He started this up as an antidote to the sickening web sites and facebook pages praising Raoul Moat - a man on whom my views have already been expressed.
You can find it here or in my blogroll.
Unforgiven
He started this up as an antidote to the sickening web sites and facebook pages praising Raoul Moat - a man on whom my views have already been expressed.
You can find it here or in my blogroll.
Paki bashing
Those of us that grew up in the sixties will remember that Paki bashing was a national pastime in those days. Then we got used to seeing them everywhere and them having a shop on every corner, so we accepted them as part of the national landscape.
Nothing wrong with that. The vast majority are law abiding, hard working citizens - so it's a good thing that the bigotry has gone.
Also, the Pakistanis in this country are a damn sight safer than they would be in their country of origin. It should be remembered that until recently, Pakistan was a military dictatorship which is about as far from a democracy as it is possibe to get! And old habits die hard...
Pakistan nominally allys itself with the United States in the global war on terror. However, terrorism is rife in the country mainly due to reactions to General Zia ul-Haq's controversial "Islamization" policies and his involvement in the Soviet-Afghan War, which led to greater influx of ideologically driven Afghan Arabs in the tribal areas and the explosion of kalashnikov and drugs culture. The state and the CIA encouraged the "mujahideen" to fight the proxy war against the Soviet Union, most of these groups were never disarmed after the war and were later encouraged by the Taliban to achieve the state's agenda in Kashmir and Afghanistan. The same groups are now taking on the state itself.
Between 2007 and 2009, more than 5,500 people were killed in terrorist attacks on civilians. These are attributed to a number of sources: sectarian violence - mainly between Sunni and Shia Muslims, the easy availability of guns and explosives of a "kalishnikov culture" and influx of ideologically driven "Afghan Arabs" based in or near Pakistan, Islamist insurgent groups and forces such as the Taliban and Lashkar-e-Taiba, and secessionists movements blamed on regionalism problematic in a country with Pakistan's diverse cultures, languages, traditions and customs.
So Pakistan has a double problem. It needs to be seen to support the US in its war in Afghanistan, and at the same time is being terrorised at home by sectarian and separatist terrorists. But on the other hand, it has been manouevred by the Taliban to support actions in disputed areas such as Kashmir. So at the same time it is trying to both fight and support the Taliban.
This would seem to make David Cameron's remarks about them trying to look both ways highly pertinent...
Mi evolución es Hemingway, Welles u Ortega. Prohibir no es progresar
Ayer miércoles, desde Barcelona, en lo que uno creía que era un país libre, a cientos de miles de españoles nos maniataron, nos insultaron, nos escupieron y nos vejaron.
Nos han privado de la libertad, el mayor privilegio que puede tener un ser humano y por el que lucharon durante siglos nuestros antepasados.
La libertad, se dice pronto.
Disfrazados de falso animalismo, con toques de aliño de repulsa a todo lo que huela a España, ayer nos señalaron como asesinos. Precisamente aquellos que se dicen progresistas y que en nombre de una evolución que yo no entiendo y ellos no son capaces de argumentar nos devolvieron a la Edad Media para decirnos ¡¡NO, TÚ NO, NO PUEDES HACER ESO!!
Eso sí, con el engaño por delante. Porque los antis no se pueden tachar de animalistas cuando sin embargo permiten los correbous y el toro embolado, actividades que carecen del respeto de las propias corridas y que hacen sufrir aún más al animal. Y mientras hay que tragarse a un tal Puigcercós diciendo que no se trata de política, eso sí, salvaguardando tus rastreros votos de la baja Tarragona, o a un tal Montilla que desde que preside la región que le da cobijo es incapaz de demostrar su ya demostrado amor a la fiesta.
Este es el resultado del país de mojigatos e ignorantes en el que nos hemos convertido. Un país en el que sólo prima lo políticamente correcto para conseguir votos, un país en el que la conciencia es más importante para prohibir una fiesta milenaria que para decidir sobre el aborto de un nonato. Un país en el que hasta los partidos nacionales se lavan las manos, en los que ni siquiera los propios protagonistas de la fiesta han sabido moverse, en la que triunfa una iniciativa ridícula y vengativa respaldada por sólo 180.000 firmas.
Y mientras tendremos que aguantar que nos prohiban, que nos llamen asesinos, sadistas y demás aquellos que se comen día sí y otro también animales nacidos, criados y matados de manera mucho más cruel que al que nosotros amamos. Su evolución y progresismo es prohibir, la nuestra tiene nombres tan propios como Ernst Hemingway, Orson Welles u Ortega y Gasset.
