Irrepressible.info

An Amnesty International appeal, launched on Sunday, is calling on people who use the internet to sign a pledge supporting an end to internet censorship and oppression. Irrepressible.info is a web based campaign seeking the release of a number of prisoners of conscience, people who have been jailed for using the internet to voice their opinions. They are also calling on IT companies like Microsoft, Google and Yahoo to do more to protect people’s right to ‘seek and receive information and to express their peaceful beliefs online without fear or interference’.

People like Shi Tao. A Chinese journalist who is serving 10 years, doing forced labour in terrible conditions in Chishan prison. He emailed an American pro-democracy site about warnings from the Bejing news authority asking news outlet not to cover the anniversary of the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre. Shi Tao sent the email from his Yahoo account. A year later he was in court standing trial for ‘illegally providing state secrets to foreign entities’. Evidence provided by Yahoo’s Chinese partner was used to convict him.

Shi Tao’s wife now endures frequent bullying and interrogation by the authorities and her work place is demanding that she seek a divorce. His parents have also been watched and harassed at work and at home.

Although cases in China are currently receiving the highest profile there are similar abuses reported in Tunisia, Israel, Vietnam and Iran.

I am adding a badge to this site to show my support for this campaign. The issues of (real) freedom of speech, oppression and censorship are obvious and important.

But we can not have a two, three or four-tier internet either. I can’t believe that we can have a global economy, that we can force all the negatives of capitalist systems on the world but we can not do the same with the positives. The internet is a great thing and it is important that people are allowed equal access to it. Particularly as it is now bound to progress and development and will increasingly become a mechanism for people to participate in the global market place.

The internet is one of the few media where people, ordinary people, can act, ask and access equally. We should protect that right.

Imagine not being able to stand up and say that you disagree with something your government are doing or saying, that it offends you morally and ethically. Not being able to alert other people to the injustice and violence faced by so many people every day. In the 21st century.

Imagine not being able to say you think Ruth Kelly looks like a lesbian. Yesterday I used this blog as a minor force for evil. Today I restore the balance.

Also, PKblogs provides access to banned blogspot addresses in India, Pakistan, China and Iran.

Verily, it is now thusly

The good
Erm….

Oh, wait. This is good. Excellent in fact. I’ve got some merchandise. T-shirts, mug and badges. Shout out to Carol who has the know-how. I’m sure that my regular reader will be shipping a crates worth of gear over. Christmas is coming, reader, Christmas is coming.

The bad
Well, I don’t know about you but I’ve had a shitty week. You know those ones where you think it’s just got to better but somehow it never does? One of those. I’ve given up now.

The BB is teething which means that she is miserable most of the time and we can’t do anything to help her. This is soul destroying in ways I have never experienced before. And there is no sign of teeth yet. It’s just her gums preparing themselves for the horror to come. Teeth. What a ridiculous design flaw. You’d think that we would have improved them through evolution by now. You go through agony grow the first set, which then fall out. Then you get another load which take an immense amount of looking after and cost a fortune. Then they fall out and you have to have pretend teeth that hurt. And don’t even mention wisdom teeth. I don’t have wisdom teeth. I know – you’d think I’d have a mouthful.

I’ve had a headache reaching from behind my eyes, up my whole forehead (temple to temple) over to my crown for five days now. It comes and stays. What do you think? Terminal? I think I’m stressed. I’ve never been stressed before. It’s an interesting, and highly unpleasant, phenomenon. Are there tablets you can take? Does it go away on its own or do I need professional help?

The firework problem is ongoing. The neighbours seem to be taking it in turns to taunt us with their fun incendiary devices. I am toying with the idea of calling the police every time one goes up and telling them I can hear gun shots in the shrieking tones of a panicking woman.

Parsnips gave the BB the wind. Terrible, terrible wind. We all suffered equally though.

