The End.

These pictures were taken at the main entrance to the former Kirkstall Forge in Leeds.
Until 2002 the forge produced axles for heavy goods vehicles.

The site is a large one adjoining the Leeds-Liverpool canal and the River Aire.

It has been a forge since the early 12th century, about 900 years.
The forge was started by the monks of nearby Kirkstall Abbey, and survived the dissolution of the abbey by Henry VIII .

But apparently in 2002 some suited daleks from some college or other decided to shut the place down, and now it is being demolished.

Thanks boys.
Buy yourselves another mortgage, maybe a sports car if you're feeling a little mid-lifey.
And if the wife has left you, go and stay in Ireland at a gutted, sorry converted castle to 'find yourself'.

Don't mind us.
We'll just carry on struggling in the world you're turning to shit.

Sorry.

Chinese shit.

Care Of Samizdata.

This is Iowahawk!

Used Car Salesman

I think Doh-Boy will make a jaw-droppingly different Prime Minister.

(I use the term 'Prime Minister' very loosely).

Used Car

The pinnacle of British engineering in the sixties, this vehicle lived on in the atrocious Marina.
The Morris 1800 became the basis of the Citroen range of the seventies, after Issigonis was kicked out of BMC for being 'too radical'.

Pathetic bunch of bums.

Anyway, I have been watching their descendents on TV adverts today.
They usually appear as adverts for spectacles;
you know- short, greying hair, eternal simper, oblong spectacles, fashionably unshaven.

Perfect bromide for the modern age.

Eyes as cold as snot, with the trace of smile-wrinkles from manipulating oysters from the shell of humanity, all to go up in flames on the funeral pyre of honesty.

(Vomit).

All Citizens Of Mongo Will Rejoice

...on pain of death!
Today is my 46th birthday.

Open-Source Scientific Progress.

Granted they have been working on the Joint European Torus (JET) in Oxfordshire for decades;
granted that the Torus uses magnetic containment to keep the fusion plasma away from the vacuum chamber walls.

The JET can now produce enough energy for a small town but only for a few seconds.
80% of the fusion energy is expelled as Neutrons, at a velocity that the magnetic bottle cannot contain, which means that the vacuum chamber walls must be replaced every five years.

This is a problem.

Now.

Where else is there a vacuum chamber? With walls a hundred miles thick that never wear out?

Space.

Put a magnetic bottle in space.
Harvest hydrogen from the near vacuum outside the bottle. Or send it from Earth, or the Moon, or Titan.

The energy would be virtually unlimited.
Getting it down would be a problem, except that we already have an established method for getting fusion energy to Earth-it is called daytime.

However, artificial solar energy would cause the planet to warm up.
So another means is required; beaming down energy by microwave is something I would consider risky.

What about non-visible laser?
Atmosphere.

Tethers?
That might work.

So, the biggest problem is the creation of orbital tethers to transmit the power down; granted that many people see the solution as mining Helium3-rich minerals on the Moon(less Neutron emissions) it might still represent an advantage to place the fusion reactors in orbit, to reduce the expense caused by bringing the stuff all the way down to Earth and getting it to power-stations.

Pardon?

Obviously Minister this is a disaster! We can't have entire units of Royal Navy personnel, with officers, being rounded up by a few crazed Arabs in Dhows and taken to Iran!


So we have to play it down, Humphrey?

We have to deplore it! We must ask for their return in no uncertain manner!

And when we get them back? Courts Martial?

Er, no minister.

What, you ,mean keep it quiet?

Indeed no minister. That would imply that we had something to hush up.

You mean something to be ashamed of?

Yes, minister.

Suppose we let them tell their side of things. Give them permission to talk to the press, even make some money?

An inspired decision, minister!

Even build them into heroes?

Well that would certainly take courage. But not theirs.

Ha ha! No Humphrey. Perhaps we can just talk up the horrific Iranian brutality?

Indeed, yes minister.

Pavlov's Pressmen.

This was the article in the Times of London; rules to be changed? Would people in the Armed Forces now be allowed to fight back?

No.

The rules to be changed are those concerning individual profit from approved manipulation of the press.

Pathetic.

Iran

Called for a goodwill gesture.

I've got one, en passant.

But Come Mein Herren...I Have Chastised You Enough..

This dusky-looking pint is truly pint-sized, only 3.6%, but the flavour is knockout.

It is full of burnt malt and smoked chocolate flavours.
It won't knock you over, it will simply seduce the senses and leave a faint buzz behind.

I forgot the brewery(!) but the beer is called 'Bunny Boiler' and is reminiscent of a more subtle and refined Moorhouses 'Black Cat'.

Truly delicious.

Education, Education, Education.

"The government has failed..."

Has it hell.
The government is succeeding beyond it's wildest dreams (and our deepest suspicions) in what it aims to achieve.

What the government wants to do is create a world in which people like you and I are absolutely extinct, a world in which we perish, either by 'random' murder or by succumbing to social pressures or by succumbing to the utter futility of trying to make a living in a world which has no place for us.

The means to this is 'Education, Education, Education.'

It doesn't matter if they get a few technical facts and targets wrong; these are utter irrelevances designed to confuse us about what the government's motives and concerns really are;
no.
The government wishes to produce a nation of little co-dependent, linked-in freaks that automatically exclude from 'society' anybody who doesn't seem to fit the bigot's bill of regularity.
They have had years to perfect their putsch-terminology, the linguistic abberations needed to fulfill their goals.

So, when Maggie demolishes the old shibboleth 'Society' and replaces it with 'Community', the present-day exploiters attack freedom in exactly the same ways as the enemies that Maggie outraged, but by saying 'Community' every time; so now we have a legion of initiatives, all carried out in the name of communities, that localised, untraceable, unreported and invisible unit of social governance, something that we see just enough of to make us believe, vaguely, that something exists and it's for our benefit.