Ha triunfado la segregación, la venganza, la patochada y la mentira. Habeis herido de muerte al toro. Hipócritas.
Aún así, larga vida a la fiesta de los toros.
Un Saludo
Extinction watch
Pictured on the left trying to blend into a crowd of Homo Sapiens, the Brownus LieBorii, or the Lesser Spotted Brown Snotgobbler to give it it's more common name, is thought to be the last of it's kind.
The last Snotgobbler in captivity, named 'Gordon', escaped recently from its cage in Downing Street and is believed to be lying low somewhere in Scotland.
It is easily identified by its strange smile and its mating call of "Bigot! Bigot!" If anyone knows where it is, please don't call us.
Nobody works in the Civil Service
I have worked extensily in government departments over the years. It has definitely been an experience.
Take for example the man I sat next to in the Hydrographic Office who never said a word while the boss was in the office and then talked endlessly until the boss walked back in.
Or the man at the Property Services Agency who got me to do all the work and then put his mate's name on the paperwork.
There have been many other examples, but for the piece de resistance, I have to nominate the Rural Payments Agency. Here's why :
(1) There was an ex-contractor there I had worked with on another job. He was on a 12 month fixed term contract as a business analyst at £40,000 a year. He openly admitted to me that he had about enough work for two hours a week if he strung it out. He was counting the days until his contract ran out. I saw him on a bus six months later. He told me he had signed on for another 12 months because it was "easy money and just too good a deal to turn down".
(2) At the far end of the office was a manager who hardly ever seemed to be there. I asked my boss why. He told me that the guy had no work to do so he used to make up business trips for three days a week and come in for a few hours on the other two days "in between meetings".
(3) As contractors, we do all the work so the staff do as little possible. Because of this, I was doing the work of seven people who did nothing while I did it all. Their manager said to me one day "I don't like you and I don't want you here." "Never mind, " I replied. "You're a big girl and you'll get over it. And just think of all the credit you can take for my work after I've gone!" She thought about that and then left smiling.
"Yes", I replied, "but what is it that you do?"
"I told you. I'm a civil servant. I've been a civil servant for thirty odd years."
I couldn't get past the barrier, so the next day I asked my boss what the bloke did. He told me that he did nothing, but he only had a few years to go until he retired and it was cheaper to let him sit there and pay him than it was to retire him early!
I can honestly tell you that from my vantage point in the corner of a huge open plan office, if you got rid of half the staff there would have been no appreciable difference.
My wife is an ex-civil servant. She is horrified at how things are these days. They certainly weren't like that when she was there....
Deserto
Está calor, mas que se há-de fazer? Como uma crise ou qualquer outra maleita que assola de um momento para o outro toda uma região ou país, esta fogo que não cai do céu, desce antes levemente, correndo através de fenómenos de convecção, ataca-nos por golpes de condução, deixando-nos KO, desgastados, ou simplesmente nós próprios. Podemos fugir e podemos esconder-nos, mas esse fogo é tão forte que chega a todo o lado.
Há, no entanto, quem goste do quentinho, e, como quem agradece a Deus uma chuva divina, peregrinam até ao altar de bronze da actualidade. Tostadinhos e tostadinhas dos dois lados, e todo o mundo é feliz. E beleza por todo o lado, como nesta televisão desligada que em vez de lixo transmite o vazio. Tudo é perfeito quando não há nada. E não há nada para além das esplanadas, das peregrinações, das ondas de pessoas. E como cobras saem do seu refúgio à noite para regularem a temperatura e todo o mundo num cântico só agradece ao mundo estabelecido.
É neste período de calor intenso, equilíbrios térmicos mal posicionados e águas sujas de areia, óleos e outros lixos, que as formigas param, deixam de trabalhar, enquanto outras formigas, no solo e à superfície, trabalham. Este deserto de formigas que somos irrita-me por vezes, mas funciona de uma forma aparentemente tão perfeita que ignoro quem sou, e, como tal, ignoro se é a verdade o que eu digo, ou se apenas palavras que me saem da boca, como aviões que saem dos aeroportos rumo a paraísos vários. Álcool, música, barulhos naturais, tudo isso misturado num cocktail preparado para a catarse do ano inteiro. Isto é viver: acumular desconfortos, para, num momento de maior liberdade soltar, num guincho de alívio e prazer, tudo aquilo que somos, mas sem querer, reprimimos.
