A couple of people have already pointed this out, but it bears repeating.
The British Government's current stance on Zimbabwean asylum seekers shames us all. They've let in psychos, terrorists, and killers from all over the world. Many Algerian immigrants are rather pissed off that the UK have insisted on letting in the very killers that drove them out of Algeria in the first place. Now, here is one case where we know the claims are genuine, we know the people need our help, and we're sending them back to be slaughtered.
I believe that Tony Blair has done a considerable amount in the cause of freedom, and could be rightly proud of all he's done to combat tyranny — until this week. This one issue cancels all of that out. This is an evil act. I hope he dies.
Tuesday, 28 June 2005
Monday, 27 June 2005
A thought.
It'll be an odd sight: next year, Wimbledon will be a sea of tartan.
The huge roars of an English crowd watching Henman will pale in comparison to what we'll hear from the Scots watching Murray.
Expect some arrests.
Friday, 24 June 2005
The dream.
Not the first time this has been on the Web. It was a long time ago now; '93, in fact. I still remember it vividly.
I was with my friends Ben & Eoin, and had just got home, or thought I had. I was a student at St Andrews at the time, so lived in a hall of residence: St Salvator's, or Sallie's, as it was known; a beautiful big building by the sea. You could see the sea from my window, usually.
Anyway, we get as far as the door of my room, but my key doesn't fit. Odd. We resort to knocking. The door is opened by some guy I vaguely know, and behind him I can see that the room isn't mine. It's my door, all right, although for some reason it's gained a little wire grill at eye level, giving it the air of a prison cell; but my room is not behind it. The vaguely-known guy explains: they've rearranged the building while I've been out, and swapped a few of the rooms around. No, he doesn't know where mine is. Typical.
So we go looking. First place to check is, of course, the door behind which vaguely-known guy used to live, but it's never going to be that easy: my room's not there. So we start a thorough check of Sallie's. We're not alarmed or anything yet. I'd like to find my room — my stuff's in there, after all — but we're not busy and we're in no hurry, so we're enjoying the novelty of it all.
Our search eventually takes us out on to The Scores, the road behind the building, the road that my room used to overlook. I don't know why we were looking out there, but we hadn't found my room in the building, so.... Well, it made sense at the time. Anyhow, this is where I first start to get suspicious. The white lines down the middle of the road have been replaced. With jungle. This long, narrow dotted line of thick tropical undergrowth extends down the middle of the road, as if the white paint that you'd usually expect to see there has been colonised by the most fertile plants on the planet. Weird. Beautiful.
At first, I just think it's brilliant, and so does Ben; Eoin's not that interested. Ben & I commend the local council or town planners or whoever it is that has taken this brave decision in ultra-modern and somewhat surreal road design. But then, suddenly, it strikes me that this is a little odd. Moving rooms within a building? Why had I accepted something like that? It simply doesn't happen. And this road/jungle thing: bloody weird, to say the least. In fact....
"Hey, guys," I say, "I think things are getting a little bit too weird around here. I think this might be a dream."
"No, man," says Ben. "Things are weird, yeah, but it's happening, man, and we're a part of it." Ben really did speak like that.
"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to say here, Ben — and I wish you were right, 'cause this is just amazing — but this is too strange. It's got to be a dream."
"Will you two stop arguing and come on?" says Eoin tetchily. "It doesn't matter, does it? We've got a room to find."
"No, man, this is important," says Ben. "Reality is changing around us as never before...."
And then I woke up.
My eyes opened slightly; I took in the room. I was in bed with Vic, and it was the middle of the night. Oddly enough, this bit — the bit where I was actually conscious — I don't remember, but Vic tells me I woke her up, urgently told her that I had to go and tell Ben, and dropped straight back out like a light, leaving her thoroughly awake and a tad annoyed.
I had been awake for less than a minute. The guys don't seem to have missed me.
"Ben, man, listen to me," I say urgently. "I just checked. I'm asleep, in bed, at Vic's! This is a dream."
But he still doesn't believe me, and Eoin still isn't interested. Tsk.
Later, we find an infinite water-slide in the basement.
