The Dirty War

Otherwise known as 'A Cell Is Born'.
International bright young thugs like to keep afloat by networking.
They network in the sense of being able to seek out kindred minds, the sort of minds that form alliances.
The reason that they form these alliances is to try and establish Deadly Dull control over their immediate social environment. Not having any sense of safety themselves, they prefer to believe that, together, they can trash the safety zone of any other person, hopefully removing that person's ability to perceive the very crimes they commit against him.

If a girl is beautiful, they will know that they have no chance; but if they actually rape her, it may be possible to convince her that she is the recipient of an overwhelming passion.

Having read the Fountainhead, and perhaps inspired by Cyrano De Bergerac's artifice, they will see a particularly fine woman as a challenge, someone that they can acquire for the group by the means of creating a single hero - one that has been practising on prostitutes - who consummates the fictional 'love' while guarded against intrusion by any number of his allies.
The woman will then be passed around the group until they finally tire of her and send her to make money on the streets, or maybe just give her an overdose.

Strangely, her original suitors will find themselves locked out, rejected, unlucky or just plain given the bum's rush.

Groups such as these are commonplace.

What is not generally known though, is that these groups pervade all levels of society, from the lowest travelling trash(not Gypsies particularly-they would slit throats if anybody tried)to the highest party apparachniks in governments, local or otherwise.

Another game variation that these people like, is the abuse of good people to disabuse them of their propensity to see the truth.
They want to blind us.
And if we see - and act - we will find that the groups mesh like a gearbox, and virtually the entire public face of societies will become an engine, an engine of our destruction.

The more we stand up to them, the worse the storm gets, until we either get killed (as a warning), or we are driven to the shelter of an insane asylum.
Which they like, since when we are there the real lunatics can rest.

Of course we can try to outlast them; real society has limits of stomach, conscience and time; they have to get on with their lives eventually, and so the gears stop turning.

But they still remain, and the man who sees will ever remain their enemy.
'I Just Had To Let It Go'.
That was Lennon's suicide note.
Once in, in forever.

Me?
I've never been interested in games. Except Wargames. And to me, 'Games Without Frontiers, War Without Tears' is a very honest song.
And these games are frequently just that; an attempt to manipulate our perceptions so that we are operated on by what we believe to be the truth as if by some kind of grotesque, non-corporeal scalpel, cutting away our consciences, destroying our convictions and leaving us forever vulnerable to the machinations (and borrowed implications of threat) that these creatures use to spice up their sold-out, jaded 'lifestyles'.

The trick, once we have witnessed the very worst sort of game, is not to confuse implicators with violators.

Oh, and by the way, the reason they want to take our guns away is because they want us to be vulnerable to the thugs. Thugs use muscle.

A Ward Of Isolation

I spent six years in the eighties and nineties without television or radio, and with very little music.

When, grudgingly, polite society welcomed me back into its folds (on the understanding that I was a very junior ne'er do well), I was able to plan and control my own re-entry into the spheres of influence of what we now call the Mainstream Media.(MSM).

There would be some more-or-less filtered product exposed to a mentally enslaved population, and they would set off chattering about it like turkeys in a shed before vaccination time.

There is a thin line between shared interest- and being led by the nose like some uber-flock of super-active sheep.
In the nineties on my return, it seemed that this line had been crossed.
Compared to then, the modern rash of conspiracy theories is overt, benign and innocent.


Then, I was rather frightened by the apparent obsession with, for example, 'Eisenhower's Driver', a girl at that time in the 40s, but who was now the covering subject for an apparently endless (and unfocused) speculatory inference about persons unknown who were even then supposed to be bringing about great changes through the turbulence of Eastern European events. People had unwittingly crossed the line whereby nothing was said in the open, to the point where nothing sensible was said at all.