Compreendo perfeitamente que não disse nada. Mas é o que me é possível dizer neste deserto de ideias.
READ MORE » Deserto
Há, no entanto, quem goste do quentinho, e, como quem agradece a Deus uma chuva divina, peregrinam até ao altar de bronze da actualidade. Tostadinhos e tostadinhas dos dois lados, e todo o mundo é feliz. E beleza por todo o lado, como nesta televisão desligada que em vez de lixo transmite o vazio. Tudo é perfeito quando não há nada. E não há nada para além das esplanadas, das peregrinações, das ondas de pessoas. E como cobras saem do seu refúgio à noite para regularem a temperatura e todo o mundo num cântico só agradece ao mundo estabelecido.
É neste período de calor intenso, equilíbrios térmicos mal posicionados e águas sujas de areia, óleos e outros lixos, que as formigas param, deixam de trabalhar, enquanto outras formigas, no solo e à superfície, trabalham. Este deserto de formigas que somos irrita-me por vezes, mas funciona de uma forma aparentemente tão perfeita que ignoro quem sou, e, como tal, ignoro se é a verdade o que eu digo, ou se apenas palavras que me saem da boca, como aviões que saem dos aeroportos rumo a paraísos vários. Álcool, música, barulhos naturais, tudo isso misturado num cocktail preparado para a catarse do ano inteiro. Isto é viver: acumular desconfortos, para, num momento de maior liberdade soltar, num guincho de alívio e prazer, tudo aquilo que somos, mas sem querer, reprimimos.
Compreendo perfeitamente que não disse nada. Mas é o que me é possível dizer neste deserto de ideias.
War - a fresh perspective
First, Nick Clegg stands up in his first Prime Minister's Questions and describes the Iraq War as 'illegal'. Oh dear. Sharp intakes of breath from the Tories behind him who voted for the war.
It should, however, be remembered that the Lib Dems have always regarded the war as illegal. It should also be remembered that just because someone voted for the war, that didn't make it legal. Show me the dodgy dossier and persuade me that Blair has integrity (difficult in my case), and I might have voted for it. But that still doesn't make it legal - so I reckon fair enough, Cleggy.
Then Call-me-Dave pops across the water to liaise with the great black hope. Unfortunately, he then pisses off the yanks by describing Britain's presence in Iraq as a 'supporting role'. True, but not very palatable. It's America's war, they're fucking it up and we seem to be covering all the difficult stuff. Truth hurts!
But just to show that he's not biased, Dave then pisses off his own veterans by saying that Britain played a junior role in World War II. Well, Dave, that's bollocks because if the Japs hadn't bombed Pearl Harbour we'd still be waiting for the yanks to arrive - just like in the first war.
So, all in all, I reckon that's 2-1 on the war front. Not a great result, but a result nevertheless...
Porque é que Passos Coelho é melhor que Sócrates?
Compreendo que não se vejam diferenças entre eles. Mas elas existem e não vale a pena ignorá-las.
Desde que me recordo, o PS critica a direita por defender as privatizações. O PS e a restante esquerda criticam, particularmente o PSD, como aliás está a suceder agora, em relação à revisão constitucional. Não vou falar da restante esquerda, que eu acredito fingir fechar os olhos, mas a hipocrisia de José Sócrates que ora entrega hospitais a privados, condenando-os à política do lucro fácil, ora critica alterações na Constituição, que afinal de contas já existem, caso contrário expliquem-me as taxas moderadoras e o aumento do preço dos livros. Isto não é ser tendencialmente gratuito.
Quanto às privatizações recordo-me que a grande massa delas foram feitas pelo PS, sempre pelo PS. Assim como as parcerias público-privadas, que são desastrosas políticas.
Expliquem-me então, qual é o crime de Passos Coelho em querer algo, que afinal de contas, o governo de Sócrates e o de Guterres já implementaram anteriormente? Não o defendo, mas pelo menos tem a dignidade de dizer exactamente o que quer, em vez de se fazer de esquerda, quando se torna claro que é de direita, ou algo ainda pior, algo de desastroso.
Passos Coelho é melhor que Sócrates porque quem vota nele está à espera da postura que ele apresenta. Já quem vota em Sócrates pensa que está a comprar cavalo, mas leva pior que burro.
Common sense and justice
In Afghanistan, a Gurkha soldier, under heavy machine gun fire, beheaded a DEAD taliban so that he could take the head back to base for identification against the most wanted list.
For this act of selflessness under fire, he has been suspended from duty, sent back to the UK and awaits court martial. Apparently, if found guilty, he could be imprisoned.
