Isn't Life Great?

This is a sink.  In the sink lies a bowl.  Inside the bowl lies, just visible, a frying pan. Now it is not unusual to see a pan in a washing u bowl, but this one is different.  This is a symbol of my life today!  You see I used the pan to fry some mushrooms and tomatoes to go along with my fish, chips and beans, a nourishing but unspectacular chow the other night.  The pan was later stored away at the bottom of the oven, some oil still inside, awaiting further use. Last night, using all my intellect to the fullest effect, I decided that eating the remains from the bag of oven chips would equal my tea because I was too lazy busy to fix anything that required effort.
It was while I searched the web for dead soldiers in the fields of France and Gallipoli that I began to actually taste the aroma of war. The burning smell from the shells and destroyed buildings was very clear to me as I Googled.  It was as if I was there!  I was!  The frying pan was burning and the house was filling with smoke and all was danger!  I ate in a calm atmosphere, eyes nipping with the smoke in the air, doors and windows open, and a cold draught going right up my kilt!  The smell still lingers today, even after a lot of elbow grease has been involved.  
Life will be better from now on, I wonder if I bought that lottery ticket.....?

Bump

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What the Dickens?

Charles Dickens

Today, we have been repeatedly told by the media, commemorates the two hundredth year since the birth of Charles Dickens.  I find myself saying,"So?"  Why is there such a fuss about a man who made his living by writing story books?  Dickens was obsessed with two things, one was his 'suffering' as a child and the other was the theatre.  Put together he produced books which told stories that adapt easily for the stage or screen and are filled with pathos, often concerning small boys and their suffering.  I give you that he could write well when he wished, his first chapter of 'Bleak House,' is a marvel and makes the reader imagine he is struggling up and down the slopes of Holborn. The third chapter takes the reader into a slum dwelling and fills the mind with a very real picture of the dingy dwelling.  The book gets thrown away by the reader who finds the intervening chapters more slushy than the streets of Moscow during a thaw! 

Why is he so revered?  Possibly because his books have been turned into television and film events more than his actual writing.  Possibly because once a book becomes a 'must read' it is forced upon the world even by those who have never read any of them.  Other authors have more depth, more interesting tales, yet remain less popular.  I am surprised by the amount of praise Dickens receives when had he published such works today the PC lobby would have the social services on him, the police would be removing his laptop and the media would be crucifying him as a danger to children.

It's a funny old world saint!

Charles Dickens Museum

                                    

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Failed Trip

I checked the rail website this morning and fund some trains were still running.  Someone called from the meeting place but left no message on the ansafone, usually this means it is a female!  I called back, at great expense, and asked for the appropriate person. She was in another part of the building and I had to call a different number, at great expense. Here I discovered the woman I wanted only to discover she was not the woman I wanted.  She was another woman who had stood in for the first woman who was, wait for it, back in the first part of the building. I called once more the first number, at great expense, and found the woman I wanted, or rather didn't find her as she was with somebody else.  I left a message and wondered how to pay the bill.  


Checking the website I looked for updates on the train troubles, sadly while many lines out of Liverpool Street were suffering delays, by stalled trains, frozen points and lost trains, my line was clear, for the most part.  I checked the site before I left, the train was 'On Time!'  After slithering down to the station, the feet damp from leaking shoes which were attracted magnetically to all slush puddles en route, I discovered the train was running but a mere seventeen minutes late.  I joined the queue who were glancing anxiously at the timetable screen while fingering their wallets.  I paid my money to the friendly efficient man in the ticket office and took my place on the platform. 


