Thursday, December 21, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
IS ALL THIS REALLY NECESSARY?
I heard curry-muncher on the radio tonight. It refers to people of the sub-continent (Indian, Pakistani etc.) and who also, as it happens, eat curry, hence the nomenclature
It’s an arguably offensive and irreverent moniker, used predominately by Anglo Saxons.
A well-know radio presenter, in his bumbling attempt at shock-jock humour (think Howard Stern but not as successful), cast it out there this evening. It’s a favourite of this man.
On occasion, callers may have a go at verbal sparring, to be cut down with much self-satisfaction by his superior wit and dismissal (with the added safety of the cut-off button should he meet his equal).
Some do consider it offensive; some are driven to the extreme by its irreverence.
This same presenter earlier in his show, with equal triumph, alluded with his razor-sharp repartee, that the Irish by nature were stupid. This particular slur has been around for centuries. Yeah, let’s all laugh at the dumb Paddy! The Paddys don’t seem too bothered by it – of course, they’ve had other things commanding their attention.
Consider the following:
PADDYS AND TOWELHEADS
Yep – you heard right – I said it. The ‘T’ word. It’s the new ‘C’ word y’know! Sue me! But first let me say this; the ‘T’ word is a pet name/nickname for those that wear the headgear a certain persuasion wear.
Just like most have a nickname for their wife – and dog. In fact, here in Australia they have nicknames of a sort (more accurately shortening of words) for everything. Afternoon becomes arvo; Jonathon becomes Jonno and sausage becomes sanger. (How they came up with that particular one I’ll never know).
Moreover, they are referred to in such a way based on logical analysis of a familiar sight – they wear cloth in such a way that resembles the towels women, fresh out of the shower, wrap around their head while it dries – or something – not absolutely certain.
This headgear has a significance for the wearer, based in a fervent belief. And to discriminate against those of this (in fact, all) belief is of course unacceptable. No-one is disputing that. But we mustn’t become so over-sensitive that becomes farcical.
And, it doesn’t alter the fact that the image it promotes is of the aforementioned woman/shower thing.
Now, if you want to wear this particular head-dress, go right ahead, I’ve no complaints; in fact it’s infinitely preferable to baseball caps – especially white ones – worn backwards (by wee bastards who’d stick a knife in you as soon as look at you).
And if you want to believe in a particular deity – that’s okay too. That is your undeniable right and one I won’t be opposing. You’re not called towelhead because you worship Islam; or because you’re considered inferior; that you’re in some way less a person because you believe in something different.
You’re called it because of a sense of humour. Just like the ‘Paddy’ reference in jokes.
How many – wait, better this way – is there a man on the planet that doesn’t know or hasn’t heard a ‘paddy’ joke? They’re older than I am; the stereotypical red-haired, freckled dumb Paddy. A virtual career for many a comedian.
Wogs, Lebs, Pakis, Yanks, Pommies, Whiteys, Canucks, Chinkys, Abos, Frogs, Eyties, Nazis, Redskins, Palefaces, Hippys, Tree-huggers – and these are only some of the printable ones.
And I know there are many more. To have a nickname for most things is human nature and while some may be overtly derogatory, the majority are said (without prejudice.
Frankly, I couldn’t care less who’s offended at my term of endearment uttered with innocent indifference. My conscience is clear.
It could be that these extremists are simply unstable and like a drunk man with an imagined umbrage, (God, I’ve encountered a few of those in my time) they seek reasons to be offended in order to act out their ways.
I stand by this argument and invite anyone to present an alternative.
It’s an arguably offensive and irreverent moniker, used predominately by Anglo Saxons.
A well-know radio presenter, in his bumbling attempt at shock-jock humour (think Howard Stern but not as successful), cast it out there this evening. It’s a favourite of this man.
On occasion, callers may have a go at verbal sparring, to be cut down with much self-satisfaction by his superior wit and dismissal (with the added safety of the cut-off button should he meet his equal).
Some do consider it offensive; some are driven to the extreme by its irreverence.
This same presenter earlier in his show, with equal triumph, alluded with his razor-sharp repartee, that the Irish by nature were stupid. This particular slur has been around for centuries. Yeah, let’s all laugh at the dumb Paddy! The Paddys don’t seem too bothered by it – of course, they’ve had other things commanding their attention.
Consider the following:
PADDYS AND TOWELHEADS
Yep – you heard right – I said it. The ‘T’ word. It’s the new ‘C’ word y’know! Sue me! But first let me say this; the ‘T’ word is a pet name/nickname for those that wear the headgear a certain persuasion wear.
Just like most have a nickname for their wife – and dog. In fact, here in Australia they have nicknames of a sort (more accurately shortening of words) for everything. Afternoon becomes arvo; Jonathon becomes Jonno and sausage becomes sanger. (How they came up with that particular one I’ll never know).
Moreover, they are referred to in such a way based on logical analysis of a familiar sight – they wear cloth in such a way that resembles the towels women, fresh out of the shower, wrap around their head while it dries – or something – not absolutely certain.
This headgear has a significance for the wearer, based in a fervent belief. And to discriminate against those of this (in fact, all) belief is of course unacceptable. No-one is disputing that. But we mustn’t become so over-sensitive that becomes farcical.
And, it doesn’t alter the fact that the image it promotes is of the aforementioned woman/shower thing.
Now, if you want to wear this particular head-dress, go right ahead, I’ve no complaints; in fact it’s infinitely preferable to baseball caps – especially white ones – worn backwards (by wee bastards who’d stick a knife in you as soon as look at you).
And if you want to believe in a particular deity – that’s okay too. That is your undeniable right and one I won’t be opposing. You’re not called towelhead because you worship Islam; or because you’re considered inferior; that you’re in some way less a person because you believe in something different.
You’re called it because of a sense of humour. Just like the ‘Paddy’ reference in jokes.
How many – wait, better this way – is there a man on the planet that doesn’t know or hasn’t heard a ‘paddy’ joke? They’re older than I am; the stereotypical red-haired, freckled dumb Paddy. A virtual career for many a comedian.
Wogs, Lebs, Pakis, Yanks, Pommies, Whiteys, Canucks, Chinkys, Abos, Frogs, Eyties, Nazis, Redskins, Palefaces, Hippys, Tree-huggers – and these are only some of the printable ones.
And I know there are many more. To have a nickname for most things is human nature and while some may be overtly derogatory, the majority are said (without prejudice.
Frankly, I couldn’t care less who’s offended at my term of endearment uttered with innocent indifference. My conscience is clear.
It could be that these extremists are simply unstable and like a drunk man with an imagined umbrage, (God, I’ve encountered a few of those in my time) they seek reasons to be offended in order to act out their ways.
I stand by this argument and invite anyone to present an alternative.
POLITICIANS
Ahhhh…that special breed of individual. Found predominately tangled in a web of lies, they gravitate towards political opportunism like the proverbial flies round a cow pat.
In the beginning, they were men of wisdom; of fibre; of honour. They championed the common man with heart and fervour; and if they ever slipped, the ethically high standard bearing opposition were there to keep ‘em honest.
A visiting English professor is conducting several lectures on these fine protagonists.
Turns out they’re not like that at all! Gadzooks!
They still claim to have our best interests at heart; and sure enough if ‘best interests’ means filling their pockets and taking tax payer funded jaunts around the globe, then they deserve medals.
And the rot has sunk so deep that the once upright opposition now are like the manipulators they once sought to keep true.
The typical opposition leader, bereft of any alternative policies, now resorts to banal dirt-slinging and infantile denial.
Recently, one such (insert chosen adjective here) crowed with righteous belief – ‘if we were elected, we would performance-base MP’s wages’.
Further, he claimed (now on a wave of the earlier righteousness) that, ‘if they don’t make the grade, they’ll get docked wages – even sacked’. Oh, he was roaring along by the end!
Well, isn’t that fantastic? Judging by the ineptitude of one’s average politician, that should cut half the average cabinet. And we’ll have the cream of the crop left, I suppose? Foolproof.
Except, what actually would happen would be more akin to – they would be voted in, screw up as per usual, then cover up and misdirect. A senior member would strenuously defend – ‘well, we really can’t just arbitrarily withhold funds from the minister. He did his best, but there were extenuating circumstances’.
On he’d rattle with misdirection and avoidance until we all get bored. Soon it would fade away as the next crisis superseded it.
I mean, does anybody, seriously believe that anything politicians say during election time (especially election time but pretty much always) is ‘money in the bank’.
They so obviously say what they think we want to hear, get elected, and subsequently ignore it all.
And every time the voters fall for it. I am often left stunned at the gullibility of the average voter.
Politicians should be wise and intelligent; their aim should be the competent management of the country they represent. Instead, nowadays, they appear to do nothing but fill their pockets and manipulate the public to extend their own personal powerbase.
The same professor’s research has shown the public’s opinion of politicians is bordering on apathetic. In short, the public feel they aren’t represented. They feel as above that the ‘honourable members’ are ignoring their wishes and demands. That they simply no longer have any interest in serving anything other then themselves.
The problem begins with the election of incompetents into the various portfolios. Some of these…people have no actual training in the chosen field. They’re often just ordinary Joes, thrust into an arena in which they have zero experience. They have a go; they inevitably fail and they’re shifted around to another position – where, surprise surprise, they fail again.
Eventually they find themselves on the backbench where they exist on the public purse permanently. And such a purse it is. Lordy! Where do I get a job like that?
These people wouldn’t last to the end of the week in the public sector; wouldn’t get the job full stop actually, truth be told. I mean, would you employ these buffoons?
Performance basing wages of these cretins would certainly be effective (and frankly save an absolute motza) but as it is they who will legislate such a law, we’ll just have to keep hoping an honest man gets elected. Good luck waiting for that!
Like our porcine friends with their noses in the trough, they snort and bite as they manoeuvre for the perfect position. To quote a dear friend of mine – ‘it’s just wrong’. And so it is.
In the beginning, they were men of wisdom; of fibre; of honour. They championed the common man with heart and fervour; and if they ever slipped, the ethically high standard bearing opposition were there to keep ‘em honest.
A visiting English professor is conducting several lectures on these fine protagonists.
Turns out they’re not like that at all! Gadzooks!
They still claim to have our best interests at heart; and sure enough if ‘best interests’ means filling their pockets and taking tax payer funded jaunts around the globe, then they deserve medals.
And the rot has sunk so deep that the once upright opposition now are like the manipulators they once sought to keep true.
The typical opposition leader, bereft of any alternative policies, now resorts to banal dirt-slinging and infantile denial.
Recently, one such (insert chosen adjective here) crowed with righteous belief – ‘if we were elected, we would performance-base MP’s wages’.
Further, he claimed (now on a wave of the earlier righteousness) that, ‘if they don’t make the grade, they’ll get docked wages – even sacked’. Oh, he was roaring along by the end!
Well, isn’t that fantastic? Judging by the ineptitude of one’s average politician, that should cut half the average cabinet. And we’ll have the cream of the crop left, I suppose? Foolproof.
Except, what actually would happen would be more akin to – they would be voted in, screw up as per usual, then cover up and misdirect. A senior member would strenuously defend – ‘well, we really can’t just arbitrarily withhold funds from the minister. He did his best, but there were extenuating circumstances’.
On he’d rattle with misdirection and avoidance until we all get bored. Soon it would fade away as the next crisis superseded it.
I mean, does anybody, seriously believe that anything politicians say during election time (especially election time but pretty much always) is ‘money in the bank’.
They so obviously say what they think we want to hear, get elected, and subsequently ignore it all.
And every time the voters fall for it. I am often left stunned at the gullibility of the average voter.
Politicians should be wise and intelligent; their aim should be the competent management of the country they represent. Instead, nowadays, they appear to do nothing but fill their pockets and manipulate the public to extend their own personal powerbase.
The same professor’s research has shown the public’s opinion of politicians is bordering on apathetic. In short, the public feel they aren’t represented. They feel as above that the ‘honourable members’ are ignoring their wishes and demands. That they simply no longer have any interest in serving anything other then themselves.
The problem begins with the election of incompetents into the various portfolios. Some of these…people have no actual training in the chosen field. They’re often just ordinary Joes, thrust into an arena in which they have zero experience. They have a go; they inevitably fail and they’re shifted around to another position – where, surprise surprise, they fail again.
Eventually they find themselves on the backbench where they exist on the public purse permanently. And such a purse it is. Lordy! Where do I get a job like that?
These people wouldn’t last to the end of the week in the public sector; wouldn’t get the job full stop actually, truth be told. I mean, would you employ these buffoons?
Performance basing wages of these cretins would certainly be effective (and frankly save an absolute motza) but as it is they who will legislate such a law, we’ll just have to keep hoping an honest man gets elected. Good luck waiting for that!
Like our porcine friends with their noses in the trough, they snort and bite as they manoeuvre for the perfect position. To quote a dear friend of mine – ‘it’s just wrong’. And so it is.
CHRISTMAS -THE WORD I DARE NOT UTTER
Well folks, that time’s coming round again. December the 25th. Christmas – or (I’m loathe to say) Xmas; a time of joy and family. A time when kids’ eyes light up at the expectation of the jolly fat man with his big bag of goodies.
I remember the pure excitement as a young boy myself, of this time. Sent to bed early, I could never sleep. I would try – try sooo hard, but the thought of what waited for me when I got up the next day prevented it for some time.
Eventually I would drift off and when I awoke the next morning, I’d jump out of bed (a rarity itself – and the only time that happened) and race into the lounge to the waiting presents beneath the Christmas tree, and my bleary-eyed parents. (My father, suspecting a night-time excursion to the tree, more specifically the wonders underneath, would sleep on the sofa to guard against such action).
I ignored my mother’s pleas to ‘be careful with the wrapping paper, we could use it next year’ as I ripped the covering off, my eyes lighting up when I discovered the treat within. This joy was followed by the obligatory visit to church to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas
This was Christmas as I knew it. I would offer that it’s how most would remember it.
Unfortunately, it would seem, it is no more.
Christmas is under attack from the politically correct, fearful of offending those who don’t share such beliefs.
It started some time ago actually, with the removal of Christ from the title (that Christmas is Christ’s birthday and roughly translates as ‘Christ’s Day’ seems to have been lost on these people) and replacing it with the, oh so inventive X, and now has been further reduced to – wait for it – holiday. Merry/happy holiday? Nah, it just doesn’t have the same ring. Why? You know why – to placate some minority.
Further, Christmas isn’t just a holiday. Actually, Christmas isn’t even a holiday – it’s a celebration of the birth of a historical figure; a figure whose influence on society for the past 2000 years is hard to quantify, so colossal it’s been.
Now, you may not believe – that’s your undeniable right, and til the day I die, one I’ll vehemently defend on your behalf, however it’s
also the right of whomever to believe what he or she wants and to arbitrarily deny this by your absurd censorship of its true title is an infinitely worse act.
An example (one of many as it happens): a friend of mine works as a graphic artist and one of her recent jobs was to design a flyer for her company’s Christmas party. Simple, yes?
Afraid not.
She was told she wasn’t allowed to use the word Christmas; she could use a star – as long as it wasn’t the Star of David; and no tree.
So basically, design a card for a Christmas party without any mention or reference to Christmas or the fact that it was a religious holiday.
Oh – my – God (or should that be ‘divine being’ whomever you believe him – or her to be – gotta keep the feminists happy too!) – what’s got into these people?
If you PCs are so upset with Christ (whose birthday it is) being used in the title of the holiday, because it offends some minority (easily bloody offended if you ask me), then don’t take advantage of the Christ’s Day. You keep working throughout, believing in whomever or whatever you choose. Meantime those who do accept it as it is and should be can enjoy it.
Christmas is a religious festival and is it not a constitutional right to believe in whichever religion one chooses? Almost God-given?
I’m dreaming of a white …holiday? Aargh! Gimme a break! Bing would be turning in his grave.
You better watch out; you better not cry; you better be good; I’m telling you why; a large, sveltely-challenged, person is coming to town.
It’s getting a little bit silly, no?
I remember the pure excitement as a young boy myself, of this time. Sent to bed early, I could never sleep. I would try – try sooo hard, but the thought of what waited for me when I got up the next day prevented it for some time.
Eventually I would drift off and when I awoke the next morning, I’d jump out of bed (a rarity itself – and the only time that happened) and race into the lounge to the waiting presents beneath the Christmas tree, and my bleary-eyed parents. (My father, suspecting a night-time excursion to the tree, more specifically the wonders underneath, would sleep on the sofa to guard against such action).
I ignored my mother’s pleas to ‘be careful with the wrapping paper, we could use it next year’ as I ripped the covering off, my eyes lighting up when I discovered the treat within. This joy was followed by the obligatory visit to church to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas
This was Christmas as I knew it. I would offer that it’s how most would remember it.
Unfortunately, it would seem, it is no more.
Christmas is under attack from the politically correct, fearful of offending those who don’t share such beliefs.
It started some time ago actually, with the removal of Christ from the title (that Christmas is Christ’s birthday and roughly translates as ‘Christ’s Day’ seems to have been lost on these people) and replacing it with the, oh so inventive X, and now has been further reduced to – wait for it – holiday. Merry/happy holiday? Nah, it just doesn’t have the same ring. Why? You know why – to placate some minority.
Further, Christmas isn’t just a holiday. Actually, Christmas isn’t even a holiday – it’s a celebration of the birth of a historical figure; a figure whose influence on society for the past 2000 years is hard to quantify, so colossal it’s been.
Now, you may not believe – that’s your undeniable right, and til the day I die, one I’ll vehemently defend on your behalf, however it’s
also the right of whomever to believe what he or she wants and to arbitrarily deny this by your absurd censorship of its true title is an infinitely worse act.
An example (one of many as it happens): a friend of mine works as a graphic artist and one of her recent jobs was to design a flyer for her company’s Christmas party. Simple, yes?
Afraid not.
She was told she wasn’t allowed to use the word Christmas; she could use a star – as long as it wasn’t the Star of David; and no tree.
So basically, design a card for a Christmas party without any mention or reference to Christmas or the fact that it was a religious holiday.
Oh – my – God (or should that be ‘divine being’ whomever you believe him – or her to be – gotta keep the feminists happy too!) – what’s got into these people?
If you PCs are so upset with Christ (whose birthday it is) being used in the title of the holiday, because it offends some minority (easily bloody offended if you ask me), then don’t take advantage of the Christ’s Day. You keep working throughout, believing in whomever or whatever you choose. Meantime those who do accept it as it is and should be can enjoy it.
Christmas is a religious festival and is it not a constitutional right to believe in whichever religion one chooses? Almost God-given?
I’m dreaming of a white …holiday? Aargh! Gimme a break! Bing would be turning in his grave.
You better watch out; you better not cry; you better be good; I’m telling you why; a large, sveltely-challenged, person is coming to town.
It’s getting a little bit silly, no?
BIG DOG, BIG MAN?
We’ve all seen them; bull-necked, snarling creatures, straining at the leash, aggressively intimidating those with whom they come into contact.
With names like Spike and Biff; Killer and Sheba, they wear their leather collars sporting the pointed spikes like a badge.