It was apparent to me that some great sickness had covered the land like a plague, a massive, shared delusion that consumed the imaginations and aspirations of what was then the last gasp of a cohesive society.
And it came to pass that I did not know whether the delusion(at that time) was mine or theirs.
They were feverish in their desire to bury me under a welter of vicious lies, hatred and plain bullshit.
I simply did my job, fixed up my car and listened to the Stranglers('Peasant In The Big Shitty') while attempting to filter and make sense of all the televisual overload.
I'd given up on the radio;the pure truth was that I was the victim of cultural generalities, the muted witness to the atrocities which were being perpetrated on an unsuspecting populace by the MSM and stirred up by those few who could tolerate no departure; I won't say that they put me in a mental hospital; they drove me mad first, then had an excuse to put me in a mental hospital.

I simply lost my tolerance for the myriad games, their Argots, and their consequences.

I was caught in the culture clash of reality versus fake, and when fake has the upper hand, murder is always on the cards.

A Ward Of Isolation

I spent six years in the eighties and nineties without television or radio, and with very little music.

When, grudgingly, polite society welcomed me back into its folds (on the understanding that I was a very junior ne'er do well), I was able to plan and control my own re-entry into the spheres of influence of what we now call the Mainstream Media.(MSM).

There would be some more-or-less filtered product exposed to an enslaved population, and they would set off chattering about it like turkeys in a shed before vaccination time.

There is a thin line between shared interest- and being led by the nose like some uber-flock of super-active sheep.
In the nineties on my return, it seemed that this line had been crossed.
Compared to then, the modern rash of conspiracy theories is overt, benign and innocent.


Then, I was rather frightened by the apparent obsession with, for example, 'Eisenhower's Driver', a girl at that time in the 40s, but who was now the covering subject for an apparently endless (and unfocused) speculatory inference about persons unknown who were even then supposed to be bringing about great changes through the turbulence of Eastern European events. People had unwittingly crossed the line whereby nothing was said in the open, to the point where nothing sensible was said at all.

It was apparent to me that some great sickness had covered the land like a plague, a massive, shared delusion that consumed the imaginations and aspirations of what was then the last gasp of a cohesive society.
And it came to pass that I did not know whether the delusion(at that time) was mine or theirs.
They were feverish in their desire to bury me under a welter of vicious lies, hatred and plain bullshit.
I simply did my job, fixed up my car and listened to the Stranglers('Peasant In The Big Shitty') while attempting to filter and make sense of all the televisual overload.
I'd given up on the radio;the pure truth was that I was the victim of cultural generalities, the muted witness to the atrocities which were being perpetrated on an unsuspecting populace by the MSM and stirred up by those few who could tolerate no departure; I won't say that they put me in a mental hospital; they drove me mad first, then had an excuse to put me in a mental hospital.

I simply lost my tolerance for the myriad games, their Argots, and their consequences.

I was caught in the culture clash of reality versus fake, and when fake has the upper hand, murder is always on the cards.

What Do You Want To Know?

Are you tested?
And have you been tested?

Into every garden a little rain must fall.
Still, if you found that a storm of acid rain fell each time you went to the back door, night or day, year in year out, you might reasonably deduce that some determination by force was taking place.


Paranoia is one thing.
But crass stupidity reaches levels whereby continuing denial only degrades and demeans us all.

We are forced to conclude that there are people-I use the term loosely- people who seem to live for one purpose and one purpose only; namely, to evaluate our every move and analyse our (ordinary) behaviour, seeking through their demented obsessive-compulsive persecutions to relieve whatever demons control their imaginings by proving once and for all that we are safe.

They break our marriages to prove that our love can be destroyed; they manipulate our social surroundings to send us subliminal influences.
They don't just hide in the shadows; they try to convince us that there are no such things as shadows, and nothing to hide.

There may be many groups of such people; in competition with one another, in alliance, in co-existent neutrality.

But in the New World Order, they have all been busy trying to carve out their new roles, their continuing spheres of influence on which all can agree.
They were tolerated during the Cold War, possibly because they rendered what appeared to be no small service in the destruction of the Soviet Union, but more likely they jumped on the gravy train that was being driven by the real agents of change, and now they live on sentimentality while Rome burns and the rump of Russian aggression resurges.