Only one other was there and he was only there to make a call on his mobile away from the others.  The others rested together in the waiting room, a waiting room equipped with a coffee and 'stuff you need on trains stall.'  I wondered what the connection would be like?  I wondered if it would arrive on time? I wondered where the yellow went when I brushed my teeth with Pepsodent? A female voice descended upon my ears from somewhere unknown.  The voice intoned the details of the train, but not its whereabouts. "The ten o'clock train is cancelled," she informed us with ill concealed boredom. It was possibly the thousandth such call she had made since her shift began and it was beginning to show.  "The next train to depart from Platform 1 (Platform 1? There is only one platform?) will be the eleven o'clock."  As my meeting was timed for eleven fifteen and I would arrive just before she left for home I obtained a refund, along with the rest, and struggled home via the slush. I informed the lass I would not arrive and she cared less for this information than I care for a woman talking about her baby.  


I did the washing instead and fell asleep.  Something tells me this was more productive than visiting Camoludunum would have been.

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Snow is Horrid!

It all went very quiet for a Saturday night last evening.  Around ten I got off my butt and looked out of the side window to find the threatened snow had ceased threatening!  It was falling all night, small flakes drizzling down but to thin to be caught in the picture. 

  

I crossed the park trudging through almost six inches of snow (although the weather folk always talk in centimeters now for some reason!).  Not much if you are in Canada but a lot for this neck of the woods. Naturally the world has ceased to operate so it is kind of lucky this is a Sunday.  If this is not cleared by Monday there will be massive disruption, the media full of dire warnings, late buses, trains, and hospitals full of people falling over.  Which reminds me I am on the train at ten tomorrow, or maybe not as the case may be.  Two dogs were in the park this morning and in spite of the snow one insisted on chasing a stick which it could not find in the depth of the snow!

  

The bustling town centre early in the morning.  It is probably not much better at bustling tonight.  

The entire atmosphere changes in these conditions, for a start it was warmer than the past two days when there was no snow, and all sound is softened by the snow, all except the cries of the fallen of course. 

By the morning it is possible that all this will be nothing but mush of course.

  

The News Biscuit sums it up very well

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I Couldn't Possibly Comment...

More Here

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Thoughts to Ponder

My husband and I divorced over religious differences. He thought he was God and I didn't.

I don't suffer from insanity; I enjoy every minute of it.

Some people are alive only because it's illegal to kill them.

You're just jealous because the voices only talk to me

I'm not a complete idiot -- Some parts are missing.

Out of my mind. Back in five minutes.

God must love stupid people; He made so many.

The gene pool could use a little chlorine.

Ever stop to think, and forget to start again?

Being "over the hill" is much better than being under it!

Procrastinate Now!

I Have a Degree in Liberal Arts; Do You Want Fries With That?

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a cash advance

They call it PMS because MadCow Disease was already taken.

He who dies with the most toys is nonetheless dead.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but it uses up three thousand times the memory.

Ham and eggs. A day's work for a chicken, a lifetime commitment for a pig.

The trouble with life is there's no background music.

The original point and click interface was a Smith and Wesson.

I smile because I don't know what the hell is going on.

"What is the point of this Blog? What am I trying to say?"

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Thick Skulled Tonight

So here instead is a pretty girl

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Lynch Mob

International Business Times

Sir Fred Goodwin became powerful at the Royal Bank of Scotland during the good times. The money flowed and nobody knew nor cared who he was.  However the crash came and the world banking system went into meltdown and the exploits of Fred and his kind came to public attention as front page news.  Fred retired on a healthy pension of £760,000 a year, causing public outcry as people were beginning to feel the pain of recession by then, especially the 20,000 who had lost their jobs under his control!  His house was attacked forcing him to move into a more secure accommodation costing a mere two or three million, depending on whom you choose to believe. After some debate his pension was lowered to a mere £360,000 annually and he went of looking for work as a taxi driver at the weekends. Recently the bankers habit of awarding themselves multi million pound bonus's, even while the bank shares are losing value and thousands are being dumped on the streets, individuals and small to medium businesses are failing to secure much needed loans.  An outcry has arisen with bankers now considered among the low in society, alongside estate agents, MP's and tabloid journalists.  