People avoid them like the plague, fearful of being attacked by such vicious beasts.
How frightening they are as they strut, proudly, their way through the public domain, threatening anyone within reach with untold horrors.
And then of course, there’s the dog!
But if I may be serious for a moment, this issue is one of great importance. Dog attacks on people (mainly children) result in horrific injuries, both physical and emotional, often leaving the victim with a sense of perpetual fear towards all our four-legged friends.
This is followed by condemnation from the ‘good people’ of such violent animals, and the suggestion that they should be ‘wiped out of existence’ to quote a talk show host.
Let me say at this point, I don’t subscribe to this ‘wiping them out’. I love animals, especially dogs, and find them to be loyal and friendly. I’ve encountered vicious ones and have found the experience to be unnerving at times but not frightening.
Personally, I’m more concerned by the thug on the other end of the chain.
We must realise that dogs (all animals, in fact) are ultimately driven by nature, and as such are not subject to civilization’s laws. We can of course train most of the ‘nature’ part out of them but never will we be able to completely erase it.
Once accepted, the onus is on all of us to take responsibility for our own actions (and those of our inquisitive children) when in the presence of dogs.
Point in fact: recently on one of those anal TV shows based on people’s desperation for fame (and blatant stupidity), a perfect example of how a given dog can snap was shown.
We enter the scene to see a mongrel-type dog sniffing at something in a kitchen. In walks a small child, who proceeds to walk up to the unaware animal and insert her finger into the dog’s anus. The poor dog near jumped out of its skin. Funny stuff – har-dee-har-har!
Wouldn’t have been so funny had the animal snapped (which surely wouldn’t surprise any one of us – I mean, have you ever had a finger inserted without warning in your orifice? A sure way to get a punch in the mouth if you’re the owner of the finger). The little girl may have sustained a significant injury and doubtless the dog would’ve been put down.
All because we as adults were remiss in our responsibility to supervise our children. In this case, not only remiss in supervision, but actually videoing, therefore condoning the act.
And herein lies the bigger problem. We let our children clamber all over dogs, pull their ears, even kick and punch the animal while we watch and claim ‘oh, he’s such a well natured animal’. Well, well natured or not, dogs, just like people, have a limit and young children are surprisingly adept at finding these limits – to their horror and pain when they receive a vicious bite or worse, serious mauling.
And the typical reaction to it – execute the innocent party with a self-satisfied sanctimony.
Of course no-one wants to see vicious animals prowling the streets (if only we could put all these types down – see first paragraph), but a certain amount of perspective must be applied instead of resorting to the arbitrary extermination of anything that threatens humans, regardless of provocation.
Recently, I watched a Discovery Channel programme concerning the ASPCA. In one case an owner of a mongrel-type dog had kicked and jumped on the animal because (he claimed in order to justify and prevent his arrest) it had bitten him. Thankfully no-one bought his quite obviously manufactured excuse and did indeed arrest the offender. Bravo for the ASPCA!
But it just goes to show the way we treat our pets is nothing short of criminal. And when they inevitably turn we exclaim shock and outrage and execute them.
There are no such things as bad dogs – just bad owners and careless people.
With names like Spike and Biff; Killer and Sheba, they wear their leather collars sporting the pointed spikes like a badge.
People avoid them like the plague, fearful of being attacked by such vicious beasts.
How frightening they are as they strut, proudly, their way through the public domain, threatening anyone within reach with untold horrors.
And then of course, there’s the dog!
But if I may be serious for a moment, this issue is one of great importance. Dog attacks on people (mainly children) result in horrific injuries, both physical and emotional, often leaving the victim with a sense of perpetual fear towards all our four-legged friends.
This is followed by condemnation from the ‘good people’ of such violent animals, and the suggestion that they should be ‘wiped out of existence’ to quote a talk show host.
Let me say at this point, I don’t subscribe to this ‘wiping them out’. I love animals, especially dogs, and find them to be loyal and friendly. I’ve encountered vicious ones and have found the experience to be unnerving at times but not frightening.
Personally, I’m more concerned by the thug on the other end of the chain.
We must realise that dogs (all animals, in fact) are ultimately driven by nature, and as such are not subject to civilization’s laws. We can of course train most of the ‘nature’ part out of them but never will we be able to completely erase it.
Once accepted, the onus is on all of us to take responsibility for our own actions (and those of our inquisitive children) when in the presence of dogs.
Point in fact: recently on one of those anal TV shows based on people’s desperation for fame (and blatant stupidity), a perfect example of how a given dog can snap was shown.
We enter the scene to see a mongrel-type dog sniffing at something in a kitchen. In walks a small child, who proceeds to walk up to the unaware animal and insert her finger into the dog’s anus. The poor dog near jumped out of its skin. Funny stuff – har-dee-har-har!
Wouldn’t have been so funny had the animal snapped (which surely wouldn’t surprise any one of us – I mean, have you ever had a finger inserted without warning in your orifice? A sure way to get a punch in the mouth if you’re the owner of the finger). The little girl may have sustained a significant injury and doubtless the dog would’ve been put down.
All because we as adults were remiss in our responsibility to supervise our children. In this case, not only remiss in supervision, but actually videoing, therefore condoning the act.
And herein lies the bigger problem. We let our children clamber all over dogs, pull their ears, even kick and punch the animal while we watch and claim ‘oh, he’s such a well natured animal’. Well, well natured or not, dogs, just like people, have a limit and young children are surprisingly adept at finding these limits – to their horror and pain when they receive a vicious bite or worse, serious mauling.
And the typical reaction to it – execute the innocent party with a self-satisfied sanctimony.
Of course no-one wants to see vicious animals prowling the streets (if only we could put all these types down – see first paragraph), but a certain amount of perspective must be applied instead of resorting to the arbitrary extermination of anything that threatens humans, regardless of provocation.
Recently, I watched a Discovery Channel programme concerning the ASPCA. In one case an owner of a mongrel-type dog had kicked and jumped on the animal because (he claimed in order to justify and prevent his arrest) it had bitten him. Thankfully no-one bought his quite obviously manufactured excuse and did indeed arrest the offender. Bravo for the ASPCA!
But it just goes to show the way we treat our pets is nothing short of criminal. And when they inevitably turn we exclaim shock and outrage and execute them.
There are no such things as bad dogs – just bad owners and careless people.
HAVE WE REALLY DONE IT?
As I write this piece, I’m sitting in my back garden, the sun’s shining and a gentle breeze caresses my face.
Ahhh, it’s a beautiful world – it really is.
But, not according to the nearly President, Al Gore; according to him, and his recent movie, An Inconvenient Truth, we’re just about at the end. The damage perpetrated on the Earth by human pollution of all kinds is wide-ranging. Seas are rising; glaciers are melting; forests are dwindling (and CO2 is increasing).
Well, that may well be true, however there is a certain belief that this is simply a cycle; a cycle that occurs every 10,000 years (remember we and our detrimental influence have only been here for about 2 of those 10).
Many scientists believe this (at least the non-prophetic ones). Furthermore, if this is the case then the cycle, if it occurs every 10,000 years, could well last for, what, a thousand, five hundred, one hundred? Any way you look at it, it’s a long time to put up with El Nino type weather.
We’re told that we must reduce our emissions; that it’s not yet too late, that if we all pull together, Kyoto-wise, we’ll be able to pull it back from the brink.
With a population of six billion and rising, finding a way to exist in such numbers is proving to be the challenge to end all challenges.
The Dead Sea is now a trickle according to reports. The once holy Dead Sea is getting smaller and smaller. What’s left is being ‘plundered’ to use the actual term in the report, by a huge minerals company. Before our very eyes the Sea is dying. And for those whose only concern is financial, the report goes on to assert that buildings’ foundations on the edge are in danger of collapse. Tch! It’s a sad indictment that the final persuasion comes down to the ‘cold, hard stuff’.
An unstoppable force, man’s desire for wealth and power, consumes all.
Moreover, what if it’s too late and we can’t actually pull it back no matter what we do? No-one in any government is going to admit to such a thing because if they do, well the response will undoubtedly be one of apathy. Well, if it’s too late, what’s the point in trying anymore?
Or maybe Mother Earth and her weather patterns is just so big, (and we’re so insignificant) that nothing we do makes the slightest difference.
We as a species are destructive – it’s as simple as that and if as some believe, Mother Earth is a living single organism with countless parts, she may just step in and take control.
A recent report from the WWF, claims that in the last three decades three hundred – that’s right – three hundred species – have become extinct. Soon the only place to see certain species will be in a zoo. The report goes on to claim that we are living a ‘three world existence’, meaning that the rate at which we are using the planet’s commodities would take three planets to sustain. And still, man’s eternal quest for the mighty dollar supersedes all else.
And in this never ending search for the mighty dollar, we’ll rape and pillage the Earth and all it’s commodities until there are none left and the planet,s own sustainability will be affected.
Then, dear readers, we’re really screwed. Similar to trying to ‘put the genie back in the bottle’, it’ll be too late.
Y’know, as I was researching the subject of the article, I came across some disturbing information, illustrating frighteningly the danger we now face. I myself know how this’ll end. (But people write me off as some sort of doomsayer – rich really, considering these same people have their collective heads firmly ensconced in the sand).
Now, according to Sir Michael Stern, the author of the Stern report, a recent economic report on the current effects and solutions, we all know.
A 20% shrinkage of the global economy was one point. 100 million displaced by rising sea levels another.
Melting glaciers resulting in water shortages for 1 in 6 people and the advent of climate refugees will see tens, likely hundreds of millions more displaced.
Where will these people go? Well, to the only places left to them – unaffected countries. Potentially mass exoduses from the blighted land to the more prosperous (which actually won’t be prosperous for long once the millions find their way there).
A bleak picture indeed and one that calls for immediate action to prevent the eventual costs exceeding trillions of pounds.
However…
Previously, it had been recorded, that this El Nino effect was simply part of a cycle experienced by Mother Nature herself. A theory I chose to believe as it happens.
This latest report seems to offer an alternative theory; that our outrageously high level of taking and polluting is actually the culprit. The Stern Report offers, when considered (and typical of the English) the only realistic answer.
However, the sort of shift required to cease and repair the problem means we would have to return to something resembling caveman times. That, simply will not happen.
So we’re left with the choice of taxing the polluters to stop them polluting. Of course the actual guilty (the rich), won’t pay a cent under the ‘powerful protecting their own’ theory and the ordinary Joes (you and I) will be harassed because they don’t recycle their plastic.
Although what if, as mentioned earlier, this is as some less alarmist scientists believe, just a cycle?
Y’see, we have to understand, we’re looking at this from a human scale; this is happening on a global scale and perhaps we have ideas above our station. Let’s say, for example, the Earth is a billion years old and civilization’s been around for about 2000.
According to the boffins, this cycle occurs every, what, 10,000 years?
If we compress Earth’s existence into a year, the cycle then occurs about once a week and we’ve been here about 20 mins.
Now, with that in mind, we can now see our place in things.
The scientists who make these claims also assert that our pollution is so small in global terms as to be insignificant. And that being the case, the billions we need to spend in a desperate attempt to stem our filth, will result in bringing a plethora of economic disasters to society. And given the actual scale of the event, have absolutely no discernible effect.
Those of you with a nervous disposition had better sit down and grab a stiff drink.
Our civilized planet is unravelling. It won’t make the slightest bit of difference to Earth; it’ll be here for several more billions of years, regardless of what happens. Some species will dominate, some will falter (that would be us), but ultimately, life will go on.
‘What can we do?’ I hear you ask. The short answer – nothing, nothing whatsoever. And the long answer, well, it’s not much longer – we can enjoy our lives while we’re here, because if they’re right and this is merely the cycle of a much mightier entity, man, despite all his intelligence and brilliance will perish. If you’re Christian, you’d better start praying!
One thing I know for certain – if we keep stuffing the planet with humans, nature will step in, as it has done in the past and the results will be Armageddon-like. Never mind Katrina. In the words of Jack Nicholson’s Joker in Batman – ‘you ain’t seen nothing yet”! Are you ready?
Ahhh, it’s a beautiful world – it really is.
But, not according to the nearly President, Al Gore; according to him, and his recent movie, An Inconvenient Truth, we’re just about at the end. The damage perpetrated on the Earth by human pollution of all kinds is wide-ranging. Seas are rising; glaciers are melting; forests are dwindling (and CO2 is increasing).
Well, that may well be true, however there is a certain belief that this is simply a cycle; a cycle that occurs every 10,000 years (remember we and our detrimental influence have only been here for about 2 of those 10).
Many scientists believe this (at least the non-prophetic ones). Furthermore, if this is the case then the cycle, if it occurs every 10,000 years, could well last for, what, a thousand, five hundred, one hundred? Any way you look at it, it’s a long time to put up with El Nino type weather.
We’re told that we must reduce our emissions; that it’s not yet too late, that if we all pull together, Kyoto-wise, we’ll be able to pull it back from the brink.
With a population of six billion and rising, finding a way to exist in such numbers is proving to be the challenge to end all challenges.
The Dead Sea is now a trickle according to reports. The once holy Dead Sea is getting smaller and smaller. What’s left is being ‘plundered’ to use the actual term in the report, by a huge minerals company. Before our very eyes the Sea is dying. And for those whose only concern is financial, the report goes on to assert that buildings’ foundations on the edge are in danger of collapse. Tch! It’s a sad indictment that the final persuasion comes down to the ‘cold, hard stuff’.
An unstoppable force, man’s desire for wealth and power, consumes all.
Moreover, what if it’s too late and we can’t actually pull it back no matter what we do? No-one in any government is going to admit to such a thing because if they do, well the response will undoubtedly be one of apathy. Well, if it’s too late, what’s the point in trying anymore?
Or maybe Mother Earth and her weather patterns is just so big, (and we’re so insignificant) that nothing we do makes the slightest difference.
We as a species are destructive – it’s as simple as that and if as some believe, Mother Earth is a living single organism with countless parts, she may just step in and take control.
A recent report from the WWF, claims that in the last three decades three hundred – that’s right – three hundred species – have become extinct. Soon the only place to see certain species will be in a zoo. The report goes on to claim that we are living a ‘three world existence’, meaning that the rate at which we are using the planet’s commodities would take three planets to sustain. And still, man’s eternal quest for the mighty dollar supersedes all else.
And in this never ending search for the mighty dollar, we’ll rape and pillage the Earth and all it’s commodities until there are none left and the planet,s own sustainability will be affected.
Then, dear readers, we’re really screwed. Similar to trying to ‘put the genie back in the bottle’, it’ll be too late.
Y’know, as I was researching the subject of the article, I came across some disturbing information, illustrating frighteningly the danger we now face. I myself know how this’ll end. (But people write me off as some sort of doomsayer – rich really, considering these same people have their collective heads firmly ensconced in the sand).
Now, according to Sir Michael Stern, the author of the Stern report, a recent economic report on the current effects and solutions, we all know.
A 20% shrinkage of the global economy was one point. 100 million displaced by rising sea levels another.
Melting glaciers resulting in water shortages for 1 in 6 people and the advent of climate refugees will see tens, likely hundreds of millions more displaced.
Where will these people go? Well, to the only places left to them – unaffected countries. Potentially mass exoduses from the blighted land to the more prosperous (which actually won’t be prosperous for long once the millions find their way there).
A bleak picture indeed and one that calls for immediate action to prevent the eventual costs exceeding trillions of pounds.
However…
Previously, it had been recorded, that this El Nino effect was simply part of a cycle experienced by Mother Nature herself. A theory I chose to believe as it happens.
This latest report seems to offer an alternative theory; that our outrageously high level of taking and polluting is actually the culprit. The Stern Report offers, when considered (and typical of the English) the only realistic answer.
However, the sort of shift required to cease and repair the problem means we would have to return to something resembling caveman times. That, simply will not happen.
So we’re left with the choice of taxing the polluters to stop them polluting. Of course the actual guilty (the rich), won’t pay a cent under the ‘powerful protecting their own’ theory and the ordinary Joes (you and I) will be harassed because they don’t recycle their plastic.
Although what if, as mentioned earlier, this is as some less alarmist scientists believe, just a cycle?
Y’see, we have to understand, we’re looking at this from a human scale; this is happening on a global scale and perhaps we have ideas above our station. Let’s say, for example, the Earth is a billion years old and civilization’s been around for about 2000.
According to the boffins, this cycle occurs every, what, 10,000 years?
If we compress Earth’s existence into a year, the cycle then occurs about once a week and we’ve been here about 20 mins.
Now, with that in mind, we can now see our place in things.
The scientists who make these claims also assert that our pollution is so small in global terms as to be insignificant. And that being the case, the billions we need to spend in a desperate attempt to stem our filth, will result in bringing a plethora of economic disasters to society. And given the actual scale of the event, have absolutely no discernible effect.
Those of you with a nervous disposition had better sit down and grab a stiff drink.
Our civilized planet is unravelling. It won’t make the slightest bit of difference to Earth; it’ll be here for several more billions of years, regardless of what happens. Some species will dominate, some will falter (that would be us), but ultimately, life will go on.
‘What can we do?’ I hear you ask. The short answer – nothing, nothing whatsoever. And the long answer, well, it’s not much longer – we can enjoy our lives while we’re here, because if they’re right and this is merely the cycle of a much mightier entity, man, despite all his intelligence and brilliance will perish. If you’re Christian, you’d better start praying!
One thing I know for certain – if we keep stuffing the planet with humans, nature will step in, as it has done in the past and the results will be Armageddon-like. Never mind Katrina. In the words of Jack Nicholson’s Joker in Batman – ‘you ain’t seen nothing yet”! Are you ready?
HEROES?
The headline in today’s Daily Telegraph reads – ‘OUR ASHES HEROES’. Apparently the Australian cricket team have regained the Ashes, a minute trophy held in high esteem by those who crave it.
Faan-tastic – that cricket rates right up there with watching paint dry is neither here nor there. Fact is, I would really like to know exactly what it is that makes a team of grown men playing sport, (a sport may I add, that has virtually no risk of even remotely close to serious injury), heroes.
I’m getting really tired at the frequency with which the word ‘hero’ is tossed around these days. And it’s not just cricket. From all sportsmen (and women) to… bloody cooks almost –everyone’s a hero. Hero this and hero that. Is there an ordinary Joe around anymore? Not if you listen to the media nowdays.
‘Football heroes’ was the term when Australia reached the third round of the World Cup to face Italy. Lucas Neill, an Australian team member was one such ‘hero’. Lauded he was. Until he threw himself in front of an opposing player in the penalty box. And as is the rule, a penalty was awarded, Italy scored, and Australia went out.
Oh, how the masses objected. Cheats! They cried. Unfair! They shouted.
What was overlooked, though, was the fact that Neill was directly and exclusively responsible for their swift exit from the competition when he facilitated the award of the killing stroke in the form of that penalty. Only he will ever know if there was any intention in it or a benign mistake.
Doesn’t matter – the result was the same. It was, in fact, a clear and valid penalty and bloody Mr Neill, should have, as a professional footballer (allegedly), known better than to throw himself around the legs of the opposing player, in the penalty area. You’ll go a long way in Australia to find someone who’ll agree with that but those who know football, know it is exactly the case.
