Tuesday Grumble

This touched a nerve this morning.  Especially after I had returned from Sainsburys where I obtained the things forgotten yesterday at Tesco.  I like to think I am a careful shopper, and I glanced ruefully ate the woman in front of me and her vast trolley full of goodies.  It turns out these are for two weeks, which makes sense, and indeed she appears to have bought wisely, or as wisely as you can with supermarkets gaining 45% extra profit!  So often I notice baskets full of overpriced crap, easily replaced by 'Own Shop' substitutes, and I am aware how fussy kids can be, but so much is bad shopping, or am I just a snob?  

When profits rise they rarely come back down again.  While both gas and electric have claimed they are reducing my charges, but not by how much they have increased, the supermarkets are unlikely to lower prices now they have us trapped.  So we can expect to continue being ripped off for years to come, especially as they are donating to whichever government is in power at the time.  

The Prime Minister, in his £3500 suit, may not feel the problem, which is why he has told the nation to 'Hold its nerve,' while failing to eat properly, but worry not, his wife has still not been asked to pay tax, so he is OK.

Sunak attended a garden party the other day along with many Tories, a smattering of Labour and others, and that nice Mr Starmer also came around.  Quite what Labour people are doing at a Rupert Murdoch garden party I cannot say, but this does not look good to me.  Keir hoping the 'Dirty Digger' is on his side.  'The Dirty Digger,' is himself hoping he wills till be alive to see Keir as PM.  He cares not who is in charge, Rupert knows he is the one that matters.

Another secret deal is under way.  Apparently, the government is trying to acquire houses, the old council houses.  Now, I am not sure if they mean those still available, or those now occupied by local tenants, but the government wishes to house a million or so highly educated, highly skilled immigrants from Hong Kong in them!  

While the public are told to 'Look at the 55,000 on the wee boats,' the government is allowing a million rich Chinese into the country quietly, because they are rich and will vote Tory.  No suggestion of money to build houses for council tenants, under whatever name, no cash, just 'hand them over.'

                                                    Glamour

Willie has been given, is demanding, is seeking, but not from his pockets, £3 million to end homelessness.  Some say, 'Well done William,' I say, 'Publicity Stunt.'  Another excuse to pretend the royals have a purpose, another excuse for pictures of Will with the peasants, and probably her also touching poor people.  

I ask, 'How much money will he put into this?'

Not a penny.

'Will he build houses in his Cornwell estates for the lower orders?'   

Not a chance.

'Will he be given a free ride in the right wing press?'

Certainly.

'Will government policy be changed?'

No.

'Will suitable homes be built?'

No.

'Will the PR stunt continue?'

Only if people fall for it.

Karsh

Another Hoo-Ha in the 'Daily Mail' this week.  St Pauls Cathedral has a magazine, and one item online intimated that Winston Churchill was a 'White Supremacist,' among other things.  Naturally the patriots, few of whom can actually remember Churchill, are aghast!  Fulminating as only those with no historical information bar that gathered from the press they cry out against such blasphemy!  Twice I have indicated to the 'Daily Mail' that Winston was indeed a man of his time, a 'White Supremacist,' an ungodly believer in 'providence' and 'destiny,' a dreamer, an Empire builder, and a racist.

They did not print that, not any other that spoke the truth either.

Idling

 

As I opened the window in the west wing my eye fell on the books gathering dust above the bed, which incidentally, also gathers dust.  One book of note comes from Jerome K. Jerome, the great comedy writer of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  As you know he became famous for his 'Three Men in a Boat' book which touched the hearts of many as they also had been through similar experiences at the time.  He never again found such success.  That book is a 'one off,' a book that sells, and continues to sell today, that had such a success that writers can only dream of emulating.  No other Jerome book reached that height.

He continued to write of course, and in spite of his age, he was 55 in 1914, spent time working for the French Ambulance service during the Great War, the British refused as he was 'too old.'  

One book on the shelf that caught my red eyes was a collection of papers first published in the magazine 'Home Chimes,' as was the way at the time, called 'Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow.'

How suitable for me that is I thought, my mind wandering towards the cream I was intending to spice my Costa Rican coffee with this morning.

I intended to reach out and collect the book, 'Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow,' but I was too idle to do this, reaching that far early on could be dangerous for one so idle as myself.  So I idled for a moment, then left it and hurried into the kitchen.

Sustained by coffee and porridge filled with raisins I cogitated on being idle. 

I cogitated so long some passing by outside looked up and considered I was just being idle.

How dare they.  I knew how to handle such people, I drew the dust covered curtains and blocked them out.

