Reposting this from my Google+ account:
This is a depressing notion:
Beware the Anarchists!
So now the Met, whose ethical and moral reputation is already doing really well after the News of the World scandal, are looking to clamp down on political ideologies they don't like.
For the record, I think anarchism is a moronic philosophy that would work about as well as communism (i.e. not at all), but to paint the idea and the people who subscribe to it as a threat? Well that's something else it now shares with communism - the McCarthy era communist witch hunts in America. That does feel like the road down which we're travelling with this new pronouncement and look how that turned out. It's not an example we should be keen to emulate.
A free, secular, multicultural society (which is what we want, surely) should not fear ideas and it should not have to fear its police.
Monday, August 01, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
F1 Coverage
Reporting this from my Google+ account (which I don't know how to link to):
Very pissed off about Sky flinging their cash around and buying up the Formula 1 rights. Even if Sky showed anything other than utter shit, the fact that it's run by that sleazebag James Murdoch would be enough to dissuade me from getting Sky.
To me it seems like final proof, not that such a thing was needed, that Bernie Ecclestone is a money-grubbing little tit.
I won't be watching F1 next season, not on Sky and not whatever crumbs have been left for the BBC.
So long, Formula 1, it's been fun.
Very pissed off about Sky flinging their cash around and buying up the Formula 1 rights. Even if Sky showed anything other than utter shit, the fact that it's run by that sleazebag James Murdoch would be enough to dissuade me from getting Sky.
To me it seems like final proof, not that such a thing was needed, that Bernie Ecclestone is a money-grubbing little tit.
I won't be watching F1 next season, not on Sky and not whatever crumbs have been left for the BBC.
So long, Formula 1, it's been fun.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Silly poem
For some reason I had a yen to write some nonsense poetry today, no idea why. Beats working, I guess.
Anyway, here it is. Nothing political, nothing pretentious and no attempt at profundity, this is just pure, unadulterated silliness.
The Road to Tiralee
With a skip and a jump,
A hop and a trump (“scuse me!”),
Auld Harold took the road to Tiralee.
The crowds cheered goodbye,
With many a tear-moistened eye,
When Harold left on the road to Tiralee.
To those he passed he’d holler and shout,
Though that may just have been because of the gout,
On that road to Tiralee.
Through rain and through shine,
And the application of wine (“hic”),
Harold strolled along the road to Tiralee.
Eating his lunch in the breeze,
With the odd bit of cheese (“urp. Pardon!”)
Harold went further down the road to Tiralee.
Leaving smiles as he passed,
And the odd patch of gas,
He carried on down the road to Tiralee.
“Hiya Harry,” his cousin unexpectedly cried,
“Nice to see you,” auld Harold unconvincingly lied.
On the road to Tiralee.
And then he bid his cousin farewell,
Chucking him down a nearby well (“my hand slipped”)
By the side of the road to Tiralee.
With a shrug and with a sigh,
Auld Harold waved his sad goodbye (“well, he was family”),
And went on down the road to Tiralee.
But now suspected in a murder case,
The rozzers took to giving chase (“Stop in the name of the law!”),
As he ran along the road to Tiralee.
The stories say that he ran to the last,
But the fleet-footed coppers were just too fast,
Racing along the road to Tiralee.
With a final, defiant shake of his fists,
Auld Harold dove headfirst off the cliffs (“you’ll never take me alive!”)
By the side of the road to Tiralee.
Some say he survived diving into the waves
And works in a chip shop where he lives out his days,
Far from the road to Tiralee.
But most think he drowned,
Though no body was found,
Below that treacherous road to Tiralee.
In hushed whispers they talk,
‘Bout how his ghost still walks (“Wooooooo”),
Along the road to Tiralee.
Many have vanished, leaving no trace,
Aside from their hats and the occasional case
Lying upon the road to Tiralee.
So if you find you’ve developed a yearning,
Be sure to heed this heartfelt warning,
And stay well away from the road to Tiralee.
Cos auld Harold’s still out there,
Stopping anyone who dares
To try and take the road to Tiralee.
Anyway, here it is. Nothing political, nothing pretentious and no attempt at profundity, this is just pure, unadulterated silliness.
The Road to Tiralee
With a skip and a jump,
A hop and a trump (“scuse me!”),
Auld Harold took the road to Tiralee.
The crowds cheered goodbye,
With many a tear-moistened eye,
When Harold left on the road to Tiralee.
To those he passed he’d holler and shout,
Though that may just have been because of the gout,
On that road to Tiralee.
Through rain and through shine,
And the application of wine (“hic”),
Harold strolled along the road to Tiralee.
Eating his lunch in the breeze,
With the odd bit of cheese (“urp. Pardon!”)