How the government must chortle with glee, at the quality of this new tool.
No more 'Us and Them' of society.
Only the 'Us' of community, and let's face it, to rail against 'community' requires a whole new raft of explicitness in philosophical realisation, no no-brainers fall to hand.

And who in the world is equipped for that kind of expose?

Well, for one, I am.

Please Release Me...

Let Me Go....
Cause I Don't love you anymore!
Apparently the 'hostages'(little scamps) are to be released, complete with new suits made in Iran.
Ah.
That's all better then.
We've had our medicine, now wash it down with some sugar-suiting.

If...

If anybody knows how to access HTML in the new blogger, let me know.

If anybody tries to sign up with MySpace (a place for friends!) don't tell them who you are or where you live. It's none of their damned business and I am not here to be a victim of the Patriot Act.

If anybody knows a place where we can blog in freedom (without recourse to setting up our own servers), let me know.

Please.

Mad-Mood Dinner-Jar

How the hell are ya mate?
So I says to me missus, I says....

The Last Mimsy

Let's all cash in on the (dead) poet, and make a film called 'The Last Mimsy'.
We can also cash in on Spielberg and we can also cash in on any number of 80s 'kiddy' adventures like ET or the Goonies; we can have a tag-line about the 'adventure of a lifetime', and a load of convenient crap effects produced by CGI.

Then again, why the hell would anyone bother?

Poet's Corner-Lewis Carrol

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

But You Can't Put Them Back Together.

Part of the great conspiracy which entangles and enfeebles our children before they can even get going is the 'firmament';
the firmament is the illusion of what the universe is which is used to equip children for living death in a world kept going for them like a pretty school bus with an engine that nobody sees and nobody imagines.

The engine is silent.
The engine produces no fumes.
The controls that make the engine go are invisible.
The driver is that 'nice mister Blair', or Brown, or Cameron.

The engine was forged in the 'white heat of technology'.

Here's your big surprise: we are that engine.
We are silenced.
We are never mentioned.
We are kept out of sight, off the tv and radio and out of the newspapers.

We do all the work.
We are the slaves.
We are the bastards gift to their idiotic offspring, the true 'birthright' of being British, and because we would rather act like them in order to stand aside from being slaves, we are witnesses to our own impoverishment and the collapse of the British economy of doing useful things, like a Souffle made of powder and paste.

Their dream is falling apart in their hands.

So they find ever more devious, sensitised ways to hunt us down and out, to force us to work, and if we give even the slightest impression that we would rather work for ourselves, they will see to it that we are left with neither work nor the self to do it.

They will 'hand us our daily bread in individual slices'(Elvis Costello) rather than see us inflict a moment of our own success and happiness on their consciences.

Because, you see, they care!

It's All So Simple.

"Hey guys! Let's start 'society' right here!"

This Just In...

Cherie Blair has recently struck up a friendly relationship with a young lady in America who claims to be her long-lost sister.

The young lady is currently in a maximum security prison in the USA after murdering a family with a chainsaw and crossing the Canadian border.


Cherie commented that she would do everything in her power as a Lawyer to see that the girl is set free as soon as possible.
Apparently a bed at Number 10 is being warmed as we speak.

Security Camera Footage.

A short while ago the Central European Bank was robbed.
Although the Dye Cartridge exploded and stained much of the money, thieves still got away with an entirely unknown, but large, amount of money.

Police would like to interview the man shown above in order to eliminate him.
From their enquiries.
Surete Chief Art Gimp said:"Bien. Le Salot peut vole, mais nous cherchons tous les Voleurs!"

Good News Everybody!

Tonight is 'Ugly Betty' night!
See y'all later y'hear?

You Exshpect Me To Talk?

No, mister Bond. I expect you to adopt Linux like me.
Why?
Ever since I found myself receiving the attention of the doctors, I vowed that I would find a way to kick down the walls surrounding me in a foaming sea of frustration, to find true liberty, to somehow integrate my efforts.

And as you can see, after two heavy days, I am fully functional and in possession of a network server which eats up the files of mere 'Windows' computers like a hot knife passing through butter.
Bwwwahahahahahaha!

Uvavu! Iranu Indeed!

I've just discovered why Linux is free.
Can you guess?
No?
It's written by a bunch of punks who like throwing bricks through windows.
Two months of work destroyed when I tried to install a variety on unpartitioned space and it destroyed the partitions it wasn't supposed to touch.

Ooops. Well, it's not like we're doing it for money, eh?
Ooops. These jokers had better not try doing it for money either.

I Love Ugly Betty!

In my opinion, Ugly Betty is by a long way the best show currently transmitted on any channel in the UK.
Thanks to the evolutionary 'Freeview' digital television technology(that is, not using strictly digital image reproduction but digital transmission and analogue reproduction), I have a seleciton of regular viewing which gives me at least one good show a night; Monday, ITV4 shows 'The Professionals' for those who like their guns, motors and heroes straight.
Monday and Tuesday, also ITV4, 'Andromeda', for those who enjoy their ensemble Sci-Fi reduced to a minimalist pressure-cooker of characters and challenging plots.
Until recently, BBC4 was showing 'The Avengers' on Thursday, but they stopped.
Still, it was Emma Peel, albeit in one of the silly 'in color' series.
Fridays I work nights, Saturdays I like to watch 'Monk' on BBC2, and every day twice a day on ITV3 one can watch 'Due South', but on Wednesdays, at 9PM prime-time on E4(an offshoot of Channel 4) I love to watch the perilous exploits of Ugly Betty.

She lives in a world of conflicting values and personalities, with a plot that never fails to reveal a new surprise around each corner, even if it is only a decent streak in one of the villains, and powerful, emotional stress that is uplifting as the peak at the end of some kind of roller-coaster.

