Sunday, December 31, 2006

Welcome, 2007.

For the past 20 years I have always had a tot of Navy Rum once a year on New Year's Eve.

It all started when I was isolated, desolated and struggling.
The fight goes on, riding high one year, dragging the floor the next.
Let's hope 2007 will be a good year.
2006 is over, and I have many good reasons to believe that this coming year will see new beginnings and the new chapter in the longer-running stories.

Good luck!

Saturday, December 30, 2006

Pleasant Surprise.

The 'Kenmore' blended whisky was also excellent.
Anyway, the local moron is now playing 'the very worst of NOW' on his boom-box, with possibly as many as two people shrieking along to it; sounds like they are trying hard to have a party.

Myself, I'll wait till tomorrow, otherwise known as New Year's Eve.
Then I will take my customary Navy Rum nightcap, while listening to whatever I like on my MP3 player.
It's funny. By now I am aware that this 'neighbour' is unable to fake the sounds of enjoyment unless it is also able to believe it is inconveniencing someone, somewhere, defiling their privacy.
His 'bravery' consists of greater and greater outrage(on a pathetic scale) and I am sometimes treated to the sound of his attempts to dance on people's faces, rather like listening to a lesbian trying to force-grow a penis.

I've got some business in the Afro-Carribean quarter tomorrow morning; perhaps I'll get invited to a real 'Mash Up'?

Thursday, December 28, 2006

Equal First.

I've just finished my little bottle of 'Inverey' single malt whisky.
It is from the Perthshire Highlands; I guess you could look it up on a map. Due to geological conditions the peats on the East and West of Scotland produce different coloured Whiskies.
One side is darker than the other, I don't remember which, but these bottles all look pale.

Anyway, the Inverey is equal first with the Mull Island, and yes, it is different, and yes, for the first time in my life I could tell the difference!
Inverey( a made-up Marks&Spencer name-but Perthshire is real)is sweet and malty rather than smokey and sweet/salt.

All I have left for tomorrow is the blended whisky.

That might yet prove interesting, but for sure, as a committed non-whisky drinker all my life, I'd definitely go for #1 or #3.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

First Is Still The Best So Far.

The 'Island' single malt from Mull was very much as advertised.
I am used to sipping some more or less 'hot' whisky which just does the job and goes down with a burning sensation, but Mull Single Malt was an explosion of smokey flavour, a sort of rich salt-sweetness that filled the room from within my mouth.

Having tasted that, I now realise what it is that people see in Scotch.

On the other hand, I've just been tasting the second sample, the 'Speyside' single malt, and it is very much business as usual.

Oh well.
Perhaps Scotch #3 will be another sensation eh?

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

It's In The Receiving Too.

I received a delightful gift from my old Bomber Pilot uncle today.
Anybody who knows Marks & Spencer will also know that they never sell brandnames, only their own generics.
But this selection of quarter bottles of Scotch, although M&S, uses names indicative of the actual heritage of the Whisky.
Tonight I shall be trialling the 'Island', a Single Malt from the actual Isle Of Mull.
I know very little about Scotch(I'm an Ale man), but the label says a lot about smoky, chocolatey, peaty creaminess, which sounds excellent.
My second bottle willl be previewed when I report on the Island tomorrow.

Good for what ails you.

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Today I'll Be Wearing My Green Shirt.

Actually it's a Canali.
Now back to Elvis.

There's a smart young woman on a light blue screen
Who comes into my house every night.
And she takes all the red, yellow, orange and green
And she turns them into black and white.

But you tease, and you flirt
And you shine all the buttons on your green shirt
You can please yourself but somebody's gonna get it

Better cut off all identifying labels
Before they put you on the torture table

'Cause somewhere in the "Quisling Clinic"
There's a shorthand typist taking seconds over minutes
She's listening in to the Venus line
She's picking out names
I hope none of them are mine

But you tease, and you flirt...

Never said I was a stool pigeon
I never said I was a diplomat
Everybody is under suspicion
But you don't wanna hear about that

'Cause you tease, and you flirt...

Better send a begging letter to the big investigation
Who put these fingerprints on my imagination?

You tease, and you flirt...

You can please yourself but somebody's gonna get it
You can please yourself but somebody's gonna get it

Happy happy-time

Merry Chrimbo.

I got a New Pair Of Shoes!

Friday, December 22, 2006

Was He Trying To Tell Us Something?