Radio stations in the constant quest for listeners, therefore money, whipped the dopey public, not for the first time, into a frenzy of patriotic fervour (meantime the sneaky government of the day make use of such patriotism to the full, and screw them a little more).
Y’see, while the public are concentrating on flag-waving, rah-rahing and ooh-ahhing, they’re less likely to notice if a little more of their freedom is quietly snatched. But I’m drifting…
Let me tell you about heroes:
Late in the afternoon of Sunday the third of October, 1993, Mike Durant, an US Army Black Hawk helicopter pilot lay in his crashed bird on the streets of Mogadishu, Somalia.
Part of a hundred and forty strong force whose mission was to remove some Aidid’s top militia who were meeting in a location known to the Americans, his aircraft was struck by an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) and crippled. The helicopter half-buried itself in the ground as it slammed in.
One of just two survivors of five, he lay broken and relatively helpless in the smashed chopper. Somalian militia were closing in from all around and his situation looked truly hopeless.
Enter real heroes (in the truest sensed of the word).
Gary Shutgart and Gary Gordon were two Delta Snipers from the Elite US Army unit. The cream of Americas armed forces, they were lifetime soldiers. They were circling above watching and awaiting orders when Durant’s bird went down.
Knowing one of their buddies was helpless and knowing an angry mob, spurred to an even more frenzied state by the successful downing of the American chopper, was heading towards him, they asked to be inserted to defend their fallen comrade. They obviously knew the chances of survival were slim to non-existent, but regardless of their own safety, they responded as soon as permission was granted.
Through hails of bullets and RPG’s, and hundreds of armed Somalis, electrified on (a local, amphetamine-like drug), these two men defended that downed chopper and it’s hurt pilot to their very last bullet, resorting, when their automatic weapons spent their last, to handguns. Tragically, their efforts were in vain – for them at least – the chopper pilot was taken prisoner by militia, but released some time later.
These two men are actual heroes. Not swimmers, not cricketers, not football players – not even firemen or policemen(who as it happens, get paid handsomely for their efforts).
Much like ‘love’, ‘hero’ has been overused to the point its meaning has lost effect somewhat.
Shutgart and Gordon were posthumously awarded Medals of Honour, America’s highest award, for their bravery – and rightly so. True heroes, they laid down their lives for another, disregarding their own safety.
So enough of the hero tag for players of sport, givers to charity and other such insignificant pastimes, it belittles the true recipients. A real hero doesn’t think of himself. Or bask in self-indulgent adoration from fans cause he scored...whatever.
And before the feminist lobby start whining about my apparent sexism– or herself.
An ordinary woman (one of the aforementioned 'Joes' - or Josephines, I suppose) driven by desperation demonstrated this careless attitude to oneself with as much disregard for her personal safety as the D-boys.
She, with her daughter, was at a picnic with some friends and their children. The children were drifting around the banks in an inflatable dingy. Splashing and having fun whilst their parents looked on. In the blink of an eye (the way these things can happen), the small inflatable was dragged towards the relative rapid part of the river.
Panicked, the youngsters started screaming in fear as the little boat was suddenly bucking around with the force of the rapids.
The woman’s friends looked on, stunned into inaction as the kids were swept away. Breaking her own reverie the woman kicked off her shoes and leapt into the water. Not once did she think of herself, commenting, that at the time, she remembered thinking whether or not she should take her watch off. Off she swam, a female Indiana Jones almost and was thankfully victorious. She reached the small craft and hauled it and its occupants to shore.
Maybe not Medal of Honour stuff, granted, but this woman acted with as much selflessness in principle as the two warriors did. Just an ordinary person. A mother protecting her young. Brave lady.
Another hero. More power to her.
So enough! Winning a football match doesn’t make someone a hero; nor does swimming a fast time. OR regaining the smallest trophy in the history of the world.
Faan-tastic – that cricket rates right up there with watching paint dry is neither here nor there. Fact is, I would really like to know exactly what it is that makes a team of grown men playing sport, (a sport may I add, that has virtually no risk of even remotely close to serious injury), heroes.
I’m getting really tired at the frequency with which the word ‘hero’ is tossed around these days. And it’s not just cricket. From all sportsmen (and women) to… bloody cooks almost –everyone’s a hero. Hero this and hero that. Is there an ordinary Joe around anymore? Not if you listen to the media nowdays.
‘Football heroes’ was the term when Australia reached the third round of the World Cup to face Italy. Lucas Neill, an Australian team member was one such ‘hero’. Lauded he was. Until he threw himself in front of an opposing player in the penalty box. And as is the rule, a penalty was awarded, Italy scored, and Australia went out.
Oh, how the masses objected. Cheats! They cried. Unfair! They shouted.
What was overlooked, though, was the fact that Neill was directly and exclusively responsible for their swift exit from the competition when he facilitated the award of the killing stroke in the form of that penalty. Only he will ever know if there was any intention in it or a benign mistake.
Doesn’t matter – the result was the same. It was, in fact, a clear and valid penalty and bloody Mr Neill, should have, as a professional footballer (allegedly), known better than to throw himself around the legs of the opposing player, in the penalty area. You’ll go a long way in Australia to find someone who’ll agree with that but those who know football, know it is exactly the case.
Radio stations in the constant quest for listeners, therefore money, whipped the dopey public, not for the first time, into a frenzy of patriotic fervour (meantime the sneaky government of the day make use of such patriotism to the full, and screw them a little more).
Y’see, while the public are concentrating on flag-waving, rah-rahing and ooh-ahhing, they’re less likely to notice if a little more of their freedom is quietly snatched. But I’m drifting…
Let me tell you about heroes:
Late in the afternoon of Sunday the third of October, 1993, Mike Durant, an US Army Black Hawk helicopter pilot lay in his crashed bird on the streets of Mogadishu, Somalia.
Part of a hundred and forty strong force whose mission was to remove some Aidid’s top militia who were meeting in a location known to the Americans, his aircraft was struck by an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) and crippled. The helicopter half-buried itself in the ground as it slammed in.
One of just two survivors of five, he lay broken and relatively helpless in the smashed chopper. Somalian militia were closing in from all around and his situation looked truly hopeless.
Enter real heroes (in the truest sensed of the word).
Gary Shutgart and Gary Gordon were two Delta Snipers from the Elite US Army unit. The cream of Americas armed forces, they were lifetime soldiers. They were circling above watching and awaiting orders when Durant’s bird went down.
Knowing one of their buddies was helpless and knowing an angry mob, spurred to an even more frenzied state by the successful downing of the American chopper, was heading towards him, they asked to be inserted to defend their fallen comrade. They obviously knew the chances of survival were slim to non-existent, but regardless of their own safety, they responded as soon as permission was granted.
Through hails of bullets and RPG’s, and hundreds of armed Somalis, electrified on (a local, amphetamine-like drug), these two men defended that downed chopper and it’s hurt pilot to their very last bullet, resorting, when their automatic weapons spent their last, to handguns. Tragically, their efforts were in vain – for them at least – the chopper pilot was taken prisoner by militia, but released some time later.
These two men are actual heroes. Not swimmers, not cricketers, not football players – not even firemen or policemen(who as it happens, get paid handsomely for their efforts).
Much like ‘love’, ‘hero’ has been overused to the point its meaning has lost effect somewhat.
Shutgart and Gordon were posthumously awarded Medals of Honour, America’s highest award, for their bravery – and rightly so. True heroes, they laid down their lives for another, disregarding their own safety.
So enough of the hero tag for players of sport, givers to charity and other such insignificant pastimes, it belittles the true recipients. A real hero doesn’t think of himself. Or bask in self-indulgent adoration from fans cause he scored...whatever.
And before the feminist lobby start whining about my apparent sexism– or herself.
An ordinary woman (one of the aforementioned 'Joes' - or Josephines, I suppose) driven by desperation demonstrated this careless attitude to oneself with as much disregard for her personal safety as the D-boys.
She, with her daughter, was at a picnic with some friends and their children. The children were drifting around the banks in an inflatable dingy. Splashing and having fun whilst their parents looked on. In the blink of an eye (the way these things can happen), the small inflatable was dragged towards the relative rapid part of the river.
Panicked, the youngsters started screaming in fear as the little boat was suddenly bucking around with the force of the rapids.
The woman’s friends looked on, stunned into inaction as the kids were swept away. Breaking her own reverie the woman kicked off her shoes and leapt into the water. Not once did she think of herself, commenting, that at the time, she remembered thinking whether or not she should take her watch off. Off she swam, a female Indiana Jones almost and was thankfully victorious. She reached the small craft and hauled it and its occupants to shore.
Maybe not Medal of Honour stuff, granted, but this woman acted with as much selflessness in principle as the two warriors did. Just an ordinary person. A mother protecting her young. Brave lady.
Another hero. More power to her.
So enough! Winning a football match doesn’t make someone a hero; nor does swimming a fast time. OR regaining the smallest trophy in the history of the world.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Georgie
That's it - that's the last straw
Unbelieveable! That was my reponse to the size of a shark in Melbourne’s aquarium. Georgie, a grey nurse shark (pretty gay name for a killing machine) looks bloated and extremely unhealthy. And if sharks could waddle, she surely would.
Not satisfied with feeding ourselves (and our domestic pets) to obesity, we now are adding the most sleek of sea creatures to our list. I find myself outraged; this animal, one of natures most fearsome predators, has been reduced to an almost cartoon-like caricature of itself, so overfed it's been.
Why? So the aquarium can charge extortionate amounts for people to see the divers feeding it at every show.
That poor animal; as if it's not enough to force it to exist in a chamber rather than it's natural domain of the open ocean, we, in the name of entertainment, are feeding it almost to death. We really are a despicable race.
Unbelieveable! That was my reponse to the size of a shark in Melbourne’s aquarium. Georgie, a grey nurse shark (pretty gay name for a killing machine) looks bloated and extremely unhealthy. And if sharks could waddle, she surely would.
Not satisfied with feeding ourselves (and our domestic pets) to obesity, we now are adding the most sleek of sea creatures to our list. I find myself outraged; this animal, one of natures most fearsome predators, has been reduced to an almost cartoon-like caricature of itself, so overfed it's been.
Why? So the aquarium can charge extortionate amounts for people to see the divers feeding it at every show.
That poor animal; as if it's not enough to force it to exist in a chamber rather than it's natural domain of the open ocean, we, in the name of entertainment, are feeding it almost to death. We really are a despicable race.
Oh, for God's sake!
Today's vote on the ninemsn homepage - 'is it racist to call an Englishman a Pom?'
Here we go! Exactly what aim does this serve other than to stir up the already easily stirred PC lobby?
For the record. Racism as defined in the Oxford English: 1/ 'the belief that each race has certain qualities or abilities, giving rise to the belief that certain races are better than others; 2/ discrimination against or hostility towards other races'.
'Pom' is neither a quality nor ability so how can it be racist? It's simply a carefree nickname, almost a term of endearment. Some may use the term bitterly but for most it's just like calling Australians 'skippy'. Or Irish 'Paddy' or Americans 'Yanks' amd so it goes. Aren't we getting a little bit silly - again?
And I for one am more disgusted at the media using this to make money. And I'm almost lost for words at such a ridiculous suggestion. Racism indeed!
For God's sake people - why don't you just go away and GET A BLOODY LIFE!!!
Y'sad gits!
Here we go! Exactly what aim does this serve other than to stir up the already easily stirred PC lobby?
For the record. Racism as defined in the Oxford English: 1/ 'the belief that each race has certain qualities or abilities, giving rise to the belief that certain races are better than others; 2/ discrimination against or hostility towards other races'.
'Pom' is neither a quality nor ability so how can it be racist? It's simply a carefree nickname, almost a term of endearment. Some may use the term bitterly but for most it's just like calling Australians 'skippy'. Or Irish 'Paddy' or Americans 'Yanks' amd so it goes. Aren't we getting a little bit silly - again?
And I for one am more disgusted at the media using this to make money. And I'm almost lost for words at such a ridiculous suggestion. Racism indeed!
For God's sake people - why don't you just go away and GET A BLOODY LIFE!!!
Y'sad gits!
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Who's to blame?
The state of California intends to sue car manufacturers for the damage their product inflicts on the environment, a news report claims.
Several months earlier, another reports that the very same state is for all intents and purposes, bankrupt, just as Arnie takes office.
Coincidence - methinks not!
After fleecing the taxpayer out of all they can legally acquire,(which still doesn't make it right, eh readers?) the dirty, filthy, money grabbing and squandering scum (read - politicians - as if THAT needed elucidation), decide to attack the softest target available. In an era where pollution from vehicle emmissions is at an all time high, the pond life go straight for the throat, hoping to exploit peoples' concern for the planet to get them on side and gain leverage.
Conveniently forgetting the Hummer, Arnies form of transport, the most inefficient, fuel guzzler there is. He's since decided to get rid of it. Well' he had too really didn't he?
I'm just waiting for the men of power to make exhalation illegal. All that CO2, y'know - bad for the planet. We'll all have to walk around attached to air purification devices like some sort of on-land scuba divers.
O'course, it wouldn't matter normally if more of the money-motivated dirt would stop ripping the planets vegetation down (to fill their own pockets, unsurprisingly).
Lordy, where's it gonna end?
Someone once said -'only when the oceans are polluted; the air poisonous and the last tree felled, will man realise he can't live on money alone'.
A prophecy? A future? A warning?
Several months earlier, another reports that the very same state is for all intents and purposes, bankrupt, just as Arnie takes office.
Coincidence - methinks not!
After fleecing the taxpayer out of all they can legally acquire,(which still doesn't make it right, eh readers?) the dirty, filthy, money grabbing and squandering scum (read - politicians - as if THAT needed elucidation), decide to attack the softest target available. In an era where pollution from vehicle emmissions is at an all time high, the pond life go straight for the throat, hoping to exploit peoples' concern for the planet to get them on side and gain leverage.
Conveniently forgetting the Hummer, Arnies form of transport, the most inefficient, fuel guzzler there is. He's since decided to get rid of it. Well' he had too really didn't he?
I'm just waiting for the men of power to make exhalation illegal. All that CO2, y'know - bad for the planet. We'll all have to walk around attached to air purification devices like some sort of on-land scuba divers.
O'course, it wouldn't matter normally if more of the money-motivated dirt would stop ripping the planets vegetation down (to fill their own pockets, unsurprisingly).
Lordy, where's it gonna end?
Someone once said -'only when the oceans are polluted; the air poisonous and the last tree felled, will man realise he can't live on money alone'.
A prophecy? A future? A warning?
Shouldn't have said that?
Heh heh. One can almost hear the 'beep, beep, beep' as the Pontiff desperately backpedals for fear of aggravating the 'poor wittle Muslims'.
Yet another person of power conceding to placate.
What's next? Jesus Christ apologising for his crucifixion?
These people are going to bring the world to its knees - mark my words. And it'll begin with the once mighty US.
Yet another person of power conceding to placate.
What's next? Jesus Christ apologising for his crucifixion?
These people are going to bring the world to its knees - mark my words. And it'll begin with the once mighty US.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Seat belts
I hate wearing seat belts; I've always hated wearing seat belts. More to the point, I'm convinced it's a travesty against my personal rights (being that it's a victimless crime for God's sake).
So I no longer wear one - haven't done so for, lemme see...about 4 years. And I'm not going to ever again. And I'll never be caught. Why, I hear you ask? Well, send me 10 bucks and a stamped addressed envelope and I'll tell you. It's pure genius in it's simplicity and I may as well make a few bucks out of it.
Four years ago I got caught by the boys in blue not wearing one and received six - that's right - six points on my licence (along with the obligatory revenue collection). Wasn't able to sit down for a week, I got screwed over so hard.
So it got me thinking - there's no question that seat belts do indeed save lives. (Although in my opinion, some morons drive so unbelieveably bad they deserve to be thrown through the window). However, if I, as an individual, with 25 years of driving experience, choose not to wear one, why should I be forced to. In all that time, on three continents, I've never had the need for one. Maybe partly luck but also the fact that I'm an expert driver. Experts look ahead and have the ability to read the conditions and avoid/pre-empt any... incident. This is how I've driven all my life and why I've never had the need for a seat belt.
But, they say - oh, you're costing the taxpayer thousands to repair you when it happens. Hey bonehead, newsflash - I'M a bloody taxpayer and if MY taxes are in part to pay for an accident of mine then what's the problem. Besides which, it's never happened and although I can't forsee the future any more than the next man, it highly unlikely to.
Moreover, it's gotta be more worthy than filling your bloody pockets with your rorting of the system so don't talk to me about waste. With your chauffers and your petrol allowances and your overseas trips. You've some bloody nerve citing waste, you blood sucking parasites.
Bottom line? I'm not wearing one; you can't make me wear one (now I've a cunning an devious plan), and ye can all get stuffed.
So there! Hah.
So I no longer wear one - haven't done so for, lemme see...about 4 years. And I'm not going to ever again. And I'll never be caught. Why, I hear you ask? Well, send me 10 bucks and a stamped addressed envelope and I'll tell you. It's pure genius in it's simplicity and I may as well make a few bucks out of it.
Four years ago I got caught by the boys in blue not wearing one and received six - that's right - six points on my licence (along with the obligatory revenue collection). Wasn't able to sit down for a week, I got screwed over so hard.
So it got me thinking - there's no question that seat belts do indeed save lives. (Although in my opinion, some morons drive so unbelieveably bad they deserve to be thrown through the window). However, if I, as an individual, with 25 years of driving experience, choose not to wear one, why should I be forced to. In all that time, on three continents, I've never had the need for one. Maybe partly luck but also the fact that I'm an expert driver. Experts look ahead and have the ability to read the conditions and avoid/pre-empt any... incident. This is how I've driven all my life and why I've never had the need for a seat belt.
But, they say - oh, you're costing the taxpayer thousands to repair you when it happens. Hey bonehead, newsflash - I'M a bloody taxpayer and if MY taxes are in part to pay for an accident of mine then what's the problem. Besides which, it's never happened and although I can't forsee the future any more than the next man, it highly unlikely to.
Moreover, it's gotta be more worthy than filling your bloody pockets with your rorting of the system so don't talk to me about waste. With your chauffers and your petrol allowances and your overseas trips. You've some bloody nerve citing waste, you blood sucking parasites.
Bottom line? I'm not wearing one; you can't make me wear one (now I've a cunning an devious plan), and ye can all get stuffed.
So there! Hah.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
My Own Personal Everest
WARNING: The following contains some swearwords essential to the piece
The day was clear and blue; not too warm, not too cold. The area in which we were camped was pretty deep in the bush, slap bang in the middle of a mountain range. As the bikes were unloaded, in high spirits, we were all relaxed looking forward to the fun and excitement that can only be had on a dirt bike free of the restraints of road signs, cars, and the dreaded Mr Plod.