To this end a lynch mob has attacked leading bankers receiving the odd million or two bonus and a campaign in the media has seen a chairman or two refuse to accept his bonus and others forced to turn theirs down, although we all know this will be made good to them all in the end. For Sir Fred Goodwin this meant that an uproar has demanded he be stripped of his Knighthood and return to being mere 'Mr' Goodwin. The cynic in me finds this somewhat unsettling in a couple of ways.  Apart from the fact that he keeps the money, position attained amongst his peers and while disgruntled will not otherwise be bothered,it smacks of jealousy and spite rather than justice.  While Goodwin appears to possess the face and character that makes normal folk wish to slap him hard  the lynch mob approach does not bring back the billions wasted worldwide.  In the end it shows merely that once again the PR PM Cameron is responding to a public outcry in the 'Daily Mail,' while doing nothing to end the bonus payment culture that lines the pockets of those who pay vast sums into his Conservative party.  Oh, could these be linked perhaps, surely no!    

When the editor of the 'Daily Mail,' one Paul Dacre I believe, who is paid £1.65 Million a year complains about a banker £1.2 million wage plus a million pound bonus I begin to wonder what kind of bonus Dacre receives let alone the other benefits he gains from mixing in the same company as the bankers. It has been said that Dacre has earwigged Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and now David Cameron in an attempt to be made a member of the house of Lords, if so could this be for the sake of the nation, to benefit the world by his opinions or just for the sake of pretentious emptiness, I wonder?  Goodwin and his kind participated in the great downfall (that began in the US) was encouraged by governments short sightedness and mostly by the public's greed, the one cause rarely mentioned.  The demand for loans far outstripping what we could repay (I can talk!), mortgaged to the hilt and the loss of jobs has brought our world crashing down. Vengeance, not justice, makes us attack those responsible, but only the ones we know about, while we excuse our own mistakes and join other greedy, selfish men who give even less than bankers and take even more from us, as in the case of the media they take our soul itself, and we hang out Sir Fred by removing his Knighthood and feel a strange satisfaction by this.

Goodwin was guilty, other bankers and financial men are also. However the behaviour of many well paid bonus takers attacking another is not a way out of the troubles we are in.  A failed PM satisfying a lust for vengeance does not reveal either leadership nor an understanding of a solution to the economic downturn.  The media liars appealing to the lowest common denominator, and the 'Daily Mail' certainly is this, does no one any good either.  Where do we stop here?  A Knight in England in the past was knighted because of his service to the King, while in Scotland all Nobles could and did give Knighthoods to those they chose.  Today this honour comes to those who have reached the highest levels of the Civil Service, or an MP who has voted the way he was told to vote for twenty years.  Singers and anyone who keeps in the public eye can today become a Knight, even an actress or two can receive the female version by being created a Dame simply by lasting at the top, and earning vast sums on the way, no matter how mediocre (Judy Dench!?).  The nation does require to commend those who deserve such awards but what about those who have, like Goodwin, turned out to be 'Bad 'uns?'  Do they also have the reward taken from them?  Where do we start?  How many would lose theirs?  Goodwin and his kind may have been wrong but a lynch mob does not return us to a state of normality!  

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A Man's a Man for A' That

A Man's a Man for A' That

Is there for honest Poverty 

That hings his head, an' a' that; 

The coward slave-we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that! 

For a' that, an' a' that. 

Our toils obscure an' a' that, 

The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin grey, an' a that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; 

A Man's a Man for a' that: 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that; 

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; 

Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that: 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

His ribband, star, an' a' that: 

The man o' independent mind 

He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 

But an honest man's abon his might, 

Gude faith, he maunna fa' that! 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their dignities an' a' that; 

The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

(As come it will for a' that,) 

That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, 

Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's coming yet for a' that, 

That Man to Man, the world o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that.

