Good News Everybody!

Firstly, my new computer is working. I plugged in my old hard drive, and it booted up straight away. All I had to do was put a sound card in, and I had a spare lying around.

Secondly?
Friday 5th September - UGLY BETTY is returning!
Whoo-hoo!

Dull-Che et Decor.

The byline in the Yorkshire Post talks of youngsters 'queuing up to serve queen and country'.
So.
After about a decade of conditioning in schools ( which were made compulsory in preparation for the Great War), and having had the last remnants of individuality stifled by their compression under the heel of family 'life', these kids honestly think that joining the army will represent freedom?
There, they will be taught one thing and one thing only; to kill on command like attack dogs.
Sure, they will be looked after, while they are in, and given support systems.
But the lonely day will come when they have to pull the trigger.
Some will enjoy it. They are headed for great things.
Most will suddenly find that they are getting ready to return to civilian life, if they they can face their demons all alone without the company.

At this point they realise what courage is.

No Proof At All.

No. There's no proof that they murdered Diana Spencer. She was the mother of the future king of Englitz, and she was likely to give him johnny foreigner half-siblings and have a whole other life apart from the Royal Family, but there is absolutely no proof that they murdered her.

The inquiry said so. After the first two judges up and quit.

Also:-
Hitler had kind eyes.
The Krays loved their mum.
Stalin modernised Russia.

And the establishment of Britain is a pile within a pile wrapped in an enigma.

TFFT-It's Finally Over.

Apparently there was some sort of sporting event in a Chinese town called Peking.
At least it didn't last 55 days.
Meanwhile, the BBC has tried to smear the event into a faded skidmark on the underside of London by holding a '2012 Party' on television, whatever the hell that is.
Presumably in a few days the idiot-turkey-journos will stop gobbling and we can forget the whole miserable fiasco.
Until the next time.
Ken Livingston must be enjoying his rest immensely, which is the truly tragic part of the London Olympics.

Victory! Buwahahaha!

While the world watched the closing ceremony of the Limp-icks, I mounted a raid on e-bay, and won an auction.
I bought a 2.26 GHz P4 Optiplex for £16.50.
All I have to do when I get it is install my old hard drive and DVD writer (already Optiplex-compatible) and I'll have a lightning-fast Linux system.
Then put the old Windows Hard drive in the old Optiplex and get a useful increase in performance while being able to standardise on one model of computer.
Sorted!

Bloody Liars.

The WWF (World Wrestling Federation? World Wildlife Fund?), is trying to make out that Britain only provides 38% of it's water needs. Apparently the rest is 'imported' from Spain and Morocco, water shortage countries.
We are guilty! We are all guilty! What nasty people we are!
Except, according to these bloody liars, that would mean importing 620 gallons per household per day, which would need an infrastructure 1000 times larger than oil.
What utter, fucking rubbish.

Darwin Award

I suggest a Darwin Award for the the young fool who went paragliding in Hurricane Fay in Florida.
(With thanks to CNN). Apparently he was blasted into the side of a concrete building at high speed.
Ya gorra laff innit?

Not Impressed.

On TV?
An interview with the 'General' in charge of the Russian occupation.
I find it hard to believe that this fat, unkempt slob in a stripy tee-shirt was anything more than a stooge.
He didn't just look unemployable by a professional army.
He looked unemployable by a school sanitation department.
He looked like a stupid thug with tanks.
The Georgians must have been sleeping.
There must have been a surprise attack somewhere.
Even the tanks holding the passes were ancient.
Either the Russians used elite forces and replaced them with this comedy, or we could kick the Russians out in ten minutes if only we put our men into action.
This is a shambles.

The Beast Is Insatiable-Why Even Try?

So.
You've reached the stage where the evil is so sick, so obvious, that you decide to give it a good beating.
You do it again and again, until one day, tired and beaten, you find yourself out, down and bleeding.
You can take the pain.
You've given it too.
But what the bastard-beast does next is a real eye-opener.
Because you resisted, because you were not 'one of us', because you've reached the post-Thunderdome trance of inner Peace, it keeps on coming-but never getting there.
It keeps on trying to mount you on a string, not a pike, but it is still your head it is after.