Being 'idle' is not always a good thing.  Men 'laid off' from factory, docks or mines were often 'idle' but not too keen on it.  Being idle is fine if you have coffee and porridge with raisins, if however, you fail to afford bread it can become somewhat wearisome, as most of us have found out one way or another.  On the other hand, being fed and watered, being able to stand at the window watching men hurtling past early on heading for work in factories, warehouses and Royal Mail while I stand there drinking coffee does bring a smile to my face.  Especially when it is raining and I am inside!  These type of men often wave back I notice...

Later, the women pass by, aiming for shop or office work, always moaning about how hard life is, ignoring the men digging holes in the road meanwhile, and sitting at a desk, possibly all day, while they grumble about their hardships.  These do not wave, they merely put their nose in the air as they pass.

Once 9 am has passed I notice how 'Facebook' gets busy.  I often wonder why.  

I also get busy, I plan my day, make tea, possibly Green Tea with Orange and Lotus Blossom, or work hard watching the housework that I am avoiding, it may be too hot just now, or too cold later, so let it lie I say.  I then fill the time on here, reading the online newspapers, at least the free ones, watching the world continue on its normal progress to destruction, though each day it varies somewhat,  and then instead of idling I decide to take on an adults responsibilities, and ponder what is for lunch.

Now, a real idler would of course have a woman to do this, after all that is what they were made for,  however, the Good Lord took away the only woman I wished to keep, and rightly so, and left me searching the freezer for something I forgot to remove last night.

Corned Beef again I think today.

Being Saturday I would normally spend idle time watching football, however, none is as yet available.  So, instead I, er, what do I do?  

I suppose I will just have to sit here and stare out the window today.

Funnily enough, it comes to mind how so many people cannot idle.  You have met they type, always on the go, cannot sit down, must be 'doing' all the time.  Such people die if they are forced to retire, or engage in wallpapering, gardening, climbing mountains or voluntary work, anything to avoid idling.  What is wrong with such people?

You meet them while working, always keen, always volunteering for jobs, never hiding in a cupboard like others I could mention, and being taken advantage of by managers everywhere.  Some of course become managers, and are a pain to idlers everywhere.

Today, I have indeed been idling.  The idea of work in such warm weather, the temp gauge claims 27% c, although the sun has been hidden behind clouds all day.  I know this as I have been watching it hide for hours.  When it does decide to pop out the leaves on the trees opposite gleam smartly while bobbing up and down gently in what the weather people refer to as a 'gentle breeze.'  It is not usually as 'gentle' as they claim.  

So, as I stand here jingling the keys in my pocket, watching the Saturday world go by, I say, young women did not look like that when I was young, did they all have those bits?  Anyway, watching the traffic makes me jealous of those who car afford a car, I would like a little cheap one to get about, and the maroon coloured Landrover I have asked for these past 20 years has not as yet materialised.

If I was not so idle I may have had one by now I suppose?

This typing is hurting my fingertips, I think idling is set before me for the remainder of the day, and I may as well do that through in the West Wing where comfort is assured.

Confused?

Mothers often quickly disabuse children of wrong understandings.  Some do this by long intellectual discussions regarding the various options, some with a simple, straightforward and now not so popular, slap, others with a simple honest word.  This mum does it well here.

Gender mistakes are common today, encouraged by psychiatrists who themselves are confused and mixed up children.  It is to be regretted that such have had a powerful influence on society in the West in the last 20 years.

The biblical view, not one supported by many Archbishops and Bishops today, is that we are born either male or female.  The only exception being those who are known as 'intersex,' a terrible situation that may be difficult to rectify and complicated for the health professionals let alone the child.  You and I and either male or female, and scientists who study such things indicate it is impossible to be born in the wrong body.  

This does not end the belief many have that this is the case.  Some are encouraged by others to take drugs and even operations, to change their appearance according to taste, others are mentally ill or have serious life problems.  These require care and help to find normality, they do not require to be encouraged into a false position.

Schools appear keen to accept whatever self ID a child may demand.  The mother in the picture would, in my view, make a good teacher in such situations.  Truth would defeat passing temptations.

Let us consider, the trauma of your life, have you ever been tempted to become gay, trans, or a cat, because of the trauma?  Has the treatment offered by life damaged you in your response?  Those who suffer this way, and suffering it is, require our care, not condemnation, they are just like us in the end, but we are luckier than they.

With the news of the Billionaires submersible having imploded and scattered wreckage around the 'Titanic,' the press have been forced to return to the royals to fill space.  There is little real news, a murder or two, rising interest rates, and the usual squabbles which do not demand large headlines, are all that remains.  There is a mass of real political crime of course but the right wing press will be keeping quiet on that, especially as their owners are involved, allegedly.   

So Kate fills the page, drunken women at Ascot take up space, and elsewhere the many voices attempting to find someone to blame for the submarine fail.  The concert at Glastonbury also gives an excuse to see near naked women, people struggling in mud, and dope being peddled.  All just what the 'Daily Mail' reader wants to see.  