They talked to the sister, the father and the mother
With a microphone in one hand and a chequebook in the other
The tears on her face
The tears on her face
You can put them back together with your paper and paste
But you can't put them back together
You can't put them back together
What would you say?What would you do?
Children and animals two by two
Give me the needleGive me the rope
We're going to melt them down for PILLS AND SOAP
Give me the needleGive me the rope
We're going to melt them down for pills and soap
Four and twenty crowbars, jemmy your desire
Out of the frying pan into the fire
The king is in the counting house
Some folk have all the luck
And all we get are pictures of LORD AND LADY MUCK
They come from lovely people with a hard line in hypocrisy
The sugar coated pill is getting bitterer still
So pack up your troubles in a stolen handbag
Give us our daily bread in individual slices
And something in the daily rag to cancel any crisis

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Hello gentlemen.

Das Vampir.
Terrible things vampires.
I'll be going to the coast to visit Whitby, world renowned for several things; Captain Cook(James T. Cook no less); as the landing place of Vlad Dracul; and of course as the sole source of Jet, used in jewellry.
They do a nice line in Sterling Silver pieces.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006


Sometimes we see good people struggling sincerely to make a decent fist of things; but they are surrounded by evil and it's machinations, sometimes so closely that there is no way of communicating with them. Their avenues are held in a common trust where the trust is all one way, and the influence of the malfeisants upon the innocents is such that they wouldn't think of trying to go outside normal channels anyway.

And so these people are used by the evil to maintain a facade of respectability, unassailable, incontrivertible respectability, behind which the malicious pursue their evil.
They are indispensible to the plan, as they guarantee the continuing flow of victims into the heart of the scheme, there to be dealt with, by threat, lie or some other form of coercion.

And the front man, gradually becoming a hollow man, wonders why his new friends keep on changing, leaving, knuckling under or shutting up.

Fact is, there comes a time when a decent human being has to make the decision to take full editorial control of his own life, and make those unlikely alliances unlikely to the point of being non-existent impossibilities.

That is the only way they can rejoin the Human race.

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Hey Baby-That's Rock'n'Roll

Ever had a total eclipse of the heart?
There are people (I use the term loosely again) in this world who live in an unholy alliance of popular culture and perverted science; when they would do good, evil is present.
They bring the new Dark Age a step closer every day, with their micromanagement of the lives of those they deem to be 'of interest', people who must be controlled, broken down and up, and prevented from ever, ever, doing what they want to do.

The organisation may be vast; it may be non-existent. It may be nothing more than the 'networking' of the eighties dressed up as casual dalliance alliance.
But something is there.

Every evil has a point of delivery; when we find our feelings changing, our deepest emotions blocked in and dying, our souls being changed- we must examine the premises that brought us here.
And somehow, somewhere, we will be brought back to the inevitable realisation that somebody has introduced poison to our hearts.
They are very subtle. But there is no substitute for integrity, and never will be.

No matter how much 'good' the bastards scream at us to see.

What's to be done with Homer Simpson?

Ever had a total eclipse of the heart?

Who gave us the emotional Polonium?

So That Would Mean?

I've just defined a Bromide as some outstanding influence designed to make us stop searching.

For meaning, that is.
Does this mean that a Bromide has to remain a dull, worthy, innocuous and mild-mannered influence then?

Does it Hell.
A punch in the face is the cliched and time-honoured method of blinding us.
It is used by every thug and would-be oppressor either by habit or quite by surprise, hopefully surprising us, but frequently surprising the perpetrator also.
So. The punch is one method.
And it's a Bromide.
Another is the 'friendly' warning. This is a message which almost always has nothing to back it up, but relies on, hopefully, our experience-conditioning from the times when it actually does.

Like my 'Double-Take' posting of a few months ago.
Where we acquire the virtue of courage is when we know that the danger is real, yet we persist.

If only they gave medals for living, not dying, eh?

Anyway, the whole purpose of all this low-key violence is to put us back in our boxes, to tuck us up tightly under the covers like good little bunny-rabbits, and leave these bastards the world in which to do their evil-well, not very much at all, truth be known, unless they get organised like the Nazis.
They want to be respectable cannibals.
They organise because there comes a time when there are too many people of ability forced into subservient roles by whatever predominating social bigotry exists at the time, and in rebelling against this they throw the baby out with the bathwater.
The victims become the oppressor in the moment they seek political revenge. They become their own enemies when they represent the evil which surrounds them in the pit into which they have been thrown.
Straightforward defiance, even to the point of violence, serves one main purpose, namely to equip us mentally against the trial of strength that society will impose upon us if we fail to recognise our places.
Remember this the next time some creep starts playing a team game based on you and your life.

Truly the devil finds work for idle minds.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

What Is A Bromide?

I first came across this word outside of formal Chemistry in descriptions of additives put in military tea(allegedly) to suppress sexuality, to remove libido in all-male communities.

The second occurence was in certain works by Ayn Rand, and I found the use of this word, while precise, to be inelegant and cumbersome.

But what is a 'bromide', taken on her terms?