All underlaid with a consuming sense of moral rightness in a world of realistically devilish influences.

Truly a superb comedy drama.

Born Yesterday Converts To Labour.

Astonishing though it seemed, today Gordon Brown(Taxes the Poor) cut income tax.
Or so it seemed.
The cost of cutting the 22% base rate by 2% will be £8bn less for the government; but what's this?
Gordon Brown(with his medallion) has abolished the 10% starting rate.
This means that the very poorest earners(like me) will pay an additional £7.3bn in income tax.
So in fact, Gordon Brown(should be tied to a mast) will be cutting income tax by about £10 per year per person.
Unless you are poor, in which case you will pay more.
Jaw-droppingly sick, eh?
That's one way of abolishing poverty, isn't it?
Just legislate it and the poor out of society completely and let them join the droves of government-supported cabbages doing nothing for something.
That way we can ensure that anybody who does act stupidly enough to work here is doing something 'middle class' like TV or working in some form of media consultancy, and all the poor jobs can be exported, so that we can finally create an 'us-and'them' economy in the world, where every wog has a place and every wog is in it, while the White Man's Burden is carried from within the home offices of virtual colonialists all over this winking, sneering, simpering ant-farm that used to be a country.
Sleep tight everybody.

They Are Actually BOASTING!

On television and radio at the moment is an advertising campaign which tries to recruit people for the Sotzial Services.
It uses the multi-layered sophistication that only the bright sunlit upland of virtually unlimited funding affords.
The late, great, Louis Armstrong has been appropriated to the cause, as his brand of slightly slow, slightly sentimental-sounding soul music is something that the up-and-coming sotzial-ists have wet fantasies about in their moments of wishing that 'someday every kid will have a home like this'.
This is overlayed with fantasy case studies of how certain clients were helped and how satisfying it feels to be the one that made it happen.
For example, (and quite, quite horribly)there is the "75 year old with Alzheimers".
The social worker helps with her make up, and every compliment the lady receives is taken as a compliment by the 'worker'.
Great. So the little old lady is robbed of her dignity and any credit she gets.
Now that's what I call a parasite.

But the best comes last; they have a new slogan.
Wait for it...
Here it is!



1+1=3

Oh, boy!
So that was the reason for all the bad education over the last twenty years?
To reach the day when people could actually go on public television and say without any sense of irony that one plus one equals three?

And people are supposed to understand it!
The true horror is in the assumption that we will.

They Really Really Mean It.

What is the latest word on 'product'?
Well, there's a lot of it about. There are thousands of establishments all over the country which are specifically devoted with explicit formality to the production of units, creatures of acquired habits, creatures which will fulfill their creators' dreams of harmony.

Funny that. When the creators first sold their dream of harmony we were sold a bill which promised angelically pure devotion, devotion to us, and an end to the irritating tendency of the young to be wilful and wayward, a way to stop them from seeking their fortune on the wide borne of the world and lead them into a form of obeisance wherin we could assume our rightful positions of seniority.
They would be ever seeking our wizened advice and the masters of schooling would be the masters of all.

So.
What went wrong?
Today we have millions of little terrorists, all seeking to break each other down and do nothing useful for anybody. They are foul, foul-mouthed and violent.
What went wrong?

In one, short, word, nothing.

Nothing went wrong.
We set out to produce a particular result, and we got exactly what we asked for.
The only thing that was wrong was the illusion used to sell the crap in the first place.
But I'm guessing that the amount of embarrassment mixed in with the outrage shows that we really knew it all along.

We wanted conformity to social ideals and that is exactly what we got.

We got conformity to social ideals, any and every social ideal.
As this precludes any particular social ideals, we have a generalisation, a loyalty seeking to be attached. Freedom has declined to just meaning 'choose your conformity' a choice of loyalty to one of the variety of causes.

But the bedrock of the shared experience is the conformity to socialisation of the mind.

And today we send these little warrior-agents out into the world where they invade, degrade, violate, abuse and wreck.
All without any meaningful reprisal except recourse to legal sledgehammers which leave the punished guilty feeling ever the victims, producing a wailing, suppurating, deafening cacophony of protest which eventually undermines even this, last, legal bastion of recourse for the innocent.

But what we must realise is this; they really, really love us, and what they do they do for our own good.
Their love consists of bringing us back into the fold of security, by means of rendering us incapable of any form of independent life, by making sure that we are like them.

And all that matters to them, is that we, whether friend or enemy, are like them.

Progress Has Been Made.

Remember the heady days of the mid-seventies?
When Britain had just three tv channels?
When the BBC first started to see itself as the campaigning guardian of the public safety?
"That's Life" with Esther Rantzen, righting the wrongs and defending the underdog; more recently, "Crimewatch" and "Watchdog".
It all seemed so promising, such a sign of rightness in this benighted land, a reason to hope that the future would promise the future we were promised.
Watchdog.

The word is so commonplace today one would be forgiven for thinking that a revolution of popular defence had really occurred; every corner we are likely to turn is under the eyes of some 'watchdog' or other, but why?

Well.
The rebel, the renegade, that which seeked to right wrongs and overturn the stifling status quo of that time has been subverted.

Watchdogs don't start barking when horrors are perpetrated any more; they are the horror and the perpetration, the tools which watch us and not just when we want, but from cradle to grave in an inversion which rejoins that which was stifling us to that which had promised hope.
Watchdogs abound, all the while attacking anything they can libelously project as our enemies, all the while putting us to sleep by the power of our own disgusted indifference, once the vague sense that it's all upside down again infects our perceptions.