Football says nothing much either.  Speculation regarding players moving clubs, the training restart, pre-season friendlies announced, and all the time the media filled with non stories to fill space and keep up the clickbait hoping an advertiser might fall for it.  Nothing much to see here.

I sit at night staring at an empty screen, except for the spiders crawling about everywhere.  

One thing is good this week, the washing has been done, two machine loads in two days, and it dried quickly, that speaks volumes for how hot it has been in here.  This room is usually a cold one.

Long Night, Long Day

Another tiring day.  

Struggled to wake this morning, forced myself up, and breakfasted on a stale roll.  Some folks have less than this of course.  I cogitated on the day and decided I wished it to be a restful one, except of course I had the parcel to post.  Another birthday, another waddle down to the Post Office at the corner shop, I go there because the young lady always smiles at me, unlike the miserable dragons at what laughingly, is the main Post Office in town.  So, sun cream applied, desert hat on head, off I hobbled.  

There is a wind at the moment but the sun was about 70% as I headed east.  I could feel it on my face, in spite of the hat, and my absurd appearance meant several vans and cars slowed down to let me cross the road when required.  They needed the laugh I suppose.

After this my day was over.  Groomed and fed I just dozed away for a while.

This is the Longest Day, and the sky has been bright since very early, which I did not see.

The reason for the sloth this morning was easy to find.  Last night I began to watch Scotland playing Georgia, a 7:45 kick off time.  However, before the game began there had been an almighty cloudburst and 6 days worth of heavy rain fell in a couple of hours.  Now, major football grounds have systems to remove rainwater falling during a game, this was too much for Hampden however, and some decisions had to be made before the game went ahead.  

In spite of Michael Stewart constantly referring to having played in worse, which was a lie, the water was forming huge puddles, the ball did not run, bounce or flow, there was indeed now ay to play in such circumstances.

UEFA however insisted the game went ahead.

Players splashed about in dire conditions, Scotland even scored a goal, but the ref then left the field and we began well over two hours of debate as to whether the game ought to continue, or be abandoned and play again the next night in Paisley.  Any sensible person would play the next night.

UEFA insisted the game continued.

So we saw the ground staff, ball boys, volunteers aplenty attempt to brush the excess water from the field.  Eventually, well after 9:15 pm the game restarted.  Georgia were far from pleased, and quite rightly, and they were even more unhappy when Scotland scored a second goal and eventually ran out winners by 2-0.

The game finished at 11:20 pm, at lest what I made it, the crowd had remained throughout, they had paid their tickets and no information was forthcoming thanks to UEFA, and many a child was late for school this morning, many a man was asleep at work, and all considered it worth while.

During the waiting time the announcer played music over the Tannoy.  Above we see the list of songs played, many enthusiastically supported by the crowd joining in.  'Don't let it rain on me,' by a Glasgow group, the favourite of the night.

Allsorts Today

 

After a very tiring day, I actually had to work again, I sat down to scribble something of great note.  However, just as I did this I realised there was football on the TV, or at least on this 'Viaplay' nonsense, an organisation that demands money so you can see your country playing football!  England, you will note, can see their team on terrestrial TV, why not Scotland?  Anyway, we were not playing, that is tonight, but my tired mind was happy to watch whoever was kicking lumps out of one another.  This meant I scribbled nothing.

The walk to Kirk on Sunday, then the shopping early Monday, a desire to lose weight pushed aside by a desire to make oatmeal biscuits, which turned out no bad, wrapping a parcel for the niece, followed by a rather stupid determination to weed the front wore me out.  This was harder than I imagined.  I ache all over now.  Still, the front is cleared, the biscuits are acceptable, the diet is still on as everything else appears to be vegetable today.    

Today however, my mind is still tired, I am doing nothing of any importance, and time for connecting to the real world has returned.  However, I then look at the real world and wish the football would start.

Last night the house of Commons voted by 354 'Ayes' to 7 'Noes' to accept the recommendation of the House committee to declare that Boris Johnson had lies to the House.  128 Tory MPs voted for the motion, 7 against.  The rest ran away and hid from their responsibilities.  This included our pretend PM Rishi Sunak.  His style of leadership meant he did not appear in the House all day.  Surely this is unacceptable.  The result means Boris is out on his ear officially now, and the joy remains amongst all decent people everywhere.  

Today the right wing press, do we have anything else? ignored the result and splashed a tale of a sunken mini submarine hunting the Titanic.  This is a glory trip for those willing to pay £195,000 to be taken 13,000 feet down to view the wreck.  However, they have not resurfaced, contact is lost, and we will all be aware that rescue is impossible in such circumstances.  

The truth is of course that the right wing press may fear the loss of a Billionaire aboard the craft, but they mostly wish to detract from Boris's defeat last night, anything will do.  