Meanwhile, what of the individuals who's lives they destroy?
Well, we sometimes pretend that we belong to other, even more powerful groups, which frightens them.
We are only pretending.

Of course.

But here we still are, eh?

And of course, in the land of the (untracked) blog, who knows who and where the consumers of our truths are?

We are members-of the group called the public. And the public is not always useless.
As the Causescus could vouch.
Or not.

The fact is, 'dangerous liaisons' is the realm of cod psychology, and it is in order to study us and learn more about the truth, so making themselves more dangerous, that they continue to study us with their insane patience.

Not surprisingly, they even get bored with themselves.
Hallmark trait?
The surprise 'conflict'.
Believing that they know what constitutes our 'values'(they have read our books), they attempt to face us always with the intolerable.
They always leave an escape; an alleged choice that to take would destroy us entirely, a choice so absurd as to be a monochrome outrage, something that in all honesty isn't supposed to be an escape at all, but a subversion of our consciences which permits them to implant the seed of failure guilt in us for 'not trying hard enough'.
The ultimate joke is to set us in competition with their chosen ones. Obviously, these reach our objectives by their rules before we can struggle through, and so, yet again, we learn our lesson.


Except the lesson is this:-

It's all fixed!

The Game's The Thing.

So why doesn't the whole world rise up in furious rebellion against this system of checks and checks?
Why is it that so many people 'play the game'?

Well, the game is supposed to be binding to all sides, and therein lies the devil; the illusion is, that while the people at the top of the tree may think they rule, they not only subborn but are subborned by the other players.
And of course, once you learn the rules, and abide by them, there is every chance that you will prosper under the safety of the fear, the fear of living outside the rules.


By such means the arbitrariness of such rules grows to replace Law with Order, leading to a magical rose garden of obedient serfs.


But wait.

Who's that laughing?
Why, it's the Deadly Dulls.
Because the rules provide no real guarantee. And they know that rules were made to be broken.
They know it's only a game.

Which means that the game can be replaced by an outburst of naked violence at any time, at which the children may well go to the police, but not knowing how to do it, they are disappointed by the response.
Still, as long as they don't, enough of them will be left alone long enough to feel their false security blanket wrap around their minds again.

Don't believe me?
Look at Russia.
Look at the shootings, the poisonings, always of people who don't want to play the Russian version of the game, even in foreign countries.

Think of this next time somebody demands your disarmament.

The reason that I am poor is because I don't play. I wouldn't know how. It used to be a moral thing.
But when they won't let you feel, it just becomes a matter of staying alive. And eventually you learn that no game gives you that.

How To Be Officially Insane.

Watch out for the game.
The game's the thing.
Play the game.
The game hints at things nobody should know.
They should accept the hint, then shy away in fear for their lives.
The fear should be a mortal dread that knows no reason or cause; but it should be there nevertheless.
By such means we are controlled.
By such means we are shielded.
By such means we are blinded.
And in our blindspots walk the Deadly Dulls, the creatures that think that they have a better hint than us.
They are controlled too.
They are controlled by need. By drugs. By fear, too.
Yet they feel superior because they can move around our perceptions without registering.

Because we have all been blinkered.

When the haters of rule want to make our lives into a sick joke, they commit their forces and role-playing gamesters to violations so obvious that we can't miss.
They try to teach us lessons.
We can either fight back, or we can scurry back to our burrows.

If we ever do fight back, they will pursue us to our burrows and blitz us till we burst.
But we don't all burst.

Some of us see. And think. And realise. Maybe we'd even feel, given half a chance.

But we know.
And then everybody gets scared. Because Number One sees all and is the maddest of the lot.
And if we see Number One, we might become hyperactive.
So we have to recognise when to stop.

But they don't. They never stop.
Their fear knows no limit. Their fear turns to obsession.
And the persecution goes on.
Aided and abetted by the little people, the people who are used to the comfort zone.

They are the blasted woodland around the blackened stump of every individual that was ever singled out for the treatment. They are the lightning that strikes in simulation of omnipotence, the actuality of secrets sustained by group loyalty and violence.

