushing a heavily laden barrow through the fucking snow up a steep hill. Just a little empathy for your fellow traveller on life’s pathway. Just, actually, not saying anything.
A couple of nights ago Our Beloved Lord of the BBC Round Buffet Table (of the Free Drinkies and Nibbles), Lord Melvin of the Laboratoire Garnier (because he isn’t worth it) was asked about the “bedroom tax” on the early evening “entertainment” creature called “The One Show” on the BBC and he wrinkled his erudite brow – for he is an intellectual* unlike you or me.
Oh, he was upset. He believed that the government ought to stay out of people’s homes (unless it is to build HS2 which means he gets to his “Beloved Lake District” ever so slightly quicker whilst fantasising about shagging a young Dervla Kirwan** along the way.
Melvin Bragg was upset…
Housing benefit is an unholy mess of course but this is not the time to go into that viper’s nest which reflects on the British obsession with the ownership of domestic property*** and many other things. But, a reduction in a benefit is never a tax. It may be a bad thing but call it what it is – a reduction in benefits, not a tax. It reminds me of a Green a while back talking of a government “subsidy” to airlines on fuel. What he meant was not that aviation kerosine was actually subsidised as such (it isn’t) but that it wasn’t taxed. Now why might that be? Now you can’t hop into your Ford Focus and fill ‘er up in France that easily but a 737… That is the whole point of flying – to make geography history. If only our finkers and tinkers (and tinkerers) could get up to speed on stuff like that. I mean maybe they need nearly 110 years of controllable, fixed wing aviation to get it… Oh, wait! Been done hasn’t it? Anyway, to conflate tax and benefits like this is a tacit belief in the “pocket-money nation” in which all monies really belong to the state apart from the “allowances” which are “given” to spend off our own bats (and obviously to spend as is seen fit in order to desperately try and re-inflate an insane consumer bubble economy – or else). It must be so nice for the proles to have a coupla quid on the hip. It’s like “voluntary” NICO contributions for the self-employed. “Voluntary” in this context really doesn’t fit with what it says in my wife’s OED or my Websters. Aren’t those two tomes suppossed to be the ultimate repository of the English Language? Try telling that to some fucker kicking your door in at 4am.
At a deeper level the minute you allow government to interfere with housing market then Lord Bragg, The Quiff Pursuivant then you are allowing them into people’s homes. Obviously.
Or maybe he’s just too busy wanking himself into a coma over fantastic dalliances with pretty girls a third (at best) his age in a field with commanding views of Derwent Water. Fine enough I guess (if a bit pathetic) on his own shilling. Anyway I digress…
(Sorry, thinking of Ms Kirwan, again – who is BTW two years older than me. Well fit in that train-wreck of a Dr Who Christmas Special a bit back. Good stuff which failed to gel.)
Anyway, the main point. Lord Bragg of Hair Product (you could launch a Harrier Jet (if we still had ‘em) off his cranial dead wombat) said he (he looked like he was about to weep the tears of the crocodile into his last freebee canape – I mean that bad – poor soul – how he has suffered!)…
he Ronald Pickup (seriously!) couldn’t even afford a spare room for his inamorata and had to “do it” on a hill-side. That was the excorable “A Time to Dance” where Mr Pickup stood in for the Braggster in the role of “Randy Old Git #1″.
Anyway, the deeply intellectual Lord Bragg of “Presenting a show on ITV that nobody watches but means ITV can claim to do the Arts” was “viscerally” upset by this policy decision. He then apologised and said what he meant was he, “Felt it in his gut”.
Because us peasantry – presumably including the folk on housing bennies – wouldn’t understand “visceral”. Now I may have gone to an ever so ‘umble (fuck that!) Comp in Gateshead but fuck you Lord Bragg and the cunting unicorn you rode down from your cloud on. What really got me is that he wasn’t prompted but autonomously and automatically felt the need to apologise for using a “difficult” word becuse he is so clever and those he (literally) Lords it over are, to him, not. It was the assumption that made me want to forget my education and resort to the demotic (that’s classical too!) Anglo-Saxon and see visions of blood-cured battle-axes and flaming brands and other things too dreadful to state.