The ugly
Also, we’ve had an ‘incident at work’ that it has put my thoughts about veils into sharper focus. Actually they're more thoughts about thoughts about veils since I really don't care either way. I think that many people who would like Britain, or more specifically Eng-er-land, to be white would like people of any different ethnicity to disappear, to not have a voice, or a place in our country. And if they are here then they should be invisible and silent. My issue is that unlike the sari, the turban or the even Buddhist monks’ robes the black shrouding of some Muslim women renders them, for me, invisible and silent. That’s exactly what a minority of people want them to be. So it is like the ouroboros which eats its own tail to sustain its life. But as I said in the comments below there is no place in our society for debate on this subject any more and that is the fault of the media, fundamentalists, racists and the government so I will be quiet now. Sssshhh.

A bit of verbal about veils

I am now thoroughly bored with the debate about veils which it seems will never end. If one more damn person asks me what I think about the niqab and hijab I don’t know what I will do but it won’t be pretty or mature.

Before I make a brief, and final, statement I would like to make the following clear:

1. If I were in charge I would ban ALL Religions, even the pretend ones, making it illegal to overtly practise ANY Religion outside your own home. Street preaching would be akin to manslaughter in the eye of my law. Faith would be a private matter.

2. When people start to go on and on about things, any things, I go through four distinct phases. The not really listening because it’s become boring phase, the finding it all quite amusing phase, the this is totally oblivious are you all stupid please be quiet phase and then the holy shit are we still going on about this it’s making me quite angry now phase.

3. I am fundamentally opposed to most Religions on the grounds that they are nearly all inherently homophobic, and none of them seem to find this blatant bigotry unacceptable. Or, in that case of some, ironic.

4. I am fundamentally opposed to most Religions on the grounds that very stupid people are able to use them as an excuse for getting their kicks by killing people, invading countries and generally behaving in ways that would shame the killer chimps of the Mahale Mountains. If a child can’t play with a toy responsibly then a good parent takes away that toy until such a time as said child’s behaviour improves. Same principle should apply.

5. Having said that, although I don’t believe in a God, I believe in believing in one. Or four. Even more if you like.

6. Although I am minded to belive that Religion has very little to do with faith anymore. If it ever did. It has plenty to do with money and power, but not too much to do with faith. Or perhaps that should be Faith.

Anyway, here is that brief, and final, statement:

I am not a huge fan of that black niqab and hijab ensemble you’re wearing. This is because only 7% of communication is verbal.

I’m not concerned that wearing it might be an infringement of your rights as a woman. I’m not worried about what statement about Muslims you are making to the non-Muslim population of Britain.

I just find it very hard to relate to you because, by burying it under swathes of cloth, you are denying me the 93% of communication which I, as a human being, rely on to form any response to our interaction. And I consider learning one of those responses – be that language skills in a classroom or something about you over a latte in a cafe. So, I’m not really bothering to engage 100%, just the 7% which covers being polite in the post office or the supermarket.

Maybe this is sheer laziness on my part. Maybe it’s just that with so many fascinating things in the world and only so many hours in the day, unravelling the thoughts and feelings you’re choosing to hide behind that veil, that you’re choosing to only express 7% of, are simply lower down on my list. And that’s not a reflection on you personally, because that would require some of that other 93%, it's a relfection on me.

There.

Don’t start me on Freedom of Speech. Really. Or Merely the Freedom to Insult People as it’s called nowadays.

Of closets and cabinets

When reading reports yesterday that Ruth Kelly is dragging her comfortably shod heels over the new gay rights legislation I was again agog at the woman. She really is a most fascinating creature.

It’s much like when I was a kid and my mother, who used to drive around the countryside nursing old people, took me to work with her. One patient had a terrible ulcerated leg. I was left in the living room with the ancient cat but I could see the leg through the crack in the door just on the other side of the hallway. If I shut my eyes and think hard enough I can see it now: all wet and red raw in the middle, yellow crusted around the edge and surrounded by blackening skin. It stretched almost the length of the woman’s calf and was being packed with gauze and sudocrem. I should have looked away but I couldn’t, I had nightmares about it. It was utterly repellent and yet totally fascinating. Like our Mrs Kelly.