And we who have learned to see without seeing, know without knowing and hate without malice,
we are declared insane.




Like Anatoly Scharansky.

How To Be Officially Insane.

Watch out for the game.
The game's the thing.
Play the game.
The game hints at things nobody should know.
They should accept the hint, then shy away in fear for their lives.
The fear should be a mortal dread that knows no reason or cause; but it should be there nevertheless.
By such means we are controlled.
By such means we are shielded.
By such means we are blinded.
And in our blindspots walk the Deadly Dulls, the creatures that think that they have a better hint than us.
They are controlled too.
They are controlled by need. By drugs. By fear, too.
Yet they feel superior because they can move around our perceptions without registering.

Because we have all been blinkered.

When the haters of rule want to make our lives into a sick joke, they commit their forces and role-playing gamesters to violations so obvious that we can't miss.
They try to teach us lessons.
We can either fight back, or we can scurry back to our burrows.

If we ever do fight back, they will pursue us to our burrows and blitz us till we burst.
But we don't all burst.

Some of us see. And think. And realise. Maybe we'd even feel, given half a chance.

But we know.
And then everybody gets scared. Because Number One sees all and is the maddest of the lot.
And if we see Number One, we might become hyperactive.
So we have to recognise when to stop.

But they don't. They never stop.
Their fear knows no limit. Their fear turns to obsession.
And the persecution goes on.
Aided and abetted by the little people, the people who are used to the comfort zone.

They are the blasted woodland around the blackened stump of every individual that was ever singled out for the treatment. They are the lightning that strikes in simulation of omnipotence, the actuality of secrets sustained by group loyalty and violence.

And we who have learned to see without seeing, know without knowing and hate without malice,
we are declared insane.




Like Anatol Scharansky.

It's At Times Like This I Wish I'd Listened To What My Mother Used To Say.

I don't know what she said unfortunately. I never listened.
But I remember all too well the paranoia of my family; when I encountered mental difficulties back in '92, I lost my job.
I used to get drunk in towns all over England.
I used to imitate-utterly convincingly-all sorts of people who coincidentally spoke a variety of English.
But the money would always run out and I would find myself once more pinned in my pig-pen, unable to move, paralysed by the weight of the unseen malice all around.

I wanted to escape.
Even from myself.

My father was slaughtered by the opinion of a single shrink, one which comforted his prejudices and criticisms of my conduct; mother, ever the victim of authority/trust/masculine role models, fell into obedient place. Hell, she even started going to 'schizophrenic support groups', which wondered what she was doing there when I was described.

I was supposed to forget everything. The drugs were supposed to kill my mind and leave ashen peace.
They didn't. But I am not in difficulty anymore, I grant them that.
In 1999 the shrinks were pressuring me to find a girlfriend.
My employers were pressuring me to take the drugs.
The problem was not that I was delusional.I was, but they didn't know. No. The problem was that I had been to Canada for a whole month, including two days in upstate New York.

My mind had certainly been raging; it had taken longer for me to get to America than it took to put two men on the moon.
I'd sat down in the gardens in the Sun in Niagara(USA) and felt at peace; my aunt was a psychiatrist, and when I was staying with her in Canada she noticed a very sharp improvement in me.
Without drugs.
When I got home?
I more or less told everybody to leave me alone.
Paranoid man-of-action father, he stole my passport.(Paranoia rising).Then one day I came back from the laundry to find three police cars waiting for me.

Responsible adult, did I hear someone say?
The bullshit prejudices saw me locked up for two weeks in hospital.
I simply had to comply; but I was most amused by the shrink lying and saying I'd been talking to myself.
They were not amused when I threatend to sue them for wrongful imprisonment and various other infractions of code.
They let me go.

The 'episode'(theirs, not mine)was funny in parts. I kept asking for an escort so I could go and pick up some music tapes from home; they said they couldn't spare anybody.
So one day I smuggled a dinner knife up my sleeve(just like in Doctor No), and used it to pry off the trunking cover for the electronic fire door lock.
I pulled the wires out, shorted the entire fire system, and went to sleep. At four in the morning I pushed open the door, and went and got my tapes.