Here's the question I want answered : Since when has it been illegal in this country for a foreign national to behead a dead person overseas?
Apparently, the problem is that the Afghans consider it bad form to dismember a dead body. They like all the bits to be buried together. Perhaps we should remind the Taliban of this custom after their IED bombs have scattered bits of our soldiers all over the landscape or when they decide to behead our soldiers.
There's a simple answer to this problem. Stick the head back on the rotting body, slap the man's wrist and say don't do it again...
...and then give him a medal for bravery under fire!
MIinnemann Blues Band live@ Feira do Livro de Arcos de Valdevez
Wolfram Minnemann é, ao que parece, o mentor desta banda. Uma banda matura em idade e aparentemente em experiência. O estilo que praticam não está na minha área de especialidade, até porque não tenho uma, mas se tivesse, não seriam com certeza os Blues. Como tal não tenho termos de comparação.
De qualquer das formas, é de salientar, para além da enorme presença em palco, apesar de este ser quase minúsculo, a grande voz e teclados claro de Minnemann, à primeira audição próxima da voz de Louis Armstrong, o magnífico saxofone de Rui Azul, a magnífica guitarra de Mãos de Ferro, a potente bateria de Rui Cenoura, e o baixo discreto, mas não menos espectacular, de Manuzé, sempre acompanhados com uma enorme dose de boa disposição e de um bem doseado sentido de humor.
Nestas condições não poderia acontecer outra coisa que não a elevada adesão do público, praticamente inexistente noutros dias. Minnemann Blues Band (tem ligação), uma banda a ter em conta. Pelo menos, e principalmente, para quem não tem outras referências dentro deste universo.
Lançaram álbum há pouco tempo e estarão nos próximos tempos no Porto, em Faro, Caminho, Moledo e Matosinhos.
leituras 4 - O Senhor Ventura - Miguel Torga
Para além de prodigioso poeta e de grande homem Miguel Torga também é um incrível romancista. Apesar de poucas obras, romances, os que escreveu, valem o suficiente para o provar.
O Senhor Ventura é uma obra sobre um homem que desde sempre fora insubmisso, desrespeitador da lei e tivera uma sede enorme por liberdade. Características que o levaram a ser enviado para Macau, visto não respeitar quaisquer horários na tropa. Este ex-pastor faz vida no oriente onde anda constantemente em busca de algo, que nunca chega a encontrar, envolvendo-se em muitas ilegalidades, participando em muitos crimes. Regressa um dia a Portugal, onde ironicamente ganha a paz (nunca manifestara ou sentira vontade de regressar) que nunca teve, mas não para sempre. A obra não acaba aqui, mas tentei-me reduzir ao mais elementar, apesar de ser um romance que não chega às 100 páginas.
Um romance curto, mas carregado de emoções. E bem ao estilo de Torga, carregado de Portugal, mesmo quando a acção está bem longe.
"Não me resigno à ideia de ter vindo à luz neste tempo e numa terra durante séculos inquieta de descobrir e saber, e depois tragicamente adormecida para tudo o que não seja olhar-se e resignar-se. Parece-me um castigo imerecido do destino e da história."
"Eles eram, na sua letra rude e na sua sinceridade rude, uma imagem viva da terra rude que os viu nascer."
"Contra todo o bom senso, era novamente o perigo e a liberdade que lhe apeteciam. Eram ondas desmedidas e pesadas, e terras sem sossego e sem carinho que o seu corpo desejava enfrentar."
"Os conselhos da amiga chinesa só prestavam para quem tivesse nascido no Celeste Império. Para gente da Ibéria, a calma, a prudência, e tudo quanto defende um homem das fervuras do sangue, eram palavras vãs."
O Senhor Ventura é uma obra sobre um homem que desde sempre fora insubmisso, desrespeitador da lei e tivera uma sede enorme por liberdade. Características que o levaram a ser enviado para Macau, visto não respeitar quaisquer horários na tropa. Este ex-pastor faz vida no oriente onde anda constantemente em busca de algo, que nunca chega a encontrar, envolvendo-se em muitas ilegalidades, participando em muitos crimes. Regressa um dia a Portugal, onde ironicamente ganha a paz (nunca manifestara ou sentira vontade de regressar) que nunca teve, mas não para sempre. A obra não acaba aqui, mas tentei-me reduzir ao mais elementar, apesar de ser um romance que não chega às 100 páginas.