I can remember scenes, pictures and sounds from the 70s and 80s which are and have been regarded as iconic. Like the picture above.
The original power of the bromide was in its ability to acquire a particular meaning to the majority of the population-specifically unspecific, meaning different things to different people, but always being capable of endless interpretation.

So a bromide has to be vague. Vague and portentious, something that makes people sit up and take notice-but not noticeable itself.
It needs to make people sit up and take notice then disappear from the perceptive threshold, leaving a vacuum that the weasels of the world can fill and use.
Against us. To keep us quiet, to keep us contented, to sell us the illusion that all is going well.

So this is a bromide.
Not an illusion.
Not a neutral icon.
But something that actively makes us stop seeking.

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Distinct Progress.

Early results are in.
Visits average 11 per day without tracking.
That's up from 6 before.

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Living Monochrome

Of course, living here in the English People's Kingdom, when they would do evil, evil is present.
Here, they don't actually try to help.
At least, unless the help is an insult designed to make us think we had a chance but 'blew it'.

Here they try to hinder.
In a country without guns, we become criminals as soon as we try to defend ourselves against the legion of oppressions that tries to batter us down every day.
We could submit; but I have a feeling that these creatures are the kind of cowardly scum who would simply be encouraged by this into ever greater atrocity.

Altogether now-"Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours, with a little understanding, we can find the perfect blend....
Neighbours, everybody needs good neighbours, that's when good neighbours become good friends."

Let's face it, the North American version of help doesn't.
But it is supposed to.
The British version doesn't either.
But it is supposed to make Britain look good in North America.

Friday, December 08, 2006

Living Color

"And when they would do good - evil is present!"

That is a line from a song written at the dawn of the modern age, that abortion of bastard sentiment which is carefully hidden from the modern eyes of the modern age.

When the New Jacks(the Haters of Rule) implement their nasty little schemes, it is always avowedly for our good, our own good, and the 'good' of society.

They try to help by using the gentlest of influences to steer us in beneficial directions.
In other words, they mutilate our ambition, decide for us what is possible(permissible) and create micro-managed psychological holocausts to do the 'steering'.
In other words, they condition us by violence to accept influence by residual psychological coercion in order to include their pet psychopaths in society and rule us with latex-blooded kindness.

In the instant they help, they violate.

When they would do good, evil is present.

When they talk of 'reverse spying' when we look at them, they reveal that we are being spied on.
When they say we are 'beyond the curve' they reveal their Marxist thought on the nature of our identity.
They are products of the thirties, come to fruition now.

Octopussy-And Other Elint

So. Another tale from the nursery.
What is it about nurseries - all nurseries - that creates sick little freaks that live to exploit and harm others?
What is it that in the course of a couple of generations has replaced open and free association with secretive machination involving people of unknown ranking in their own unknown schemee of death?
The rankings are variously interchangeable; they are quite willing to let merit decide who wears, however temporarily, the mantle of leader. Merit meaning in this case the most devious and vicious formulation of what used to be known as crime.
Crimes not against mere property or person. But crimes against humanity, crimes designed to destroy the very essence of humanity in their victims and leave an apparently functioning drone in its place, something that dances to the puppet-string prompts of the secret society.
The secret society is not particularly secret.
They are very open-about some things.
They wear a smile-as long as they are creating wreckage.
They scream at us to 'choose life'-their life, the one they are prepared to tolerate seeing us live-or die!
And they think that they are free, that when we are governed by their psychological molestation(child molestation) we also are free.

They pride themselves, god help them, on being able to crack open and up the toughest of the tough.
Yet they feel safe.

Well they aren't.
More and more people are becoming wise to them.
Through experience, through deduction, as a duty; and we are able to remind them, from time to time, that their miserable little case studies and analyses of our souls amount to shit if they cross the line.

As will their safety.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Curiosity Didn't Kill The Cat.

It was murder.
Years ago in my youth, as an adventurous carpetbagger, I found myself at a disadvantage; people (again, I use the term loosely) would look at me and suffer from a common and instantaneous delusion that they understood me.
One thing they certainly did understand was that I am the sort of person who is always curious, in my case, the worst sort of curiosity.

What is the worst sort?
I'll tell you. The worst sort of curiosity is the sort which concerns itself only with those things which it finds curious itself.

In other words, interest in yourself.
The scum can appear quite human, and will tolerate any transgression, even murder, as long as you are curious about them.
But if you aren't-yet still display curiosty- then these same people will degenerate like a dully exploding rotten fruit into a state of offended hatred, whining with cheated pride, cheated by the sight of some poor bastard, usually penniless and downtrodden, who has been touched by god and is now trying to travel to some sort of worthwhile destination.
Obviously, apart from the overt hatred to be found in England, there are the cultural delusions which serve to preserve the precarious 'sanity'(at least clinically), of these creatures.
Delusions such as 'the poor will always be with us', or homilies about the duty of the virtuous to suffer, or how money can't buy you happiness; these serve to confirm the status quo which guarantees the mediocre a slice of pie while the people who cooked the pie get screwed up, screwed down, and screwed out of even a crumb of pastry.
"The status quo, that's me!"
And lo, a conformist is born.