Harold went further down the road to Tiralee.
Leaving smiles as he passed,
And the odd patch of gas,
He carried on down the road to Tiralee.
“Hiya Harry,” his cousin unexpectedly cried,
“Nice to see you,” auld Harold unconvincingly lied.
On the road to Tiralee.
And then he bid his cousin farewell,
Chucking him down a nearby well (“my hand slipped”)
By the side of the road to Tiralee.
With a shrug and with a sigh,
Auld Harold waved his sad goodbye (“well, he was family”),
And went on down the road to Tiralee.
But now suspected in a murder case,
The rozzers took to giving chase (“Stop in the name of the law!”),
As he ran along the road to Tiralee.
The stories say that he ran to the last,
But the fleet-footed coppers were just too fast,
Racing along the road to Tiralee.
With a final, defiant shake of his fists,
Auld Harold dove headfirst off the cliffs (“you’ll never take me alive!”)
By the side of the road to Tiralee.
Some say he survived diving into the waves
And works in a chip shop where he lives out his days,
Far from the road to Tiralee.
But most think he drowned,
Though no body was found,
Below that treacherous road to Tiralee.
In hushed whispers they talk,
‘Bout how his ghost still walks (“Wooooooo”),
Along the road to Tiralee.
Many have vanished, leaving no trace,
Aside from their hats and the occasional case
Lying upon the road to Tiralee.
So if you find you’ve developed a yearning,
Be sure to heed this heartfelt warning,
And stay well away from the road to Tiralee.
Cos auld Harold’s still out there,
Stopping anyone who dares
To try and take the road to Tiralee.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Yay or nay - Limerick
This is a daft little limerick I came up with after reading the massive (and faintly ridiculous) arguments on Guild Wars 2 Guru about the new GW2 engineer class (yeah, yeah, nerdy stuff, I know).
Personally, I think it looks awesome, so there!
Yay and Nay
The naysayers always say “nay”,
And the yaysayers always say “yay”.
But if the naysayers “yay”
And the yaysayers “nay”
Then who can say what’s the right way?
Link to the forum thread for anyone who's interested:
Guild Wars 2 Engineer discussion
Personally, I think it looks awesome, so there!
Yay and Nay
The naysayers always say “nay”,
And the yaysayers always say “yay”.
But if the naysayers “yay”
And the yaysayers “nay”
Then who can say what’s the right way?
Link to the forum thread for anyone who's interested:
Guild Wars 2 Engineer discussion
Thursday, May 12, 2011
The Cost - more poetry!
One final poem (I promise!) about the death of Bin Laden and whether or not it was worth the cost...
The Cost
What is a man’s death worth?
What dark accountant calculates the sum of his deeds
And weighs it against the lives of others?
A brutal calculus of retribution,
A ruthless equation of multiplied loss.
Untold lives subtracted,
And added to the debit column
But the debt is never cleared.
In the final reckoning,
Can anyone truly say,
That it was worth the price paid
For the sake of vengeance gained.
Note: to give some background, in Afghanistan alone the "war on terror" has claimed well over 2000 lives from coalition forces
Source for coalition deaths
Estimates of civilian casualties are harder to find but at a bare minimum they number in the tens of thousands
Source for civilian casualties
All I've spoken about is the war in Afghanistan. That last link contains casualty figures for Iraq as well, which are substantially worse, but that was just too depressing to talk about.
In summary, war is bad, stop shooting people m'kay
The Cost
What is a man’s death worth?
What dark accountant calculates the sum of his deeds
And weighs it against the lives of others?
A brutal calculus of retribution,
A ruthless equation of multiplied loss.
Untold lives subtracted,
And added to the debit column
But the debt is never cleared.
In the final reckoning,
Can anyone truly say,
That it was worth the price paid
For the sake of vengeance gained.
Note: to give some background, in Afghanistan alone the "war on terror" has claimed well over 2000 lives from coalition forces
Source for coalition deaths
Estimates of civilian casualties are harder to find but at a bare minimum they number in the tens of thousands
Source for civilian casualties
All I've spoken about is the war in Afghanistan. That last link contains casualty figures for Iraq as well, which are substantially worse, but that was just too depressing to talk about.
In summary, war is bad, stop shooting people m'kay
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
Dance for me
This is a (slightly pretentious) poem I just churned out inspired by the ghoulish scenes of celebration at the death of Bin Laden.
Whatever crimes he may have been guilty of, I cannot bring myself to celebrate or glory in someone's death and the scenes of jubilation disturbed me deeply.
Dancing to the Tune
The circus rides into town,
Flags fly proudly in the court of the carnival king.