When she was made Education Secretary there was great excitement in my house. I didn’t know she was a religious fundamentalist then, I’d only seen her picture in the paper and it had sent my gaydar pinging off the scale. I burst through the front door. ‘They’ve done it,’ I cheered. ‘They put a big old out-lesbian in the Cabinet.’

Of course, they hadn’t and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what we’ve ended up with. But what fascinates me, like an ulcerated leg, is this:

If she actually is a committed and certifiable Catholic cult member, if she really does hold ultra-catholic views on homosexuality and abortion, and if she genuinely is a woman riddled with all that bigotry and intolerance then what on earth is she doing? I don’t mean how can she, in all conscience, be the cabinet minister with the equalities brief, although it’s a very good point. I mean: Why does she present as a lesbian.

It’s the sensible shoes, shipping forecast, house full of cats type lesbian. The one with the standing order for the donkey sanctuary and the cupboard full of herbal teas. The one you don’t see around a lot anymore. Which is a shame; I liked her. But even our Ruth has pegged her as a dying breed and is moving on; having done the Wrong Shade of Lipstick Phase she is doing the Growing Long Hair Phase. The stuff of (a now tattered) text book, next she’ll be adopting a more androgynous look to go with her new patent brogues.

A friend of mine, who is now old and wise, spent many years as a fervently practising catholic even though he knew he was gay; he was having a hard time dealing with it. He converted when he was at university and said that it was great to find a place where everyone and everything around you validated your self loathing. As though he was a bulimic being told that not only is it acceptable to binge and vomit, but everyone else should be encouraged to do it as well. He also said that his self esteem plummented to such a depth that he had to turn the fear and hatred outwards on to other people just get by.

He’s much better now, he has self esteem and self respect and doesn’t need to burden himself with guilt and plead for forgiveness every five minutes. So, there is always hope.

Whilst on the subject; I was flicking through some old book yesterday and was reminded that we have an old law in this country that prevents any Catholic from becoming Prime Minister. Really I said to myself, but I thought the Blairs where Catho….

No, no. You’re right. It’s all far too obvious.

Yar boo sucks

I can’t be bothered today. I think I am tired.

I used to get very annoyed with parents when they described their badly behaved offspring as ‘over-tired’. No, I would think to myself, they are just being a little bastard. It’s because they are evil, not because they are over-tired. It turns out that there is such a thing as over-tired. Who knew? BB gets over-tired at tea time when she has only had a 45 minutes power nap in the morning and refused to go to sleep for the rest of the day. Over-tired mainly involves a lot of loud growling noises and bursts of shrill crying. Occasionally there are bouts of kicking followed by some intense wriggling.

I think I am over-tired. I’m going to lie on the floor and make harsh sobbing sounds until someone picks me up and gives me a cuddle.

Improving international relations

A Latvian personage that I know, who is a close family friend (on tD’s side) in a way that is far too complicated to go into, is a big economist in Latvia and is often doing crazy things for his job. Why, only last week he was giving a presentation on something complex and financial to a group of terrribly proper and posh people which included the crown prince of Sweden.

Next week he has got another gig which the queen is going to be at. I have trained him up manners wise and, if she speaks to him, he is going to tell her how much he enjoyed her work in Prime Suspect which I have managed to convince him is a new Metropolitan Police initiative.

So, in a couple of weeks when we throw all the Latvian diplomats out of Britain and declare war on all Baltic states you’ll know why. Entirely my fault.