BBC Robert Burns

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Tidy Desk

I was going to regale you with a post full of insight and understanding.  I could have put the world in its place, given wisdom regarding the problems and difficulties we all face, but as I mused on my subject I realsied I just couldn't be bothered!  It is Sunday evening, I am listening to 'Mellow Jazz' on http://www.jazzradio.com/ and this therefore is a time to relax and fill the mind with thoughts of good things. 'Whatsoever is pure, whatsoever is lovely think on these things' is the way.  Anyway I am tired after a hard days football watching, freezing my socks off in the chilly air, and watching my Nan turn into a charred, blackened brick as I have yet to get a grip on the grill on the oven.  The smell ought to disperse by Tuesday.   The picture is my view whenever I sit here to contemplate or watch football.  The picture manages to hide the thick layer of dust that lies over everything (any spare women out there?) however it does show piles of unattended items, like bills!  The sheet of paper directly in front of me was put there to remind me to attend to it straight away,, it has been lying there since the 9th of the month!  I might look at it tomorrow after I have checked the money situation, I fear the overdraught has once more gone over the overdraught!  This means a letter from the bank informing me they cannot pay as I have no money but as I have no money they wish £20 more thanks a bunch!  That nice Mr Hester at the Royal bank of Scotland has just been given a bonus of just under a million pounds. He is not the best paid, and I wonder what the CEO got as a bonus at my bank?  I know where it comes from! Grrr 'Whatsoever is lovely'....think man, think!






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'The Real Dad's Army'

'The Real Dad's Army' is the diary of Rodney Foster, written during the Second World War.  Foster had been born in India a son of the Raj and educated in England as so many  were. Commissioned into the army he returned to India to serve there for some time before realising promotion was stilted within the regiment structure and moved to the Indian version of the Ordinance Survey, the Survey of India, where he spent most of his time. He did return to England (never Britain please note) to collect a wife and back to the Indian army once more when the Great War broke out.  After retirement in 1932 he took a house in Hythe on the south coast of England in time to prepare for the Second World War.  Because of Mr Hitlers desire to turn Poland and Russia into his new Empire this soon followed in 1939.  After Dunkirk in 1940 a great fear of invasion by Germany took hold of Britain. A Militia was called for and hundreds of thousands of men, many ex-servicemen from the 'Last Lot' enlisted. This organisation was called at first the 'Local Defence Volunteers (the 'LDV,' known as 'Look, Duck and Vanish!').  Using whatever weapons were to hand, including spears and broom handles with sharp knives attached, these determined squads of men prepared to defend their homes.  At first it was a haphazard organisation without uniforms or proper weapons, and in some cases a motley collection of leaders.  Later called ' the 'Home Guard,' this was to become a very efficient militia thanks in part to the men like Rodney Foster who took charge of  the 'Saltwood' platoon in his own locale and later 'B' Company in Folkstone a couple of miles to the east.

'Dad's Army' was a very successful comedy show made in the 70's and still shown regularly on BBC television.  This was based on a small town similar to Hythe, on the south coast, and in immediate danger of enemy action.  A great many of the stories involved situations that arose with the 'Home Guard, the real 'Dad's Army!'  A comedy it may have been but the situations that arose were very deadly at time.  Fosters diary comments on almost daily air raids, often hitting the town with resultant loss, shells fired from across the channel, and replied to by big guns based at Dover a little further along the coast, shelling from ships of both sides in the channel and convoys attacked by enemy aircraft and fast moving 'E' Boats as the convoys passed one way or another.  In spite of the danger, and the rest of the houses in their road being commandeered by the army, the Fosters remained in their home until the end of the war.  This is remarkable as they possessed no shelter bar the big kitchen table, and all three often slept through the constant air raids and accompanying sirens!  Explosions which awoke them or shook the house from afar did not always see them rise to take an interest, sleep was more important!