Jill Dando was murdered, but where was the outrage? Where was the shock? Where was the cooperation?
She was shot in an outrage even outraged criminals approved of, in a twisted, uncertain way, as if they were the real victims; she didn't expect it. After all everybody was asleep in Noddy-Land, nobody had an axe to grind, crime isn't real, criminals do not really exist or wish to do the things they do.
Everybody has been playing the public interest game for so long, who could have predicted such an end?
And yet, once it had happened, why were so few people genuinely surprised? She was the victim and tool of a neo-establishment drive to neuter the populace, something they are variously too tired or too satisfied to notice or resist, after seeing so much misguided and malicious resistance to change in the past.
The automaton of 'progress' has been created and set loose in the public imagination, all the while appropriated by the agents of enslavement, as they do and have done for a hundred years.

The BBC is losing control.
After all the private watchdogs that proliferated in the eighties began to fade in the disintegration of the televisual audience monolith, they were replaced with all the 'public' (state) versions, which will fade from sight like yesterday's socks or soldiers, becoming disreputable at the next shedding of the juggernaut's skin, which doesn't by any means have to be electoral.

The new watchdog is the blogosphere, the internet, and the reason that so many of the usual suspects make so much noise about our freedoms is that they know it too.

Never Mind. Steal This One Instead.

Steal This Video!

>

I Had A Dream....

Unlike King's dream, I saw no brotherhood.
I dreamt I was talking about the invention of some Oxford Dons and that they resented my talking about it.
Whereupon I regaled them with tails of how I (really) have been conned and ripped off two or three times, virtually every time I try to make something happen, every time I try to get somewhere; and to sum it up, I roared "Don't get me wrong- this country deserves to perish-but without taking a single human life!"

Then I woke up.

And I'm still awake.

It's All The Fault Of The Rand Corporation!

Well the first episode is well under way, and the BBC is mixing fact and supposition based on its own self-interested polemic.

Ayn Rand isn't mentioned, but Game Theory is used as the underlying scapegoat for the indisputably 'noble' politicians' misguided policies.

A particularly shallow and fake attack on a psychiatric genius called R.D.Laing was mounted early on in the BBC phantasm, claiming that when he talked to 12 women 'schizophrenics' in the fifties, within a few months they were all well enough to go home; that they were all back within a year was supposed to be evidence of his 'complete failure to cure them'.
Then, when they further revealed that Laing found that it was their families that drove them back through power games played at home, the BBC started to call him 'paranoid' and made vaguely grandiose condemnations based on 'the Cold War'.

Nevertheless, as a history of the proofs of Laing's theorems, it is compulsive viewing, if you can get past the soft-soaping telling us that politicians really do have our interests at heart and winning the Cold War was a bad thing caused by our 'paranoid' persecution of the Soviet Union.

By the way, surveys showing that 50% of the US is mentally ill reflects 'mathematics'.
It has nothing to do with the destruction of psychiatry's power base by Laing, and is not a reflection on their self-interested behaviour.

Right?

You got that?
Replace persecution with formalised(not objective, as the BBC seems to imagine)intimidation, and blame, blame, blame Thatcher.

Come One Come All..

Maybe I'm being premature.
Maybe it's because I just saw something good on tv, namely Jon Snow's Battlefield Britain talking about the Battle Of Britain in 1940, but I am inclined to allow the illusion to persist until disproven when it comes to the new BBC documentary about Blairism:

"The Trap:What Happened To Our Dream Of Freedom?"

This title would do very well for one of my analyses, and seems to be heading in the same direction.

Doubtless the actual programme will be a severe disappointment, but keep an eye out nevertheless.

Eurovision Anybody?

This is the Israeli entrant courtesy of Samizdata.net

And Ignorance.

Why are the British just so, damned evil?

Back In The Groove.

Impotence-The Social Disease.

What form does joy take in this, most wonderful of modern ages?
Is it the sneering leer of the dunken youth(which may actually be genuine)?
Or is it the cold, ruthless deadness of the drug-dealing 'man of affairs', with his miserable habits, his miserable pony-tailed hair style, his miserable clothes and his mean-scale empire of things?

No.
These are not all.
These are just the symptoms, along with the grunts of the 'women' who look for a man to eviscerate, mentally of course, before poisoning their babies against the world and against their lives.

What passes for a moment of joy in this modern world is actually a vile impulse of triumph at some imaginary victory over 'others' in which there are only losers.

The target is happiness. The target is mankind.
The method is impotence.

To create the condition of impotence there are literally millions of creatures(not people) that will go to any length and measure of desperation to inject their particular brand of helplessness into the healthy.

They will literally study their intended victims for years at a time, they will literally plot by any means the misery of these people, they will literally stop at nothing short of murder if they think they have a chance of success.

Or even if they don't.
They are beyond cowardice.
They are beyond bravery.
They simply exist for that fleeting impulse, that gap between action and result, blind action and the end of delusion, and they know no other way to replace the fear of consequence that drives them to hide.

They want to create a race of confused, helpless, adult babies, people who can't do, only be, people without the ability to tie a knot properly, or drive a car, or make anything worthwhile.

In software, they are the people who invent ever higher levels of esoteric abstraction, turning science into a church, a guild of monastic isolation as a substitute for creativity.
In industry, they are the people who withdraw from the fields of actual endeavour, into virtual businesses which don't actually do anything except pay for the owners skiing trips or Grouse shoots. Here in Yorkshire every big factory from the old days tells a story of organic growth in the variety and ages of their buildings; every one that has gone broke seems to end with a modern 60s or 70s office block while all the actual guts are left to go to hell.
Along with all the business that actually built the places.

(But don't worry-we're all "post industrial", so that's alright then).


And in Art they were the people who were inflated by the arch manipulators of downfall into positions of eminence while producing images and artefacts of debasement and mutilated form.

And form follows function.

In Other News...