Apart from the thunderstorms that have come up from the south, watering the front and encouraging more weeds to sprout, little else appears to be happening.  It remains warm and sultry, rather like in the tropics, but without the parrots, snakes and beasties.  A few flies and moths at night attracted to the light.  

Nothing much else is happening, although some fuss is being made about cricket.  But we don't care about that, do we...?   

So, it has been 'Allsorts Today,' with little of any use to man nor beast.  

At least I did not ruin your teeth...

 

Boris, Congregational and Museum

 

                                                           Mail

It is no surprise to find Boris has accepted around £250,000 a month for lying in the 'Daily Mail.'  The 'Telegraph' or whoever will be owning the 'telegraph' soon, will be unhappy at this.  Of course the new owners might care little, and offer Boris the editors job and then the 'Daily Mail' will find reason to call the fat lazy, ungrateful coward, a fat lazy, ungrateful coward.  He will care not as long as someone pays him.

One report claims he has informed his people not to vote against the big vote on Monday, so he has a deal of some sort with Sunak.  But what would that deal involve, and why should anyone trust the untrustworthy rogue?  

Interestingly, it was pointed out that the Murdoch press said nothing much re Boris today, thus implying Rupert is looking elsewhere.  Murdoch is less loyal than Boris, so no chance of him working at the 'Times' any time soon. 

I just want him far away, preferably in jail, and soon all the other corrupt rogues can be following him into Pentonville!

The heat has been hot, but the furthest I have been remains the Supermarkets.  However, yesterday  I slogged it up the road to the large Co-op store in search of s suitable gift for the two youngest.  Lots of stuff but nothing suitable!  Ain't life grand!  Therefore I decided to try the kids toys in the museum.  On the way I passed the wife of the Congregational minister.  Sadly he had died in March and I never knew.  I was so sad about this as I had known them for many years.  Congregational churches, as you know, are owned by the congregation, and the problem here was the age of the people.  The minister over the years had buried most of them, and just before Covid struck only around eight members were left.  Aged people, Authorised Version bible, poor music, and this will not attract young folk.  The end was inevitable, and now this church, standing here for over almost 400 years, will soon begin to fall apart if a decision is not made for the future.  It looks like they will have to sell the building to another church in need.  It is a great building with semi circular seating, raised platform, room for development and its own graveyard, where all the previous ministers now lie.  The poor widow is of course cut up, they had been married over 50 years and very close.  The building has recently replaced the lead stolen ate at night, they stole the lead from the roof of the bank also, and this cost £11,000 to replace!  

Anyway, somewhat disheartened, I plodded round to the shop.  There the young assistant was keen on assisting me, to get me out of the shop again, she knows me well, and soon she had taken many pieces of gold from me and sent me on my way.  It costs a fortune just to browse in that museum these days.  

Healthy Tuesday

It was the security man at Sainsburys who started it.  'You are a man who brightens a room,' said he.  'Move the beer belly away from the door and brighten this place.'  Back home I weighed in at a mere fifteen and a half stones, a mere 217 pounds to some, and I decided he may have had a point.  At one stage I was down to fourteen and a half stones, how on earth did it all return?  Well, apart from bad, lazy eating habits that is.  

So, it is green tea, this time with 'Orange and Lotus Flower.'  It remains still an acquired taste, if I am being nice to it...  I'm looking forward to my left over 'Pea shoots' and 'Coleslaw.'  What more could I desire?

Climate change has been appearing once again.  Edinburgh has had sunshine as well as rain, we have sunshine at around 30% and yet people deny the world is changing?  Some say the world is heading towards its end, well yes, I have been saying this for some time.  Jesus did say the world would only get worse, not better.  The earth is broken, and volcanoes, earthquakes, famines, floods and the rest will be added to, and the cause of, the wars that erupt so easily amongst us.  Only by holding on to Jesus will we make it through.  I suspect however, it may be some time yet, but you never know.  That nice Mr Putin may resort to some skullduggery that brings in other nations.  The Chinese may have a change of leadership, North Korea may press the button by mistake, and of course Sunak may start a war to win an election.  Stay in the shade until then.

This is one of three signs outside our door.  The other day the middle one said 'Let Agreed.'  Within hours it had been changed back to 'To Let.'   I realise a rent of around £800 a month is hard for many, but in truth our landlord is cheaper than others, but so many are having difficulty, even if there is two of them, in finding the money.  I can jump to conclusions as to why this has fallen through, but the UK is not the place to go seeking accommodation these days.  Houses that are built are only for those who have £400,000 or over, young folks can get no mortgage and some companies are no longer offering them.  You can tell we have a Conservative government.

Parade

 

Yesterday, Saturday, I took myself out twice!  Yes, I was surpised also.  