And all I really want is the new Scissor Sisters CD

It’s my birthday very very soon. I dread it. This is because for my birthday I have to have an expensive item of clothing, like a pair of shoes or a coat or something, to replace whatever has worn out since the last time said item came up in the birthday cycle. This is not only because we are poor as little hungry, cold and tatty church mice but also because I hate shopping and hate clothes, so have a tiny tiny wardrobe. I don’t hate clothes in the I’d-Prefer-To-Walk-Around-Naked kind of a way. I hate clothes in a What-A-Pointless-Waste-Of-Time-Open-Brackets-And-Also-Newspaper-Print-Close-Brackets-Fashion-Is kind of a way.

How odd then that I should look so hot you’re thinking, aren’t you? Aren’t you?

I’ve now learnt that me and the Saturday Guardian don’t mix so I don't speak from first hand experience, but tD went into a paroxysm of rage a couple of weekends ago when she read in the magazine that one of the female fashion persons had saved up to buy a slender tone machine when she was twelve. Twelve years of age that is. Honestly. If BB saves up for a slender tone machine when she is twelve years of age I will consider myself an abject failure as a parent and I will do myself, BB, tD and the rest of the nascent population a favour and top myself forthwith. And she wrote this herself, like she was proud of it. Bizarre.

Anyway, back to me.

I find myself the proud owner of merely five shirts, eight t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a pair of baggy dark olive green trousers, a pair of fisherman pants, two (and a half) jumpers, a tank top, a cardigan, two suits, a pair of proper shoes, a pair of broken wabis and a pair of Birkenstocks. A green leather jacket, a navy velvet jacket and a bright blue hoodie. And that is all. And underwear obviously, including vests. Also, passable gym kit including same vests and trainers.

Sadly though Birthday /Time To Buy A Coat is upon us. I got away without one last year by Layering-Up but as I am now a responsible parent I’m going to have to stop looking so much like the Artful Dodger and more like Mary Poppins. This means that I will be dragged round a variety of shops trying on coat after coat after coat until one which is deemed Suitable is found. I will then take Suitable Coat back after a week and change it for the first one I saw.

Then we will have the mildest winter in the history of winters and I will be permanently too hot.

And then it will be Christmas. By which time I will have worn out my jeans and will need a new pair. Then there will be recriminations because I have allowed them to drag along the floor at the back and worn them out faster (true).

They also, apparently, wear out faster because I only wash them once a month. They are jeans. They are inherently self cleaning (less true).

On the positive side though (as I am adopting a more sunny approach again this week) it might be all different at The Shops with BB and extensive accessories in tow and I do wash my jeans more regularly as they do get vomited over with more frequency these days. And not by me I hasten to add.

Welcome to blogger beta

This must be how Dorothy felt when she, rubbing the bump on her head, opened the door of her house to find herself newly arrived in Munchkinland, at the foot of the yellow brick road.

Yee-ouch.

I like jazz

If a novel is like a portentous symphony and modern journalism is the equivalent of frothy pop then short stories could be three minute blasts of anthemic rock. Surely then, chick lit is the smaltzy ballad and academic papers the yowling of sixties folk. If political speech writing is anaemic boyband harmonising and advertising copywriting five finger pieces for the beginner pianist, then blogging is jazz.

You listen for ages to the doodling, tooting trumpet, squawking and squealing away, seemingly oblivious to everything else. It goes on and on and then all of a sudden there is it; that great sequence. The killer riff. The minutes pass unnoticed.

Then it’s gone again.

And we listen to yet more of the doodling, the tooting, the squawking and squealing, waiting for the next hook to grab us.

Hard knock life

I learnt nothing this weekend. So I've either attained omniscience or I'm a cocky little bugger. You decide. I already know because I'm omniscient. That's a clue, people.

I was in a foul mood all week last week. I'm attempting a more sunny disposition this week but not holding out much hope. Look at the weather for a start. I wonder if this week I will be able to whip myself into a towering rage by Thursday and spend Friday in a righteous sulk again. I did enjoy that. Although I did post quite politely with very minimal ranting. Because I'm attempting to be ingratiating, I expect.