I was back before they called the police.
(For some reason the loonies were afraid of me-maybe there was a Dracula thing going on?)

So anyway, I had my music.
And they let me go after two weeks when the standard incarceration was three months.
I went back to work.

Now, back in 1991 I had been unable to distinguish between general outrages and specific persecution, and had felt that people I loved were the targets of this evil, the means to make me suffer.
Compliance would be impossible, since I had been living apart for so long, but the powerful would not be able to comprehend this.
My previous girlfriend had returned to Europe.
Much of the pressure to which I had been subjected was intended to evince the identity of others I knew, potential victims of rape or other violence, people who could be used to hurt me.

In 1991 I could see it coming. I wrote to my friends, telling them to have nothing to do with anyone claiming to know me.
In 1992 I even went to Rotterdam to try and find her. Whether I did or didn't is my secret.
The money ran out. I was deported back to England. I hung around the port for a week then went back to my dissection slab of a flat.

But I found out after they had weened me onto official drugs that she was indeed safe.
The messages(psychological poison) were unconvincing and had the flavour of frustration.

Whether they were real or not, she was out of their reach.

And today, although she is married and busy and unaware of me, I know she is safe.
I know that whatever storm wrecked me did not touch her; fate has been kinder, or my prescience worked, or I'm just an irrelevance.

But the bastards didn't get to anybody else through me.

Ils ne passant pas!

It's At Times Like This I Wish I'd Listened To What My Mother Used To Say.

I don't know what she said unfortunately. I never listened.
But I remember all too well the paranoia of my family; when I encountered mental difficulties back in '92, I lost my job.
I used to get drunk in towns all over England.
I used to imitate-utterly convincingly-all sorts of people who coincidentally spoke a variety of English.
But the money would always run out and I would find myself once more pinned in my pig-pen, unable to move, paralysed by the weight of the unseen malice all around.

I wanted to escape.
Even from myself.

My father was slaughtered by the opinion of a single shrink, one which comforted his prejudices and criticisms of my conduct; mother, ever the victim of authority/trust/masculine role models, fell into obedient place. Hell, she even started going to 'schizophrenic support groups', which wondered what she was doing there when I was described.

I was supposed to forget everything. The drugs were supposed to kill my mind and leave ashen peace.
They didn't. But I am not in difficulty anymore, I grant them that.
In 1999 the shrinks were pressuring me to find a girlfriend.
My employers were pressuring me to take the drugs.
The problem was not that I was delusional.I was, but they didn't know. No. The problem was that I had been to Canada for a whole month, including two days in upstate New York.

My mind had certainly been raging; it had taken longer for me to get to America than it took to put two men on the moon.
I'd sat down in the gardens in the Sun in Niagara(USA) and felt at peace; my aunt was a psychiatrist, and when I was staying with her in Canada she noticed a very sharp improvement in me.
Without drugs.
When I got home?
I more or less told everybody to leave me alone.
Paranoid man-of-action father, he stole my passport.(Paranoia rising).Then one day I came back from the laundry to find three police cars waiting for me.

Responsible adult, did I hear someone say?
The bullshit prejudices saw me locked up for two weeks in hospital.
I simply had to comply; but I was most amused by the shrink lying and saying I'd been talking to myself.
They were not amused when I threatend to sue them for wrongful imprisonment and various other infractions of code.
They let me go.

The 'episode'(theirs, not mine)was funny in parts. I kept asking for an escort so I could go and pick up some music tapes from home; they said they couldn't spare anybody.
So one day I smuggled a dinner knife up my sleeve(just like in Doctor No), and used it to pry off the trunking cover for the electronic fire door lock.
I pulled the wires out, shorted the entire fire system, and went to sleep. At four in the morning I pushed open the door, and went and got my tapes.

I was back before they called the police.
(For some reason the loonies were afraid of me-maybe there was a Dracula thing going on?)

So anyway, I had my music.
And they let me go after two weeks when the standard incarceration was three months.
I went back to work.