I was with my friends Ben & Eoin, and had just got home, or thought I had. I was a student at St Andrews at the time, so lived in a hall of residence: St Salvator's, or Sallie's, as it was known; a beautiful big building by the sea. You could see the sea from my window, usually.
Anyway, we get as far as the door of my room, but my key doesn't fit. Odd. We resort to knocking. The door is opened by some guy I vaguely know, and behind him I can see that the room isn't mine. It's my door, all right, although for some reason it's gained a little wire grill at eye level, giving it the air of a prison cell; but my room is not behind it. The vaguely-known guy explains: they've rearranged the building while I've been out, and swapped a few of the rooms around. No, he doesn't know where mine is. Typical.
So we go looking. First place to check is, of course, the door behind which vaguely-known guy used to live, but it's never going to be that easy: my room's not there. So we start a thorough check of Sallie's. We're not alarmed or anything yet. I'd like to find my room — my stuff's in there, after all — but we're not busy and we're in no hurry, so we're enjoying the novelty of it all.
Our search eventually takes us out on to The Scores, the road behind the building, the road that my room used to overlook. I don't know why we were looking out there, but we hadn't found my room in the building, so.... Well, it made sense at the time. Anyhow, this is where I first start to get suspicious. The white lines down the middle of the road have been replaced. With jungle. This long, narrow dotted line of thick tropical undergrowth extends down the middle of the road, as if the white paint that you'd usually expect to see there has been colonised by the most fertile plants on the planet. Weird. Beautiful.
At first, I just think it's brilliant, and so does Ben; Eoin's not that interested. Ben & I commend the local council or town planners or whoever it is that has taken this brave decision in ultra-modern and somewhat surreal road design. But then, suddenly, it strikes me that this is a little odd. Moving rooms within a building? Why had I accepted something like that? It simply doesn't happen. And this road/jungle thing: bloody weird, to say the least. In fact....
"Hey, guys," I say, "I think things are getting a little bit too weird around here. I think this might be a dream."
"No, man," says Ben. "Things are weird, yeah, but it's happening, man, and we're a part of it." Ben really did speak like that.
"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to say here, Ben — and I wish you were right, 'cause this is just amazing — but this is too strange. It's got to be a dream."
"Will you two stop arguing and come on?" says Eoin tetchily. "It doesn't matter, does it? We've got a room to find."
"No, man, this is important," says Ben. "Reality is changing around us as never before...."
And then I woke up.
My eyes opened slightly; I took in the room. I was in bed with Vic, and it was the middle of the night. Oddly enough, this bit — the bit where I was actually conscious — I don't remember, but Vic tells me I woke her up, urgently told her that I had to go and tell Ben, and dropped straight back out like a light, leaving her thoroughly awake and a tad annoyed.
I had been awake for less than a minute. The guys don't seem to have missed me.
"Ben, man, listen to me," I say urgently. "I just checked. I'm asleep, in bed, at Vic's! This is a dream."
But he still doesn't believe me, and Eoin still isn't interested. Tsk.
Later, we find an infinite water-slide in the basement.
Blogging about blogging.
My apologies. This is a boring blog-software-maintenance-type post. Still, has to be done. Sometimes.
Lately, on some machines, I've been having real difficulty posting comments to this blog, which is annoying, 'cause it's mine. I notice that the general volume of comments has died down lately, which could just be because I've been so remarkably right about everything that no-one can find it in themselves to disagree, but a niggling smidgin of self-doubt tells me that other people might be having the same commenting difficulties as me. So, if you're finding that you can't leave comments on this blog, let me know by leaving a... er.... Oh, bugger.
Lately, on some machines, I've been having real difficulty posting comments to this blog, which is annoying, 'cause it's mine. I notice that the general volume of comments has died down lately, which could just be because I've been so remarkably right about everything that no-one can find it in themselves to disagree, but a niggling smidgin of self-doubt tells me that other people might be having the same commenting difficulties as me. So, if you're finding that you can't leave comments on this blog, let me know by leaving a... er.... Oh, bugger.
Gulags.
Bob Strauss Jr has submitted Mark Steyn's letter of the week this week. Steyn doesn't keep the letters archived online, and this deserves to be read widely, so I'm going to perform a public service and publish it here.