I went to bed a half past eight yesterday and didn't allow myself to succumb to the decadent production values the BBC (who I'm still cross with) surely lavished on their adaptation of Jane Eyre. I now regret this as I wanted to check whether the people who cobble together the Guide in the Saturday Guardian were right that Jane Eyre is about a poor orphan who struggles to cope with life at a harsh boarding school (or words to that effect). I thought it was about a governess, a sub-Heathcliffe irritant and a mad woman in the attic. Perhaps la Guardianistas are confusing it with Annie. I can see how you could get Rochester and Daddy Warbucks muddled and think that Miss Hannigan is locked in the attic. I really can. Although technically Annie was in an orphanage. Same thing though, basically.

Never mind, Spooks is on today. I'm loving that they decide to turn it into a comedy for this series.

What else? I'm psyching myself up today as I'm going for a run tomorrow. This is will be highly amusing as I haven't been for a run for two months and I'm going at lunchtime. So I will have to spend the afternoon lying under my desk in the big wide open plan office groaning and panting. Highly irregular for a Tuesday.

Friday round up

Introduction
Friday’s post is becoming a bit of a summary covering many of the recent misfortunes to have befallen me, and the triumphs to have caught me unawares. So, although I am in danger of instituting a tradition, I shall crack on with the summary of where I am at or thereabouts for you.

Reading
I have finished the Bullet Trick. Hoorah. I am fully intending to write a measured and thoughtful review to make up for my previous petulance but I have shoved it on the bookshelf and each attempt to pick it up again results in an enormous wave of sorrow crashing down upon me, dashing me against the rocks of righteous indignation and feverish disappointment.

Televisual confusion
I was messing about with my camera last night and so didn’t plonk myself in front of the television until quarter to ten. I popped on BBC 1, even though I am Cross With The BBC At The Moment, and was most confused to find myself watching a docudrama where Tony Blair was extolling his own virtues as a God in a rather angsty fashion. Then, imagine my amazement, he confessed to having killed people and done all kinds of terrible things. Remarkable I thought. Then he, or perhaps it was Gordon or Claire, stuck a knife up through his chin and it made a noise exactly like when you crack Ice Magic with a spoon. At least I think that what happened with the knife and the chin. I have finely honed reflexes for that kind of thing so was already well under the sofa with my fingers over my ears and my thumbs in my eyes singing Yellow Submarine very loudly to avoid any TV gore induced trauma. Anyway, it transpired that it was not actually a sequel to The Deal but the same actor playing Nero, of the Roman Empire. I did wonder about the togas but thought that may be down to some strange Mandleson/ Campbell/ Blair Greco-Roman wrestling tournament. I think Martin Sheen is his name. He’s not related to Gloria Estefan either.

Football
We have discovered that the team that lost the final of the womens’ five-a-side football tournament had reached the final in the three previous years and so now feel less bad about the sound trouncing we received. Although I can’t even begin to talk about the winners yet. Bitches.

Annoying crazy people
The Mad Man Who Lives Up The Road has a new personality to add to the veritable post office queue he has already accumulated. I shall call her Fanny. She is very irritating with an incredibly loud high pitched voice and grave concerns about her job security. She fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack, she fears the sack. Perhaps Fanny would perform a little better at work if she didn’t spent most of her time walking up and down my street screeching. I preferred Clive the Librarian. He used to rearrange the shelves in the library and hide the Ruth Rendell’s in the back of the cookery section. I liked him. The library staff liked him less though he meant they had to do some Work. Heaven forfend.

Outrage
I inadvertently left Sad Little Clancy’s door unlocked for three nights and no one stole her, slept in her, pissed in her or threw rubbish in her. I am outraged. The Subaru up the road went like a hot cake. I think I will buy Sad Little Clancy a spoiler and a neon racing stripe.

Most importantly
Bambino Bamboo is four months old today. Happy sortofbirthday [exclamation mark] She’s doing lots of interesting things and being adorable but this is the round up post so there’ll be no more of that.