Now, back in 1991 I had been unable to distinguish between general outrages and specific persecution, and had felt that people I loved were the targets of this evil, the means to make me suffer.
Compliance would be impossible, since I had been living apart for so long, but the powerful would not be able to comprehend this.
My previous girlfriend had returned to Europe.
Much of the pressure to which I had been subjected was intended to evince the identity of others I knew, potential victims of rape or other violence, people who could be used to hurt me.

In 1991 I could see it coming. I wrote to my friends, telling them to have nothing to do with anyone claiming to know me.
In 1992 I even went to Rotterdam to try and find her. Whether I did or didn't is my secret.
The money ran out. I was deported back to England. I hung around the port for a week then went back to my dissection slab of a flat.

But I found out after they had weened me onto official drugs that she was indeed safe.
The messages(psychological poison) were unconvincing and had the flavour of frustration.

Whether they were real or not, she was out of their reach.

And today, although she is married and busy and unaware of me, I know she is safe.
I know that whatever storm wrecked me did not touch her; fate has been kinder, or my prescience worked, or I'm just an irrelevance.

But the bastards didn't get to anybody else through me.

Ils ne passant pas!

It's At Times Like This I Wish I'd Listened To What My Mother Used To Say.

I don't know what she said unfortunately. I never listened.
But I remember all too well the paranoia of my family; when I encountered mental difficulties back in '92, I lost my job.
I used to get drunk in towns all over England.
I used to imitate-utterly convincingly-all sorts of people who coincidentally spoke a variety of English.
But the money would always run out and I would find myself once more pinned in my pig-pen, unable to move, paralysed by the weight of the unseen malice all around.

I wanted to escape.
Even from myself.

My father was slaughtered by the opinion of a single shrink, one which comforted his prejudices and criticisms of my conduct; mother, ever the victim of authority/trust/masculine role models, fell into obedient place. Hell, she even started going to 'schizophrenic support groups', which wondered what she was doing there when I was described.

I was supposed to forget everything. The drugs were supposed to kill my mind and leave ashen peace.
They didn't. But I am not in difficulty anymore, I grant them that.
In 1999 the shrinks were pressuring me to find a girlfriend.
My employers were pressuring me to take the drugs.
The problem was not that I was delusional.I was, but they didn't know. No. The problem was that I had been to Canada for a whole month, including two days in upstate New York.

My mind had certainly been raging; it had taken longer for me to get to America than it took to put two men on the moon.
I'd sat down in the gardens in the Sun in Niagara(USA) and felt at peace; my aunt was a psychiatrist, and when I was staying with her in Canada she noticed a very sharp improvement in me.
Without drugs.
When I got home?
I more or less told everybody to leave me alone.
Paranoid man-of-action father, he stole my passport.(Paranoia rising).Then one day I came back from the laundry to find three police cars waiting for me.

Responsible adult, did I hear someone say?
The bullshit prejudices saw me locked up for two weeks in hospital.
I simply had to comply; but I was most amused by the shrink lying and saying I'd been talking to myself.
They were not amused when I threatend to sue them for wrongful imprisonment and various other infractions of code.
They let me go.

The 'episode'(theirs, not mine)was funny in parts. I kept asking for an escort so I could go and pick up some music tapes from home; they said they couldn't spare anybody.
So one day I smuggled a dinner knife up my sleeve(just like in Doctor No), and used it to pry off the trunking cover for the electronic fire door lock.
I pulled the wires out, shorted the entire fire system, and went to sleep. At four in the morning I pushed open the door, and went and got my tapes.

I was back before they called the police.
(For some reason the loonies were afraid of me-maybe there was a Dracula thing going on?)

So anyway, I had my music.
And they let me go after two weeks when the standard incarceration was three months.
I went back to work.

Now, back in 1991 I had been unable to distinguish between general outrages and specific persecution, and had felt that people I loved were the targets of this evil, the means to make me suffer.
Compliance would be impossible, since I had been living apart for so long, but the powerful would not be able to comprehend this.
My previous girlfriend had returned to Europe.
Much of the pressure to which I had been subjected was intended to evince the identity of others I knew, potential victims of rape or other violence, people who could be used to hurt me.