I limped around the park early on in an attempt to see how warm life was.  I was very surprised at the heat in the morning.  I wandered around the town and back home.  Later, I discovered the town carnival was to parade through the streets once again, it has been missing for some years now.  So, aroung half two I put on my new sun hat, grabbed the camera, discovered the battery was dying, grabbed the old Nikon instead, and headed of into the world.

 

Led as always by the fire brigade, the local men are all 'On-call firemen,' which means they must live within five minutes of the station.  They are called by Bleeper, which goes off at any time, day or night.  The fires they fight are just as real as all others.

 

This was a small parade this year, aimed at kids as always, and I sauntered along just to see the occasional item worth picturing.  I missed out on the girls twirling sticks, the women of unknown age dancing to bad music, and the several 'Carnival Queens' from various areas around.  I was more interested in this stolen police vehicle.

 

 

The ageing Mods are always there to show off their ageing scooters.  The picture does not show the pollution coming out of the back of some of them.  Most Sunday's these men gather outside one of the local 'Greasy Spoon Cafe's' and fill 'Little Square,' with their bikes.  I'm not sure how often the scooters are put to use at other times.

 

 

 

I tried a shot along the wall to catch all the crowd watching, but only this bot of the kid laughing was any use.  You will note his shirt has the Firemens Badge on the front, and he had been waving to the machine before it even got into the street! 

 

Only a couple of trailers this year.  I like to get pics of the kids, their faces as they sit there are always worth noting.  However, this camera is not that good and kept switching off.  It is also not very sharp at anything over ten feet.  I liked this one of mum picturing her kid.

 

And a motor bike or two at the end.  

Throughout the nation such 'Gala's' take place, usually old mining towns have them, nothing special in most, but the kids like them, a good day out of harmless fun if the sun shines.

Personally, I could do with something more exciting but it was good to be in the very hot sun, and the hat indeed helped.  

Boris Heads for the Door! Rejoice!

SKY

Boris has been shown the door!

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Instead of facing a by-election in his constituency and the response of the House, Boris has cut and run!  The coward would not face the people.  Of course, this means a by-election and Boris will leave this so things go badly for Rishi Sunak.  Sunak is to take the blame for the mess Boris has created by his life of selfishness.  Add to this it is no surprise Nadine Dorries, a Boris adherent, has also stepped down from the MP job she has not been working at for several months.  This also is to cause trouble for Sunak.  

This petty, schoolboy arguing has meant little to the electorate, it has however, lined the pockets of many who do not require the handouts, and reduced the money for those, if they are still living, who require such aid.

At the same time Trump, the orange coloured Boris impersonator, is also heading for a fall.  Keeping stacks of White House documents illegally may bring an actual jail time for the crook.  We can but rejoice that justice may well be catching up on those who have robbed us for many years.

The Boris press is having a breakdown, they fear they may be next, and this on top of Prince Harry having them exposed in court as underhand crooks.  The nation, well the majority, will however, be saying Rejoice!

 

Here is a clip of Boris' resignation letter. 

Worn Out

It has been a hard week.  Nothing to grab the attention in the world outside so I took to exercise again.

The bug has been hanging around for months, I have remained indoors, well away from all, in an attempt to sleep it off.  However, the vicar has been praying for it and this week the brute subsided somewhat.  So, exercise is has been, added to house cleaning, and hoovering the main stairs which had been left in a mess by the carpet layers doing the flat next door.  They cleaned up their mess and left the stairs behind.

Today, I hobbled to Tesco, returned having realised I ought to have waited until tomorrow, and have done nothing since.  I liked that bit.  Still, this is the best I have felt since before May.  

The sun shining has been helpful, though I have not gone out since early this morning.  Most of the day I sit here freezing while half naked women walk past the door.  I open the window and a cold wind that does not appear outside arrives.  I close the window and I get warm!    Only late at night is it comfortable.  At least I can see the red glow in the far off sky after ten in the evening, that is good.

Now however, I am knackered...

Fragrant Grass

I sit here with the sweet fragrance of newly cut grass filling the air.  Across the road the council gardeners are driving large tractors over the acreage of greenery.  They do a fine job of keeping it under control, the sweet aroma of cut grass always lifts the spirits in us all.

My own version of grass today will be 'Lambs Lettuce,' whatever that is, as I am attempting to stuff more greenery down my throat.  I have some in a plastic bowl at the moment, and I have lots of plastic bowls and containers in the house.  One of my nieces is adamant I should throw them out, but does not inform me as to an alternative, as she claims these things are poisoning us.  Well, she is of course correct, my nieces always are, and the re-use of so many plastic bottles, containers and the like does imply we will suffer an intake of plastic, or whatever it is made off, into our systems.  However, what is the alternative?  Tins?  Any alternative for storage will have problems also.  That said it is clear we are taking in vast quantities of plastic and no-one appears to care.