And there we are. Vaarwel, gentle reader.

Some things are better than others

Camels are better than giraffes
Radishes are better than spring onions
Stout is better than bitter
Mittens are better than gloves
Rice is better than noodles
Sarcasm is better than irony
London is better than Paris
Hands are better than feet
Jumpers are better than cardigans
Drinking is better than smoking
Hiccups are better than pins and needles
Snow is better than sand
Sculpture is better than painting
Spiders are better than daddy long legs
Shirts are better than blouses
Football is better than cricket
Triangles are better than tambourines
Tigers are better than lions
Felt tips are better than crayons
Octopus are better than jellyfish
Orange is better than purple
Chairs are better than benches
Tulips are better than daffodils
Salad cream is better than mayonnaise
Belts are better than braces
Winter is better than summer
Letters are better than emails
Cheese is better than chocolate
Silence is better than muttering
Running is better than cycling

Friday: brought to you by the number 8

One
For some reason today I thought it would be appropriate if I just combed my hair with a breeze block, cleaned my teeth with some old dusty flock wallpaper and inflicted myself upon the world. I do apologise for my ramshackle appearance. I truly am a tumbling down former council house in human form.

Two
Someone asked me a very good question earlier. They came up to me and whispered in my ear; ‘Julianne Moore or Carrie Anne Moss?’

Hmmm. How well they know me.

Three
Why has Robin Williams made yet another spooky film, in the manner of One Hour Photo and Insomnia? I know he stopped the comedy when the drugs stopped working and went all sentimental, but spooky? I don’t like it.

Mind you, this could be like the time I got Bob Hoskins and Danny Devito mixed up and had some very trying conversations about The Long Good Friday. Who would I get Robin Williams mixed up with though? Maybe Kathy Bates.

Four
Damn you, Flashman. I wish we’d never mentioned the sex blog thing. Trugnugget says he’ll pay me £100 to post something really graphic as long as it’s true. Minzie says she’ll pay me £200 not to post it. But The Lovely Mrs Tashoka says ‘£500 in [my] pocket and [she’ll] give [me] something to write about to boot. I want to go and hide in the cupboard under the sink with the bleach.

On the other hand we really do need the money.

Five
Three people have asked me if I will please act like a grown up for once and get feed. Feed? Yes, feed. Or fucking feed as it seems to be called in some circles. So, I said; ‘Well, I will have to find out what the etiquette for that is and I will get back to you. Piss Midget.’ When I say ‘find out what the etiquette is’ I of course mean ‘find out what feed is, exactly’.

Six
If I’d known that M&Ms were offering a reward of 2 million M&Ms for the return of The Scream I’d have looked a bit harder. Instead of glancing around the living room briefly and going; ‘tD, have you seen my The Scream? I can’t find it. Have you moved it again?’ like I usually do. If I find out I’d accidentally kicked it under the sofa again I’m going to be livid.

Seven
Please, in the name of all that is decent and clean and lightly perfumed, let me finish The Bullet Trick soon. It is possibly the most tedious book I have ever read in my life and, yes, I have read a Fay Weldon novel in my time. How can you construct a thriller with absolutely no tension whatsoever? And they all said it was a thriller, not me. Also, please stop jumping around like that. Two pages; Berlin back to Glasgow – what is the point of that? Two pages? Besides I have no idea what you are talking about anymore because I am bored. I am on the verge of an exclamation mark and I think I already made it clear how I feel about those pernicious punctuants.

Having spat that, The Cutting Room is a terribly good book, though. I would recommend you read that as it is perhaps my favourite inch of a three foot bookshelf teaming with quality Scottish crime/noir novels.

Seven and a half
Shut up Fay Weldon, or it’s the glue factory for you, my love.