And here's Natan Sharansky, who, lest we forget, spent time in the real Gulag and therefore knows what he's talking about, nailing exactly what's wrong with Amnesty's claims:
With all the talk about Guantanamo being a so-called "gulag," why isn't anyone talking about the real gulag right down the road? In eastern Cuba, a stone's throw from Guantanamo, is a remnant of Castro's massive concentration-camp system, Boniato Prison. Boniato even today houses political prisoners in horrendous conditions. In pointing out how ridiculous it is for Amnesty International to label Gitmo a "gulag," commentators use Stalin by comparison. The more immediate comparison, Castro, is still operating his extensive jail and labor-camp nightmare. On the same island . That favorite revolutionary of Michael Moore and Oliver Stone held, at the minimum, 30,000 political prisoners at any given time in the '60s and '70s. It's hard to pin down the exact figure because estimates are all over the place: the number of Fidel's political prisoners in those years could have been much higher. Suffice it to say, he ran a gulag in the fullest sense, with unimaginable physical and psychological brutality. Robert Redford's favorite motorcyclist, Che Guevara, was Fidel's chief executioner at the inception of Castro's gulag. T-shirt icon Che directed the execution of hundreds of political prisoners by firing squad at La Cabana fortress prison in Havana. I'm sure everyone caught that in the movie version, right? If not, go on down to Hot Topic - they'll tell you all about it. As for the details of Castro's gulag brutality, the best source is Armando Valladares' book, Against All Hope: A Memoir of Life In Castro's Gulag. What was that word, CNN and Harry Reid? Valladares spent 22 years as a poilitical prisoner in Castro's dungeons and his account should be read by everyone who wants to get a clear view of what a true gulag is all about. And it ain't about female interrogators standing too close to an interrogatee. Valladares describes the "drawer cells," for instance: at, of all places, Boniato next door to Gitmo. "Drawer cells" were holes scooped out of a slope that prisoners were sometimes crammed into. Raw dirt. There wasn't enough room in a drawer cell for the prisoner to stand up. After a few days in a drawer cell, it was not uncommon for a person to emerge stark crazy. That kind of sadism ran rampant in Fidel's gulag. Somehow, I missed the mention of that kind of torture in discussions of unacceptable vegetable choices at Guantanamo. Let's keep in mind Fidel's actual gulag next door when gross exaggerations of Guantanamo get the NY Times editorial board into a frenzy.
And here's Natan Sharansky, who, lest we forget, spent time in the real Gulag and therefore knows what he's talking about, nailing exactly what's wrong with Amnesty's claims:
"I have very serious criticisms of Amnesty. There is no moral clarity. It doesn't differentiate between what I call fear societies and free societies," Mr. Sharansky said.
"In the democratic world, there are violations of human rights, but they are revealed and dealt with. In a fear society, there are no violations of human rights because human rights just don't exist," said Mr. Sharansky, who now lives in Israel and has served in its parliament and Cabinet. "Amnesty International says it doesn't support or oppose any political system, so it ends up with reports that show a moral equivalence" among regimes.
Thursday, 23 June 2005
Paul Danan is a genius.
OK, first of all, if you don't live in the UK or don't watch crappy TV, this post will probably mean nothing at all to you. Tough. Anyway.
I admit that, when I first saw him, I was as fooled as everyone else: I thought he was an obnoxious, puerile, self-absorbed, emotionally prepubescent moron. But, as I watched more and more in appalled fascination, the horrific realisation dawned on me that he's actually an obnoxious, puerile, self-absorbed, emotionally prepubescent bloody genius. His entire peronality is a meticulously calculated act designed to get him laid — and, preposterously, it works. For those of you who didn't watch any of Celebrity Love Island, here's a summary of Paul's chat-up technique:
He waits a day or an hour or a few minutes, then switches to:
He then takes a break while he goes and sleeps with some other woman, with whom he openly claims to be madly in love. Any woman will do. Having got his end away, he comes back and says:
You watch this and think the guy must be a total moron. I mean, there's no way this could ever work, right? He's just going to get slapped and screamed at, right? And, if the women he targets had any self-respect, that is probably what would happen. But they don't, so his technique works every time.