Plastic is so useful, it gives us drainpipes, cables, containers, bags, and is what almost all tech items are made from these days.  What would we do without it?  However, what do we do with the reject plastic?  Most of it cannot be recycled, what can, is often dumped on third world nations for the natives to rummage amongst to find a life!  Some local 'Tesco' bags were found in one dump in the Philippines not that long ago.  Vast amounts cover the oceans, killing aquatic life, filling the fish we eat, as does mercury and other items, and enters ourselves thus killing us.  I doubt this present government either understands this or indeed cares.   

A more natural diet is required, we know so much of our food is full of muck to make it more desirable, but while it tastes good it fills us with sugar, or worse.  A balanced diet can avoid trouble but who has this 'balanced diet?'  We just get fat.

Natural foods sound good, but how much fertiliser, and what is the fertiliser that is used, has gone into it.  What is sprayed across the 'natural' foodstuffs?  What has been done to it over the years, I understand wheat is now shorter for industrial purposes, for instance, why?  The grass I have comes in wee bags full of some thing, hydrogen I think, to keep it fresh and turn it into black lumps within two days.  I wonder how healthy this really is?  Tinned veg is healthier, but what have they put on it?

I would go and make lunch but now I am too scared to eat.  At least I will lose weight...

And now, some culture...

     

    

Philip Schofield

 

I don't care.

Stop pushing this bull. 

 

Family History

 

I wonder if this is true?

Do our forefathers live in our heritage?

I suspect there is some truth in this, but I see problems.  For a start, while I know much about my family's history, what if I knew nothing?  Imagine I had been dumped at birth, my dad often mumbled something about this, then I would not have the family influences upon me, how much heritage would I carry with me?  

Knowing my parents does mean I am influenced by what influenced them, both family and the world in which I lived.  My father was born when his father was 62, his mother dumped him within six years because of the drinking and this left a mark on dad.  So, in that sense his history leaves a mark on me, especially as dad was born before the Great War, and I after the second.  By the time I was a teenager the world he expected to find had changed, wealth was growing, housing, NHS, radio and now TVs existed, and in the year he died men landed on the moon.  Such a change in his lifetime, this clashed with my outlook as an adolescent.      

My mothers mother died in childbirth, how did this affect her?  Her father lost three wives this way!  Growing up in a poor mining family, the entire town was poor, they shared the hardships with others around them, did this make them better people?  Six long months of the General Strike pulled people together in mining areas, did this influence her outlook?

Remembering how miners were 'enslaved' from 1609 until 1799, and the situation did not improve much after this for many years, how did that influence me, a lazy, well fed, insolent brat?  Not much it appears.  It was years before I understood what the family's had gone through, years before I realised how much they gave for me and others.  Years before I began to realise just how lucky I was to have this family and not one of the others around me. 

Clearly our immediate family influenced our outlook, but is this because the society around them influenced them more?  Society was different one hundred years ago, not always better.  The society in which one side worked down dangerous mines, merely a big hole in the ground, or farmed large areas of land during economic ups and downs, must have influenced their outlook.  Miners pull together, farmers are on their own.

How much of that gave my fathers side a reputation for decency and constant grumbling?  The mothers side always good honest thoughtful, but no fools, people.  Are the generations far from me better because of their forefathers, and can we see influences in them today I wonder?

Anyway, that is today's homework.  I will mark your answers tomorrow.

In Search of London, H.V. Morton

Yes I know, it's him again!

Yes I know you are sick of the sight of him.  Well, too bad, I think I may have seen another one in that online bookshop.

As you know, Morton worked for the 'Daily Express' from 1921 onwards, his tales of London earned him fame, but greater fame came from his 'scoop' from being at the opening of Tutankhamun's tomb in 1923.  His travel books made him famous and reasonably wealthy.  His middle class background enabled him to become a snob, and a patriotic one, when he wished to be.

I was somewhat surprised when opening this book as I was under the impression it would refer to London of the 1920s, however, he walked around, he says, the London of 1950/51, still an intriguing prospect, and gives us an insight of a London very different from that of the 20s.  The book was published in 1951.

Morton's London is London, that is to say, the City of London, and Westminster.  Only Hampton Court outside of this area gets much of a mention.  All the usual places are mentioned, St Pauls, the Tower, the Strand, Westminster Abbey, St James, Royal Parks, and Southwark, for historical reasons.  We follow the usual routine of descriptions of the building and are informed of the architecture, the architect, some people who made use of the place, a shock story here, a love story there, a chopped off head, a mystery, the usual historical tales always with Morton embellished with patriotism, romantic slant, and a belief in Empire and Glory.  H.V. is always willing to shed a tear for the men of Trafalgar or Waterloo, but appears to forget those of recent wars.  This when passing the Cenotaph.