The bikes in question were, a WR 426, an honest to god weapon; a light and powerful 4-stroke, a YZ250 two stroke, or stroker–nuff said, virtual guided missiles, a rather old 1996 XR 630, also fast and quite powerful, but very heavy, and a positively ancient DT 175.
Tex, on the 426, was in his late 40s, with a permanently reddened nose from years of habitual inebriation and hard livin’; he was the epitome of an Australian male—he drunk a lot, swore a lot, treated his wife with callous disregard, and loved his dog; yet was held in high esteem by both his peers and subordinates. Bob, on the 250, was a portly, young lad, a wannabe ‘crusty demon’, (not so much ‘crusty’, as ‘slightly untidy’) without the talent, but with the perpetual sneer and insolent attitude down pat. Sidey, (so called from his predilection to have his car sideways) conversely, was a laid back, scruffy-looking, young man, almost feral-like, with a carefree manner, who was being introduced to the delights of motorcycles for the inaugural time, here, in this very spot; (he was to earn a lot of respect from yours truly, subsequently) on the old and underpowered 175. Myself, I was on the aging 630, which just happened to weigh what felt like a ton; a point that has certain relevance later.
The bikes unloaded, we all proceeded to kit up–in the case of Sidey and myself, this comprised 1 helmet and a pair of gloves, so, he and I put our gloves and helmet on—not certain that actually constitutes ‘ kitting-up’ . I also had a pair of motocross boots—Sidey didn’t.
Tex and Bob, on the other hand, had enough gear for 4 people. Helmet, boots and gloves—same as myself—but with shoulder pads, elbow pads, chest pads, back brace, knee pads, almost an entire exoskeleton of protection, in fact many times I thought he looked like a Robocop-type figure. He even had a GPS, which, despite his strenuous protestations to the contrary, I suspect he didn’t know how to operate. When asked how it worked, inevitably, the enthusiastic yet mildly apologetic reply would be, “ oh I’ll have to get that sorted”, or “I’ll have to check the manual”, or a basic explanation of how, theoretically, it’s supposed to work, without actually knowing how it works ; to be fair, this lack of knowledge applied to us all. Bloody thing actually turned out to be as much use as a paper boat, we’d have been better off burning it for the smoke signals, but that’s another story.
So, after the obligatory wait for Tex to get his act together, (he is notoriously known for his never meeting deadlines), we set off, leaving Bob’s father at the camp, with the intention of riding for about an hour and retuning to camp to give Bob’s father a turn on the 250. If only we knew.
Now, at this point I should tell that I’ve been to this area before—twice, so I have a rudimentary knowledge of where I am, providing I stick to the areas I have previously visited. But, it is a very big place and after riding around the areas I did know for about 20 minutes we came upon the top of a very big hill, (again, if only we had known); exactly how big would not become clear until we got to the bottom.
As I was leading, I reached the start of the downward section first and stopped to consider my next move; the saying ‘look before you leap’ which I learnt, at a cost, when young, uppermost in my mind. The first thing noticed (apart from the distance it dropped and the fact that I couldn’t see the bottom) was the proliferation of deep, V-shaped ruts, almost crevasses in some cases, caused obviously by extreme amounts of water coursing down this steep hill. Before not too long, the young lad appeared beside me, so I waited for him to have a look also before asking, “well, do you think you could handle that?” I could tell he was slightly reluctant to go down (I had slight reservations myself) but he hid behind bravado and answered, “yeah, no problem”– still with the sneer.
Tex and Sidey hadn’t caught up with us yet, but I could hear their engine noise nearby so, after a quick confirming look over my shoulder, I started to move slowly over the side and down the hill.
Things go very pear-shaped, very quickly from this point.
The downward journey starts off well, with me immediately realising that some of the ruts (crevasses?) were too deep and too narrow, and were best avoided at all costs. That realisation is followed by the decision to use the forest edge to descend, which was clear of the dreaded ruts, instead having these solid tree trunks to negotiate—aye, like that wouldn’t hurt if you hit one—crumple is a word that seems particularly apt, in describing the result. The only way down, due to the steepness and loose surface, was to lock the back wheel and feather the front brake; the first incident occurs when I start gaining momentum, and reluctant to pull the front brake any harder for fear of losing the front, becoming slightly out of control, and—yep, you’ve guessed it, hit one of the trees ( in hindsight it’s just as well–I had to stop somehow, and the brakes weren’t cutting it). I navigate round my saviour from uncontrolled descent and continue on (more carefully) my downward journey. About 20 mins later, and about 300 feet down, I reach the first turn, to the right, after which the track gets disturbingly steeper, with the surface deteriorating into, not ruts anymore, but deep crevasses. I have to leave the relative security of the forest edge and follow that track, so I look around for an alternative and see another track formed by the water that couldn’t quite make the turn. I shout to the young lad who’s about 100 yards behind me, on the right, creeping down with extreme care, the other two at various intervals further up the hill, that I’m going to have a look and start down this alternative.
Again, the descent starts easily enough, but about half way down, with the steepness of the slope and the lack of traction, my front wheel slides off the dirt and into this 4 foot hole. I’m already at a 45 degree angle so when the front wheel disappears down the hole it has the effect of throwing me over the handlebars with the machine following me, and the pair of us tumble on down the slope for about 30 feet. It was here, I suspect, where I sustained the bodily damage that so handicapped me later. After manhandling the machine, which lay half-in, half-out, and upside down, from another hole, (they were everywhere) I cautiously continue to mainly slide–barely under control, to the bottom, where I park the bike and have a rest.
My relief at getting to the bottom is short lived however, upon discovering that there isn’t an alternative after all, and that I’ll have to get back up the way I’ve just come down. Just effing typical—if I hadn’t checked it out I guarantee we would have eventually discovered the ‘Holy Grail’ of exits leading from there.
“No worries”, say I, with an induced confidence, “I’ll just scoot up that side there”. There was a section, that on the surface of it looked easy enough, albeit only about 12 inches wide—perfectly doable. So I rest for a little while longer, simultaneously concentrating on my intended route and thinking (Jesus Christ, I haven’t even reached the bottom, and it’s already turning into a fucking nightmare). Let me here let you into a little secret—speed, on a dirt bike is good, with the front wheel in the air and a reasonable amount of forward motion there are few obstacles that can’t be surmounted. Unfortunately for us, 4 foot wide and deep crevasses, is one of the few. In the case of the smaller ruts, they had to be crossed at right angles and if enough speed was applied one could just race on over the top. But, if for whatever reason the approach is altered to the diagonal, then–one is stuffed, to put it mildly. I’m digressing, the point is–about half way up the narrow track there was a perfectly placed (in terms of disruption to my intentions) tree, a matter of inches from the track which if collided with at speed would have painful and damaging consequences. So speed as an ally was out, precision it was.
The first attempt sees me getting adjacent with the tree and steering slightly left to avoid hitting the handlebars, which would be disastrous, and straight into a crevasse. As I feared, before the wheels touch the bottom the gear lever, brake lever and both engine casings bury themselves into the earth either side. Copious amounts of swearing ensue and I sit with my back to the ‘partly responsible for the result’ tree leaving the machine firmly wedged in the crevasse, while contemplating the effort required to manhandle the machine backwards out of the crevasse.
A further 20 minutes of hauling, lifting, pulling (and a bit more swearing) sees me back at the bottom. My second attempt wields a variation of the same result. After the 3rd failed attempt I decide to stop flogging this particular dead horse and find another way; consequently settling on through the forest. Unfortunately the forest surface was extremely loose, making the traction almost nonexistent, the amount of trees making gaining momentum impossible, and after 20 mins of trying I found myself having to call on Tex and Sidey to help push/pull me out.
Another 20 mins of pushing and pulling with the spinning rear spitting out this cocktail of dirt, twigs, stones, rocks, and other unidentifiable detritus, which if one was in the path of, would feel like a sandblaster, found me at the edge of the track, on a strip of dirt no more than 8 inches wide, but with both edges curved so, 2 inches either side of centre usable, and a 4 foot drop on 1 side and a 3 foot on the other. Hardly Everest I’ll agree, but to reiterate; these crevasses were, as earlier mentioned, V-shaped and the main problem (as earlier discovered) was the sides of the engine casing becoming jammed before the wheels touched the bottom—a shit-fight extricating the bike from there!
Inching along it I eventually get to rejoin the main track and shortly thereafter the bottom. My relief is again put on hold when I see that we have just a short distance of level ground before a hill, at least as big as the one we’ve just come down—goes up. Up to this point, we all had been thinking (hoping?) that once we reached the bottom, there would be an easy way out. But no, we appeared to be at the very bottom of a valley between two thousand foot hills. Fuck!
After considering and rejecting going back up the way we came down, we realise that we’ve no choice—we have to go up this other side. At this point, I feel a modicum of guilt at getting us into this, but just a fleeting feeling–after all, no-one held a gun to their heads. Who’s more stupid—the moron who leads us into such a predicament, or the boneheads who blindly follow?
So, up we go and after a section that’s relatively simple we arrive at the bottom of the hill proper, the top of which we can’t see. It is massive. We rest and consider our next move (not whether we go up–but how we get up). The deterioration of the track is such that there is no obvious way to go, so after deliberations, I again choose the forest route with its lack of traction. I get into 3rd gear as soon as possible and accelerate to get as much momentum as I can, but it’s difficult and the rear is spinning constantly on the loose surface. This ‘shortcut’ meets the track about a third of the way up but just at the last 30 feet it takes a severe upward turn and the added twist of throttle results in the rear wheel spinning faster and digging itself into a hole. Back down to start again. The same process is repeated with the same result. On the third attempt, just as the rear starts to spin and dig itself in, I jump off and, with the rear still spinning, push with all my might (remember earlier comment about the weight of the machine) to get over the final hump. With heart-bursting effort, I manage to succeed and park the bike, consequently collapsing.
The others are at various stages on the hill, all with their own struggles. I decide to wait, not that I had a choice–the spirit was willing but the body was, well— fucked. So I lie there where I fall, my heart pounding, with every deep breath (which was all of them) causing a face contorting pain. It’s funny–I’m sure I can feel my ears burning.
Tex is next to attempt the forest shortcut and encounters the same problem with wheelspin as I, so I go down to help push him out.
By this stage, the damage to my body caused by the ‘over the handlebars’ incident was becoming apparent; every time I breathed deeply (which was all the time, with pushing and pulling bikes up hills, and walking up and down the same hills) the pain was excruciating due to a suspected pulled muscle high on the left side of my chest, and I had twisted my knee which was beginning to swell. But he wasn’t getting over that on his own so I had to help.
On getting him over the top, he too, collapsed, amid a tirade of abuse directed at me, while gasping for breath. I’m sure the authenticity of my parents’ wedding certificate was questioned amid his gasps.
Meantime, below, Sidey and Bob were having their own difficulties. Both were out of sight of Tex and I, just round the corner, but we could clearly hear the high revving engines as they struggled to get up this hill, followed inevitably by the sudden silence of a stall, with the subsequent profanity, or the cushioned thump of an ungraceful dismount, with further profanity, echoing throughout the forest. Eventually, somehow Bob manages to reach the short, relevantly level section where Tex and I, still recovering, wait. As he crests the top, wheel spinning, legs searching for balance, and narrowly shooting past us with bare control, he rides straight into a crevasse beside a bank and stalls.
The clutch cable has snapped. Fuck again!
The exertion of getting to this point coupled with the realisation of the broken cable and all of the ramifications within result in Bob losing it and he starts kicking the machine, launching into a tirade of insults directed at the poor inanimate bike. I watch the show for a while, my heart rate having slowed somewhat causing the pain to subside and move to the edge to see how Sidey’s doing; he’s still trying hard with little success to climb the same section so I shout down to him to use the forest track. He does and shortly after we watch as he tries (like we all did) to gain enough momentum to carry him over this traction-less surface. It’s a very narrow track and it’s hard to stay on it; consequently, he falls off. He remounts and tries to carry on from that point but the surface doesn’t allow it and the rear wheel immediately starts digging itself into a hole. So, down to the bottom to start again. Again he falls and again returns to start again. At this point I’m beginning to fear that we’re all going to have to walk down to him and push him all the way up, but he has one more go. This time he gets past his previous best efforts and makes it to the point where the track takes the steep upturn. The three of us waiting at the top are willing him with all we have to make it, with me unable to restrain myself, shouting “C’mon Sidey, c’mon”! But just as with the rest, the wheel digs into the soft surface and the bike starts to flip. Sidey jumps off and lets it. I tell him to wait and have a rest and we head down the hill again to push him up. We get him to the top with relief.
At this stage we’re all beginning to feel the effects of such strenuous effort; we’ve been at this for the better part of three hours and, still, we can’t see the top of the hill. The thought of running out of fuel insidiously creeps into the periphery of my mind, where it lodges itself, waiting like a malignant promise of potential disaster.
We discuss our next move. Without a clutch cable, the bike can’t be put in gear, once it’s started, the only way being a rolling start (at Tex’s suggestion), but we’re on a steep hill, so there’s no way we could push it fast enough to facilitate this. We try anyway, because the alternative is to push it all the way up to the top (remember, at this point we don’t know where the top is—could be miles away for all we know). So, we prepare for it; get Bob on, start it, and take our positions at various points, and—push with all our might. As we approach the end of the short distance we have, Bob knocks it into gear and the bike lurches forward and stalls. Expletives abound. Disappointed, we sit and, again consider our next move. There’s nothing else for it—we’re going to have to push/manhandle the machine up to the next relatively flat section which is a bit longer and try again. I realise that it’s getting darker and for the first time, consider the fact that we might be out here all night. I mention this to Sidey, and jokingly suggest that he catches us a rabbit (there was a creek nearby, so water wasn’t a problem).
As we sit and recover, my mind wanders and I muse over the thought of a few years from now, someone discovering in this wilderness, four skeletal remains, lying near four motorcycles, the spirits of these riders roaming in perpetuity, throughout the forest, growing into folklore, scaring young children, the warnings clear–“don’t go near the forest, stay out of the forest”. I laugh at my over-imagination and consider writing a book. My heart rate is back to normal and my mood’s lightened by my getting carried away, so I begin to enjoy the camaraderie shared by protagonists of such adversity.
And I smoke. So does Sidey.
Tex is next to comment on the lateness of the hour, suggesting we move, that it’ll be dark soon (surely the most recognisable phrase in movie history–we better move/hurry/camp, it’ll be dark soon).
As a sidebar, and as an indication of the power of the water that at various points thundered down this hill, we notice a tree trunk, about 2 feet in diameter and about 30 feet long lying in one of the ruts. A crane would be needed to move it yet here it was wedged in a rut. The power of the water must have been awesome. Far out
“Alright then”, I say, “let’s get this 250 with the broken cable up and overwith”. So we take our positions, Bob pushing the bars, Tex and Sidey pulling from the front wheel, and myself pushing from the back—except, it’s not like pushing a bike up a tarmac road, we have to manhandle it over the crevasses, and when we could roll it on its wheels, because of the steepness of the slope, I had to grab the knobblys on the tyre and pull upwards while the others pushed and pulled their own respective parts. On a count. 1,2,3–go. 1,2,3–go, and so on. It was very slow and very tiring going–about a foot per effort. We all kept losing our footing with me repeating again and again, “don’t let go of the brake”. Eventually we reach the top of this section and rest some more.
Now we have to get the other three bikes up, but we only have to ride them, although bearing in mind the effort required thus far after 4 hours of really hard slog that is not an entirely more preferable option. Luck had been with us in a sense with the 250 being the lightest machine of them all, (light being relative—no bikes are light if you have to push them, even on a flat, tarmac road, never mind a steep hill). My 630 for example, would have been twice as hard. But still, we had now been at this constantly for 4 hours and were all feeling a bit worn out. My pulled muscle, with being worked so hard for so long was causing me considerable pain and discomfort and my twisted knee couldn’t support even my body weight for any length of time.
Sidey goes next and manages to surmount the stage with relative ease, albeit with legs sticking out all over
I go next and as I approach the top, my front wheel hits an inconveniently placed protruding root, (although that’s not what I called it at the time) and bounces into a rut, Fortunately, this one is only about a foot deep so the wheels hit the ground before anything else jams, but I’m still stuck at a 45 degree angle in a hole, and when I try to drive out, the rear spins and digs itself into a hole again. I glance down the hill towards Tex, whom I’m sure is thinking that my current predicament is some form of divine retribution for getting us into this.
Returning to the problem at hand, I again have to call on brute strength and with the rear spinning (with me hoping one of the rocks being fired from the wheel will bounce of the grinning idiot’s head below) I heave with all my might to get out of the rut. Fortunately I succeed and reach the top, relieved and out of puff. Tex follows. The next upward section was inspected, with an almost military precision, for the easiest route. As a whole, it was less steep than what we had experienced previously, but we had all had quite enough by that point and easy mistakes could still be made, so a path was agreed on. Bob, with the broken cable was to go first. No matter what happens, we tell him, don’t stop. He doesn’t and disappears round the bend, out of sight. The three of us remaining take the last part with relative ease (thankfully—I think we had all had just about enough thank you very much), and reach (sound of trumpets) the top.
Adding further insult to injury, it turns out the entry and exit points were a stones throw apart, and only a girl’s throw into the bargain. AND - Bob's bloody father, while he was waiting for the four and a half hours, ate my chocolate bar!
Since, they have arbitrarily denied me the right to lead EVER again. In fact, I suspect Sidey never wants to set foot on a dirtbike again; a fact confirmed by his never having used the one he bought after the event.
For my part, I have revisited the area since—alone, I couldn’t convince the others to go with me— and marked the entrance with an ‘enter at your own risk’ sign.
Thus ends the time spent on #*+* hill, as it came to be known by those involved. An offensive word, unable to be printed, and indicative of the feelings promoted in the riders.
The day was clear and blue; not too warm, not too cold. The area in which we were camped was pretty deep in the bush, slap bang in the middle of a mountain range. As the bikes were unloaded, in high spirits, we were all relaxed looking forward to the fun and excitement that can only be had on a dirt bike free of the restraints of road signs, cars, and the dreaded Mr Plod.
The bikes in question were, a WR 426, an honest to god weapon; a light and powerful 4-stroke, a YZ250 two stroke, or stroker–nuff said, virtual guided missiles, a rather old 1996 XR 630, also fast and quite powerful, but very heavy, and a positively ancient DT 175.
Tex, on the 426, was in his late 40s, with a permanently reddened nose from years of habitual inebriation and hard livin’; he was the epitome of an Australian male—he drunk a lot, swore a lot, treated his wife with callous disregard, and loved his dog; yet was held in high esteem by both his peers and subordinates. Bob, on the 250, was a portly, young lad, a wannabe ‘crusty demon’, (not so much ‘crusty’, as ‘slightly untidy’) without the talent, but with the perpetual sneer and insolent attitude down pat. Sidey, (so called from his predilection to have his car sideways) conversely, was a laid back, scruffy-looking, young man, almost feral-like, with a carefree manner, who was being introduced to the delights of motorcycles for the inaugural time, here, in this very spot; (he was to earn a lot of respect from yours truly, subsequently) on the old and underpowered 175. Myself, I was on the aging 630, which just happened to weigh what felt like a ton; a point that has certain relevance later.