Unbelievable.
Why did no-one tell me about this when I was single?
I admit that, when I first saw him, I was as fooled as everyone else: I thought he was an obnoxious, puerile, self-absorbed, emotionally prepubescent moron. But, as I watched more and more in appalled fascination, the horrific realisation dawned on me that he's actually an obnoxious, puerile, self-absorbed, emotionally prepubescent bloody genius. His entire peronality is a meticulously calculated act designed to get him laid — and, preposterously, it works. For those of you who didn't watch any of Celebrity Love Island, here's a summary of Paul's chat-up technique:
You've got great tits, love. I mean, really, really perfect tits. Nice arse, too. Nice and round and pert. Can I touch it?
He waits a day or an hour or a few minutes, then switches to:
Fuck off, you bitch! I fucking hate you! Don't look at me. I don't want nothing to do with you. Shut up! Fuck off! Didn't you fucking hear me? I said, fuck off!
He then takes a break while he goes and sleeps with some other woman, with whom he openly claims to be madly in love. Any woman will do. Having got his end away, he comes back and says:
I'm really falling for you, babe. I think... I think you could be the one. I... I love you. I want to stay with you... forever.
You watch this and think the guy must be a total moron. I mean, there's no way this could ever work, right? He's just going to get slapped and screamed at, right? And, if the women he targets had any self-respect, that is probably what would happen. But they don't, so his technique works every time.
Unbelievable.
Why did no-one tell me about this when I was single?
And so to bed.
Last night, I dreamt that I was in some sort of school with Diarmuid Gavin teaching us all about the Second World War. I wasn't a kid, so it must have been an adult ed class; and it was outside in the fresh air and sunshine, in a park, which was nice. Anyway, an interesting discussion developed about something or other, and Diarmuid was just about to explain a very important point about whatever it was when he was interrupted by the sudden onset of snow. I remember that I thought that that wasn't so surprising for this time of year, which just goes to show how stupid I can be when I'm asleep.
I've had weirder dreams.
I've had weirder dreams.
Tuesday, 21 June 2005
Two stupid questions.
Keen Squander-watchers might be interested to know that, two-and-a-half months after I complained to them about their months-long delay, the DVLNI still haven't issued me with a driving license. This is because they put my application form in one file, my medical questionnaire in another, failed to correlate the two, and sat around scratching their arses until I rang up a couple of weeks ago to enquire whether I was ever going to get a license, at which point they told me that they had never received an application form from me (despite having returned my passport, which I had sent them in the same envelope) and had lost my GB license, and that I'd have to start the whole process again from scratch, with the added wonderfulness of applying to the DVLA for a replacement for my GB license. I asked for a manager to call me back, and a nice lady whom I shall call Masie and who, it seems, is not a fuckwit, actually went and looked for my application, found it, called me back, apologised, gave me her direct number, and promised to fast-track the application.
So I rang Masie just now to find out how it was going. She wasn't in. Her phone was answered by a very bored-sounding woman who clearly had better things to do with her time. I explained that I was just ringing to check the progress of the application and that Masie had said she'd fast-track it for me, and she responded:
Hmm. Maybe she was going to put it in Mrs Flaxby's in-tray; maybe she was going to phone Mr Wetherby; maybe she was going to write "Fast-track this!!!!" on it with her special green marker, possibly underlining it, twice. I don't bloody know. Why on Earth would any sane employee be asking me this question?
Anyway, I grudgingly didn't insult her, and she grudgingly went and found out that I have been approved for a ten-year license, and they're planning to actually print the thing and send it to me any time now. Wow. I get to swap my lifetime GB license for a ten-year NI license, it takes less than six months, and it's free of charge. Can't say you don't get value for money from the British Government.
Last night on the BBC, far away but in the same bizarre universe of inanity, Sue Barker asked Maria Sharapova the following question about her Wimbledon performance last year, when, lest we forget, she thrashed everyone:
No, Sue. It is mere coincidence that she didn't win Wimbledon when she was eleven.
I'd love to infer some sort of link here between publicly-fundedness and stupid-question-askingness, but sports commentators probably don't make for the most illustrative example.