The 'Fairly Secrets' are getting busy again.
Today as approached the depot through heavy traffic in my truck, I noticed a brief, blue flash near the car park.
Thought nothing of it.
In my car on the way home I'm cruising at 40 on the dual lane, and a newish Range Rover pulls alongside and stays there.
No problem.
There's a 40 mph Gatso camera 200 yards on; nevertheless I check to see if the left hand windows of the Range Rover are open.
They aren't.
Then there's another blue flash.
And the car accelerated away.

Somebody tell these wankers how to turn the flash bulb off.
Then they can take my picture without me knowing.
If they want me to know, then I find that funny.

If they don't, I find it pathetic.

They must be fairly secrets; professionals couldn't really be that bad at surveillance, could they?

Excellent work.

Driven to near exhaustion by the thankless task of trying to marry up SQL Server 6.5 (1997) to VB.NET 2005(actually not as impossible as it sounds!), I finally decided to remove the old server and replace it with the MSDE, which is the core server for SQL Server 2000.

I mounted it up after a mammoth session trawling MS, and was rewarded by more trouble.

Then I took some trouble.

I read the documentation, and installed a new instance(on my NT4 antique)with the command line arguments correctly set; the reward?

Marvellous.
The new instance was immediately transparent to Server Manager 2005 on my main computer(over my network) and I was easily able to connect.

But what's this, you might ask. MSDE has no databases or scripting tools.

No problem!
Connecting SQL Server Manager 2005 to MSDE(server 2000 is supported!) I ran an installation script on my main computer and hey presto as if by magic, a fully-populated 'pubs' database was created on the NT4 networked server through MSDE.

Better still, the database was fully available as a Visual Studio.NET data source and was completely and transparently integrated into the applications.

So if you want a network backup server for peanuts, you know what to do, eh?

Nicely Said.

The ease with which moral cowards denounce the committing of lesser evils is a grotesque parody of the difficulty with which the brave have in choosing them.

Posted by Deogolwulf at 4:40 PM

Peter Hain is A Lying Skank

What about Sky News eh?
Reporting on the first visit of an English Rugby football team to Ireland in ninety years(since the original Bloody Sunday), Peter Hain said things to the effect that 'this was unthinkable when the bombs and bullets were flying only ten years ago."
He then came out with the standard soft socialist introductory mantra"It is a measure of Tony Blair's success..."
Then I switched off.

For the record, the IRA cease-fire came into effect when Conservative John Major was Prime Minister.
John was not only the last Conservative Prime Minister, he was the last person to be remotely recognisable as a Prime Minister, not some shrieking, simpering dog which bites all who oppose its mouth-foaming quest for recognition.

New Labour?
Bunch of cunts more like.

Call The Police!

To his fans he is the fifth Emergency Service.
Soon the first will be back, as he is going to reform 'The Police', the fabulous band of the 80's.

Discussing this with a relative, things became interesting.
Apparently, if Sting was a nationalised industry, he would weigh 30 stone, be unable to get off his bed and play crap tunes on a Vibrophone balanced on his enormous stomach.
He would need billions of pounds to keep on producing poor music, and everybody would always be talking about how he needed modernisation after years of neglect and underfunding, first under the Tories and now under New Labour; the money would disappear on consultancy fees, with barely an extra Big Mac to feed his huge belly.

Eventually he would be renamed 'Stigmata' and privatised.
Shortly afterwards he would go broke and get sold to the Chinese for £50, who would then sell his vital organs for aphrodisiacs and leave the dead body in a Music Museum in the midlands.

This Just In....

According to the little counter down there, we passed the 1000 mark this evening.
That's 1000 since December 2nd.
Let's see; 1006, number of days 76, so on average 13 people visit every day.

That is modest, but more than double the six I used to get when the blog was tracked .
I would recommend the change to an unmonitored blog.

Snow Joke.

Sorry. Haven't got one.
But last week when the snow was thick on the ground I popped over to 'The Pub' to be greeted by the staff and their dogs in a spacious emptiness that was nevertheless filled by a roaring coal fire and the light of candles.
The beer?
Well, having read a novel in which all the breweries had been nationalised and the beer named 'John Bull Bitter' by the government, I couldn't resist this; it was 'Bull Bitter', and was a light, hoppy drink of about 4% strength.
Sometimes, Hell Ain't A Bad Place To Be.

Unbridled Competition.

"Yesterday's uncontested absurdities are tomorrow's incontravertible truths".
This is pretty close to something Ayn Rand said in the seventies.
Trouble is this; in the eighties, when she held sway over entire nations through the shared truths of her ideals, through Ronnie and Maggie and half a hundred others who are now fading from view, the scum was almost brought to a moment of revelation.
Almost.
The British Communist Party dissolved itself.
Almost.(The constituent communists remained).
The Soviet Union became, merely, the repressive Russian Federation(with fawning sympathy shown by the Union's former fellow travellers in the West, except for Leutenant Frank Drebbin) as part of the desperation of quietness which was the crucible of today's counter-revolution.

The fellow travellers all over the West reached their 'epiphany' moment, or rather their pretense at an epiphany moment, when the scales dropped from their eyes and they saw the true awfulness of the breaching of the prison walls and the dazed curiosity of the newly freed slaves, both in the East and the West.
Thankfully (for them) the Chinese oppressors took a big gamble and arrogated some fake outrage to their cause when they used military force to destroy a potential People Power liberation at Tiannenman Square.
Immediately the frightened scions of the former Status Quo were encouraged, and alleged people like Ted Heath flocked to the Red Banner.

Over the years, slowly, timidly, carefully, but steadily, the contras have regained their confidence under cover of lip service.

They would agree absolutely with my opening quote; they have read all the same books we have.
But whereas we see it as a warning, they see it as an operational instruction, even a truth which they must use.
So, the noise surrounding the alleged issue of global warming is controlled minutely to absolutely ensure that the absurdity is uncontested, and lo and behold, a new orthodoxy is being imposed.