Um romance curto, mas carregado de emoções. E bem ao estilo de Torga, carregado de Portugal, mesmo quando a acção está bem longe.
"Não me resigno à ideia de ter vindo à luz neste tempo e numa terra durante séculos inquieta de descobrir e saber, e depois tragicamente adormecida para tudo o que não seja olhar-se e resignar-se. Parece-me um castigo imerecido do destino e da história."
"Eles eram, na sua letra rude e na sua sinceridade rude, uma imagem viva da terra rude que os viu nascer."
"Contra todo o bom senso, era novamente o perigo e a liberdade que lhe apeteciam. Eram ondas desmedidas e pesadas, e terras sem sossego e sem carinho que o seu corpo desejava enfrentar."
"Os conselhos da amiga chinesa só prestavam para quem tivesse nascido no Celeste Império. Para gente da Ibéria, a calma, a prudência, e tudo quanto defende um homem das fervuras do sangue, eram palavras vãs."
Send Gordon a message...
You lucky people! You can now send your late lamented PM a message on his bright shiney new web site.
I tried to send him this one :
It was probably designed by Alistair Campbell...
READ MORE » Send Gordon a message...
I tried to send him this one :
Give it a try. You just got to http://www.gordonbrown.org.uk/contact_me , put in your greeting, and click on the "Send to Gordon" button.
You get this friendly response :
Segurança
Tenho pena de pensar assim. Por vezes apenas. Nem sei bem como penso, mas tenho dúvidas em relação a tudo. Por vezes questiono-me, serei eu inseguro? Pouco corajoso? Incapaz? Não, simplesmente incapaz de me dar a passos maiores que as pernas, nem tão pouco a passos maiores que os pés. Creio que estou simplesmente demasiado seguro para mudar o que quer que seja...
READ MORE » Segurança
Lookalikes
Has anyone noticed the remarkable resemblence between best selling author Terry Pratchett and Doctor Who's arch enemy, the Cyberman?
 |
| Cyberman Pratchett |
Apparently, Pratchett has slagged off Doctor Who for having "ludicrous" storylines and for not being "real science fiction."
This from the man who wrote a series of 37 books based on a flat world balanced on the back of four elephants, perched on the back of the giant turtle called Great A'Tuin.
Still, he managed to get an OBE for it, so I guess we're the cunts.
Perhaps they are related? I think we should be told...
Building Schools for the Future (BSF)
The teaching unions have been marching in London about the cancellation of the programme to rebuild deteriorating schools and to build new ones. Yet another NIMBY protest about cuts.
So as we are talking about cuts, let's cut right through the bullshit :
Exactly how many school building projects have been cancelled by the new government? Exactly how many refurbishment projects have been cancelled? Well, in both cases the answer is exactly NONE!
These projects have been POSTPONED - note POSTPONED not CANCELLED - until the money is available and the contracts have been examined to ensure that the contractors have not been ripping us off. When we have done this and the money is available, the projects will go ahead. Pardon me for being naive, but I always thought you could not spend money you do not have - something that our financial and economic genius Gordon Brown seemed unable to comprehend!
And while the teachers are holding their NIMBY protests in London, let's examine the morals of a few of them. Did you know, for example, that many women teachers - a friend of mine included - make a point of returning from maternity leave two weeks before the end of term so that they qualify to be paid during the school holidays?
Fucking hypocrites...
leituras 3 - o velho que lia romances de amor - Luis Sepúlveda
Mais do que um livro sobre romances de amor é uma obra de amor à floresta, mais concretamente à floresta tropical, a Amazónia, esse paraíso que está cada vez mais em vias de extinção.
"Quando havia uma passagem que lhe agradava especialmente, repetia-a muitas vezes, todas as que achasse necessárias para descobrir como a linguagem humana também podia ser bela."
"Antonio José Bolívar ocupava-se de as manter à distância, enquanto os colonos devastavam a floresta construindo a obra-prima do homem civilizado: o deserto."
"... e dos seus romances, que falavam do amor com palavras tão bonitas que às vezes lhe faziam esquecer a barbárie humana."
All to no (a) veil
A lot has been said recently about the niqab and the more severe version, the burqa - especially in the light of the recent ruling in France.
I read recently an empassioned blog about the freedom to dress how you like, and another about the freedom of religious expression. I support both these views, but not at the expense of safety and security.