An interesting view of the city is shown in the bombed out basements that surround St Pauls and the like.  Cleaned out after the war the land awaits redevelopment, and the basements are now places for kids to rummage amongst, finding shiny treasures long since lost during the Blitz.  Morton looks across the land that once housed people, offices, shops and clubs, now a view of distant churches is available. For us in the 21st century it is difficult to imagine those early 50's with a real austerity, as opposed to George Osborne's Tory greed one of recent years, grey skies and grey people recovering from war and rebuilding a new world.  

H.V. Morton was of course somewhat above all this equality business at the time.  

The author likes to give the impression that he is known to the great and the good.  A dean here, a curator there, appear willing to engage with him as he wanders a church or museum.  He likes to 'just happen' to meet people of influence.  Though much of this may be down to his personality, and the newsman's ability to make people talk to him.   

The fawning over the better classes continues for 428 pages, though it must be remembered that the King was still alive and the monarch was held in great esteem after the war.  Diana had not ruined the image at that time.  This is therefore a big book, with lots of interest in the historical tales, and the image of London in 1950 is quite strong.  This may be because I can imagine this quite well, others may not understand.  London today is very different in many ways, in others it remains a 2000 year old city, full of tales, much history, and a lonely expensive place.  This book speaks for London today, though most living there now may disagree.

This book is worth a read.

Ne'er Cast Yer Cloot...

Being the first day of June, and having followed the advice of our forefathers, I had avoided casting oot my cloot until May was oot, this morning I threw oot my cloot!

It is freezing here.

The freezing cold east wind, referred to as 'cool' by the weather people, comes in my window and leaves me wrapped up in my cloot, which os no longer oot.  The electric heater under my feet came in, the washing came on, all this to heat the place in the Spring weather.  By the time lunch was prepared I was too hot!

Indeed, it had become so warm I was able to dry the washed sheets remarkably quickly.  Now they are dry the place is freezing again as I have had the windows open and the east wind has returned.  For those in the Atlantic Isles the idea of half the land having record warmth, and the others bathed in mist and dreichness, as happened yesterday, is common enough.  Those dwelling where the sun rises and sets, Spring brings warmth, wee flowers, singing birds and smiles, this makes no sense.  Spring is the time of year when a variety of seasons can arrive at the door hour by hour.  One moment the heating is on, the next we think we are in the Med!  At the moment, I am just south of Greenland.   

June!  Half way through the year and I still have not full-filled my potential.

CoE and Closed Season TV

It goes like this.  An Anglican priest (there are no 'priests' in the new testament) places a post on Twitter concerning the 'pride' march he was about to lead.  This as you know goes against basic biblical teaching, but does however refer to the 'Stonewall' influence running throughout the Church of England.  This heresy, based on a corruption of 'love,' is fooling many and will lead vast numbers far from the crucified Christ.

This 'priest' has now blocked me.

I, along with several others, posted a kind reply hoping someone would give the clergyman a complete bible for Christmas.  In the following days many have 'liked' my response.  This I say, is not unusual, many 'like' what I say, especially those far from me.  I was pleased to gather support from 'like minded' individuals, and hoped there was a rising in the Anglican communion against such mistakes.  

However, upon investigating the dozen or more who have liked the post I am abashed!  Only two appear to be English, both racist Brexiteers at that!  The rest are all far-right racist, US white supremacists, Jew haters, gun loving wide-eyed loons.  And they support me!

What we see here is the difference regarding God between the USA and the UK.  For many white Americans, the ones with US flags flying outside the house, God is white, the USA is Christian white, and all others do not belong, especially blacks and Hispanic.

In the UK there is indeed a clear rise amongst some right-wing Christians to make use of God in politics, the Brownshirts using God as white English, and all foreigners Muslim or ungodly.  This will never be a success in the UK outside of the remnant Brexiteers.

Do any of these people know God?  Are they 'Born again?'  Do they 'love their neighbour?'  Of course not.  God is used by them for a political purpose, one that wins success in parts of America, but fails in the UK.  

Jesus of course is at work in the UK.  He never stops working.  However, his love for all people, gays and 'trans' included, makes use of the words 'Come to me,' and 'repent.'  He does not allow us to continue living lives that hurt, I can tell you that!  He wishes each one to know him, to 'follow him,' and unless, as he says, we lay aside all our 'self,' and all that hinders, 'we can never be his disciples.'  He laid all aside, heaven itself, and human life for me, I, like all others must follow him.  We cannot wallow under control of 'Stonewall' or 'right-wing ideology' as both fail, and do not represent Jesus Christ.  We must abandon our ideas and 'follow him.'  This will not be easy for any of us, however, knowing God is worth the trouble. 

The Anglican church must repent soon, or it will perish.  

It is that sad, unwelcome time of year once again.  That period of time between the end of one football season and the beginning of the next one.  The league placings are all but decided, only one Scottish question remains, will Ross County or Partick Thistle grace the SPFL top tier next season?  The word 'grace' may be out of place here.  Sure there are a couple of cup finals in several places, an international game or two, but then what?  Almost the entire month of June will be TV football free! 
Is that legal I ask?  Nothing happens until mid July, 6 weeks away!  I may be seeing spiders by then.