Who would have thought that these creatures were so disgustingly corrupt back in the eighties, that they would see our tracts and culture as nothing more than a training ground for their evil ambitions?

Incidentally, the picture is from 'Allposters.com'.
Be advised.
They 'no longer sell' this one.

Do They Know It's Randmass-Time At All?

So often we have been told, by people who should and obviously do know better, that Objectivism is a 'cult' or 'religion'.
To believe in a religion of any sort, one must first undergo a conviction by-pass, a short circuit of neuronic association, which literally means that the subject is in possession of beliefs which are beyond all evidence and discussion.
But in the case of a religion, these beliefs must necessarily have come about through random, revelatory means, the acquisition of the belief system being a complex descent from an initial premise or position which is held above all conviction-based argument.

The only similarity between Objectivism and religion, therefore, is that Objectivists will certainly believe truths which they do not regard as open to discussion, and it is this outward similarity that might lead to foolish, or even culpable, attempts to label Objectivism a religion.

The similarity, however, is only outward.
Recognising that you can only displace the depth of human influence that religious fundamentalism arrogates by countering with an equivalent depth of reasoned conviction, Objectivists maintain an impervious zeal which is yet not zealotry.

This is the crux of the matter; to millions of people who have since the earliest age been pressured into a conviction by-pass, that is, being taught to accept as an article of faith things which are really counter-intuitive, the step to replacing one set of articles with another is like throwing a switch; the load doesn't change, only the direction of the current, and these people are not Objectivists, despite their outward conformity to a system of truths.

What makes an Objectivist an Objectivist is the recognition that nothing is to be believed unless it is true.
Which is definitely not an excuse for equally religious persecutions of those around them to 'expose' the underlying lies(which are created by that persecution like a self-fulfilling prophecy).


So, to ask an Objectivist whether he or she believes in Randmass should be nothing more than a mildly amusing irrelevance; a militant ideologist Objectivist might see in this a method in the (presumed) struggle to influence the world.
But obviously such a person would be more of a communist than an Objectivist, since they would be making the effect on others the central motivation of the action.

Indeed, it might be said that any private group of private people gathered for the purpose of the expression of truth was more objectivist than any person or persons who simple rote-recite Ayn Rand's works.

Deadly - In The Hands Of A Professional.

Du du du.....du du du duuu du du du du du du du duuduuduuh!
Bodey, Doyle, what are you doing parked up in a West Yorkshire High Street?
Whatever we are, you made us!
I didn't make you into Yorkshiremen!Now get back down South and kill some terrorists!

Of course, Bodey and Doyle drove Fords, especially the Mark 2 Capri.
Back in the late sixties Ford decided to phase out the V4-powered Corsair, and replace it with a much less family-friendly coupe called the Capri.
Eventually this went on to possess a 'Power Bulge' when the mighty Ford V6 three-litre was installed.
Obviously this car was quite rare as most execs(like my dad) only had the budget for the 2-litre straight 4.

Of course, then dad lost his job and company car, became self-employed and ended up buying a new Porsche 944 Turbo every year.
So he was alright.
Alright?
But the people at his company called his 2-litre Pea-Green metallic Capri, with the Power-Bulge bonnet lifted from the V6, "Father's Final Fling".

And yes, the car was a right goer!

I Strike At You From The Heart Of Western Civilisation

This beast is part of the biggest publishing organisation in Yorkshire.
I picked up a load from them this afternoon.

Too bad I didn't get any pictures from where I delivered; the Leeds University Student Union building was crowded with the most ridiculously beautiful young women, dozens of them.
I had a big smile on my face.

It's worth noting that the picture above is taken from the mezzanine level at around 15 feet up.
The multi-million machine is enormous.

Scenes From The Arab Street.

Sorry about the night-light quality of this photo.
The car is a Supercharged Mercedes-Benz with a private number-plate; an expensive number-plate, worth more than the car.
The location is one of President Blair's palaces- a new school in a poor area- and the car was in the car-park.
None of the students can afford a car, but the car-park is packed every day.
And then there is this.
Would I begrudge a teacher his luxury Mercedes?
Certainly not. Scum and the parents of scum exist solely to service this louse's delusion of usefulness.
And if it belongs to a parent?
So glad you feel able to visit a poor neighbourhood to facilitate Tarquin's continuing 'education'.
It must make the poor kids really look up to your children.

Perhaps the Moslem Armies really should liberate us from the heel of state oppression. Then we can slap statues of worthies with our flip-flops.

Hysterical Inevitability.

Has there ever been an argument more specious, more dishonest and more ineffective than that of 'history', historical 'forces' and the 'winds of change'?
And yet, although utterly useless as an argument, it has been taken up as the zombie chant by millions of people who have plotted to achieve positions of influence, creeping up on the innocent unawares and explaining their manifold transgressions against humanity by means of 'history'.

Let's face it, we must be stupid to be frightened into silent acquiescence by some pathetic bleating about 'history'.
What is history?
History is a record, verbal or documentary, of events that people have committed to by action.
To talk of history as a 'force' is such patent crap that our correct response upon hearing this is incredulous laughter followed by a slap in the face. Or at least, we never take them seriously again.

History cannot possibly be a force, if only because by definition it is a resultant. And a resultant description of event, not an event in itself.

So why do these weirdos appeal to 'history'?
Simple.
Because they know that their actions and planned actions are evil, and they need an excuse to help them pretend they aren't responsible.
They need the sanction of a higher purpose to absolve them of the guilt they try not to feel, and of course, their target for this is the exact opposite of absolution, as it all too predictably must be, since when they stand truth on its head, they never do it by halves.

Personally, I'm waiting for the Feminists to appeal to Herstory.

Message To London.

Counterrevolution-Subverting Subversiveness.