Firstly, lets deal with the religious aspect. On the BBC breakfast programme on Sunday morning, they interviewed an Imam from a London mosque together with an Islamic woman who, although not a veil wearer herself, disagreed with his views. Surprisingly, the Imam was the one opposing the veil. He pointed out at great length that there is nothing in the Koran about the veil but rather it is a tribal or cultural custom. So as far as I can see, there goes the religious argument.
Secondly, let's look at the French law. The law does not mention the burqa. It makes it illegal for anyone to conceal their face in public. It therefore aplies to, for example, anyone wearing a scarfe over their face, a balaclava or a crash helmet. Let us remind ourselves that there is already a law about hoodies on our statute books.
Thirdly, if we reduce this to a cultural thing, then there is no place for it in our culture. If you come to our country, then you deal with our culture. You do not impose your own.
On this basis, I recommend that certain ill informed MPs would oppose a similar law to the French should think again.
The right to die
However, the issue has now again come to a head with the news that Tony Nicklinson, 56, wants his wife to be allowed to help him die without the risk of being prosecuted for murder.
Tony suffers from so called "locked in syndrome". This means that he can only communicate by blinking or nodding his head at letters on a board.
His lawyers say he is "fed up with life" and does not wish to spend the next 20 years in this condition.
He doesn't want his life prolonged on these terms. Would you? Sadly, his only option is to refuse food and starve himself to death. Not very pleasant - and who's to say that some do-gooder wouldn't go to court for an order to force feed him?
He wants to know if his wife will be prosecuted if she helps him end his life. It's a difficult situation and is there anyone out there who thinks that if his wife does help him, she will ever forgive herself. I feel for them both.
His lawyers argue that the current murder law infringes Mr Nicklinson's rights to respect for his private life under article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights. Regrettably, this bring into question once again who exactly is the highest court in this land. Let's not go there as, for once, this is not the most important question.
The most important question is, of course, whether this country will respect the right of its citizens over their own destinies. It is about time for this decision. If this man brings it about, then he will not have suffered for nothing. He has my total respect.
I sincerely hope that the legal eagles will see common sense in this case and let the man die legally and with dignity without persecuting his wife. She feels bad enough already...
leituras 2 - Contos Poe.liciais
Edgar Allan Poe é um dos escritores mais célebres da língua inglesa. Poeta que viveu no século XIX e morreu com 40 anos, ficou notório pelos seus poemas e contos, e também por ter inventado (assim se crê) o género policial.
Antes de Poirot ou Sherlock Holmes, já Dupin investigava e resolvia quebra-cabeças com distinção. Não de uma forma tão detalhada e narrada, num estilo mais preocupado com a explicação do raciocínio Poe lança as primeiras cartas, que marcarão a história da literatura.
É de realçar o conto O Mistério de Marie Rogêt que Poe escreveu a partir de uma história real. Este serviu-se unicamente dos jornais para escrever. O mais é incrível é o facto de que tempo depois de este escrever o conto, duas pessoas, uma das quais com correspondência na obra, envolvidas no caso confirmaram a conclusão geral e até mesmo os seus principais detalhes hipotéticos.
Os Crimes da Rua Morgue
"Sinto-me contente por o ter batido no seu próprio terreno. Não obstante, que não tenha podido deslindar este mistério, nada tem que cause espanto, e é mesmo menos singular do que ele julga, porque, na verdade, o nosso amigo perfeito é um pouco demasiado fino para ser profundo."
A Carta Roubada
"Contesto especialmente o raciocínio extraído do estudo das matemáticas. As matemáticas são a ciência das formas e das quantidades; o raciocínio não passa da simples lógica aplicada à forma e à quantidade. O grande erro consiste em supor que as verdades a que se chama puramente algébricas são verdades abstractas ou gerais.
O Mistério de Marie Rogêt
"A massa do povo considera como profundo só aquele que emite contradições picantes da ideia geral. Tanto em lógica como literatura, é o epigrama o género mais universal e imediatamente apreciado. Em ambos os casos é o género de mérito mais baixo."
Antes de Poirot ou Sherlock Holmes, já Dupin investigava e resolvia quebra-cabeças com distinção. Não de uma forma tão detalhada e narrada, num estilo mais preocupado com a explicação do raciocínio Poe lança as primeiras cartas, que marcarão a história da literatura.
É de realçar o conto O Mistério de Marie Rogêt que Poe escreveu a partir de uma história real. Este serviu-se unicamente dos jornais para escrever. O mais é incrível é o facto de que tempo depois de este escrever o conto, duas pessoas, uma das quais com correspondência na obra, envolvidas no caso confirmaram a conclusão geral e até mesmo os seus principais detalhes hipotéticos.