So I rang Masie just now to find out how it was going. She wasn't in. Her phone was answered by a very bored-sounding woman who clearly had better things to do with her time. I explained that I was just ringing to check the progress of the application and that Masie had said she'd fast-track it for me, and she responded:
How was Masie going to fast-track this application?
Hmm. Maybe she was going to put it in Mrs Flaxby's in-tray; maybe she was going to phone Mr Wetherby; maybe she was going to write "Fast-track this!!!!" on it with her special green marker, possibly underlining it, twice. I don't bloody know. Why on Earth would any sane employee be asking me this question?
Anyway, I grudgingly didn't insult her, and she grudgingly went and found out that I have been approved for a ten-year license, and they're planning to actually print the thing and send it to me any time now. Wow. I get to swap my lifetime GB license for a ten-year NI license, it takes less than six months, and it's free of charge. Can't say you don't get value for money from the British Government.
Last night on the BBC, far away but in the same bizarre universe of inanity, Sue Barker asked Maria Sharapova the following question about her Wimbledon performance last year, when, lest we forget, she thrashed everyone:
Was that some of the best tennis you've ever played?
No, Sue. It is mere coincidence that she didn't win Wimbledon when she was eleven.
I'd love to infer some sort of link here between publicly-fundedness and stupid-question-askingness, but sports commentators probably don't make for the most illustrative example.
Monday, 20 June 2005
Passive smoking.
Much debate all over the place about the new smoking ban.
Other people have already said all that needs to be said about the implications for our freedom (we're losing it) and the quality of a night out (it will improve). You know what really pisses me off, though? All the people who oppose the ban, but also insist that passive smoking is totally harmless. It isn't.
Look. It is correct to say that any specific claims about how dangerous passive smoking is, whether it can kill, how many it kills, are made-up unscientific bollocks based on sod all research, but, unless you either (a) can prove that cigarette smoke is harmless or (b) can demonstrate a mechanism whereby tobacco smoke's dangerousness is switched on or off depending on whether the lung it finds itself inside belongs to the person who smoked the cigarette, your claims are every bit as unscientific. Now sit down and shut up.
Other people have already said all that needs to be said about the implications for our freedom (we're losing it) and the quality of a night out (it will improve). You know what really pisses me off, though? All the people who oppose the ban, but also insist that passive smoking is totally harmless. It isn't.
Look. It is correct to say that any specific claims about how dangerous passive smoking is, whether it can kill, how many it kills, are made-up unscientific bollocks based on sod all research, but, unless you either (a) can prove that cigarette smoke is harmless or (b) can demonstrate a mechanism whereby tobacco smoke's dangerousness is switched on or off depending on whether the lung it finds itself inside belongs to the person who smoked the cigarette, your claims are every bit as unscientific. Now sit down and shut up.
Eh?
Usually, unexpected emails from Nigerians are scams. I'm struggling to find the sales pitch in this one, from one Sunday Bisong:
Either this is a new kind of unbelievably subtle scam (I mean, they're telling you up front that they used to be in prison. Is that a double bluff, or what?), or Mr Bisong really is looking for his old friend Mr Eno, found this on my blog, and decided to contact me to see if I knew him, raising the alarming possibility that Mr Bisong used to share a Nigerian prison with a man named Fred Eno who had produced albums for Zvuki Mu, Edikanfo, Sikter, and U2. I can't work out which scenario is more far-fetched.
Dear Belove,
Please link me to Mr Fred Brain Eno,
I loss contact with him for a long time now.
I'm Mr Sunday Bisong from Boki Local Government Area of Cross River State Nigeria.
[address and phone number]
N/B Both pals of Lawrance Banjo EX..Enugu Prison
pastor Bisong
Either this is a new kind of unbelievably subtle scam (I mean, they're telling you up front that they used to be in prison. Is that a double bluff, or what?), or Mr Bisong really is looking for his old friend Mr Eno, found this on my blog, and decided to contact me to see if I knew him, raising the alarming possibility that Mr Bisong used to share a Nigerian prison with a man named Fred Eno who had produced albums for Zvuki Mu, Edikanfo, Sikter, and U2. I can't work out which scenario is more far-fetched.
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