It brays and brays about your fate, and how all-powerful it really is, but the fact is that the beast is terror, terror of you, terror of knowing what it is, terror of being seen.
And you've seen it.

It tries to turn itself inside-out, and fill you with terror while absorbing your mind.

This is where pacifism is born.

But never forget you knew how to fight.

On the Other, Other Hand...

The ceremony has also been strongly criticised by architect Ai Weiwei, who helped design the Bird's Nest stadium.

Writing on his blog, Mr Ai described the ceremony as "a recycling of the rubbish of fake classical culture tradition; a sacrilegious visual garbage dump and an insult to the spirit of liberty; low class sound play that's just noise pollution".

He was directly critical of China's ruling communist party, characterising the ceremony as "a showcase of the reincarnation of the Marxist imperialism; the ultimate paragon of an all embracing culture of fascist totalitarianism; an encyclopaedia that encompasses total defeat in intellectual spirit."

Mr Ai helped design the stadium alongside Swiss architect firm, Herzog and de Meuron.

But since then, he has become an outspoken blogger against the Olympics and the Chinese regime. Unusually, he has not been censored by the authorities.

Weiwei lived in the States for about ten years.

If he is faking it, he is doing a fine job.

On The Other Hand...

I went out this pm, and I was left the hell alone.
Pleasant?
I did some serious thinking.
I went to the first bar and had a chat about the fact that the Bass they were serving me was famous for many reasons, not least of which is that the Bass Red Triangle is the oldest trade mark in the world.
Then I moved down to the next bar and had a Smiths Bitter, which was adequate.
I sat out in the warm(ish) twilight and sipped my beer. I wasn't bothered much.
Then I went to the third and final bar where I had two halves of bitter, one after the other.
It was cold and tasty.
The music was good, and nobody paid me the slightest attention, which was better.
Worked out a few problems in my head.
Problems I have to face tomorrow. At work.
Weekends.
Bloody marvellous.
Good to have them back.

Not So Pleased Now.

So I went out.
The first place had old men singing Karaoke to ancient songs I'd never heard before.
I went next door.
Sitting outside were some junkies smoking Ganja, swearing and carrying on and on about how 'Ganja isn't a drug'.
The scrapings of the country.
I went back inside to finish my beer, where the psychopaths were merely drunk.

Proceeding back up the road, I saw a bar full of women.
Obviously I went in.
Obviously they were all on the point of leaving anyway, which they did.
So I sat in the empty bar drinking beer from a plastic glass- they obviously have a lot of trouble there.
So then I walked home.
Had a nice cup of tea.
Yes. I'm really living it up.

Feeling Pleased - With Myself

Tonight I'm going out. It's pissing it down, but a short walk gets me to a waterside bar with good music and an interesting crowd.
Earlier, I ran up the Ruby version of KDevelop on my box, and cleared all three sample programmes to running status.
That's Ruby, Ruby QT and Ruby On Rails.
Quite a task, and it needed a lot of extras installed.
Then I sat down and watched a little TV.
And it struck me.
There was a British 'adventure' film on.
The British think that personality is some kind of disease, something to be stamped out.
So these days, when they make a film, a group of dumb-ass no-hopers get together and agree to use all the safest cliches and all the most obviously tired actors, sleep-walking around the usual sets filled with the usual hive of faked activity.
The film was a bore at first sight, lasting, for me, about ten seconds.
The trouble is, there are no personalities allowed in this country, so nobody is capable of being the champion of a vision, because there are no visions, and if there were, they would be laughed at.

There used to be, but the days of Lew Grade and Patrick McGoohan are long gone, one dead, the other(as is usually the case) moved to the USA.

And you can't blame it on business.
It is precisely the lack of personalities that has lost the ability to inspire the business.
In the seventies the last gasp was shows like the Professionals.
Then they went for high production value classics, like Sherlock Holmes.
Since the mid eighties?
Nothing.
About as much imagination as a pea.

No.
No more drama in Britain.

Thanks heaven we still have comedy though.
I think Armstrong & Miller is absolutely brilliant!

Aren't Mothers Wonderful?