Os Crimes da Rua Morgue
"Sinto-me contente por o ter batido no seu próprio terreno. Não obstante, que não tenha podido deslindar este mistério, nada tem que cause espanto, e é mesmo menos singular do que ele julga, porque, na verdade, o nosso amigo perfeito é um pouco demasiado fino para ser profundo."
A Carta Roubada
"Contesto especialmente o raciocínio extraído do estudo das matemáticas. As matemáticas são a ciência das formas e das quantidades; o raciocínio não passa da simples lógica aplicada à forma e à quantidade. O grande erro consiste em supor que as verdades a que se chama puramente algébricas são verdades abstractas ou gerais.
O Mistério de Marie Rogêt
"A massa do povo considera como profundo só aquele que emite contradições picantes da ideia geral. Tanto em lógica como literatura, é o epigrama o género mais universal e imediatamente apreciado. Em ambos os casos é o género de mérito mais baixo."
Overseas Aid - again!
"What!", I hear you say. "The aid budget is ring fenced."
Well, apparently in true political style we can get around that by redefining things.
It seems the total is ring fenced, but we can 'reprioritise' the order in which we give out the aid, presumably drawing a line when the money runs out?
Now don't get me wrong. If the increase in aid to Afghanistan means that we get the country in order more quickly and our troops come home sooner, then that's fair enough.
What I don't go along with is the principal that we can now apparently cut stuff off the bottom of the list to make room for this, but if we weren't doing this, then they would have stayed on the list. This makes no sense.
Why don't we just look at what we can afford - which, let's face it is sod all - and then take the things off the list that can be taken off and use the money to provide essential services for our own people and to pay off our debts?
I suggest, Messrs. Cleggeron, that you read this and yesterday's posts....
Charities - again!
Apparently, council contributions to local charities such as community transport schemes account for as much as a third of their income.
And yet we continue to ring fence the foreign aid budget - putting people who live in other countries before our own citizens.
In a perfect world we could do all of this. But we do not live in a perfect world. We are in the shite...and, as they keep telling us, we are all in it together. Unless, of course, you live in a different country.
Some idiot the other day said we could cancel a couple of aircraft carriers and educate 4 million African primary school children for a year on the proceeds. But when we examine the statistics, we already apparently educate more overseas children in this group than our own.
Here's an idea for you, Cleggy. How about we redefine the aid budget which you insist on ring fencing to include funding for projects in this country as well - only let's put our own citizens at the top of the list.
After all, "charity begins at home"
My British Open
Which is better - To come as a girl, but treated like a whore, or come as a whore but treated like a woman?
As the fluffy pillows embraced my bare skin, I lay awake, staring up at the enchanting chandelier that looks like it originated from a fairytale.
This moment is nothing short of perfect.
"Give me a minute. I just need to check on the golf".
British Open - 1. Whore - 0. I can never win.
Almost guilty for the relapse, I am shamelessly enjoying myself, all sprawled across his plush bed. I know I had vowed to quit, but we had planned to meet since 2 months ago and only found the time to meet last Friday night. Plus, he's a really cute cockney (and I can really use the extra cash).
Now, let's call him 'Pattzy', after Robert Pattz (Pattinson) becos of his lean build and messy but too-cool-to-care hair. 20-something exec. from UK. Works with a bank. Far from repulsive, I'm sure he can have any girl in a club. Lurveeeeeee his super-lux condo apartment!!!
I can be gullible at times but I seriously believed that he worships my body. Then again, I am also delusional. He's the only 20-something guy I know that can appreciate a full-figured woman. I'm guessin that he misses his ex-gf who apparently was also plush, or he simply likes bigger girls.
As his hands slide all over my body, a thought washed over my head. Which is better - To come as a girl, but treated like a whore, or come as a whore but treated as a woman?
I wished the night would go on forever. So much so that Pattzy paid an hour for me but I told him that I'm making exceptions for him and will stay extra time. Obviously he loved me even more for it. We humped like psychotic hyper-active bunnies and he came thrice inside me (with protection of course!)
Oh and did I mention that its his first time engaging the services of an escort? On the couch, he confessed that he was nervous. Then he did the signature RPatz shy-side-smile and made the first move to lean in and kiss me, then stood up, grabbed my hands and led me to his room. I could feel his hands tremble. Awww...
There are a few reasons why it is extra special like never before with Pattzy:...