Eight
When I recall who it was that put Windmills of Your Mind in my head they are in for some severe discomfiture. I have never experienced such a complex and distracting earworm in my entire life. And I once had Shine on You Crazy Diamond in there for a week so I know of what I moan. Dang Dang Dang Dowwwww. I’ve had to find out the Windmill lyrics because the doodling noise was driving me insane.

Aw, crappla. Now they’re both in there.

Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never ending or beginning, on an ever-spinning reel, as the images unwind, like the circles that you find, in the Dang Dang Dang of Your Dowwww.

Make it stop.

Verily, it is thusly

So. In summary:

The good
My daughter continues to be quite the most remarkable human being I have ever come across. She is making a great new noise which is virtually impossible to spell but goes something like 'Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhoouu uuuuuuuuuummmmmmaaaaaaahhhhhhhoouuuuuu.’ She can sustain it for ages so must have great big lungs, although from the outside her chest cavity appears to be of a normal size.

I can only think of one bad thing and one ugly thing (see below).

Work is not tooooo noxious; an unusual turn of event particularly given it being shit-missed-deadlines-by-days-for-no-good-reason time of the month. My ‘boss’ is on holiday, but I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Much. At all. Oh, okay.

Autumn is almost upon us. I love the autumn, it's much better than that summer nonsense we have to put up with. Specifically, I love days like last Wednesday which, if you recall, was an exemplary example of autumnal fabulousness. Crisp and fresh. Bright sun, sharp shadows. My carbon footprint is tiny tiny, you know. Stop global warming.

I made a spectacular bean curry yesterday and there’s enough left over to feed the entire North Korean army so I’m in for an easy time making the dinner tonight. I’m in charge of the cooking in my house, you see. Scary but true.

It’s Friday. I think that one’s clear, yes?

The bad
My Camper Wabis have finally broken. It's awful - I love them so. The rubber outer shoe is cracked and letting in water. Cricklewood Braodway water too. Shudder. I made the mistake of pulling the orange liner out yesterday and, not to put too fine a point on it, it stank to high heaven of damp foliage. Exactly the way the organic recycling box smelt when I forgot to put it out and it went all warm. The coco foot bed, or whatever is, is almost totally ripped away from the rest of the sock. It was also caked in all sorts of detritus from Gladstone Park and environs. I wondered why they were so uncomfortable. Although I am wearing them as I write this. Poverty ditactes, poor me. Also, please note I have had them long enough to wear them out completely so I’m not one of those evil Queens -park-dwelling-fashion-victim-media-whore-croc-wearing-fly-by-nights.

The ugly
I had a small debate with Cheesy Q which turned a little (okay, a lot) toxic about why I suddenly have a blog given that ‘blogging is so ovah, moron’. Apparently, 'because I want one’ is not an adequate reason and I should have a different, better reason like ‘because I want to be famous like all those other bloggers that were on the radio’ or ‘because I have an ego the size of a planet’. What? The Qs argument fell apart on grounds of logic and basic humanity later in the exchange and I showed no mercy. Let that be a lesson to all and sundry. I shall do as I like. So there.

Right, enough random drivel. Come back for the next installment when I will tell about you all about my encounter with the suicidal giant dragonfly at the top of St Paul Avenue, London, NW2. Heady stuff.

Au revoir.

Random question

So. Who is funnier?

Darth Vader or David Cameron?

David or Darth, David or Darth? Come on, it's easy.

Not a book review (mighty long though)

I’ve taken the risky step of re-reading a book I loved when I was young and innocent and had hopes for my future. Always a very dangerous thing to do. What would happen if I didn’t like it? Would that mean that all the other books liked then are also rubbish? Would it mean that my taste is a fickle, fickle thing and not to be trusted? Or that when I was a teenager I was a complete muppet? The very thought.

I warmed up for this epic endeavour with a re-read of Sarah Waters’ Affinity which I didn’t like too much the first time round because the end is like being smacked very very hard in the face with a gravel encrusted shovel. And not in a nice way, like the twist halfway through Fingersmith, either. Affinity is a little less painful the second time round, but then most things are.