The diary entries are short and to the point.  These reveal something of Rodney's character and the real daily life of the war years.  Little is said about the deprivations, although hints are abundant, and the red tape that follows from major military operations in the area is constant when he drives around as a member of the 'volunteer driving pool.' This last meant often taking the sick into hospitals or various individuals around Kent on their 'war work,' some of whom bring out Mr Fosters opinions quite clearly.  Deaths, sometimes tragic, are occasionally mentioned, but his response is a soldiers response of just 'Keep calm and get on with it,' an attitude that stayed with many who endured the war, and an attitude not so common today.  Descriptions, brief but enlightening are given of the troops around them, reports of the war in far off places, and occasional rumours, which usually abound in war under the secrecy prevailing.  One interesting aspect is the weather.  How often the entry records a summers day with the words, 'Cold,' or 'Rain all day,' 'fog,' indicating in Britain some things never change.  An occasional very 'hot' day is recorded, but not many!  A notable fact is the swing from the early years of constant fear of enemy air raids to the mentions of our aircraft, in ever increasing numbers, flying of by day and by night over the coast into enemy held territory.  Also noted are the noise of explosions and the shaking of the buildings when actions take place out of sight deep in France and Belgium. Like many others Foster compares the number going out with the number returning.  Difficulties with a senior officer caused Rodney to leave the Home Guard and become an ARP warden (Air Raid Precautions) an occupation which gave him an easier life physically and with much less 'office politics' stress.  Self importance is a curse in all military establishments.  

Rodney had developed his artistic skills while working on the 'Survey of India,' and continued to sketch and paint throughout the war, even becoming considered a 'spy' at one point for painting in a main street!  He wrote a great deal and a huge archive is now in private hands, some 22 volumes, covering his time in India and elsewhere, plus paintings etc, yet he died an obscure unknown with little if anything published.  His diary has now been published, almost by accident, and his insight into the war years are very revealing of daily life in one of the more dangerous parts of the world at that time.  A great many servicemen saw less action than those remaining in the south coast of England at that time.  This diary was difficult to put down.  Easy to read and full of interesting details revealing life as it happened during the war.  Different from other war books I have read and appealing to many folks from all backgrounds I think this was an excellent book, and not just because it was a gift!


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Friday Post

Friday is the sixth day of the week, unless you are Jewish, Muslim or unable to count. The name in northern Europe derives from 'Frigg'  being the name given to the wife of Odin in Norse mythology, and therefore implies Friday is the day you, er... 'cough'... 'attend' to the wife I suppose.  Various European Fridays also have a female base for Friday, so not much work would be done in the northern hemisphere in times past on that day then.  Some think Friday is an unlucky day, but probably not many women, and allied with the thirteenth day can cause much alarm in the UK. How often have you come across those, mostly female, people informing the wide world that as it is the thirteenth things will go wrong.  When you inform the congregation that earthquakes, fires, accidents, tornadoes and toothache happen on other days you are regarded as an unbeliever!  Any investigation into actual hardships on that day reveal nothing untowards and even less knowledge as to why thirteen or Friday the is unlucky!  


Islam of course regards Friday as the Holy day.  Mosques fill up with the faithful to pray and listen to sermons from the Imam.  Troubled Islamic nations often find rioting occurring after such sermons and avoiding such places in troubled lands is advisable.  Christians only regard 'Good Friday' as relevant although Roman Catholics used to avoid meat on Fridays as a form of 'penance,' although the bible does not contain such a word. Only 'repentance' is found, which refers to turning from wrong and following Christ himself. Today the RC's tend to eat more than fish on Fridays. Sundown on Friday is the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath, this lasts until sundown on Saturday.  Disasters on a Friday are often referred to as 'Black Fridays,' while 'Casual Friday,' or 'Dress down Friday,' has become popular in some business premises as an easing of the normal office dress code. It rarely made much difference to me,whether in office or otherwise. A 'Girl Friday,' was a term coined by those looking for a secretary to do the odd jobs around the office.  Today however feminist clowns object to this and 'Person Fridays' must be asked for. Only the female ones get jobs however.  The term is based on the 'Robinson Crusoe' stories where the hero discovers a black man to do all his work for him, very English that.  The author stole the idea for the story while touring Scotland selling the nation to the English parliament.  The original was Alexander Selkirk, a young man from Lower Largo, Fife, who ran away to sea and ended up on a Pacific island for several years.  He did not meet any 'Man Friday.'  