Curious people sometimes find answers.
I don't like 'magic' shows.
Smoke and mirrors are the tools used to divert our curiosity into dead ends, so saving them the necessity for murder, which used to be so inconvenient in civilised society.

But subtlety is a dying art, as the barriers to outright oppression tumble like the walls of Jericho before the braying trumpets of bigoted 'outrage'.

There may not be any future in England's dreaming; but nightmares now, that's another matter.
And it matters everywhere.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Don't Worry....Be Stupid.

That is all we really need.
Properly applied, courage is a close relation of stupidity.
In a world which is forever claiming to know what's good for us, we have to be brave.
We have to choose not to care what is good for us until we actually know ourselves and can believe it.
We have to be stupid.
Stupidity can get us a very long way in life-and it helps us to cheat death.
When we are no longer frightened enough to let our intelligence be driven, driven by the social swirls, whorls and sinks, then, and only then, will we begin to steer our own course through life and to see what is true and which things really matter to us.

When that happens, the daisy chains of daisy people will find themselves filled with hatred of our straight courses through the whirling dervish fever of the game, and will hate us with a passion.
In England the passion is cold and dead, because in England the pansies have been safe in their flower beds for so long that they only need to imitate indifference and ignore us, leaving us to waste away on the fringes of a land too ingrained in its wickedness to even know how much it needs us.

Fortunately we are stupid.
Stupid enough to acquire the best defence against this indifference, the ability to survive, the ability to subsist and resist the best way we can, by being their equals in ignorance.
Like the Black Economy, we flow and make our ways through the obstacle course, using our Smooth Noodle Maps to get where we belong.
Even if that is only the comfort zone of eternal denial and defiance.

And the world watches. And listens. And bides its time, all the while paying false service to its own apologists for the reign of Hell on Earth.

They say escape is impossible.They even try to pursue us into our own minds.

Be stupid.
Make your mind a jungle.
And your thoughts the guerillas.

Saturday, December 02, 2006


You might notice that I've put in a little hit counter below the links.
This is still an untracked site, and there are no private statitistic collectors that I know of on Owls Aren't Wise.

Perhaps we will see if more people come when they remain anonymous.

Recommended Reading

Take a look.

Friday, December 01, 2006

Against The Grain.

Or, once upon a time in the East.

Having been told that my enemies were, bizarre as it seems, my 'friends', I found that the local pimps seemed to want me to screw their poor old Eileens like a good 'un.
It started as the obsession of one particular gangster with whom I'd had a disagreement, and spread to become some sort of sport.

The more that they tried to put Humpty together again, the more they failed.
To me, the recipient of all this 'assistance', in the form of dodgy,doggy women appearing under all circumstances and at all times of day and night, all trying to perform a honey trap, sometimes cracking up and revealing what part of town they'd come from and who sent them, the more the attention made me sick.

Unsubtle innuendo followed, the implication being that I was supposed to be pimped by these scum into being their pet porn star in some mission to attack some woman or other.
Truly I was exposed to an underworld solicitousness that was worse than emnity-and was supposed to be.

Of course, the local morons, even in Leeds, joined in with alacrity, trying to give me the cure.
Hardly a word was heard, or a tune played, without the implication being that via some magical process sticking my todger into some unesteemed fake who offered herself to the game would heal society's ills and result in my being left in peace.

I sat back grimly and with magnificent stubbornness ignored this.
Then people really did start to show concern.
Which was just as bad as the fake blandishments of the criminals.

Obviously, I like girls.
But I can sniff out a trickster a mile off, and I hate the game with all my strength and passion.

Sometimes, now, if I am relaxed, and in my favourite pub, I'll see a woman and think about getting a life.
Then the day after, and the day after that, for the first time ever(in ten years) another one will walk in and start giving me the eye as if some cunt has stuck a sign on my back, and I'll know that the bastards are trying to 'help' again.

Fact is, I'm scarred. And the essence of my scar is, that I do a Coogan's Bluff when pimps are about.I'm sure that some of these girls must have been on the level, but in any case I'm not particularly bothered.
You either find someone special, or it doesn't matter from day to day.
And if, like me you are not married, you will be ready to get to a completely free and clear situation when Dark Helmet isn't playing dollies wiht you and your life, before committing to any Sheila that walks through the door.

Concern stinks.
Or in my case, MYOFB!

What Goes Around, Comes Around.

I like the cut of this man's jib!