Make no mistake. From Prince Charles to Lord Bragg they think of us as pets at best. The simple fact that Lord Bragg of Twatbuggery felt he couldn’t use the word “visceral” to the plebs says it all. He’s not used to BBC1 – bless. Perhaps he ought to be put out to grass on a reservation on BBC4 with Jonathon Miller****.
Seriously though it is like something from Plato. These are the “Children of Gold” (not that they are looking that young mind) who love the poor just as long as they don’t have to stand too close to ‘em. Abject poverty to them means flying business class. We are their play things. I had Lego as a kid and bricks don’t mind if they get turned into a space-ship or an oil platform or a land dreadnought or whatever. I have rendered things in lego and clay and paint and code and all the rest. Never people. The arrogance is stunning. I’d go so far as to suggest that they only get away with it because it is so stunning you don’t notice it in exactly the same way you affect not to notice a naked 7′ Zulu warrior with an asagai and a 12″ semi on your commuter train of the morning. He might also have some beads mind and one of the deluded middle-aged ladies might ask if they were Fairtrade because her niece’s birthday was coming-up…
She’d be trying hard not to look at the cock mind.
Most fun she’d never had since she didn’t inhale a Clinton during the Vietnam War.
Do anything you want, Mel & Chums, but don’t patronise me or I might liberate some artifacts from Prague Castle and then Your Lordship you might discover a true “gut-feeling” of what “visceral” really means.
PS. This is exactly the same bollocks that keeps alive the idea that Shakespeare couldn’t possibly have written Shakespeare because William was a grammer-school boy from the relative sticks. It must surely have been an aristo and not some young lad charging a groat to stand in the “shouty end” with a flagon of ale and a dubious pie to hurl at the cast if they fluff their lines. The greatest dramas of all time were staged without an Arts Council grant – get over it. Or get a pie in the mush!
*Or given the barnet he looks like an “ageing Ted with a masturbator’s pallor”. I owe that phrase to Mr Smarting Anus who also “Wanks Higher than any in Wome” and is usually more full of shi’ite than a mosque in Qom.
**BBC – A Time to Dance. If that wasn’t taken straight from the Braggadocio’s self-abuse notes then call me a Belgian.
***A massive issue. Forgive me for skirting this here because I’m in danger of “Old toffees blogging”. You know what toffee is like after it has been left out for a couple of days? You pick one up and the rest comes along with it…
****I have a cruel and unusual punishment for Miller. He must speak for a full two minutes without using the word “paradox”. If he manages that then Matron will give him his Horlicks and not spank his botty. Though he’d probs like that. Depending on the Matron so might I but not Horlicks! I mean if it was Kylie, say…
Stretching more than 600 feet (180 metres) in the air, the towers are set to generate energy for millions of UK homes from 2017.
The companies involved say the Irish power is a cheaper form of renewable than UK offshore wind.
Note cheaper form of “renewables” and no mention is made of burning coal or oil or gas or trash or uranium.
But environmentalists have described the scheme as “crazy”.
They say it risks damaging Ireland’s landscape.
Well, for once I’m with the Greens here. I mean Mr Magoo himself would manage to spot a 180m tower. That is roughly the height of the BT tower in London. Apparently they don’t look so big if you look at them from a long way away. Neither does Jupiter.
BTW that is an explicit ref to “Father Ted” and cows. And he was trying to explain scale and such to his dim-witted curate Dougal.
Under the plan, a number of companies are seeking to erect hundreds of wind turbines across the boggy midlands of Ireland. The power generated would be transferred to the UK via undersea cables that would join the grid at two points in Wales.
“Boggy midlands”. Dear Gods! Have people been on the Poitín? I mean building a 180m tower in a bog? What could possibly go wrong?
One of the developers, Element Power, says the plan would save UK consumers around £7bn over 15 years compared to other renewable sources.
Again with the renewables Moriaty! Electricity is the life-blood of modernity. Without the electricity we might as well dig-up Jimmy Maxwell and bugger the remains. I mean for fuck’s sake! Let’s make the most important thing in the World – the thing that separates us from the brutes in the most half-arsed manner imaginable! But that’s OK because this utter fuckeration is happening in Paddyshire. And they are stonier than an Old Testament execution.