I’m supposed to be struggling through The Bullet Trick by Louise Welsh and I’m not enjoying it so much that I’m prepared to fully commit to it, but I’m not hating so much that I can dump it and walk away feigning indifference and swearing never to return its calls. So, I’ve put it to one side for a bit...

..And picked up the book in question: Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden. I had to go and buy myself another copy because I lent my careworn original to someone and can’t remember who. I do remember being almost violent in my recommendation of it so they probably took it away from me for my own good.

I first read it when I was about 17. Mainly (by this I mean solely) because it had the words ‘…a young husband and wife who both fall in love with the same woman…’ and when you’re 17 and live in a small village outside a claustrophobic, hicky little town people pass at speed on the M1 those words are rarely found on the back of a book in WHSmiths and therefore to be pounced upon.

So, the other evening I sat myself down, on the floor, in a semi darkened room and tentatively read the first couple of pages. Then I had a glass of wine. I read on. It’s still good.

The relief.

Hemingway worked on it whenever the mood took him (I know that feeling) between 1946 and 1961. I’m sure he would have liked to have worked on it more but he died. Nice excuse Ernesto. So, it’s not finished which lends it a kind of ambiguity that really suits the book. There’s also some controversy about the extent to which is it actually a Hemingway novel, given that the original manuscript was over 1,500 pages long and the book in my hands only has 247 pages, all of them soiled by the publisher’s blue pen. Again, this really works for me. It’s very rough and very lean. It was finally published in 1986, provoking a frenzy of sorts.

There's also a funny story about him appearing with his hair dyed red whilst he was writing it. Just for a couple of days, you understand. He tried it. He didn't like it. Fair enough.

I like to think I am ambivalent about Hemingway, him being so macho and abusive and all, and then I think about what he wrote and find myself going ‘yeah, I like that’ and ‘oh, yes, that’s good too.’ Also, Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises has the most fantastic paragraph in it:

‘The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drinking kept up, the noise went on. The things that happened could only have happened during the fiesta. Everything became quite unreal finally and it seemed as though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it heard. It was the same feeling for any action. It was the fiesta and it was on for seven days.’

I’m also a little in love with Lady Brett Ashley. A little. Who am I kidding?

Smoking, it's bad for y'all, y'all.

Heaven help us all. Trugnugget is giving up smoking. You wouldn’t believe the tantrums. Poor chap is trying all the possibilities. Patches, gum, those funny stick things that look alarmingly like tampon applicators. Sadly, he was using them all at once to speed his kicking the habit– no surprise then when he experienced a tragic nicotine overdose and vomited. He really is quite quite stupid.

I, myself, “gave up smoking” a couple of years ago, (three was it? Can’t remember*) and didn’t use any crutches at all. Just stopped puffing on the old cancer sticks.

I did however find this tally very useful (scroll down almost to the bottom, it’s on the right). I think it the combination of seeing his numbers going up on naked blog, seeing the boggling saving of stopping, and knowing that out there someone else is giving up as well.

I have advised Trugnugget of this and I imagine he is there now, huddled shivering and petulant over his PC counting out pennies and other small change trying to count in the right order above 4. It’s 2 then 3, dear Truggers.

Of course, this good news for Trugnugget’s lungs is bad news for me – who shall I drunkenly bum cigarettes off now*, eh? Who?

*I am the worst ex-smoker that ever was. This is no reflection on the naked blog totaliser which remains, along with the rest of the blog, source of inspiration**.

**Is this a bit creepy? Are three links*** in one post too many? I don’t care.

***Four.

Get dooced

I noted with mild-to-no interest the debate about Catherine S who got sacked because of her blog, then yesterday my boss said to me ‘Do you wish I didn’t read your blog so you could diss me on it?’

What a twat.

Pardon?

I told you, didn't I? You can't believe, sorry I mean, understand a word Tony Blair says. He is honey? You want to do what?