The bikes unloaded, we all proceeded to kit up–in the case of Sidey and myself, this comprised 1 helmet and a pair of gloves, so, he and I put our gloves and helmet on—not certain that actually constitutes ‘ kitting-up’ . I also had a pair of motocross boots—Sidey didn’t.
Tex and Bob, on the other hand, had enough gear for 4 people. Helmet, boots and gloves—same as myself—but with shoulder pads, elbow pads, chest pads, back brace, knee pads, almost an entire exoskeleton of protection, in fact many times I thought he looked like a Robocop-type figure. He even had a GPS, which, despite his strenuous protestations to the contrary, I suspect he didn’t know how to operate. When asked how it worked, inevitably, the enthusiastic yet mildly apologetic reply would be, “ oh I’ll have to get that sorted”, or “I’ll have to check the manual”, or a basic explanation of how, theoretically, it’s supposed to work, without actually knowing how it works ; to be fair, this lack of knowledge applied to us all. Bloody thing actually turned out to be as much use as a paper boat, we’d have been better off burning it for the smoke signals, but that’s another story.
So, after the obligatory wait for Tex to get his act together, (he is notoriously known for his never meeting deadlines), we set off, leaving Bob’s father at the camp, with the intention of riding for about an hour and retuning to camp to give Bob’s father a turn on the 250. If only we knew.
Now, at this point I should tell that I’ve been to this area before—twice, so I have a rudimentary knowledge of where I am, providing I stick to the areas I have previously visited. But, it is a very big place and after riding around the areas I did know for about 20 minutes we came upon the top of a very big hill, (again, if only we had known); exactly how big would not become clear until we got to the bottom.
As I was leading, I reached the start of the downward section first and stopped to consider my next move; the saying ‘look before you leap’ which I learnt, at a cost, when young, uppermost in my mind. The first thing noticed (apart from the distance it dropped and the fact that I couldn’t see the bottom) was the proliferation of deep, V-shaped ruts, almost crevasses in some cases, caused obviously by extreme amounts of water coursing down this steep hill. Before not too long, the young lad appeared beside me, so I waited for him to have a look also before asking, “well, do you think you could handle that?” I could tell he was slightly reluctant to go down (I had slight reservations myself) but he hid behind bravado and answered, “yeah, no problem”– still with the sneer.
Tex and Sidey hadn’t caught up with us yet, but I could hear their engine noise nearby so, after a quick confirming look over my shoulder, I started to move slowly over the side and down the hill.
Things go very pear-shaped, very quickly from this point.
The downward journey starts off well, with me immediately realising that some of the ruts (crevasses?) were too deep and too narrow, and were best avoided at all costs. That realisation is followed by the decision to use the forest edge to descend, which was clear of the dreaded ruts, instead having these solid tree trunks to negotiate—aye, like that wouldn’t hurt if you hit one—crumple is a word that seems particularly apt, in describing the result. The only way down, due to the steepness and loose surface, was to lock the back wheel and feather the front brake; the first incident occurs when I start gaining momentum, and reluctant to pull the front brake any harder for fear of losing the front, becoming slightly out of control, and—yep, you’ve guessed it, hit one of the trees ( in hindsight it’s just as well–I had to stop somehow, and the brakes weren’t cutting it). I navigate round my saviour from uncontrolled descent and continue on (more carefully) my downward journey. About 20 mins later, and about 300 feet down, I reach the first turn, to the right, after which the track gets disturbingly steeper, with the surface deteriorating into, not ruts anymore, but deep crevasses. I have to leave the relative security of the forest edge and follow that track, so I look around for an alternative and see another track formed by the water that couldn’t quite make the turn. I shout to the young lad who’s about 100 yards behind me, on the right, creeping down with extreme care, the other two at various intervals further up the hill, that I’m going to have a look and start down this alternative.
Again, the descent starts easily enough, but about half way down, with the steepness of the slope and the lack of traction, my front wheel slides off the dirt and into this 4 foot hole. I’m already at a 45 degree angle so when the front wheel disappears down the hole it has the effect of throwing me over the handlebars with the machine following me, and the pair of us tumble on down the slope for about 30 feet. It was here, I suspect, where I sustained the bodily damage that so handicapped me later. After manhandling the machine, which lay half-in, half-out, and upside down, from another hole, (they were everywhere) I cautiously continue to mainly slide–barely under control, to the bottom, where I park the bike and have a rest.
My relief at getting to the bottom is short lived however, upon discovering that there isn’t an alternative after all, and that I’ll have to get back up the way I’ve just come down. Just effing typical—if I hadn’t checked it out I guarantee we would have eventually discovered the ‘Holy Grail’ of exits leading from there.
“No worries”, say I, with an induced confidence, “I’ll just scoot up that side there”. There was a section, that on the surface of it looked easy enough, albeit only about 12 inches wide—perfectly doable. So I rest for a little while longer, simultaneously concentrating on my intended route and thinking (Jesus Christ, I haven’t even reached the bottom, and it’s already turning into a fucking nightmare). Let me here let you into a little secret—speed, on a dirt bike is good, with the front wheel in the air and a reasonable amount of forward motion there are few obstacles that can’t be surmounted. Unfortunately for us, 4 foot wide and deep crevasses, is one of the few. In the case of the smaller ruts, they had to be crossed at right angles and if enough speed was applied one could just race on over the top. But, if for whatever reason the approach is altered to the diagonal, then–one is stuffed, to put it mildly. I’m digressing, the point is–about half way up the narrow track there was a perfectly placed (in terms of disruption to my intentions) tree, a matter of inches from the track which if collided with at speed would have painful and damaging consequences. So speed as an ally was out, precision it was.
The first attempt sees me getting adjacent with the tree and steering slightly left to avoid hitting the handlebars, which would be disastrous, and straight into a crevasse. As I feared, before the wheels touch the bottom the gear lever, brake lever and both engine casings bury themselves into the earth either side. Copious amounts of swearing ensue and I sit with my back to the ‘partly responsible for the result’ tree leaving the machine firmly wedged in the crevasse, while contemplating the effort required to manhandle the machine backwards out of the crevasse.
A further 20 minutes of hauling, lifting, pulling (and a bit more swearing) sees me back at the bottom. My second attempt wields a variation of the same result. After the 3rd failed attempt I decide to stop flogging this particular dead horse and find another way; consequently settling on through the forest. Unfortunately the forest surface was extremely loose, making the traction almost nonexistent, the amount of trees making gaining momentum impossible, and after 20 mins of trying I found myself having to call on Tex and Sidey to help push/pull me out.
Another 20 mins of pushing and pulling with the spinning rear spitting out this cocktail of dirt, twigs, stones, rocks, and other unidentifiable detritus, which if one was in the path of, would feel like a sandblaster, found me at the edge of the track, on a strip of dirt no more than 8 inches wide, but with both edges curved so, 2 inches either side of centre usable, and a 4 foot drop on 1 side and a 3 foot on the other. Hardly Everest I’ll agree, but to reiterate; these crevasses were, as earlier mentioned, V-shaped and the main problem (as earlier discovered) was the sides of the engine casing becoming jammed before the wheels touched the bottom—a shit-fight extricating the bike from there!
Inching along it I eventually get to rejoin the main track and shortly thereafter the bottom. My relief is again put on hold when I see that we have just a short distance of level ground before a hill, at least as big as the one we’ve just come down—goes up. Up to this point, we all had been thinking (hoping?) that once we reached the bottom, there would be an easy way out. But no, we appeared to be at the very bottom of a valley between two thousand foot hills. Fuck!
After considering and rejecting going back up the way we came down, we realise that we’ve no choice—we have to go up this other side. At this point, I feel a modicum of guilt at getting us into this, but just a fleeting feeling–after all, no-one held a gun to their heads. Who’s more stupid—the moron who leads us into such a predicament, or the boneheads who blindly follow?
So, up we go and after a section that’s relatively simple we arrive at the bottom of the hill proper, the top of which we can’t see. It is massive. We rest and consider our next move (not whether we go up–but how we get up). The deterioration of the track is such that there is no obvious way to go, so after deliberations, I again choose the forest route with its lack of traction. I get into 3rd gear as soon as possible and accelerate to get as much momentum as I can, but it’s difficult and the rear is spinning constantly on the loose surface. This ‘shortcut’ meets the track about a third of the way up but just at the last 30 feet it takes a severe upward turn and the added twist of throttle results in the rear wheel spinning faster and digging itself into a hole. Back down to start again. The same process is repeated with the same result. On the third attempt, just as the rear starts to spin and dig itself in, I jump off and, with the rear still spinning, push with all my might (remember earlier comment about the weight of the machine) to get over the final hump. With heart-bursting effort, I manage to succeed and park the bike, consequently collapsing.
The others are at various stages on the hill, all with their own struggles. I decide to wait, not that I had a choice–the spirit was willing but the body was, well— fucked. So I lie there where I fall, my heart pounding, with every deep breath (which was all of them) causing a face contorting pain. It’s funny–I’m sure I can feel my ears burning.
Tex is next to attempt the forest shortcut and encounters the same problem with wheelspin as I, so I go down to help push him out.
By this stage, the damage to my body caused by the ‘over the handlebars’ incident was becoming apparent; every time I breathed deeply (which was all the time, with pushing and pulling bikes up hills, and walking up and down the same hills) the pain was excruciating due to a suspected pulled muscle high on the left side of my chest, and I had twisted my knee which was beginning to swell. But he wasn’t getting over that on his own so I had to help.
On getting him over the top, he too, collapsed, amid a tirade of abuse directed at me, while gasping for breath. I’m sure the authenticity of my parents’ wedding certificate was questioned amid his gasps.
Meantime, below, Sidey and Bob were having their own difficulties. Both were out of sight of Tex and I, just round the corner, but we could clearly hear the high revving engines as they struggled to get up this hill, followed inevitably by the sudden silence of a stall, with the subsequent profanity, or the cushioned thump of an ungraceful dismount, with further profanity, echoing throughout the forest. Eventually, somehow Bob manages to reach the short, relevantly level section where Tex and I, still recovering, wait. As he crests the top, wheel spinning, legs searching for balance, and narrowly shooting past us with bare control, he rides straight into a crevasse beside a bank and stalls.
The clutch cable has snapped. Fuck again!
The exertion of getting to this point coupled with the realisation of the broken cable and all of the ramifications within result in Bob losing it and he starts kicking the machine, launching into a tirade of insults directed at the poor inanimate bike. I watch the show for a while, my heart rate having slowed somewhat causing the pain to subside and move to the edge to see how Sidey’s doing; he’s still trying hard with little success to climb the same section so I shout down to him to use the forest track. He does and shortly after we watch as he tries (like we all did) to gain enough momentum to carry him over this traction-less surface. It’s a very narrow track and it’s hard to stay on it; consequently, he falls off. He remounts and tries to carry on from that point but the surface doesn’t allow it and the rear wheel immediately starts digging itself into a hole. So, down to the bottom to start again. Again he falls and again returns to start again. At this point I’m beginning to fear that we’re all going to have to walk down to him and push him all the way up, but he has one more go. This time he gets past his previous best efforts and makes it to the point where the track takes the steep upturn. The three of us waiting at the top are willing him with all we have to make it, with me unable to restrain myself, shouting “C’mon Sidey, c’mon”! But just as with the rest, the wheel digs into the soft surface and the bike starts to flip. Sidey jumps off and lets it. I tell him to wait and have a rest and we head down the hill again to push him up. We get him to the top with relief.
At this stage we’re all beginning to feel the effects of such strenuous effort; we’ve been at this for the better part of three hours and, still, we can’t see the top of the hill. The thought of running out of fuel insidiously creeps into the periphery of my mind, where it lodges itself, waiting like a malignant promise of potential disaster.
We discuss our next move. Without a clutch cable, the bike can’t be put in gear, once it’s started, the only way being a rolling start (at Tex’s suggestion), but we’re on a steep hill, so there’s no way we could push it fast enough to facilitate this. We try anyway, because the alternative is to push it all the way up to the top (remember, at this point we don’t know where the top is—could be miles away for all we know). So, we prepare for it; get Bob on, start it, and take our positions at various points, and—push with all our might. As we approach the end of the short distance we have, Bob knocks it into gear and the bike lurches forward and stalls. Expletives abound. Disappointed, we sit and, again consider our next move. There’s nothing else for it—we’re going to have to push/manhandle the machine up to the next relatively flat section which is a bit longer and try again. I realise that it’s getting darker and for the first time, consider the fact that we might be out here all night. I mention this to Sidey, and jokingly suggest that he catches us a rabbit (there was a creek nearby, so water wasn’t a problem).
As we sit and recover, my mind wanders and I muse over the thought of a few years from now, someone discovering in this wilderness, four skeletal remains, lying near four motorcycles, the spirits of these riders roaming in perpetuity, throughout the forest, growing into folklore, scaring young children, the warnings clear–“don’t go near the forest, stay out of the forest”. I laugh at my over-imagination and consider writing a book. My heart rate is back to normal and my mood’s lightened by my getting carried away, so I begin to enjoy the camaraderie shared by protagonists of such adversity.
And I smoke. So does Sidey.
Tex is next to comment on the lateness of the hour, suggesting we move, that it’ll be dark soon (surely the most recognisable phrase in movie history–we better move/hurry/camp, it’ll be dark soon).
As a sidebar, and as an indication of the power of the water that at various points thundered down this hill, we notice a tree trunk, about 2 feet in diameter and about 30 feet long lying in one of the ruts. A crane would be needed to move it yet here it was wedged in a rut. The power of the water must have been awesome. Far out
“Alright then”, I say, “let’s get this 250 with the broken cable up and overwith”. So we take our positions, Bob pushing the bars, Tex and Sidey pulling from the front wheel, and myself pushing from the back—except, it’s not like pushing a bike up a tarmac road, we have to manhandle it over the crevasses, and when we could roll it on its wheels, because of the steepness of the slope, I had to grab the knobblys on the tyre and pull upwards while the others pushed and pulled their own respective parts. On a count. 1,2,3–go. 1,2,3–go, and so on. It was very slow and very tiring going–about a foot per effort. We all kept losing our footing with me repeating again and again, “don’t let go of the brake”. Eventually we reach the top of this section and rest some more.
Now we have to get the other three bikes up, but we only have to ride them, although bearing in mind the effort required thus far after 4 hours of really hard slog that is not an entirely more preferable option. Luck had been with us in a sense with the 250 being the lightest machine of them all, (light being relative—no bikes are light if you have to push them, even on a flat, tarmac road, never mind a steep hill). My 630 for example, would have been twice as hard. But still, we had now been at this constantly for 4 hours and were all feeling a bit worn out. My pulled muscle, with being worked so hard for so long was causing me considerable pain and discomfort and my twisted knee couldn’t support even my body weight for any length of time.
Sidey goes next and manages to surmount the stage with relative ease, albeit with legs sticking out all over
I go next and as I approach the top, my front wheel hits an inconveniently placed protruding root, (although that’s not what I called it at the time) and bounces into a rut, Fortunately, this one is only about a foot deep so the wheels hit the ground before anything else jams, but I’m still stuck at a 45 degree angle in a hole, and when I try to drive out, the rear spins and digs itself into a hole again. I glance down the hill towards Tex, whom I’m sure is thinking that my current predicament is some form of divine retribution for getting us into this.
Returning to the problem at hand, I again have to call on brute strength and with the rear spinning (with me hoping one of the rocks being fired from the wheel will bounce of the grinning idiot’s head below) I heave with all my might to get out of the rut. Fortunately I succeed and reach the top, relieved and out of puff. Tex follows. The next upward section was inspected, with an almost military precision, for the easiest route. As a whole, it was less steep than what we had experienced previously, but we had all had quite enough by that point and easy mistakes could still be made, so a path was agreed on. Bob, with the broken cable was to go first. No matter what happens, we tell him, don’t stop. He doesn’t and disappears round the bend, out of sight. The three of us remaining take the last part with relative ease (thankfully—I think we had all had just about enough thank you very much), and reach (sound of trumpets) the top.
Adding further insult to injury, it turns out the entry and exit points were a stones throw apart, and only a girl’s throw into the bargain. AND - Bob's bloody father, while he was waiting for the four and a half hours, ate my chocolate bar!
Since, they have arbitrarily denied me the right to lead EVER again. In fact, I suspect Sidey never wants to set foot on a dirtbike again; a fact confirmed by his never having used the one he bought after the event.
For my part, I have revisited the area since—alone, I couldn’t convince the others to go with me— and marked the entrance with an ‘enter at your own risk’ sign.
Thus ends the time spent on #*+* hill, as it came to be known by those involved. An offensive word, unable to be printed, and indicative of the feelings promoted in the riders.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
TEMPLE 100
Nestled in swathe of green, rolling hills, lies Temple, a small village like a thousand others peppering the Emerald Isle.
It’s quiet where I stand, about halfway down a large, steeply angled ribbon of tarmac cutting its way across the countryside. In a field, behind a waist high barbed wire fence, the three strips of wire with twisted barbs interspersed along each length. No safety here. At speed, it’s like cheese wire, with the potential of ripping limbs clean off.
Birds tweet in the trees on this warm, sunny Ulster summer evening. No, it’s not raining; yes, we do have sunshine. A light breeze rustles the trees around me and I feel at peace. This is the feeling of summer. Warm, still, peaceful, with the sweet melodies from the many birds.
Suddenly, in the distance, comes the low drone of engines. They’re coming. Oh man, they’re coming. I mentally rub my hands. I had heard the roar of them as they each simultaneously shot off the start line in a cloud of smoke and fumes. Thirty or so of them, each determined to go faster than anyone else, willing to take risks that have since been deemed outright dangerous.
I enjoy the silence as the sound of the mad rush fades in the distance. I know where they’re going; out round the back of the circuit, through the ‘twisties’. Several miles of narrow country lane, where the machine under them leaps and bounces like an unbroken stallion, across the rough uneven Ulster road. This eventually leads them to The Rollercoaster, a name so apt and fitting that it has to be seen to be believed.
The first of these…enthusiasts starts the run – the run of death – some cheesy sensationalist type rags might proclaim (in an attempt to sell papers – make money – rule the world!).
Still relying on hearing as my only form of information, the machine crests the first hill and the scream of his machine becomes louder – but only for a second as it drops down the other side into the trough. (And to all you feminists who are as I write screaming – ‘how do you know it’s not a woman?’ – women can’t race bikes with any competence. Can’t explain it myself, they just can’t – think it’s something to do with testicles).
Moments pass as the scream becomes duller with the earth between us then rises again as the rider pilots his bucking, bronco machine up the second Goliath. (At this point the rider is feeling the G forces as he’s pushed down to the tank such is the rate of climb.)
The arrival at the top is announced with a louder howl from the bike as it’s closer and then fades slightly as it heads downwards on the second of the three hills.
I know what’s coming next and my heart starts to beat a little faster in anticipation of the event.