Cheering crowds, a baying mob,
Begin to dance as the rough music plays.
Primeval joy burns in mindless eyes,
Violent ecstasy for violence done,
Civilisation lost in vengeance’s name.
Bathed in blood, the revelry goes on,
Madness steeped in death, the basest lust,
No room for humanity here, only feral need,
Ghouls made of men, stamping on graves,
Dancing on and on until the rough music fades.
Historical note: rough music was an old English method for punishing people in a village who had transgressed (wife beating and so on).
Wikipedia article on Rough Music
Whatever crimes he may have been guilty of, I cannot bring myself to celebrate or glory in someone's death and the scenes of jubilation disturbed me deeply.
Dancing to the Tune
The circus rides into town,
Flags fly proudly in the court of the carnival king.
Cheering crowds, a baying mob,
Begin to dance as the rough music plays.
Primeval joy burns in mindless eyes,
Violent ecstasy for violence done,
Civilisation lost in vengeance’s name.
Bathed in blood, the revelry goes on,
Madness steeped in death, the basest lust,
No room for humanity here, only feral need,
Ghouls made of men, stamping on graves,
Dancing on and on until the rough music fades.
Historical note: rough music was an old English method for punishing people in a village who had transgressed (wife beating and so on).
Wikipedia article on Rough Music
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Limerick
A quick limerick inspired by Charlie Brooker's #donaldtrumpisabellend twitter hashtag
This lad called Donald had not a friend,
He was a figure of fun, a topic to trend,
His brain it was feeble,
His hair barely legal,
And all would cry #donaldtrumpisabellend
This lad called Donald had not a friend,
He was a figure of fun, a topic to trend,
His brain it was feeble,
His hair barely legal,
And all would cry #donaldtrumpisabellend
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Geordie Shore
Oh sweet mother, there's a "reality" TV show coming out based in Newcastle called Geordie Shore.
These are the prize bell ends that are being used to represent an ancient, noble, history filled area of England.
http://www.mtv.co.uk/shows/geordie-shore/cast
It's like the producers just threw a net over the skankiest bits of the Bigg Market and dragged out the dumbest, most feckless idiots they could find.
I feel a tremendous pain in my heart for the land of my birth. Geordies deserve better than this shit.
These are the prize bell ends that are being used to represent an ancient, noble, history filled area of England.
http://www.mtv.co.uk/shows/geordie-shore/cast
It's like the producers just threw a net over the skankiest bits of the Bigg Market and dragged out the dumbest, most feckless idiots they could find.
I feel a tremendous pain in my heart for the land of my birth. Geordies deserve better than this shit.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
I haz done a poetry!
A poem I knocked together earlier today, inspired by the language of the 2011 Budget and Cameron's "Big Society", specifically the manner in which the savage cuts being handed out to the fabric of British society are disguised behind a facade of "we're all in this together and have to make 'savings'" bullshit (yes, I'm biased, sue me).
But I also have hope that it's not working as well as Cameron and his pals would like. People seem to be seeing through the double-speak and getting justifiably angry at the way those who can least afford it are paying the price for the reckless gambling of financial institutions and the tax dodging of big business.
Anyway, here's the poem. It's a bit pretentious, though I've tried to offset that by writing the title of this blog post in a cutesy lolcat style - I can only apologise.
Twisting Words
Words twist and turn like serpents in the grass,
Shifting meanings with silken words
Spinning as they spill from crocodile smiles.
Semantic gymnastics warp lies into truth,
Through dark, cracked prisms, reality refracts
And the world changes on a rich man’s whim.
But seeds are sown, doubt planted in fertile soil,
Questioning tendrils creeping out,
Seeking and searching, truth brought forth,
A kernel of light stolen from grasping claws,
Fuelling anger, fuelling rage, un-blinding eyes,
Burning away the artifice of unearned power.
Curtains of privilege are rent aside
To mendacious puppeteers expose,
And with great and common hands,
The world can be reclaimed.
But I also have hope that it's not working as well as Cameron and his pals would like. People seem to be seeing through the double-speak and getting justifiably angry at the way those who can least afford it are paying the price for the reckless gambling of financial institutions and the tax dodging of big business.
Anyway, here's the poem. It's a bit pretentious, though I've tried to offset that by writing the title of this blog post in a cutesy lolcat style - I can only apologise.
Twisting Words
Words twist and turn like serpents in the grass,
Shifting meanings with silken words
Spinning as they spill from crocodile smiles.
Semantic gymnastics warp lies into truth,
Through dark, cracked prisms, reality refracts
And the world changes on a rich man’s whim.