Wonderfully stupid, that is.
I remember mine in 1968 when the Home Service announced that the Soviets had invaded Poland:
"Oh my God!"
Like that was some sort of surprise?
Like it wasn't true to form?
That nice Mr. Gromeko!
And today?
"Oh, son, I'm watching the Olympics. It's wonderful! They haven't mentioned the Cultural Revolution at all in their instant 5000 years of Chinese history. And the things they invented! Like the Printing Press!"

Don't worry folks; next week a 'committee' of 'eminent Chinese archeologists' will come together and announce that China invented the Gas Turbine in 1785, along with the first all-steel ships.

Of course, despite having invented the printing press, there is no documentary evidence.

I mean, fuck off!
What the fuck do you take us for, you inbred, miserable, lying examples of mental illness?
The Chinese also invented gunpowder, but had to develop martial arts, 'cos nobody was able to have a gun.
And then they .....
Oh sod it.
They are pathetic.

It's Berlin Again. But Who Are The Nazis?

"We expect over forty medals".
Thus spake the fascist sports minister - of Britain.
Go on, athletes of Britain.
Go on.
Get on the first plane home and tell the scum to fuck off.
That would be leadership.
That would be glory.
Then you would all be champions.

But that won't happen, and for the same reason that you won't get any medals.

Well, Have You Ever?

Ever noticed something?
You tell some guy who's really been cooking your cool, asking for it- you literally tell him, "Fuck off you miserable piece of shit, and fuck your mother."-you tell him this, and does he get mad, like some kind of a man?
No. And here's the weird bit.
They look at you, disappointed, and say something like, 'you would'.
As if you are in the wrong for using their tactics against them.
As if you are in the wrong.
Such creatures exist. I punched one out, years ago. They are the storm-troopers of the faggot-world-order, a sort of sick brethren that congregates and decides who and how they're going to bring down today.
The more you hold out, the more terrified they become. And the more blindly determined.
Truly, The Prisoner was a parable of the modern age.
I'd love to put a name to this filth and expose it.
If anybody else knows, drop me a line.
By the way, the one I clouted was a Canadian.

What Really Happened.

The guy was 40 years old.
He was one of those blokes that always seems to get the shit-end of the stick, from employers, co-workers, you name it.
A bit of a loner, and people can sense it.
'People' didn't like him, because he kept himself to himself, was self-reliant, independent.
They could sense it.
He was getting older, and a little fearful of what people had been trying to do all his life; so he carried a knife.

One day he got on a Greyhound and sat down, at an empty seat, where he could stretch out for the long trip in comfort.

Behind him was one of the 'people', a 22 year old who knew everything and everybody like he'd read a map.
He took an instant dislike to the older man, for no reason other than his senses screaming through his rotten head that this man was a 'victim', his natural prey who couldn't do anything in self-defence.
At least nothing against this.
For sixty miles the younger man coughed, sneezed, sniffed and grunted at any sign of motion from the 40 year old; also at any sign of stillness, in case of a private thought or pleasure that he could stomp on.
And it was all done in secret, so that the ordinary Canadians on the bus either wouldn't or couldn't notice.
But today, the victim had had enough.
Today the rules changed, and the victim exterminated his oppressor, who died with a blood-curdling scream.
Today, they both lost their heads.
One literally and both quite properly.

Mystery Solved.

The package?
Lightbulbs. From the electric company.
I could cry.

When Will I Ever Learn?

So here we are, halfway house, and it's time for the Summer Party.
I go to the barby, and fill up on chicken and Hamburgers; the beer is plentiful, reasonable, and there are three kinds (!) of Tetleys, so I'm happy.
Good talk with the senior member.
Half an hour talking frankly with the boss.
Then it happens; I think Big Al is a safe bet, and he is, but the poor bastard finally got hitched, and she's showing her true self.
She's a piece of work.
I say I've got a mystery package at the sorting office.
Could be the big score, the photo of my ex from Arizona, the establishment of dipperlomatic relations after all this time - and the bitch says "Blow up doll" as she walks away.
Totally hammer between the eyes, but she's Al's missus, at the company do.
Another pint then home.
Won't be fooled again.