In 1991 I could see it coming. I wrote to my friends, telling them to have nothing to do with anyone claiming to know me.
In 1992 I even went to Rotterdam to try and find her. Whether I did or didn't is my secret.
The money ran out. I was deported back to England. I hung around the port for a week then went back to my dissection slab of a flat.

But I found out after they had weened me onto official drugs that she was indeed safe.
The messages(psychological poison) were unconvincing and had the flavour of frustration.

Whether they were real or not, she was out of their reach.

And today, although she is married and busy and unaware of me, I know she is safe.
I know that whatever storm wrecked me did not touch her; fate has been kinder, or my prescience worked, or I'm just an irrelevance.

But the bastards didn't get to anybody else through me.

Ils ne passant pas!

Wipe Out!

A marvel of organisational skill was my interview fest of a few weeks ago.
I had a week's holiday-five interviews in five days.

Total wash out.

But I'm getting the hang of this one. I applied for five fresh jobs this morning on my specially tuned internet search engine.
I had three-out-of-five phone calls today.
That's a sixty percent hit rate, which is phenomenal for internet activity.

Shortly I'll be working again and in a position to rebuild my reserves.

Which will be welcome.

Goddamn Blair

I visited my favourite uncle this weekend.
He is in his eighties and flew over 70 missions over Germany in WW2, winning the DSO and DFC;he was shot up several times, and he and his crew saved each other's lives in crashes on landing at the home base.
Sadly his crew was sent off without him when he was in hospital, and all killed.

In the sixties Post Traumatic Stress Disorder caught up with him, but that's another story.

He turned to his wife and remarked about the fact that the Royal Marines killed in the 2003 Iraq campaign were given an official state burial with much fanfare, but had to be buried again privately when all the remains were finally returned.
They were buried twice because Blair's government demanded pomp and circumstance.

They wanted to put a patriotic spin on death and have an excuse to wear their best bib and tucker to the funerals while arranging their facial expressions for TV.

Incredibly, my uncle's eyes were moist and his voice was choked.

Congratulations Blair.
In the name of lying, you have violated an old man's conscience and made a genuine hero cry.

The Times They Aren't A Changing.

Shortly I will remove my ambitions from the realm of 'please' to the realm of 'yes'.
If I haven't found an employer who isn't unwilling to take me on as anything more than a driver, I will start making money as an independent man of affairs.


Talking of which, I have to say that I am not the only Black Sheep in the family; my step-relations are very young, and very ambitious, possibly perversely so.
The females seem to hold me in some sort of regard, possibly because they like tilting at windmills.
Obviously they are far too young.
But they are getting older and I am probably going to have to be quite firm.
One already has a consort older than me, but that is not the point.
My obscene pride holds me aloof from such doorstep shenannigans, but being a mean character these years past also means I am liable to change my mind just to prove a point.

Which point will probably be the original one, taking us both back to square one.

Meantime I have plans.
I am saving my coffee money for any contingency that may arise, such as a holiday in Vancouver.
Never been.
Hear good things.
Plenty of pastures fresh to be explored in that neck of the woods.

But I've got to say, one of the reasons I may have been rejected for employment so often is this blog(and others) which have presented a rootin', tootin', shootin' fightin' view of past situations, giving ammunition to any secret detractor(or open) who may have wished to frighten prospective employers away.

I have friends who have done the same thing, and they are similarly confined to a not-so-comfortable 'comfort zone', unable to progress or to stop.

As a result I have privatised the archive, so that the documentary evidence serves me and only me as an aide-memoire.

On the plus side, I did some work with Windows XP today, and was really very impressed at the ease with which a screwdriver, a few old bits and a phone line could be used to get someone operational again on the internet.

As far as unitary engineering is concerned, personal computers are becoming a mature and excellent technology.

Drinking To Absent Friends

This is the last remnant of a pint of Kelham Island 'Easy Rider' beer.
Brewed in the famous Leicester Squares according to an old Central Swiss formula.