The developers also say that thousands of jobs will be created in Ireland and the economy as a whole will benefit.
But it creates jobs! What Keynesian madness is that? You might as well just pay Pat to dig a hole in the bog and Mick to fill it in. I hate this. It is the key fail of BBC News. Always with the jobs Moriaty! Economic development is about destroying jobs not make-work for the sake of it. I mean how many dung-chewers or pig-pokers do you know? We had this thing called an “Industrial Revolution”. This meant we made things quicker, cheaper, faster and with less general effort. We might as well climb up a 180m tower and piss on the grave of Lord Armstrong. And yes, his gaff was the first home in the world with electricity. He had a hydro station because he wasn’t a numpty.
But concerns are now growing that the turbines needed to provide the power will be of a size and scale not seen in Britain or Ireland before.
Because the bog lands are relatively windless, the company behind the scheme says they will need to stretch high into the sky to catch sufficient wind to generate power.
Some old-time buggers in Babylon had a similar idea. That’s in fucking Genesis. Do we ever learn?
“We felt it was better to built slightly larger turbines but fewer of them and that’s the best way to minimise the impact on the local area.”
180m is slightly larger. I am a former student of astrophysics so I have a technical term for 180m, “fucking enormous”.
But opponents say that local people have not been consulted and few actually realise just what an impact the turbines will have on the landscape.
“People don’t actually understand the scale of them,” said Andrew Duncan, an auctioneer and spokesman for the Lakelands Wind Information group, who are opposed to the plan.
Is Mr Duncan lobbying for windy milling in the Lakes. Because if so he can fuck off too. Cumbria has a major role in power generation – it’s called Sellafield.
“Putting up the largest turbines in the world without consultation – I think it is ludicrous, to be honest.”
Yeah, well I live in a grade II listed building and technically I’m not allowed a Sky dish. And that is less than a metre across! It was hidden round the back of the chimney by the Sky-man. Of course in order to get “council telly” I could perfectly legally erect a monstrance of a 5 metre Yagi dipole which is odd because just down the road from me is a fucking ginormous dish. We call it Jodrell Bank. Oddly enough that is also a grade II listed building. A few years back it was faced with closure for the want of GBP 3.5 million. I almost did an MSc there but I also had an offer from Queen Mary in London and I kinda figured Stepney would be more fun than Macclesfield which is (in a weird way) is how I wound-up in Cheshire anyway. In the end though London was fun – as ever.
Jodrell Bank is fucking awesome. I go there when they have does. I go there because it is the future, not the past. I recall being disgusted when it was to be scrapped and folk were on about what an iconic thing on the Cheshire skyline it was. Yes, it is but is that the point of it? There’s a Universe out there and that is our telephone. It is not about being cute. It’s about being an enormous steerable array. It’s about astronomy, not heritage. This is Britain. This is the birthplace of the industrial age and the nation of Newton and Darwin. We are not a fucking museum. My boss at Nottingham University won the Nobel Prize for inventing the MRI scanner. There is no blue plaque on the door. We are now going for the Blue Paque and twinning with Hobbiton. I have stood on the reactor plate of the first ever nuclear power station at Calder Hall in Cumbria as a kid (A-Level Physics school trip) and I shall be buggered if I’m giving up that to build cunting windmills in Irish bogs. You couldn’t get Fathers Ted, Jack and Dougal to come up with something more half-witted! And at least Craggy Island was windy.
Oh for God’s sake electricity, the motor car and heavier than air flight are like cool. They are the second industrial revolution. They are the reason I can get fro Manchester Airport to Paris in just over an hour or to Istanbul in like four. It is the reason I don’t go into the stream and bang my washing with rocks like some medieval cunt but stick it in the electric machine instead. Dear sweet Jesus! Do I want to live like my grandparents? No. And they appreciated new stuff too. My Grandad went to primary school without shoes. I went to university in Nike Airs. I’d say that was an improvement and so would he if he was still with us.
But not everything has been cured yet.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’
Why did I quote all that? Well the EU is being encouraged to make Shakespeare…our English Shakespeare, their Euro Laureate!