On the other side of the hill on which I excitedly wait, the rider is racing up full throttle, somewhere around 140mph, preparing for the ride of his life. His heart is beating faster too – as he adjusts himself in the seat to settle in the best lift-off position. Throttle at the stop, the machine races up the hill. The rider pulls himself forwards, still with his head down and as the crest fast approaches, he sticks it out over the clear screen normally used for slipstreaming. He’s sitting on the tank now, his helmet jutting over the screen as his steed hits the top. The road drops away as they launch off the top of the hill, rising first, higher and higher, the combination of momentum and trajectory sending the machine skywards.
Silence all of a sudden, as the engine quietens, and the bike coasts through the air. Reaching the vertical apex, the rider and steed, start to drop towards the asphalt. Head still over the screen, he pushes down on the clip-ons until his machine is pointing downwards, attempting to stay parallel with the dropping off road. If he flips – he’s dead, it’s really as simple as that. With just balls of the feet on the pegs, the rider balances the machine, coaxing it this way and that, keeping it under control, knowing if he hits the ground wrong, it’s all over as well.
The sound gets louder as I hear the bike screaming up the hill. Louder…louder…and then…it blasts into view, the scream of the engine rapidly dying down as the rider shuts the throttle off once he’s airborne. The machine sails over my head as I watch it fly through the air. I see the rider (pilot?) pushing his mount this way and that, to achieve the optimum position. That being level, moving towards slightly downwards as the hill drops away. I feel the rush of air as the improvised flying machine swoops past on its journey.
A perfect grounding follows with the rear wheel touching down first and the front shortly thereafter with a slight wobble as its geometry forces it into line.
Over the next minutes another thirty pilots follow, some in pairs as they fight to the front of the field. Some don’t make it crashing and burning to almost certain death (see earlier deeming).
Six laps of this follow and it’s not unusual that at least one rider meets his maker.
Such is the risk in Irish road-racing. The rollercoaster has since been shut down in the form of a chicane being added to the very top to slow the riders. Some still die.
It’s quiet where I stand, about halfway down a large, steeply angled ribbon of tarmac cutting its way across the countryside. In a field, behind a waist high barbed wire fence, the three strips of wire with twisted barbs interspersed along each length. No safety here. At speed, it’s like cheese wire, with the potential of ripping limbs clean off.
Birds tweet in the trees on this warm, sunny Ulster summer evening. No, it’s not raining; yes, we do have sunshine. A light breeze rustles the trees around me and I feel at peace. This is the feeling of summer. Warm, still, peaceful, with the sweet melodies from the many birds.
Suddenly, in the distance, comes the low drone of engines. They’re coming. Oh man, they’re coming. I mentally rub my hands. I had heard the roar of them as they each simultaneously shot off the start line in a cloud of smoke and fumes. Thirty or so of them, each determined to go faster than anyone else, willing to take risks that have since been deemed outright dangerous.
I enjoy the silence as the sound of the mad rush fades in the distance. I know where they’re going; out round the back of the circuit, through the ‘twisties’. Several miles of narrow country lane, where the machine under them leaps and bounces like an unbroken stallion, across the rough uneven Ulster road. This eventually leads them to The Rollercoaster, a name so apt and fitting that it has to be seen to be believed.
The first of these…enthusiasts starts the run – the run of death – some cheesy sensationalist type rags might proclaim (in an attempt to sell papers – make money – rule the world!).
Still relying on hearing as my only form of information, the machine crests the first hill and the scream of his machine becomes louder – but only for a second as it drops down the other side into the trough. (And to all you feminists who are as I write screaming – ‘how do you know it’s not a woman?’ – women can’t race bikes with any competence. Can’t explain it myself, they just can’t – think it’s something to do with testicles).
Moments pass as the scream becomes duller with the earth between us then rises again as the rider pilots his bucking, bronco machine up the second Goliath. (At this point the rider is feeling the G forces as he’s pushed down to the tank such is the rate of climb.)
The arrival at the top is announced with a louder howl from the bike as it’s closer and then fades slightly as it heads downwards on the second of the three hills.
I know what’s coming next and my heart starts to beat a little faster in anticipation of the event.
On the other side of the hill on which I excitedly wait, the rider is racing up full throttle, somewhere around 140mph, preparing for the ride of his life. His heart is beating faster too – as he adjusts himself in the seat to settle in the best lift-off position. Throttle at the stop, the machine races up the hill. The rider pulls himself forwards, still with his head down and as the crest fast approaches, he sticks it out over the clear screen normally used for slipstreaming. He’s sitting on the tank now, his helmet jutting over the screen as his steed hits the top. The road drops away as they launch off the top of the hill, rising first, higher and higher, the combination of momentum and trajectory sending the machine skywards.
Silence all of a sudden, as the engine quietens, and the bike coasts through the air. Reaching the vertical apex, the rider and steed, start to drop towards the asphalt. Head still over the screen, he pushes down on the clip-ons until his machine is pointing downwards, attempting to stay parallel with the dropping off road. If he flips – he’s dead, it’s really as simple as that. With just balls of the feet on the pegs, the rider balances the machine, coaxing it this way and that, keeping it under control, knowing if he hits the ground wrong, it’s all over as well.
The sound gets louder as I hear the bike screaming up the hill. Louder…louder…and then…it blasts into view, the scream of the engine rapidly dying down as the rider shuts the throttle off once he’s airborne. The machine sails over my head as I watch it fly through the air. I see the rider (pilot?) pushing his mount this way and that, to achieve the optimum position. That being level, moving towards slightly downwards as the hill drops away. I feel the rush of air as the improvised flying machine swoops past on its journey.
A perfect grounding follows with the rear wheel touching down first and the front shortly thereafter with a slight wobble as its geometry forces it into line.
Over the next minutes another thirty pilots follow, some in pairs as they fight to the front of the field. Some don’t make it crashing and burning to almost certain death (see earlier deeming).
Six laps of this follow and it’s not unusual that at least one rider meets his maker.
Such is the risk in Irish road-racing. The rollercoaster has since been shut down in the form of a chicane being added to the very top to slow the riders. Some still die.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
A losing battle?
On September 11th 2001, the United States was the victim of a series of coordinated attacks which resulted in the deaths of approximately 5000 persons. This atrocity while heinous, really shouldn’t have come as a surprise given America’s interference in foreign nations’ affairs. It was inevitable that an aggrieved nation would respond against such interference.
Consider this; if someone was to push their way into your home and start imposing their
opinions and lifestyles upon you, no-one would argue if you decided to use force to expel them.
This is the case with America and Iraq. Under the cloak of democracy the U.S. has invaded (they like to call it ‘liberated’) Iraq, and the natives, at least enough of them to make a difference, have taken the only recourse available to them. Collectively, there is a military force of approximately 350,000. The Iraqi army has been decimated by the invasion, leaving only a comparatively small band of defiance. How can they overtly stand against the might of a superpower? Simply, they can’t. So their only possible recourse is to attack and withdraw, covertly.
Coming from Northern Ireland, this author has first hand experience of the effects of terrorism. It had started before I was born, and it was still happening when I left for Australia. For thirty years the U.K. has been struggling with it–so far, and millions of pounds, and thousands of deaths has been the cost. Disturbingly, the weapons used for this murderous rampage were funded predominately (but not exclusively—ironically, the Middle East was a supplier also) by Republican sympathizers in the U.S. There is now a widely applauded peace, but I use that term lightly, for while the terrorists are getting their way, things are fine; once they don’t–well, let’s just say–they haven’t surrendered ALL their weapons.
There is a (now famous) quote from George ‘dubya’, proclaiming a ‘war on terror’, following the attacks — with an invasion thereafter. It’s interesting that, in their desperation to have a connection with Ireland no matter how tenuous, America was willing to fund the weapons and explosives that killed innocents and destroyed property, yet when the violence reaches her doorstep, a ‘war’ is declared.
This kind of terrorism is, frighteningly, impossible to defeat. A man (or woman, or child) willing to strap on a device and detonate it, is unstoppable. Put a soldier on every street corner, saturate the area with officers, employ a strict curfew; these extreme measures might work, if you can identify and catch all with ‘tendencies’ before they go to ground. But at what cost? The personal freedom of the people would certainly suffer.
One must understand; Iraq is a country about 10,000 years old. In fact, some scientists claim it (that general area) is the origin of human life. The indigenous people have been existing for that long, and tribal wars are as much a part of their lives as general injustice is to western society. They have a rich and cultured history and the longevity of their existence is clear evidence of a successful civilization.
Then along comes a mere foetus of a nation in comparison, attempting to impose its ways. This may just be a coincidence. One could argue that regardless of the age difference, someone should step in and put a stop to acts of murder, no matter where it occurs. Well, that is a valid point, one that has many supporters, but invasion almost never works and the cost in human life of such far outweighs the cost of the reason for invasion
The US might be better served, as a viable economy, if it was to withdraw. The financial burden of a prolonged campaign (already enormous), would spiral as the war continued and the economy would show signs of the strain. Moreover, the associated emotional toll from the death of sons and daughters, almost daily, will have, and has had a wearing effect on the general populus.
But saying that, to withdraw would cause problems of its own. America’s global standing would be damaged. To acquiesce to terrorists would leave an indelible stain on the image of the nation. A stain, quite frankly, which could never be erased; to be recorded forever in history
Then you have the feeling of abandonment felt by the Iraqis – again. In ’91 they withdrew (once they secured the oilfields, some would say), leaving the Iraqis to whatever fate befell them.
So, the mighty US has manoeuvred itself into an impossible position; one from which it can’t extricate itself without price, whichever path it chooses.
As children, my generation had never heard of Saddam Hussein. Then in ’91, he burst into global limelight; a short war followed, America crowed victorious, and they all went home, the oilfields secure. Saddam slipped once again, into anonymity. His being, whether I or you like it or not, had no discernable effect on my being, but, and I say this with the utmost gravity, we all of us will feel the effects of the US led invasion.
This may seem like anti-American diatribe. I assure you it’s not. But it was a mistake to invade Iraq–one that will have far reaching ramifications. The Allies involved in this are going to find themselves in a no-win situation. It’s a very real possibility that they could find themselves still there 20 or 30 years from now, still fighting against the sons and daughters of the men and women they now fight.
Consider this; if someone was to push their way into your home and start imposing their
opinions and lifestyles upon you, no-one would argue if you decided to use force to expel them.
This is the case with America and Iraq. Under the cloak of democracy the U.S. has invaded (they like to call it ‘liberated’) Iraq, and the natives, at least enough of them to make a difference, have taken the only recourse available to them. Collectively, there is a military force of approximately 350,000. The Iraqi army has been decimated by the invasion, leaving only a comparatively small band of defiance. How can they overtly stand against the might of a superpower? Simply, they can’t. So their only possible recourse is to attack and withdraw, covertly.
Coming from Northern Ireland, this author has first hand experience of the effects of terrorism. It had started before I was born, and it was still happening when I left for Australia. For thirty years the U.K. has been struggling with it–so far, and millions of pounds, and thousands of deaths has been the cost. Disturbingly, the weapons used for this murderous rampage were funded predominately (but not exclusively—ironically, the Middle East was a supplier also) by Republican sympathizers in the U.S. There is now a widely applauded peace, but I use that term lightly, for while the terrorists are getting their way, things are fine; once they don’t–well, let’s just say–they haven’t surrendered ALL their weapons.
There is a (now famous) quote from George ‘dubya’, proclaiming a ‘war on terror’, following the attacks — with an invasion thereafter. It’s interesting that, in their desperation to have a connection with Ireland no matter how tenuous, America was willing to fund the weapons and explosives that killed innocents and destroyed property, yet when the violence reaches her doorstep, a ‘war’ is declared.
This kind of terrorism is, frighteningly, impossible to defeat. A man (or woman, or child) willing to strap on a device and detonate it, is unstoppable. Put a soldier on every street corner, saturate the area with officers, employ a strict curfew; these extreme measures might work, if you can identify and catch all with ‘tendencies’ before they go to ground. But at what cost? The personal freedom of the people would certainly suffer.
One must understand; Iraq is a country about 10,000 years old. In fact, some scientists claim it (that general area) is the origin of human life. The indigenous people have been existing for that long, and tribal wars are as much a part of their lives as general injustice is to western society. They have a rich and cultured history and the longevity of their existence is clear evidence of a successful civilization.
Then along comes a mere foetus of a nation in comparison, attempting to impose its ways. This may just be a coincidence. One could argue that regardless of the age difference, someone should step in and put a stop to acts of murder, no matter where it occurs. Well, that is a valid point, one that has many supporters, but invasion almost never works and the cost in human life of such far outweighs the cost of the reason for invasion
The US might be better served, as a viable economy, if it was to withdraw. The financial burden of a prolonged campaign (already enormous), would spiral as the war continued and the economy would show signs of the strain. Moreover, the associated emotional toll from the death of sons and daughters, almost daily, will have, and has had a wearing effect on the general populus.
But saying that, to withdraw would cause problems of its own. America’s global standing would be damaged. To acquiesce to terrorists would leave an indelible stain on the image of the nation. A stain, quite frankly, which could never be erased; to be recorded forever in history
Then you have the feeling of abandonment felt by the Iraqis – again. In ’91 they withdrew (once they secured the oilfields, some would say), leaving the Iraqis to whatever fate befell them.
So, the mighty US has manoeuvred itself into an impossible position; one from which it can’t extricate itself without price, whichever path it chooses.
As children, my generation had never heard of Saddam Hussein. Then in ’91, he burst into global limelight; a short war followed, America crowed victorious, and they all went home, the oilfields secure. Saddam slipped once again, into anonymity. His being, whether I or you like it or not, had no discernable effect on my being, but, and I say this with the utmost gravity, we all of us will feel the effects of the US led invasion.
This may seem like anti-American diatribe. I assure you it’s not. But it was a mistake to invade Iraq–one that will have far reaching ramifications. The Allies involved in this are going to find themselves in a no-win situation. It’s a very real possibility that they could find themselves still there 20 or 30 years from now, still fighting against the sons and daughters of the men and women they now fight.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Um
Todays um, lesson, readers, concerns the um, rapidly developing occurrence of um, dead-air fillers in um, everyday speech.
This emerging predeliction is disturbing as it illustrates sloth of mind with an equally dumb sounding 'doh!' type utterance.
While listening to talkback radio, I sometimes count the 'ams' during interviews and general talkback. The record is an amazing 47 in a 1 minute, 30 secs period. About every fifth word.
Has society become so lazy that we no longer care if we sound like grunting apes, or a society of Homers? (The cartoon idiot - not the poet).
I recently read a friend's son's English homework and although it was demonstrably understood, there were fifteen errors, in spelling and grammar (I can just hear the 'cool kids' guffawing in derision).
If this is, as I suspect, a slide, and not a one-off then what future intelligible speech. Is the world going to communicate via electronics and cease conversation? An entire language created around 'ums and ams'? Like a binary language?
This emerging predeliction is disturbing as it illustrates sloth of mind with an equally dumb sounding 'doh!' type utterance.
While listening to talkback radio, I sometimes count the 'ams' during interviews and general talkback. The record is an amazing 47 in a 1 minute, 30 secs period. About every fifth word.
Has society become so lazy that we no longer care if we sound like grunting apes, or a society of Homers? (The cartoon idiot - not the poet).
I recently read a friend's son's English homework and although it was demonstrably understood, there were fifteen errors, in spelling and grammar (I can just hear the 'cool kids' guffawing in derision).
If this is, as I suspect, a slide, and not a one-off then what future intelligible speech. Is the world going to communicate via electronics and cease conversation? An entire language created around 'ums and ams'? Like a binary language?
Monday, August 28, 2006
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Cartoons
How many of us were brought up on a diet of Tom and Jerry, and Wile Coyote? I was, and thoroughly enjoyed them as they stumbled their way through the toon taking hits that would fell buildings. And oh how I laughed. And judging by the moralistic animations (they aren't cartoons - it's not a cartoon unless someone has an anvil dropped on their head) that our kids are fed (brainwashed?) these days, I truly lament their passing.
They say they are a bad influence on kids; that kids will copy what they see. Well, I've watched a million cartoons and not once have I tried to hit someone in the face with a frying pan. Been close a few times though! :)
God, I hated that mouse! Poor Tom.
They say they are a bad influence on kids; that kids will copy what they see. Well, I've watched a million cartoons and not once have I tried to hit someone in the face with a frying pan. Been close a few times though! :)
God, I hated that mouse! Poor Tom.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Stem cell
Tony Abbott, the Health Minister makes a fair point; that being that we can't allow the risk of scientists creating 'life to order' (my term, not his but essentially, that's his point). This would be all well and good were it not for Mr Abbots motivation behind such a speech. His rabid catholicism is what drives this opinion, much like it did in the abortion drug RU 486, (or something like that term - don't quote me) issue.
He has repeatedly failed to show impartiallity in such matters and then has the audacity to cite ethics in his speech? Scandalous behaviour and Mr Abbott should be removed from this particular portfolio forthwith!
He has repeatedly failed to show impartiallity in such matters and then has the audacity to cite ethics in his speech? Scandalous behaviour and Mr Abbott should be removed from this particular portfolio forthwith!
Smoking tragic?
A picture was printed in a national paper of a celebrity smoking. The latter word of the two in title was used in reference.
It's almost as if the anti-smoking lobby, bereft of constructive ideas to combat the rate of new users, have resorted to infantile playground insults.
In fact, smoking isn't tragic; it actually is pretty cool. The effects of smoking tobacco aren't always what one would want (whilst remembering the incontrovertible fact that death or serious illness is NOT guaranteed), but the act of smoking a cigarette is one of...aloof, thoughtful, passing the time, indulgence.
It's a pastime that's hard to explain to a non-smoker; a time, on occasion, where the individual reflects on a subject while enjoying the inhalation.
Consider the Marlboro Man. Love him or hate him (and what he stood for), he looked...well, that could be debated for hours, but it under no circumstances, was nerdy, tragic or UN-cool.
Note to Anti-smoking Lobby: Lying to the public, no matter how easily-manipulated and explioted they may be is just impeding your intended progress.
On one occasion, the threat of blindness was employed in an obviously desperate attempt to dissuade people from smoking (or the taking up thereof). To my surprise, this ploy was largely ignored by said public. The general opinion was that - 'y'might as well tell me my head's gonna drop off'. Such an obviously outrageous claim it was.
The celebrity who motivated this piece was also holding a glass of white (less than half full, so the celebrity may well have been on her way to getting tanked). Howcome the dangers of 'the demom drink' are never vilified? Alcohol has killed at least as many over the years. More to the point, it's ruin of lives, extends well beyond the instigator of the offence.
It's almost as if the anti-smoking lobby, bereft of constructive ideas to combat the rate of new users, have resorted to infantile playground insults.
In fact, smoking isn't tragic; it actually is pretty cool. The effects of smoking tobacco aren't always what one would want (whilst remembering the incontrovertible fact that death or serious illness is NOT guaranteed), but the act of smoking a cigarette is one of...aloof, thoughtful, passing the time, indulgence.
It's a pastime that's hard to explain to a non-smoker; a time, on occasion, where the individual reflects on a subject while enjoying the inhalation.