Delicious to the last drop.

My Old Dad

And other fascinating fictions.
He resides in Leeds, Yorkshire.
In 1991 I came home from an extended stay abroad.
I'd just broken up with my third girlfriend in as many years, and was trying to get settled down back in the North.

I stayed with dad for about four months while building up a deposit on a flat.

Thing is, I'd been living out East with no TV or radio to speak of, and I was not au-fait with the idiom of the day.

It was a struggle.
I tried to confide.

What I got was the free pass to paranoia and delusion;never a day went by without being asked whether I 'had noticed anything' when confronted by everyday sights, as if there was anything to notice.
It was almost as if I was being subjected to subtle psychological grilling in order to discover something.
There was nothing to discover, but the lunatic delusions persist to this day.

Not in me, but in the fact that there are still people who actually believe I am 'Canadian', or there is a 'dark woman' waiting to take me away from my family, and of course, the old madman's refrain from ages past, 'what about the money', and 'what are you going to do with the money'?

I have been alleged to be mad, with some cause, but the catalogue of insanity from those around me at that time was enough to force me to reject all contact with the disgusting delusion that bound me to Yorkshire life.

When you couldn't go into the Prince Of Wales pub without hearing the same tune being played on the juke box whenever you entered, week in, week out,or the Templar Pub by the ABC Cinema, and any of the other thousands of digs from an apparently closed community which has been subjected to a false dawn of lies by some unknown malice, in order to persecute lost sons, outcasts, or anybody that wasn't there when the web was spun, in order to sew a field of hatred, then you start to build a rage, a rage that knows no bounds.

And has no target.

At this stage it is quite possible that the malicious achieve their ends, and your mind becomes warped.

Their cure is confinment and drugs.

My cure is escape. Even if only back to the wilderness.

Sure, and their games might have obscured some central importance at the time , and maybe not.
But the persistence of persecution of the individual, blasting forests of individuals aside or into compliant flatness in order to find the one, that is the malice, the cold calculation that damns the whole effort to hell in the eyes of any rational world left anywhere.

In the face of this, toughness is not enough.

I was not tough enough at any rate.
But I will be taking my chances again, on the far side, with or without friends, with or without family, and doubting forever the judgement and perception of all around me.

But without questioning it.

I Mean....

"I always knew it."

Meanwhile...

back at the Potemkin centre...

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And So It Is Written

As Ayn Rand's character Howard said:
"the man who invented the wheel was promptly stretched on the rack he taught his brothers to make...."
Our friends in the North could probably do with a little remedial reading, eh?

Or, as one might have said of them, "been there, done that."Provided, of course, one had actually read the book with his eyes open.

Times Are Hard.

But not all that hard.

Sometimes...

Sometimes I just have to admit that I don't really know or understand what is going on.

In which case why worry?

Goodnight.
I hope to have good news this coming week.

On R&R From Keeping Russia

This warm scene is of a pint of Deuchars IPA in a Bomber glass.
Splendid on a quiet,cold afternoon in Yorkshire.

Meanwhile, nothing to report.
Except this:if you ever meet the people at London Ontario, do not be confused or misled by their apparent friendliness and enthusiasm.
They are not friendly.
They are simply trying to impose mediocrity by whatever means possible, details of which I will be happy to supply privately.

I told them a pack of lies, which they repeated and amplified in an attempt to damage.
I believe that the problem was growing for a while. The source and motivation are amusing and difficult, but I imagine that there are ways of dealing with difficult people everywhere, and I am the first to admit that I am difficult.
Missed again, I'm happy to say.

Come One Come All......

I've been very busy the last week or so, and this means I haven't been blogging.
This will probably continue, but in the meantime I have removed all logging so that this is now an unmonitored site.

That means anybody can visit and nobody will pay any attention.

If you want to mark your visit by leaving a comment of some description, you're welcome to, but, as I said, for the time being there won't be too much going on here.

Unless, of course, I finally get that dream job, in which case I'll let any readers know of new arrangements.