The cocky little swine have already had it away with Ode To Joy for an Anthem, even when the words and music were written before Germany was even a Nation, let alone a member of the EU. Want an Anthem? write a bloody new one you lazy rent seeking gits! Something by Kraftwerk will probably do.
They’ve been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize (Which the world is still chuckling in disbelief about) and now they want Willy the Shake too!
No way Jose, Barroso and Rumpy Pumpy; You can have Shakespeare as a European Icon when you prise the Sonnets from my cold dead hand!
Who do you think he was celebrating smacking up side the head in Henry V?
… but not of physics. I don’t violate the laws of physics because I can’t. They are the great leveler. I mean if I could break the laws of thermodynamcs I’d be pitching a perpetual motion machine to Theo and Deborah on “Dragon’s Den”. If I could exceed the speed of light I’d be posting this from orbit around Wolf 359 and drinking Arcturan mega-brandy from an ultra piney-apple. With an umbrella. In the company of green-skinned ladies of negotiable virtue. And seeing as the Wolf system agreed to bail-out Greece and their Quatloo has since gone down the gurgler I’ll get you a drink too…
The great philosophers of Christendom from Aristotle (yes, I know he was before Christ but the Catholic Church took him as their pre-eminent philosopher – he did believe goats breathed through their ears – H/T Paul Marks for that gem but nobody is perfect) to Mr Scott of the USS Enterprise have been firmly of the opinion that, “Ye cannae change the laws of physics”. Indeed, that even God is bound by them. (Up to a point – controversial). Certainly you’d find very few theologians or philosophers (outside the Islamic World) who think you can change the laws of mathematics and make 2+2=5. The doctrine that “Allah’s Hand is not fettered” is one of the key reasons why around the C11/12th the once promising Islamic civilization ran into the buffers of inshallah fatalism. I mean what is the point of observing the Universe and looking for regularities if Allah can change everything as His whim dictates? It’s deeply logical (in a way) but it doesn’t exactly get you anywhere does it? Other than mysticism and tyranny. Which it has to be said Islamic states do in spades. Perhaps the pre-Christian philosophical underpinnings of Christian Europe made the difference. Who knows?
Yup, Intrepid Felix broke the light-barrier. Well, I suppose as an Austrian he wanted to poke a Swiss/German in the eye with a point’d stick. Congratulations to msnbc mind. The speed of sound at sea-level (dry air) is roughly 340m/s at about 293K (a nice day) and the speed of light is 299,792,458m/s in vacuo. I think that is the exact figure (the metre and second are defined units based upon the speed of light in vacuo).
Not to put too fine a point on it that is a hell of a mistake to make. To make a point though you have to bear in mind that as I have a physics degree so I notice such things. As I don’t have degrees in history or economics or politics or geography they can probs smuggle any quantity of tripe under my radar. My radar is attuned to limited bands – aviation, physics, maths, computers and a few other bits and bobs. Oh, and I do know the difference between a debt and a deficit. And that paying NHS nurses is not an investment but an operating cost. In the case of theatre nurses – literally, I guess.
Other than that I have to rely on what other people say. And so do you. We all do. The alternative is living in a less complicated World where everyone is good at making flint-axes. The cost of sophistication is specialization. The pay-back is heart transplants and space telescopes and Gramps not getting electrocuted because he’s fiddling with the aerial during a thunder-storm so you can see “Muffin the Mule”.
Andrea Mitchell is of course immune. She is panoptic and one of the “Elite, smart people.” God help us all if she ever has kids with the inventor of the internet and The One True Goreacle of the Age. To be fair to Ms Mitchell she was having a go at Rick Santorum who is also a total moron.
PS. If you wonder who the Goreacle is then type “Al Gore Cunt” into Google and see who comes out top. Yes, it’s me! Fame of sorts, perhaps. He is obviously an utter cunt mind so I can hardly take credit more than I do for knowing the sky is blue and the grass is green. And if this post scuppers Cat’s attempt to become Brisbane’s Dog Catcher Persuivant then so fuck it. He didn’t complain at the time.