For most people Friday is the last day of the working week.  This means leisure time tonight, fun and enjoyment on Saturday and Sunday, then back to work on Monday, unless you are on the dole of course.  Whatever you do, enjoy your Friday, with or without a 'Person Friday' to help you.

Thursday

RDG asked what a 'Burns Supper' was. I thought I would quickly inform you to please her and avoid going out in the rain.  Rain is something to avoid when there are holes in the shoes.  Many years ago some fans of Robert Burns, indeed some people who had in fact known him, devised a 'supper' where they could remember him and toast his memory.  This is not a new fad, the Romans did this in the catacombs to remember their dead, and indeed Christians do the same in most churches. Since that time it developed rapidly in Scotland the idea of getting together on the long, cold winters night to remember Scotland's favourite Bard and eat and drink, in some cases mostly drink!  


Basically a Haggis is brought in, following a Piper in more formal settings, and a member of the congregation will read, or quote from memory, Burns ode, 'Address to a Haggis!'  

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 

Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!"   

Then the pudding is toasted with whisky and served with 'neeps and tatties,' (Mashed turnip and potatoes.) As Burns himself died in 1796 few people today actually met him. However a speech in his 'Immortal Memory' recording some of Burns doings will be made by a knowledgeable member of the assembly, usually amusing, usually short enough to stop the locals finishing the whisky too early.  Toasts will be made to the cook, the piper, various members of the dining fraternity and readings of Burns massive output of poems will be given, and possibly his many songs sung. 

A good time is had by all, and the local constabulary will arrive to remove the bodies in the wee small hours.

There is a lot to admire in Robert Burns.  Hard working farmer as well as a born poet, almost self educated, popular with the ladies, yet not to keen on the 'literati set' in Edinburgh, though he got on well with the ladies!  After his time in Edinburgh he returned to the farm but times were hard so he became an exciseman possibly with the idea of 'set a thief to catch a thief!  Smuggling being popular work in those days. We were told as kids that he died from overwork on the farm.  However it is also alleged that while his health was failing, and his lifestyle possibly catching up with him, he fell asleep on the grass verge in the rain while heading home from the pub and woke up 'deid!  Take your pick as to what you believe!

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Rabbie Burns

Burns House, Mauchline

Epitaph for James Smith

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye; 

For had ye staid hale weeks awa, 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press 

To school in bands thegither, 

O tread ye lightly on his grass, - 

Perhaps he was your faither!

Robert Burns Country

Robert Burns spent four years in Mauchline, some say amongst his most formative.  He met and married Jean Armour, his 'Bonny Jean,' and would have known all the citizens of this small village, including James Smith and the wives around the town!  I will think of Rabbie as I partake of my tinned Haggis tonight!

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Another Dreich Day

Free Foto

How lovely!  The farmers will be pleased!  No muttering that there is insufficient rainfall so far this year as it has teemed down all day!  The holes in my shoes decided me to stay in and fill out yet another application form, in black ink, and be depressed afterwards knowing that two first class stamps have been wasted on the attempt.  This attempt dulled the mind, ideal time to make a huge pot of mince I thought, mince being reminiscent of the inside of my head after lying, in black ink, for so long.  I decided to wash the black ink of my hand before I did this however, fountain pens enable me to write a tad clearer but not sufficiently for them to read and understand anything written there I suspect.  Using a keyboard for so long has enabled my once tidy writing to become a scrawl.  Sometimes I have to pop into the chemist to interpret what I have written!  This weather is mild in comparison to some winters, and much better than up north in (almost) Independent Scotland.  I read an interview with the great Alan Gilzean, once Dundee then Spurs and  Scotland's centre forward.  He came from Couper Angus near Dundee and returned there to receive the adulation of the fans and was happy to go back home to Weston Super Mare in the English south west. The weather was too windy and cold for the 73 years old when he was there, and I can understand this.  I was made to live somewhere warm, I think I will look up 'Jobs for Idiots' in the Arabian Gulf.  I can suffer 100 degrees quite easily!  In the early 70's my brother was stationed out that way. he returned to Edinburgh one January day when snow lay on the ground and the temperature was about 6 below freezing.  He was not happy having left 105 in the shade behind!    