Consider the Marlboro Man. Love him or hate him (and what he stood for), he looked...well, that could be debated for hours, but it under no circumstances, was nerdy, tragic or UN-cool.
Note to Anti-smoking Lobby: Lying to the public, no matter how easily-manipulated and explioted they may be is just impeding your intended progress.
On one occasion, the threat of blindness was employed in an obviously desperate attempt to dissuade people from smoking (or the taking up thereof). To my surprise, this ploy was largely ignored by said public. The general opinion was that - 'y'might as well tell me my head's gonna drop off'. Such an obviously outrageous claim it was.
The celebrity who motivated this piece was also holding a glass of white (less than half full, so the celebrity may well have been on her way to getting tanked). Howcome the dangers of 'the demom drink' are never vilified? Alcohol has killed at least as many over the years. More to the point, it's ruin of lives, extends well beyond the instigator of the offence.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Modern vehicles
Has anyone noticed how cars are being built with the assumption that it's inevitable they're going to be crashed? Airbags front, back, middle, above, below, around, beside... We'll soon be calling them aircars. Why don't we just completely surround them with a great big bag?
Although here's a thought... what about, oh, I dunno, maybe - TEACH MORONS HOW TO BLOODY DRIVE!!!
Although here's a thought... what about, oh, I dunno, maybe - TEACH MORONS HOW TO BLOODY DRIVE!!!
Wheel clamps
So the authorities in their money grabbing wisdom have decided to attach wheelclamps to vehicles whose owners owe outstanding fines? Fine, you do that. I, in my innovative wisdom, have a grinder. How much does a wheelclamp cost? Coupla hundred? A grinder wheel costs about ten bucks. As they say in America - you do the math. Grinder -1, wheelclamps -nil. Heh-heh
Road death
Howcome every time some bonehead gets run over by a car, it's the driver on whom the attention is focussed?
Where you going to fast/too slow, not paying attention, had you been drinking, under the influence of drugs? And so on and so on.
The pedestrian, short of him/her actually throwing themselves in an obvious suicide attempt, in front of a vehicle, is never blamed.
How does society stop this lemming-like carnage? Well! I have the answer. It's a bit out of left field and may be considered by some as simplistic but I'll put it out there and see. Okay...ready...here it is - Pedestrians - STAY OFF THE BLOODY ROAD!! I don't drive on the footpath, you stay of the road. If ever there was a single purpose structure, it's a road. it doesn't double up as a playground or a carpark (unless of course you're talking about the M4 at rush hour). Still not a play area, though. It's for one thing and one thing only - traffic.
When I was a boy (God, I sound like my granda), at Primary School, I, and the rest of the school, were taught a thing called 'The Green Cross Code'. In this code there is a line which states, and I quote (roughly - it was a lonnng time ago after all)- 'when it's safe to cross, do so, looking and listening all the time'. Meaning exactly that; keep looking. Vehicles have a habit of just appearing from seemingly nowhere. Out of side streets, from parking spaces, wherever. Now, how many times have we seen people look each way (surprisingly, not always each way) and then step out onto the road willy-nilly as if that one brief look acts as some sort of magic talisman protecting them from all evil?
Is it any wonder they get cleaned up? Bloody pedestrians - think they have a God-given right to cross whenever the hell they like. And the Pedestrian council? Those tossers who whine on and on about 'the roads there to share'. What the hell's THAT all about? If there's a semi-trailer bearing down on me, I'm sharing nothing - the road's ALL HIS. Pedestrian council indeed; a bit like the underwear wearing brigade. Time for the Big Stick methinks.
That's all folks! And hey! Be careful out there!
Where you going to fast/too slow, not paying attention, had you been drinking, under the influence of drugs? And so on and so on.
The pedestrian, short of him/her actually throwing themselves in an obvious suicide attempt, in front of a vehicle, is never blamed.
How does society stop this lemming-like carnage? Well! I have the answer. It's a bit out of left field and may be considered by some as simplistic but I'll put it out there and see. Okay...ready...here it is - Pedestrians - STAY OFF THE BLOODY ROAD!! I don't drive on the footpath, you stay of the road. If ever there was a single purpose structure, it's a road. it doesn't double up as a playground or a carpark (unless of course you're talking about the M4 at rush hour). Still not a play area, though. It's for one thing and one thing only - traffic.
When I was a boy (God, I sound like my granda), at Primary School, I, and the rest of the school, were taught a thing called 'The Green Cross Code'. In this code there is a line which states, and I quote (roughly - it was a lonnng time ago after all)- 'when it's safe to cross, do so, looking and listening all the time'. Meaning exactly that; keep looking. Vehicles have a habit of just appearing from seemingly nowhere. Out of side streets, from parking spaces, wherever. Now, how many times have we seen people look each way (surprisingly, not always each way) and then step out onto the road willy-nilly as if that one brief look acts as some sort of magic talisman protecting them from all evil?
Is it any wonder they get cleaned up? Bloody pedestrians - think they have a God-given right to cross whenever the hell they like. And the Pedestrian council? Those tossers who whine on and on about 'the roads there to share'. What the hell's THAT all about? If there's a semi-trailer bearing down on me, I'm sharing nothing - the road's ALL HIS. Pedestrian council indeed; a bit like the underwear wearing brigade. Time for the Big Stick methinks.
That's all folks! And hey! Be careful out there!
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Euthanasia
After waiting for some time, I finally watched a particular film recently. It starred and was directed by a famous 'Hollywood' actor, the legendary Clint Eastwood. The reason why I waited was because this actor/director's films sometimes are hit and miss affairs. His westerns are legendary, as are his cop films. And many more. But sometimes, in my opinion, there are films he's made that are (again, in my opinion), mediocre. This film, I thought was one such film.
I couldn't have been more wrong. In this world of manufactured...rubbish! (is the best description), films, especially American ones (no offence to the Yanks) are a compendium of big explosions, stunts, dopey one-liners et al. Films with soul, that have an effect on you, are few and far between. This is one of those rarities. The film of which I speak is 'Million Dollar Baby'. When I first heard of it when it was released, it was touted as an award-winner (which it was), but nevertheless it was about boxing.
Mention of boxing immediately conjured up an image of Sly Stallone getting the shit beat out of him for fourteen rounds, then making a superhuman comeback in the last round to claim victory amongst much celebration and patriotism (Rocky 4 at least). The Rocky series actually are very entertaining, if one doesn't take them too seriously. (You just have to see Eddie Murphy's "RAW" live concert to see the way he gives it to Italians, after they've seen a Rocky film - priceless stuff). Funny, but that's for another post. There's nothing funny about this one.
Back to the film in question. To precis: girl boxes, girl gets hurt, the end. Doesn't tell you much, I know, but I don't want to spoil it for those of you who haven't seen it. For those people, go out and rent/buy it immediately - I guarantee you won't be disappointed.
The effect it had on this author was...tremendous. It was so not what I expected and frankly, blew me away. It is an extremely moving piece of acting and a glimpse of this author's own personal nightmare (one he hopes he NEVER has to suffer).
And so, to the main point and title of this post - euthanasia.
A very emotive subject indeed and it divides nations with the majority being on the side of keeping it illegal. Human life, they say, should be maintained at all costs, no matter what. Christians and the religious claim it to be only God's right to take it away. That it's sacrosanct. That it's above all else; that regardless of whatever else may be sacrificed, human life must be protected.
Well, that's all well and good in most circumstances but consider this. Take a moment and really consider this.
A man driving home to his wife one evening is involved in a car crash. His neck is broken, but he doesn't die; instead he's paralysed from the neck down. Doctors tell him while he lies there unable to move anything, that this is it - he'll never recover. He'll be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. This once proud, active, family man, who used to carry his boy on his shoulders, now can't even turn his head to look at him. What kind of life does he now have? Living in a wheelchair with the only movement by blowing into a tube. A perpetual spectator. Never again a competitor. If he wants to slip his mortal coil, then why shouldn't he? Who am I to tell him he can't?
In the bed next to him, a woman is dying of cancer; her body screams with the intense pain the disease brings. All day every day, she begs to be released from this, her own personal hell. The doctors administer the most powerful pain-killing drugs in their arsenal - it doesn't help, still she suffers. Again she begs for release. In moments of lucidity, which are few and far between because of the cocktail of drugs given to her, she wonders why these people, who claim to love her, won't set her free from the torture. She lies there 24/7 with only her tortured mind to go round and round.
While she suffers, the world goes on. They talk about compassion and empathy; care and love; laws and right/wrong. Not once do they talk about how she feels. Not once is her opinion considered, instead dismissed with condecension. 'Aw, she doesn't know what she's saying - she's delirious'. Of course at times she's friggin delirious - with pain. But in a part of her mind, she knows exactly how things are. And she doesn't want to endure it anymore. This woman, who is slowly dying under the most extreme and intense pain as her insides are eaten away becomes something over whom the politicians quabble. The lawlords cite reasons why they can't allow it; they prolong her agony while they eat lunch at fancy restaurants. They debate it over chardonnay like it's a school competition, each trying to outdo the other with their knowledge (alleged) of morality and ethics. Meanwhile, the woman suffers on, dying to die.
Her family moan and bleat - 'what about me, she's my mother/sister/daughter. What am I going to do? I'll be heartbroken. How can I live without her. It's too hard'. And on and on they whine about me, me, me. While their relative suffers in agony and begs and pleads again and again to be put out of her misery.
You selfish...#@*>*#@, the lot of ye. When? Tell me when this became about you. Are you seriously suggesting that you perpetuate someone's private hell, just because you'll feel...mournful or sad? That they should endure the most extreme suffering just so you can avoid having to make a decision that might leave you upset?
I'm having difficulty putting this into words. I can hardly believe it. These...these...invertabrates, that are so weak, and so selfish, that they'd rather see someone suffer than release them, just to cater for their own self-indulgent feelings make me SICK!! I'm almost speechless. Gonna have to stop now.
I can only hope and pray to whomever's listening, that if ever I'm in that insufferable position, someone who loves me, really loves me, and doesn't just throw the word about like a teenage popstar, will stand up and be counted.
Me? I'm more than willing to do time over it. If someone I love is in such desperate pain and suffering and, with a clear mind (I'll know, believe me, I'll know) asks for release, then as God Almighty is my judge, I'll not let them down.
There are worse things than death!
I couldn't have been more wrong. In this world of manufactured...rubbish! (is the best description), films, especially American ones (no offence to the Yanks) are a compendium of big explosions, stunts, dopey one-liners et al. Films with soul, that have an effect on you, are few and far between. This is one of those rarities. The film of which I speak is 'Million Dollar Baby'. When I first heard of it when it was released, it was touted as an award-winner (which it was), but nevertheless it was about boxing.
Mention of boxing immediately conjured up an image of Sly Stallone getting the shit beat out of him for fourteen rounds, then making a superhuman comeback in the last round to claim victory amongst much celebration and patriotism (Rocky 4 at least). The Rocky series actually are very entertaining, if one doesn't take them too seriously. (You just have to see Eddie Murphy's "RAW" live concert to see the way he gives it to Italians, after they've seen a Rocky film - priceless stuff). Funny, but that's for another post. There's nothing funny about this one.
Back to the film in question. To precis: girl boxes, girl gets hurt, the end. Doesn't tell you much, I know, but I don't want to spoil it for those of you who haven't seen it. For those people, go out and rent/buy it immediately - I guarantee you won't be disappointed.
The effect it had on this author was...tremendous. It was so not what I expected and frankly, blew me away. It is an extremely moving piece of acting and a glimpse of this author's own personal nightmare (one he hopes he NEVER has to suffer).
And so, to the main point and title of this post - euthanasia.
A very emotive subject indeed and it divides nations with the majority being on the side of keeping it illegal. Human life, they say, should be maintained at all costs, no matter what. Christians and the religious claim it to be only God's right to take it away. That it's sacrosanct. That it's above all else; that regardless of whatever else may be sacrificed, human life must be protected.
Well, that's all well and good in most circumstances but consider this. Take a moment and really consider this.
A man driving home to his wife one evening is involved in a car crash. His neck is broken, but he doesn't die; instead he's paralysed from the neck down. Doctors tell him while he lies there unable to move anything, that this is it - he'll never recover. He'll be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. This once proud, active, family man, who used to carry his boy on his shoulders, now can't even turn his head to look at him. What kind of life does he now have? Living in a wheelchair with the only movement by blowing into a tube. A perpetual spectator. Never again a competitor. If he wants to slip his mortal coil, then why shouldn't he? Who am I to tell him he can't?
In the bed next to him, a woman is dying of cancer; her body screams with the intense pain the disease brings. All day every day, she begs to be released from this, her own personal hell. The doctors administer the most powerful pain-killing drugs in their arsenal - it doesn't help, still she suffers. Again she begs for release. In moments of lucidity, which are few and far between because of the cocktail of drugs given to her, she wonders why these people, who claim to love her, won't set her free from the torture. She lies there 24/7 with only her tortured mind to go round and round.
While she suffers, the world goes on. They talk about compassion and empathy; care and love; laws and right/wrong. Not once do they talk about how she feels. Not once is her opinion considered, instead dismissed with condecension. 'Aw, she doesn't know what she's saying - she's delirious'. Of course at times she's friggin delirious - with pain. But in a part of her mind, she knows exactly how things are. And she doesn't want to endure it anymore. This woman, who is slowly dying under the most extreme and intense pain as her insides are eaten away becomes something over whom the politicians quabble. The lawlords cite reasons why they can't allow it; they prolong her agony while they eat lunch at fancy restaurants. They debate it over chardonnay like it's a school competition, each trying to outdo the other with their knowledge (alleged) of morality and ethics. Meanwhile, the woman suffers on, dying to die.
Her family moan and bleat - 'what about me, she's my mother/sister/daughter. What am I going to do? I'll be heartbroken. How can I live without her. It's too hard'. And on and on they whine about me, me, me. While their relative suffers in agony and begs and pleads again and again to be put out of her misery.
You selfish...#@*>*#@, the lot of ye. When? Tell me when this became about you. Are you seriously suggesting that you perpetuate someone's private hell, just because you'll feel...mournful or sad? That they should endure the most extreme suffering just so you can avoid having to make a decision that might leave you upset?
I'm having difficulty putting this into words. I can hardly believe it. These...these...invertabrates, that are so weak, and so selfish, that they'd rather see someone suffer than release them, just to cater for their own self-indulgent feelings make me SICK!! I'm almost speechless. Gonna have to stop now.
I can only hope and pray to whomever's listening, that if ever I'm in that insufferable position, someone who loves me, really loves me, and doesn't just throw the word about like a teenage popstar, will stand up and be counted.
Me? I'm more than willing to do time over it. If someone I love is in such desperate pain and suffering and, with a clear mind (I'll know, believe me, I'll know) asks for release, then as God Almighty is my judge, I'll not let them down.
There are worse things than death!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Joey Johns
I'd like to discuss Andrew (Joey) Johns and his outburst during a recent Rugby League match (and that's League, not football. League, Union, Aussie rules, Gridiron, Lord help me! and football - so called because the feet are the primary method of moving the ball. It's not hard. Not complicated. Football. No such thing as bloody 'soccer'. Soccer - what the hell does that mean? Tch!). But that's a whole other post; stay tuned for that!
For my international visitors, let me briefly explain who he his. In a word - the Messiah of international League, virtually, if the adoration of the Australian League supporters is anything to go by. For me, he seems like a rather decent chap and is touted as arguably the best League player there is, period.
Okay, got that, good. I'll continue:
In a recent game of said league, he was so annoyed at a bad call made by a linesman, that he called him a - and I quote - effin' cee. Remember, this is a verbatim report - these are his words, not mine. I'm merely a non-partisan reporter and this is an analysis of events - in no way for shock value. If you can't or don't want to accept this then...go away and play with your dollies, frankly, and let the adults talk. In the name of accuracy, the offending words (and entire reason for this post, and Johns tribunal) have been recorded.
Opinion on the matter has been wide and varied; one side maintains that, as a public figure, with the associated influence he has on young people, he should be more aware of what he says. The other side, argues that the punishment (4 match ban) is way to extreme and that he's being singled out because he's a high profile player.
Let me just say this; If you as a parent can't teach (yeah, teach. Stop making it everyone elses job) your child the difference between appropriate and inappropriate language at any given time, then you've failed. As my dear old mother used to say - 'if he stuck his hand in the fire, would you do it too?' And it's a fair point. When I was a youngster, football stars swore all the time, actually, they spat a lot too. That's illegal now isn't it? - didn't make me want to copy them. Sure, I wanted to be like them as far as their skills were concerned, but I knew and was taught by my parents that the cursing wasn't to what I should aspire.
Another thing; this is top competition rugby. In which tempers get frayed, players get hurt and things get said. They are tough men, slamming their bodies into one another in a desperate attempt to be victorious. Words uttered in 'the heat of battle' mean nothing, and how many times have we seen brawls involving 4,5,6 or more players? It's a way of venting to a certain degree and widely accepted by all involved, officials included. This isn't lawn bowls or table tennis; these games are promoted as titanic struggles between two powerhouse teams and as such, moments of...questionable language should be expected. Moreover, the language wasn't even actually heard - it was lip-read. Talk about a storm in a teacup!
Bottom line, it was only two swearwords. SETTLE DOWN PEOPLE, IT'S ONLY A WORD.
If I was he, and held in such high esteem, and after 13 years at the top of his game I'd tell then to stop being so ridiculous and get stuffed. He's close to retirement anyway.
This is the bloody namby-pamby's again. Ooh! We've got to protect our kids from such bad influence. If your kid is so easily led that he or she will imitate everything they see, then that's your fault - no-one elses. Kids have influences from all quarters; a parents job is to filter them and steer the kid the right direction. Not kick up so much fuss that the offender gets charged. What do you suggest - that we eradicate all cursing. 'S not gonna happen, I tell ye. Cursewords are as much a part of the language as anythin else. Get over it, teach your kids that sometimes people swear and STOP YOUR BLOODY WHINING!
These games are so intense with the players so determined to succeed that when a bad call unfairly halts your efforts in their tracks, the frustration is almost palpaple. The people most complaining about this don't understand the pressure at times in top-class, physical sport. When, as a player, you're giving it all to cross that line (think any sports drink ad), a call (right or wrong) can push you over the edge. A bit of foul language is to be expected. Has anyone even asked the linesmans opinion on the matter. I'll wager he couldn't care less.
Anyway, it's all nonsense. Everyone take a step back and wind your necks in! Oh, update; turns out, I've just seen on TV, his charge was downgraded. Two weeks instead of four. Whoopy-bloody-doo! The pro-Joey crowd must've made much noise.
He still got reprimanded though. Naughty Joey; bad Joey; go stand in the corner until you learn the error of your ways. Heh-heh
For my international visitors, let me briefly explain who he his. In a word - the Messiah of international League, virtually, if the adoration of the Australian League supporters is anything to go by. For me, he seems like a rather decent chap and is touted as arguably the best League player there is, period.