It struck me while watching a vile government mob-hatred-rousing threatvert about benefit 'thieves' just how far the bastard child of Labour has gone in standing the populism of the eighties on its head.

The old Conservative Party introduced the idea of performance tables and accountability, to try and render the overbearing ruler class into the hands of a free populace.

Today, this public engagement has been totally inverted by New Labour, so that the communication is one way, a mixture of fawning slogans designed to demonstrate the grovelling 'efficiency' of the government, mixed with overt threats.

"Believe us or else!" is the watchword of modern tyranny.

In 1992 I obtained an apartment with medical priority. At that time under John Major(the horrid Conservatives) it was possible to get priority with a doctor's say so.
Now it isn't.
Now you have to buy a letter from a doctor, then the local authority will give you a form to fill out effectively taking your money then calling you and the doctor liars.

When in opposition Labour chanted about the 'failure of care in the community'(mentally ill people).
Then, a Section got you 3 months examination as an in-patient.
Now that it's been fixed, it is virtually impossible to get anyone sectioned, and if they are, it's only for two days.

Today we have at your feet/at your throat advertising campaigns, whereas before somebody would knock on your door and politely ask about it-no 'criminal record' no 'interview under caution', just a few questions.
If you admitted you'd done a bit of work on the side and offered to repay some money, they'd forget about it entirely.
Now they criminalise you.

But murderers get released, right?

These New Tyranny Labour bastards don't care about us at all.
They only want to impose their demented job-creation schemes to provide their disfunctional friends with more rungs of Hell to populate.

"Cheer up, Pietr!"

My good friend S.(the mechanic) came by and said, "Here's the keys.Take my bike round the block!"

Well, that is the type of bike.
It's a Honda Fireblade 900, stroked and bored and chipped.
I felt as nervous as on my First Solo.
Certainly, with the V-section racing tyres it was a bit of a handful at low speeds, wanting to fall into and out of turns, but the engine was a marvel; smooth, flexible, and massively powerful.

It's an hour later and I still can't stop smiling.
Gradely, lads!

Freedom And Slavery.

Today I had to get the official test for my car done.
It failed.
Due to an engine misfire(it runs beautifully and starts first time every time) it failed the 'emissions' test.
This test has nothing to do with actual safety or roadworthiness.
It is a government invention which is supposed to declare 'polluting' cars illegal.
As the car isn't worth the cost of repair, I have to find a new one quickly.

It still has another two weeks to live, and it is running as well as ever.

Meanwhile, on the way back from the test station, I took this picture of mechanical confections from the Land of the Free.
The bikes in the foreground are all various Harley Davidsons(now worth more as a brand than GM) but, as you can see from the large signs, Eddy's Motorcycles also stocks Buell, a new American icon, a brand of V-twin sport bikes.
They look the business.
Too bad you can't see any through the gleaming alloy and chrome, eh?
Eddy also has a Triumph shop 100 yards down the road.
I nearly bought a Kwakker there in the eighties. It was a good deal but I was too tight.

Swedish Guvnor? Ay? Know What I Mean?

We Must Repeat!

The Duty Of Entertainment

'Reality Television' reminds me of the absurdist comment in The Fountainhead, where Lancelot Clokey and his pals are chewing the fat; the critic says that in the future, there will be no drama, only everyday life and critics commenting on it.

Well.

It has happened. And Britain is leading the way. Big Brother is a supremely ironic title for something which really is Orwellian.

Meanwhile, Samizdat continues unabated.
There are literally dozens of totally and deliberately undistinguished 'police-type' dramas, in which the old fashioned notion of crime, criminals and justice has been replaced by grossly over-inflated public service announcements.
These include the 'medical' and 'pathology' dramas, in that they all provide opportunities to include various arms of the public service.

Also, schools are now part of the threadbare tapestry on unchallenging, witless and bored-witless non-dramatic dramas.
All aspects of television are ruled by carefully patronised racial profiling and stereo-type, obviously all 'positive' in that the the characterless flesh-lozenges present approved prejudices to camera, and the effect is like being a Catholic Priest hearing confessions at a Bores Anonymous convention.

This is called 'quality' 'entertainment'.

It is actually piss-poor crap.
Thank god for Ugly Betty(which thanks Latino Drama), thank god for the History Channel, thank god for re-runs.
But not of 'Friends', which suits the suits so much they practically devoted a whole channel to it, complete with miserable pastiche sponsorship sketches which stink of fan drama.

The Mouse That Choked

According to Monday's Yorkshire Evening Post the French Prime Minister came to Britain in 1957 to visit Anthony Eden.

He asked to resuscitate the Churchillian idea of a Union between France and Britain; Eden turned him down.

He asked that France be allowed to join the British Commonwealth; Eden turned him down.

Never mind MI5 investigating Harold Wilson.
I'd like to know just what the Hell Eden thought he was playing at.
France-UK? That could have been the basis of an EU which unified British and French ideals of Liberty.
Instead we've got Bismarck 2.

France in the Commonwealth?(And yes, they would have entertained the idea of the Queen as head of state!) That would have been the basis for a proper world power, one that would have shaped history very differently from the way it turned out.

As it was, France overtook the UK economically about 10 to 15 years later.

Thanks, Tony. Tony Eden, that is.

Road Warriors;

Yes, citizen children! We must speak out against bullying!
That's just the Communist bit.
The writing in Green is surreally true to Atlas Shrugged:-"Anti-bullying".

Talk about Sympathy For The Devil.



Meanwhile, anybody reading those little stories about Stuart Bray in my sidebar might wonder what the deal was with Stuart and Citroen; so here are three views of a late model DS!



Left hand drive, almost certainly imported from the South of France where the climate allowed it to survive.
What a fabulous car; first to use molded plastics for the interior, and next time BMW wanks on about 'lights that steer', remember, the DS had them way back in the fifties.