This afternoon, in between wondering where my life went wrong, I came across this Jazz Radio outfit. There are several stations, if that is the word, and I have been indulging in the Paris Cafe for a while.  Jazz was to me just several men playing different tunes at the same time once, but not now!  I have learned that they are all playing the same tune, it's just a bit mixed up that's all!  Try it you music lovers Jazz Radio

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A brief history of England.

Stonehenge in between rain storms 

Around 10,000 BC the ice that had covered the Northern Hemisphere began to recede.  This reached as far south as parts of Essex and stopped in London at the Finchley Road Tube Station, trains to Wembley Park and Amersham were delayed by this. Within a thousand years or so people were using Salisbury Plain as a meeting place, possibly for worship.  It could be they originated in what is now Europe proper, the North Sea had yet to flow south and separate the British Isles from the rest of the land mass. This finally occurred around 6500 BC and many men moved their families onto the new island, while just as many sent them the other way to France to give themselves some peace. Here the few, no, not that 'Few,' settled down to clear the trees, plant crops, and watch football.  They were taught this game by the Scots who had come south to play the tourist, having lived in igloos during the ice age. Sadly it was as yet unavailable on television, this meant actually watching the game live, in the rain. When the early English refused to give the Jocks their ball back they went home, and a state of enmity has remained between the peace loving Scots and the Imperialist English. Within a short thousand years or two settlements were established, standing stones were standing, wars were being fought, this being the English predilection, Flint mines were sprouting downwards and Stonehenge was built.  This as we know was never completed as the roof was never put on.  The English habit of imperialism is seen here, the blue stone used was nicked from Wales when the locals were not looking! 


With the Atlantic Ocean to the west the land suffered from rain quite severely.  This, plus the fact that more populated areas had never heard of it, meant the isles were ignored for the most part although traffic across the sea to Europe for trade, wine, pottery, women, and sickly French cheese, did occur.  In Marseilles a man named Pytheas referred to the Pretanic Isles. Whether he did this on parchment or just scribbled this on a toilet wall is not stated, but mention it he did. Nobody paid any attention bar Belgians who trekked across to Essex where they heard there were jobs available picking and packing frozen peas. This did not please the locals who began to write to the 'Daily Mail' demanding to know why so many foreign Johnnies were coming over here to 'take our jobs and live off the dole?'  They fought back this way and by moving out  and stealing land from those who lived in the wilder west.  This plan was so successful that some time later it was copied in the Americas.


Having once more settled down to peaceful cattle rustling and women stealing the tribes were somewhat surprised and a bit cheesed off when a small balding bloke from Rome turned up and attempted to invade them. (55-45 BC) Having nothing to prove but his desire to be emperor Julius Caesar did eventually get himself ashore, kill an army or two, and fled back to Gaul and the warmer climate.  His only reason to invade was 'because it was there,' and his expedition became a wash out.  This was to be expected as most things get washed out in the British Isles by the rain.  Romes desire to win Britannica was such that at Rome senators were heard to say "Where?" and "What's in it for me?"