But seeds are sown, doubt planted in fertile soil,
Questioning tendrils creeping out,
Seeking and searching, truth brought forth,
A kernel of light stolen from grasping claws,
Fuelling anger, fuelling rage, un-blinding eyes,
Burning away the artifice of unearned power.
Curtains of privilege are rent aside
To mendacious puppeteers expose,
And with great and common hands,
The world can be reclaimed.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
I'm alright, Jack
A quickly hacked together poem I wrote about the plans of the current government and the attitudes of the people who support them.
And I wrote it when I should have been working - now that's fighting the power!
I’m alright, Jack
Benefits scroungers?
Everyone knows they’re all on the take!
Ill and disabled?
Do me a favour, most of it’s fake!
It’s a bleedin’ liberty,
All these layabouts takin’ our cash.
That ain’t why we (the Great British Public)
Keep payin’ our tax!
I blame those lazy foreigners,
Stealin’ our jobs and all on the dole.
Like bleedin’ Afghanistan round ‘ere,
But me? No, no, I’m not racist at all.
So what if she can’t feed ‘er kids,
‘er own fault for popping so many out,
She only done it so she could get the benefits,
And get set up in a lovely, big house.
All of those bankers,
I tell you mate, they’ve got it sorted.
Course their bonuses shouldn’t be taxed!
It’d only be used to pay for abortions.
The head of the company?
Oh he’s a proper gent.
It’s all in his wife’s name, of course.
Totally legit, mind, none of it’s bent.
All in it together,
We're all a part of the Big Society.
No more spongin' off the state,
You don't get nothing for free.
Not my responsibility,
Benefits gettin' cut back.
I’m workin' for my dosh,
So I’m alright, Jack.
But now I’ve been “outsourced”,
And I’ve come down with the gout!
What am I supposed to do now, guv?
Any chance you could bail me out?
And I wrote it when I should have been working - now that's fighting the power!
I’m alright, Jack
Benefits scroungers?
Everyone knows they’re all on the take!
Ill and disabled?
Do me a favour, most of it’s fake!
It’s a bleedin’ liberty,
All these layabouts takin’ our cash.
That ain’t why we (the Great British Public)
Keep payin’ our tax!
I blame those lazy foreigners,
Stealin’ our jobs and all on the dole.
Like bleedin’ Afghanistan round ‘ere,
But me? No, no, I’m not racist at all.
So what if she can’t feed ‘er kids,
‘er own fault for popping so many out,
She only done it so she could get the benefits,
And get set up in a lovely, big house.
All of those bankers,
I tell you mate, they’ve got it sorted.
Course their bonuses shouldn’t be taxed!
It’d only be used to pay for abortions.
The head of the company?
Oh he’s a proper gent.
It’s all in his wife’s name, of course.
Totally legit, mind, none of it’s bent.
All in it together,
We're all a part of the Big Society.
No more spongin' off the state,
You don't get nothing for free.
Not my responsibility,
Benefits gettin' cut back.
I’m workin' for my dosh,
So I’m alright, Jack.
But now I’ve been “outsourced”,
And I’ve come down with the gout!
What am I supposed to do now, guv?
Any chance you could bail me out?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Italian Sportscars...
Not always the good idea they seem at first.
Take my Maserati 3200 (no, seriously, please take it) - in the 6 months or so I've had it has caused me more hassle than my old Nissan 200SX did in 7 odd years.
Currently it's out of commission as a result of a leaking radiator, which needs replacing. The replacement needs to be shipped over from Italy!
This is going to cost me many hundreds of pounds.
Also, the boot leaks sometimes.
All things considered, given the various niggles (both major and minor), I don't enjoy the car anymore. It's time to move on. Once it's working again.
Think I might go the other way next time, maybe buy an old classic that needs a bit of restoring. Something like an MGB perhaps.
I know, it probably won't be any more reliable than the Masser, but it won't be costing anywhere near was much. I can forgive a lack of reliability in something like that, in a "premium" brand car like a Maserati? Not so much
Take my Maserati 3200 (no, seriously, please take it) - in the 6 months or so I've had it has caused me more hassle than my old Nissan 200SX did in 7 odd years.
Currently it's out of commission as a result of a leaking radiator, which needs replacing. The replacement needs to be shipped over from Italy!
This is going to cost me many hundreds of pounds.
Also, the boot leaks sometimes.
All things considered, given the various niggles (both major and minor), I don't enjoy the car anymore. It's time to move on. Once it's working again.
Think I might go the other way next time, maybe buy an old classic that needs a bit of restoring. Something like an MGB perhaps.
I know, it probably won't be any more reliable than the Masser, but it won't be costing anywhere near was much. I can forgive a lack of reliability in something like that, in a "premium" brand car like a Maserati? Not so much
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