In days of yore, when I was still pretending to learn at school, the season ended with the cup final, and then the Scotland v England game.  Usually this was complete by the 1st of May.  With little in the way of pre-season friendlies around then, one year the Heart of Midlothian pre-season comprised the 1st team playing the reserves!  This gap meant that for an adolescent with nothing to do there was almost three months without football.  The season would kick of in late July, ten or a dozen weeks away, and I was left moping for much of the time.  Being poor, I need to stress this poverty, we did not venture abroad for a holiday, a day or two in Fife living of relatives was all we could scrounge.  

I became hooked on the Heart of Midlothian long before I was allowed near the ground.  Playing football in the playground, in one of the 'pitches' around us, and reading my brother in laws book 'The Hearts,' by Albert Mackie, inscribed with all the signatures of the great Hearts side of the 50's, my copy only has Willie Bauld and Jimmy Wardaugh's signature, a book which inspired devotion to this team. 

Come Saturday, a 3 O'clock kick of awaited.  I became used to using the bus that went the long way round, this being quicker than those which required a change here and there, and at least this would drop me at Tynecastle's door, the 'home of the Free.'   Sitting each Saturday at the top of Drum Brae, while the drivers were changed or just having a break was so frustrating.  I just wished to get there and here we were wasting precious time for nothing!  I feared greatly that I may be late, though I usually made it with an hour or so to spare.  Whether I was heading for the first team game or just the reserves, I always popped into the wee shop with the name 'Cockburn' above the door.  In fact this was Willie Bauld's shop!  He never spoke to me about football, he apparently regarded me as some sort of idiot, why not, everyone else did.  However, I always obtained a poke of Berwick Cockles.   

Not only did this increase the profits of the shop, these came in the Heart of Midlothian colours!  Famously made, once upon a time, in a wee shop in Berwick upon Tweed,  these are now owned by some conglomerate.  I visited the shop not long before it closed, a miserable old man, in a dark and almost empty shop, sold me these sweets that once meant so much to me.  I suppose it was the end of an era that caused his bitterness, a bitterness that showed.  At least he was not related, our grandfather being born there.  

Poke of sweets in wee white paper bag in pocket, I would pay 3/6d, (three shillings and six pence to you) to enter the enclosure.  It was only 1/6d for the ground, but I wished to be by the tunnel and occasionally speak to a player.  The sights and sounds from that position remain with me still.  The aroma of embrocation cream, rubbed on players legs to make them supple, has never left me.  The sight during a big crown of a puff of smoke from a cigarette away over the far side, the green of the grass expanse, the blue sky, usually cloudy in Edinburgh, and the aged men in their uniform of overcoat, jacket and tie, and good flat cap above.  At half time it was normal for those rich persons seated above in the main stand, the only stand indeed, to stand up and stretch for a while.  Many at that time would possess season tickets, something the majority did not use at that time, and also possess one for the Hibernian ground down in Leith at Easter Road.  This does not happen today.  Costs alone would prohibit this, and while a few might still do this they are a small number now.  

The football of course was better in the early 60s.  England had a £10 wage cap, so why would decent players go south?  Wages may have been better here, and noticing the gathered players before the game, all in sharp Italian suits and 'winklepicker' shoes, indicated they were not short of a bob or two even then.  It was not as wealthy as today, however, a good signing on fee once or twice and a player could afford to buy a wee newsagents or a share in a pub.  

The game over, the referee blamed, the Glasgow mafia once more at fault, we headed for the door.  Stumbling up the terracing, laid down way back in 1914 just as the war was raising its head, it did not cross my mind then that many people who I heard yell out that day would have served in that war.  The old men had seen two wars and a depression, many had suffered severe hardship, many had tales to tell from across the world.  I had a near empty bag of Berwick Cockles.

The programme, obtained from a wee man outside the ground, just how many 'wee men' keep wee football teams going around the world?  The programme costs 6d in those days, and I still have a handful of the more important ones on the shelf.  The majority collected I passed on after my mother died, to a kid playing for Hearts U12s at the time.  A couple of scrap books and a pile of programmes from many places were very welcomed by him.

Those days are like all of the past, simply memories now.  It is unlikely I will ever return to the ground, at the moment I am not fit enough, the money and fight for a ticket in these all seated days is beyond my effort, and a move to PPV would suit me down to the ground.  Sitting here shouting at the screen is far more desirable that spending time in the rain, sleet, cold, or any other typical Edinburgh Saturday.  I have seen enough of them, I have served my time.  Memories are good, but comfort is better.

   

King of Kings, Majesty

Dunfermline Abbey