The Celts living in Colchester continued on their happy warpath not noticing the European influence.  The young rich who became influenced by the Romans in Gaul, the wine, the togas, being educated all brought "tut tut's" from the older generation who despised people who could read, an English habit today judging by the spelling in the newspapers.  This gradual seeping of Roman influence led to Aulus Plautius invading in 43 AD under orders from Claudius to win him a 'Triumph.'  A previous invasion under Emperor Caligula faded out on the Gaul shoreline when the Emperor ordered his men to collect those nice shell found on the beaches.  The Roman soldiers thoughts on this were not recorded.  Vespasian, an up and coming general brings Civilisation to the south of England by sticking swords into anyone he meets. He became Emperor himself using similar tactics in 66 AD.  Oh you will have noticed the BC has gone and the AD has come.  This did not matter at the time as Englishmen did not use calendars in those days, in fact their watches didn't have a little date that was always three days behind either.  While Boudica decided to get peeved at a slight by a Roman general, he raped her daughters and took all she belonged after her husband, the chief, had died, some would  say burning Londinium (London) and Camulodunum (Colchester) to the ground while everybody was still inside possibly a bit of an over reaction.  However girls will be girls.  Naturally the Romans had ways of responding to this, they came and stuck sword into everybody for miles around.  More 'Civilisation' you see.


The English were often quite happy to let these foreigners take over and those who attempted to resist soon became civilised. Sometimes by the sword, sometimes by being flayed alive, sometimes by being forced to eat spaghetti with a fork.  However when the Romans got to Scotland they were told where to get off. Those that did get off found themselves floating back down the sea lanes.  Crying "Woad unto ye," the peace lovers up north put aside their books and studies, used their mighty wisdom and knowledge of the terrain, allowed the Romans to march north and get stuck in snow drifts until they got fed up with it all they built a wall and stayed away.  Every so often, when the football season was over, the Scots would come to the wall and throw dead Haggis at the Mediterranean types shivering on the walls.  Some still do this today to the tourists backpacking along the wall in the rain.


All good things must come to an end and as Alaric the Rangers fan invaded Rome the Mediterranean types took their good looks, their wine, their opera singing and their slow, fouling type of football and went home to defend their city.  They were too late so they could have stayed here had the locals not charged them so much for rent!  By the year 500 AD all was changed, but that's for another day.

Trimontium Trust

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Saturday Saddo

Daily Mail

I know I should not laugh but I am afraid I cannot help it.  This 'Daily Mail story makes me laugh even though it was fatal.  This man became convinced he could survive living off the land for a year in the Scottish Highlands.  He was impressed by the tales of 'Bear Grylls,' whoever he is, and after attending survival courses and taking the proper equipment he set out.  Now he has been found dead after only a month, possibly from Hypothermia!  Now there could be another explanation but there is something funny about the irony within this tragedy.  Just because you see a professional doing it on telly does not mean it can be done in the highlands in January!  Just because you think you can do it does not mean your body can take the strain.  Living off rip off Tesco's is one thing, living off the land takes a bit off getting used to, especially under piles of snow!  This is a sad tale indeed but sadly I did snigger at this.




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Friday Filler

Not sure if I ever posted this one.  I took it in the early 80's during the summertime, (I think it was Saturday the 15th that year) and my mate pointed out the man and his pillow.  Some folks will make use of anything when they require rest! "Put a head on my beer mate," fits well here.  

I have however sorted the adverts problem on Chrome.  I am using Adblock and I suspended the 'Easy List' and the Google ads returned.  I suspect I will also now have a billion other ads until I reinstate it while fuming!  Black & White whisky?  Whoever sees that these days?  We only see the whisky that sells in supermarkets and their choice is the blends that sell, nothing else matters!

San Fransico Sports Cars

This was to be the car that I was going to drive down Route 66 for my next trip. Sadly someone has just purchased it, and so I am off to pump up the tyres on my bike instead.

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Adverts

So what gives with Adsense?  I have this on here yet by using Chrome, owned by Google, I cannot see any!

I note that my earnings have reached over £23, which surprises me, and these ads do not show up on Firefox either.  Just what is the point of adverts that either cannot be seen or are always shoved in your face?  I noticed that the row along the top is where I put them, but a dirty big square one has appeared to the left of the main page.  There was also another under a post, but I have managed to remove this.  Common sense appears to be lacking somewhere if adverts from Google cannot be seen on Google Chrome, or is it just me?

Anyway, let's have a laff!

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