Incidentally, if you pronounce 'DS' as the French do, it makes the French word for 'Goddess'.

De Gaulle survived several assassination attempts in these cars.

Lost Illusion Of Youth

I saw this on TV in 1977, and decided that this was how University would be.
Unfortunately, there weren't any cool people.
Just lounge lizards, creeps, convention junkies and sheep.
God.
What a disappointment.
If only I'd been an American.

Little Towns And Big Men.

This is the Pudsey War Memorial.
Pudsey is a small town in the heights to the West of Leeds, which probably sent hundreds if not thousands of men to fight in the trenches; many of whom never came home.
This memorial compares favourably to the one in Leeds City.
In fact it is three times the size.

This from a town which barely even exists since the 'Metropolitan' authority of Leeds was created in the early seventies.
The size of the memorial isn't due to relative prosperity.
It can only be due to the size of the grief-and pride-of the worthies of Pudsey in the twenties.
In nearly every village in this entire country is a memorial of some kind, either a monolith or a building, which commemorates the immense, voluntary sacrifice made by the great young men of the country.
So please bear this in mind the next time you hear of another soldier being killed in Iraq.
This country fought real wars, where a week in which half a dozen men were killed was regarded as peaceful.
And now, in case the founder of WalMart ever brings out an autobiography called 'Will There Ever Be A Rainbow?', this picture of ASDA(now owned by WalMart) should be comforting.

Remember To Mock The Afflicted.

Once upon a time, in the good old Golden Age of Bobbies, Bobby Socks and Regency Telephone Kiosks, the Gold Standard of sympathy was held aside for those too unfortunate to merit comparison and competition in the big world.

Anybody who has ever seen a Down's Syndrome person doing a good job with painstaking care in an environment which can only be a challenge, will need no second reminder to treat people like these with a light touch, a pleasant air of collaboration in their dare against appalling odds to lead a normal life.


Don't mock the afflicted.

But wait! What's this? You can rely on the fact that self-serving campaigners (social reformers) will have seen our moral largesse, and whenever they see such a thing, their minds spin violently and they formulate dozens of new plans, all designed to deliver our consciences into their 'disinterested' hands for exploitation and enslavement.
So when they hear "Don't mock the afflicted", what do they do?
Obvious.
They produce ever greater legions of 'disabled' allies, creatures that can count on our sympathies even as they invade and destroy our minds.

Did you ever hear the one about Tourette's Syndrome? Sounds to me like a marvellous way to subvert freedom of speech while actually appearing to raise the speech of the 'victims' to sainted status.

How can we fight this?
Morally and practically.

Mock the afflicted.

Killing Us With Cruelty.

Much is made of the 'class distinction' illusion in Britain.
Class is, of course, a strictly Marxist device, designed to intimidate us away from defined value systems and into the vagiaries of less definite values, where we may be safely marshalled, corralled and exploited. Sorry, not exploited, liberated.

However, sick ideologies such as this could not catch on without a pre-existing tendency toward the use of similar concepts; like HIV, Marxism is an exploitative system which outwardly resembles extant sicknesses.
Anyway, snobbery is the system which class exploits; and class judgement is the reward for those who wish delusions of inferiority upon others, whether the manger and the worker, or the Nazi and the Jew, or the Rumanian and the Gypsy.
So why am I discussing this?
Well, today I came through a very, very poor neighbourhood, and saw a toy I'd never seen anywhere else in the world at any time previously.

The poor kid had the toy(a reclining trike with steerable rear wheels). The rich kids?They have school uniforms.
The poor kids have the freedom of the street.
The rich kids have supervised parties.

In other words, the people that are looked down on have all the love, all the generosity, all the freedom- while those whose parents can really afford these, have nothing except a (virtual murder tariff) sentence to the pressure cooker of social conformity, so that one day they can sniff in superiority at the sight of these rough diamonds, and look forward to abusing their own children into the hellishness of 'life as sneer'.

Ever wondered why the poor kids at school had all the cool stuff?
And why the rich kids wanted theirs and yours too?

Maybe you're getting the picture now.

Fat Bastard!

Care of Bagpuss over at Ken Frost.

Miracle Ungrow!

From every parent who doesn't like the way you live, to every other life-form that thinks it knows what's good for you, there is now a solution.

Simply have your 'Problem Child' locked up and drugged, and if that doesn't work, subject them to every form of psychological corruption known to the modern world. Using the Miracle Ungrow(TM) properties of privacy violation, stalking and sleep deprivation, you too can reverse the moral development of actual human beings and become the New Dark Helmet playing with their real-life dolls; merchandising was never this fun before, and it finds untold employment opportunities for demented sociopaths who are incapable of holding down a real job.

Like them, the local authorities can't hold down real jobs either, so they sympathise effusively and with great sensitivity with the barmpot zealots of the new persecution.

Yes.
Miracle Ungrow will rob even stalwarts of their ability to function productively, and satisfy the cravings of the Useless Ones to bind to their victims in an undying death-grip that actually doesn't require physical murder.

We could send the boys around, but that would mean the end of all ambition.
So we don't.

Meanwhile the local politicians proclaim their successes while doing everything in their power to pursue fresh persecutions at the behest of the perpetrators.
For what are the Useless Ones, but new clients?

Holiday Ideas, On The Other Hand...

Makes me proud!

Beer.It's A Serious Business.

This bronze sculpture of Barley is in Leeds, at a mixed-use development on the site of the Tetley's Brewery Wharf.
This was the place used to transfer Joshua Tetley's fine Northern Bitter to barges on the Leeds/Liverpool canal(strictly the Aire and Calder Navigation) for transport across the North and ultimately the world.
The Canal Company head offices are a short walk away, as is the still-busy Tetley's Brewery.
Quite a nice little neighbourhood. There are quite a few privately prosperous people living there.