Okay, got that, good. I'll continue:
In a recent game of said league, he was so annoyed at a bad call made by a linesman, that he called him a - and I quote - effin' cee. Remember, this is a verbatim report - these are his words, not mine. I'm merely a non-partisan reporter and this is an analysis of events - in no way for shock value. If you can't or don't want to accept this then...go away and play with your dollies, frankly, and let the adults talk. In the name of accuracy, the offending words (and entire reason for this post, and Johns tribunal) have been recorded.
Opinion on the matter has been wide and varied; one side maintains that, as a public figure, with the associated influence he has on young people, he should be more aware of what he says. The other side, argues that the punishment (4 match ban) is way to extreme and that he's being singled out because he's a high profile player.
Let me just say this; If you as a parent can't teach (yeah, teach. Stop making it everyone elses job) your child the difference between appropriate and inappropriate language at any given time, then you've failed. As my dear old mother used to say - 'if he stuck his hand in the fire, would you do it too?' And it's a fair point. When I was a youngster, football stars swore all the time, actually, they spat a lot too. That's illegal now isn't it? - didn't make me want to copy them. Sure, I wanted to be like them as far as their skills were concerned, but I knew and was taught by my parents that the cursing wasn't to what I should aspire.
Another thing; this is top competition rugby. In which tempers get frayed, players get hurt and things get said. They are tough men, slamming their bodies into one another in a desperate attempt to be victorious. Words uttered in 'the heat of battle' mean nothing, and how many times have we seen brawls involving 4,5,6 or more players? It's a way of venting to a certain degree and widely accepted by all involved, officials included. This isn't lawn bowls or table tennis; these games are promoted as titanic struggles between two powerhouse teams and as such, moments of...questionable language should be expected. Moreover, the language wasn't even actually heard - it was lip-read. Talk about a storm in a teacup!
Bottom line, it was only two swearwords. SETTLE DOWN PEOPLE, IT'S ONLY A WORD.
If I was he, and held in such high esteem, and after 13 years at the top of his game I'd tell then to stop being so ridiculous and get stuffed. He's close to retirement anyway.
This is the bloody namby-pamby's again. Ooh! We've got to protect our kids from such bad influence. If your kid is so easily led that he or she will imitate everything they see, then that's your fault - no-one elses. Kids have influences from all quarters; a parents job is to filter them and steer the kid the right direction. Not kick up so much fuss that the offender gets charged. What do you suggest - that we eradicate all cursing. 'S not gonna happen, I tell ye. Cursewords are as much a part of the language as anythin else. Get over it, teach your kids that sometimes people swear and STOP YOUR BLOODY WHINING!
These games are so intense with the players so determined to succeed that when a bad call unfairly halts your efforts in their tracks, the frustration is almost palpaple. The people most complaining about this don't understand the pressure at times in top-class, physical sport. When, as a player, you're giving it all to cross that line (think any sports drink ad), a call (right or wrong) can push you over the edge. A bit of foul language is to be expected. Has anyone even asked the linesmans opinion on the matter. I'll wager he couldn't care less.
Anyway, it's all nonsense. Everyone take a step back and wind your necks in! Oh, update; turns out, I've just seen on TV, his charge was downgraded. Two weeks instead of four. Whoopy-bloody-doo! The pro-Joey crowd must've made much noise.
He still got reprimanded though. Naughty Joey; bad Joey; go stand in the corner until you learn the error of your ways. Heh-heh
The Big Stick
I would like, at this point in the blog's life, to introduce - parpety-parpety-parp (those are trumpets, btw), THE BIG STICK .
The Big Stick is my own personal arbiter of justice (as I like to call it). Father of medium-sized stick and grandfather to the little stick. Which, t'be honest, isn't actually a stick - more of a whip - with chains - and furry handcuffs, and I particularly like using this stick when -(censored; getting a bit off the point, aren't we? Ed.)
Ahem! Where was I? Oh right, the Big Stick. Well, as I was saying - Big Stick, arbiter, justice - y'get the message.
I hope you get to know and love the Big Stick as I do. Embrace the Big Stick. The Big Stick's our friend. Only the Big Stick can set you free!! (you finished? Ed.)
The Big Stick is my own personal arbiter of justice (as I like to call it). Father of medium-sized stick and grandfather to the little stick. Which, t'be honest, isn't actually a stick - more of a whip - with chains - and furry handcuffs, and I particularly like using this stick when -(censored; getting a bit off the point, aren't we? Ed.)
Ahem! Where was I? Oh right, the Big Stick. Well, as I was saying - Big Stick, arbiter, justice - y'get the message.
I hope you get to know and love the Big Stick as I do. Embrace the Big Stick. The Big Stick's our friend. Only the Big Stick can set you free!! (you finished? Ed.)
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Spare the rod; spoil the child
As the title suggests, this entry concerns the discipline of children, and I know it's not just me who feels stunned at the way kids nowadays seem to get away with almost murder.
If I can start with a line that, as a small child, used to pull me into line. 'Do y'wanna feel the back 'o' my hand?' This line, when voiced, was a warning for me to stop whatever it was I was doing. Whether it was actually carrying on like a wee hooligan or just being cheeky or disrespectful, those words pulled me up quick smart. And if they didn't, the firm crack to the side of my head certainly did.
According to the PC and bleeding hearts, this must inevitably turn me into a violent boy. It didn't. What it did do, was to teach me to respect my elders - a respect almost unheard of in this day and age.
What the snivelling rights campaigners fail to understand is that before the age of understanding, the threat of a whallop is often the only thing stopping a child from doing something stupid. Something that may cause the child harm. Many times when young the only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that said crack would follow.
I didn't understand why; just knew that it would come.
We're not talking about ritual abuse here, Of course that's inappropriate. No, we're talking about a parent's love for their child. And the experience to know when it's required. A smack or slap to the rear end is completely harmless and it no more leads to a violent child than slapping a dog with a rolled-up newspaper turns it into a vicious animal.
I'm reminded of a time when I was about 4 or 5 years old. I was in the local high street with my parents when I saw something in a shop that I decide I wanted. Remember I'm only 4 or 5 so it was probably something shiny and sparkly. In the typical way of a whiney 5 year old, I pointed at it and proclaimed my desire. My mother said no. I said I wanted it; she said no. And on it went, So I did what any brat would do in the same circumstance and sat on the pavement and wailed my head off.
Now, the aforementioned snivel right crowd would advise the parent to 'speak firmly and calmly' to me, explaining in detail why I couldn't have the object. I'm 5 years old - it means nothing to me when told I don't need the item - all I know is I want it, and if throwing a tantrum means I'll get it, then that's exactly what I'm gonna do. Big mistake - huge! So I'm going off my head in the middle of the street with people watching the show. How embarrassing must that have been for my poor mother. So what did she do? At the end of her tether with my antics she lifted me off the ground by one arm and beat the shit out of my arse. If I thought I was wailing before, that was nothing to how I now did so.
I learnt a very valuable lesson that day; one that I've carried with me throughout my life. That is that sometimes one just can't have what one wants and kicking and screaming isn't gonna help.
And apparently, according to the bleeding hearts, I now am a violent man because all I learned from the experience was that violence gets you what you want. Well, I've never started a fight in my entire life; nor do I beat children.
There's a direct correlation between the decrease in physical punishment and the increase of disrespect from the young. I bloody hate the young now - especially teenagers, with their white baseball caps (the wearing of which, proves beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the wearer's an arsehole)and their short haircuts and their 'tracky daks'. If you ask me, they all need a good hiding to beat some sense into them. Wee shits!
If I can start with a line that, as a small child, used to pull me into line. 'Do y'wanna feel the back 'o' my hand?' This line, when voiced, was a warning for me to stop whatever it was I was doing. Whether it was actually carrying on like a wee hooligan or just being cheeky or disrespectful, those words pulled me up quick smart. And if they didn't, the firm crack to the side of my head certainly did.
According to the PC and bleeding hearts, this must inevitably turn me into a violent boy. It didn't. What it did do, was to teach me to respect my elders - a respect almost unheard of in this day and age.
What the snivelling rights campaigners fail to understand is that before the age of understanding, the threat of a whallop is often the only thing stopping a child from doing something stupid. Something that may cause the child harm. Many times when young the only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that said crack would follow.
I didn't understand why; just knew that it would come.
We're not talking about ritual abuse here, Of course that's inappropriate. No, we're talking about a parent's love for their child. And the experience to know when it's required. A smack or slap to the rear end is completely harmless and it no more leads to a violent child than slapping a dog with a rolled-up newspaper turns it into a vicious animal.
I'm reminded of a time when I was about 4 or 5 years old. I was in the local high street with my parents when I saw something in a shop that I decide I wanted. Remember I'm only 4 or 5 so it was probably something shiny and sparkly. In the typical way of a whiney 5 year old, I pointed at it and proclaimed my desire. My mother said no. I said I wanted it; she said no. And on it went, So I did what any brat would do in the same circumstance and sat on the pavement and wailed my head off.
Now, the aforementioned snivel right crowd would advise the parent to 'speak firmly and calmly' to me, explaining in detail why I couldn't have the object. I'm 5 years old - it means nothing to me when told I don't need the item - all I know is I want it, and if throwing a tantrum means I'll get it, then that's exactly what I'm gonna do. Big mistake - huge! So I'm going off my head in the middle of the street with people watching the show. How embarrassing must that have been for my poor mother. So what did she do? At the end of her tether with my antics she lifted me off the ground by one arm and beat the shit out of my arse. If I thought I was wailing before, that was nothing to how I now did so.
I learnt a very valuable lesson that day; one that I've carried with me throughout my life. That is that sometimes one just can't have what one wants and kicking and screaming isn't gonna help.
And apparently, according to the bleeding hearts, I now am a violent man because all I learned from the experience was that violence gets you what you want. Well, I've never started a fight in my entire life; nor do I beat children.
There's a direct correlation between the decrease in physical punishment and the increase of disrespect from the young. I bloody hate the young now - especially teenagers, with their white baseball caps (the wearing of which, proves beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the wearer's an arsehole)and their short haircuts and their 'tracky daks'. If you ask me, they all need a good hiding to beat some sense into them. Wee shits!
Monday, August 14, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Spitting
Here's another snippet I've just come across. Fairfield council have now erected signs warning people if they're caught spitting on the street, they will face a fine.
Council enforcement officers will now be patrolling handing out the fines to anyone seen engaging in such a practice. (How they prove ownership of a given 'lugey' could be interesting - hands and knees with a cotton bud perhaps, to be produced in a court. 'This is the offending spit, your Honour, and it belongs to this man).
Is it such an enormous problem? I suppose if every single person on the street, ever, was to start spitting all over the place, it might be. But are they? Might this not just be (despite the councils protestations to the contrary) another form of bolstering the councils commonly-known stretched coffers? In fact, in the same paper, there is a report on how the said councils are spending bucketloads of ratepayers money sending representatives to a high-class hotel in the Blue Mountains. The subject of which, hilariously, is council finances.
So if spitting is now to be outlawed, what's next - breaking wind. Will the same officers patrol areas with smell detecting devices; where they follow individuals around like dogs sniffing each others' arses? How about belching, picking noses, adjusting ones tackle overtly? The list of humans' personal foiblles goes on and on. Hey, there's a business opportunity - rooms for hire where one can spit, pick, fart etc in private. (Don't fancy the cleaner's job much, though!
In the report, a councillor asks - what is wrong with the good old hankerchief? Well, if as many as is claimed to justify such an arbitrary law, are spitting willy-nilly, then, in this age of easily spread (and evermore immune to antibiotics) diseases, would the practice of all these people carrying infected rags in their pockets not introduce problems of its own?
A bacteria-soaked rag in a warm pocket is only going to culture more bacteria. It's where they thrive.
So what to do? Spit down a drain, I suppose, although with societies seeking a way of recycling water, that may also be a no-no. And fart downwind of any rangers.
Council enforcement officers will now be patrolling handing out the fines to anyone seen engaging in such a practice. (How they prove ownership of a given 'lugey' could be interesting - hands and knees with a cotton bud perhaps, to be produced in a court. 'This is the offending spit, your Honour, and it belongs to this man).
Is it such an enormous problem? I suppose if every single person on the street, ever, was to start spitting all over the place, it might be. But are they? Might this not just be (despite the councils protestations to the contrary) another form of bolstering the councils commonly-known stretched coffers? In fact, in the same paper, there is a report on how the said councils are spending bucketloads of ratepayers money sending representatives to a high-class hotel in the Blue Mountains. The subject of which, hilariously, is council finances.
So if spitting is now to be outlawed, what's next - breaking wind. Will the same officers patrol areas with smell detecting devices; where they follow individuals around like dogs sniffing each others' arses? How about belching, picking noses, adjusting ones tackle overtly? The list of humans' personal foiblles goes on and on. Hey, there's a business opportunity - rooms for hire where one can spit, pick, fart etc in private. (Don't fancy the cleaner's job much, though!
In the report, a councillor asks - what is wrong with the good old hankerchief? Well, if as many as is claimed to justify such an arbitrary law, are spitting willy-nilly, then, in this age of easily spread (and evermore immune to antibiotics) diseases, would the practice of all these people carrying infected rags in their pockets not introduce problems of its own?
A bacteria-soaked rag in a warm pocket is only going to culture more bacteria. It's where they thrive.
So what to do? Spit down a drain, I suppose, although with societies seeking a way of recycling water, that may also be a no-no. And fart downwind of any rangers.
Obesity v's tobacco
14th August 06
Before I start, I'd like to preface this with the admission that, for those who are extremely overweight by cause of a genetic disorder or some other such cause beyond their control, I couldn't have more sympathy but for the lard-arses who spend their days lounging on the sofa stuffing cakes and buns into them, I have none.
Read on:
I read in today's newpaper that hospitals have now joined the list of those who are banning 'cakes and pies' and other such 'unhealthy' foods from their menus.
It seems that the obesity epidemic (for that's how it appears to have become) is getting out of control. It's true, that there do seem to be a lot of extraordinarily fat people around nowdays. And it raises an interesting point - which is - have we really become so lazy that we will, without protest, allow ourselves to 'balloon' to (in many cases) twice our original size?
The ease with which fast-food can be obtained, without even having to exit our vehicle and -walk, God forbid, to order our food, is a typical example of how we no longer have to exert ourselves at all.
Actually, an amusing memory has just been sparked. Recently, while at one of the above mentioned drive-ins, I found myself waiting behind another customer while she recieved her meal. The attendant passed an enormous tray of burgers and fries to the car's driver before handing her the (equally large amount) of drinks.
Now this woman was huge; the sort of huge that requires one to lean back and turn one's entire body to reach out and grab the item. You've seen them around, in their cars. Y'know, the ones who, when having to look over their shoulder to, confirm the road is clear to proceed, have to twist their entire body, with the vehicles suspension rocking under the strain. Their necks being so 'lard-locked', that the basic normal free movement is restricted to a great degree.
This is the sort of woman we're talking about here; and here's the funny part. After recieving enough food to feed a small family, she sent the drinks back after discovering they weren't 'diet' drinks. Sort of - 'oh, I'm sorry, could I have the non-fat drink please? There's too ,much sugar in those - have to watch my weight'.
Never mind the half-dozen burger and fries meals you're going to shove down, lady, just make sure the drinks are of the diet variety. Laugh, I very nearly choked on my smoke; which brings me nicely onto my next point - tobacco.
In the US, (home of the fattest people on Earth) obesity is now officially a bigger killer than the much maligned tobacco. So my question is this - when are we going to see the same images plastered all over tobacco packaging, in a desperate effort to reduce smoking among the general population, on burger wrappers. Pictures of clogged arteries, warnings that obesity can cause 'serious health issues'. Fair's fair, if obesity is a bigger killer, then let's see the pictures. Show people the result of living on junk food.
Imagine the uproar! Banners proclaiming 'fatties are people too', and 'don't discriminate against the overweight!'. Hundreds of obese (and there would be at least that many, believe me) choking the streets, like a herd of elephants (no offence to the tusked ones, cause they're elephants too) chanting and generally causing a nuisance the way such protestors do.
It would seem that the hassled smokers of the world have become public enemy No 1. From every direction, they are being told to quit; being treated like modern lepers, forced to smoke away from society like some disease carriers. As they say in the good ole US of A, enough already, or at the very least, level the field.
Before I start, I'd like to preface this with the admission that, for those who are extremely overweight by cause of a genetic disorder or some other such cause beyond their control, I couldn't have more sympathy but for the lard-arses who spend their days lounging on the sofa stuffing cakes and buns into them, I have none.
Read on:
I read in today's newpaper that hospitals have now joined the list of those who are banning 'cakes and pies' and other such 'unhealthy' foods from their menus.
It seems that the obesity epidemic (for that's how it appears to have become) is getting out of control. It's true, that there do seem to be a lot of extraordinarily fat people around nowdays. And it raises an interesting point - which is - have we really become so lazy that we will, without protest, allow ourselves to 'balloon' to (in many cases) twice our original size?
The ease with which fast-food can be obtained, without even having to exit our vehicle and -walk, God forbid, to order our food, is a typical example of how we no longer have to exert ourselves at all.
Actually, an amusing memory has just been sparked. Recently, while at one of the above mentioned drive-ins, I found myself waiting behind another customer while she recieved her meal. The attendant passed an enormous tray of burgers and fries to the car's driver before handing her the (equally large amount) of drinks.
Now this woman was huge; the sort of huge that requires one to lean back and turn one's entire body to reach out and grab the item. You've seen them around, in their cars. Y'know, the ones who, when having to look over their shoulder to, confirm the road is clear to proceed, have to twist their entire body, with the vehicles suspension rocking under the strain. Their necks being so 'lard-locked', that the basic normal free movement is restricted to a great degree.
This is the sort of woman we're talking about here; and here's the funny part. After recieving enough food to feed a small family, she sent the drinks back after discovering they weren't 'diet' drinks. Sort of - 'oh, I'm sorry, could I have the non-fat drink please? There's too ,much sugar in those - have to watch my weight'.
Never mind the half-dozen burger and fries meals you're going to shove down, lady, just make sure the drinks are of the diet variety. Laugh, I very nearly choked on my smoke; which brings me nicely onto my next point - tobacco.
In the US, (home of the fattest people on Earth) obesity is now officially a bigger killer than the much maligned tobacco. So my question is this - when are we going to see the same images plastered all over tobacco packaging, in a desperate effort to reduce smoking among the general population, on burger wrappers. Pictures of clogged arteries, warnings that obesity can cause 'serious health issues'. Fair's fair, if obesity is a bigger killer, then let's see the pictures. Show people the result of living on junk food.
Imagine the uproar! Banners proclaiming 'fatties are people too', and 'don't discriminate against the overweight!'. Hundreds of obese (and there would be at least that many, believe me) choking the streets, like a herd of elephants (no offence to the tusked ones, cause they're elephants too
It would seem that the hassled smokers of the world have become public enemy No 1. From every direction, they are being told to quit; being treated like modern lepers, forced to smoke away from society like some disease carriers. As they say in the good ole US of A, enough already, or at the very least, level the field.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