First round was the usual. I strip of his clothes, he strips me, I get on top of him, he gets lost in my boobs for 5 mins, then I move down south and send him off to paradise with my lips around his cock. (I'm getting a lil bored of this 'routine', need to shuffle this around a bit) As his stiff rod penetrates me deep, it made me arch and moan in ecstasy. Fuck - it felt so good.
Round 1: Pattzy on top. Front
I can't believe the boy was so easily shagged. After Round 1, he was already falling asleep. Can't blame him, he was at work since the break of dawn, finished late and had to entertain clients till late. I was lucky to be able to catch him at home before midnight.
I lay quietly beside him, as my eyes caressed his face with delicate, whispy lust. He's got that scruffy look which I am a sucker for. He's cheeks are rosy, probably from intoxication. He suddenly turned to snuggle and trapped me between sugar-coated reality and a false sense of intimacy.
A few minutes later he slurred from the serene silence.
"I'm so sorry, half of me wants you so bad, another half of me is falling asleep".
He held me tighter and I could feel his sleepy sandworm starting to stiffen again. *Ting ting ting!!!* Here comes round 2...
Before I knew it, he climbed on top of me and started kissing me almost violently. Eh? I thought he was falling asleep? I felt his tongue in my right ear... I've always thought it was gross to do that but this time it totally turned me on.
Then he turned to get me on my knees and fucked me from the back... and it feels like heaven. Not too long after, he came and collapsed on top of me. As he pants heavily but laying really still, I could feel his cock throbing in my garden of eden.
We both fell asleep for a while. No actually on he did. I merely pretended. I can never fall asleep on the job. We cuddled and he held me tightly in his arms. I was more worried about crushing his arms, and getting my makeup on his stark white pillow. Pattzy wrapped his legs around me and I felt like a fluffy, giant bolster. A very happy one.
That was when I quietly prayed that the moment would never end. Yet at the same time it reduced me to a degree of sadness, when I forced myself to remember the very reason I was there. That moment, was all that I have been praying for - a remedy for my weary heart that craves for someone to keep me warm, hold me tight and simply love me for the woman that I am. If only I could extract that moment and frame it up on the wall to remember it forever so that I will never ever feel alone again....
About half and hour later, that's when he sorta woke up again, went for a tinkle and then popped his head by the door to tell me he's got to check on the British Open and left me sprawled alone in bed. While he was away, my curiousity poked me to quietly snoop around his things. I didnt get far. Only managed to inspect his cute boxers that had cute graphic doggie prints. Then I checked my watch to realise that it was past 1am. *tick tock tick tock tick tock*
He wasnt gone for too long. I could hear the tv from the room. And when he switched it off, I curled my body away and pretended to sleep. Pattzy came in and hugged me from behind, kissed my cheeks and ran his finger through my hair. I pretended to wake up, gazed at him with sleep eyes...
"Do you usually sleep with the lights on?" I murmured.
"No. Do you want me to turn it off", and I simply nodded.
In the blinding darkness, he crept back into bed and held me tight from the back. In what other choice of words in my limited grammatical knowledge do I use to express the dire significance of this moment? Just that simple act of creeping into bed in the dark and holding me from behind - it completes me as a woman. I've dreamt of this every night. For my man to hold me from behind. I think they call it 'spooning'?
And as they also say, 'spooning leads to forking'. Thats the most natural thing that can happen (who the hell are 'they' anw? definitely seem to know a lot). I love it that I could feel his cock rubbing against my bare ass and I can feel his toes against mine. The wonderful science and magic of the human touch warms my heart and melts away every last bit of my bitter cold heart of stone. He had his hands around my waist but I purposely made them cup my breast. All these while being half asleep, every unconscious move like drifting in your dreams. His gentle hands squeezed my tender bossom while I enjoyed being carressed in the arms of the man I've only met a few hours ago. (Ok let's not spoil it yet)
As his royal hornyness reached boiling point, still in spooning position, I spread open my legs so that it goes over his legs and his hands moved down and reached forward to my stroke my already dripping wet pussy as I softly moan. Pattzy took it as a sign of approval and inserted two fingers that made my body jolt.
I reached behind for his cock and realised that it definitely was not asleep. As I stroked his cock, Pattzy then crawled on top of me and fucked my pussy hard. I whimpered and let out soft moans as he humped and I could hear his balls slapping against my pussy. He then turned me over and spanked my ass and damn it feels so good how he spanked me. Pattzy then entered me from behind but my ass wasnt even up so it was more like a flat doggy but it still felt fuckin awesome. He rested his body on top of me while humpin and pumpin till he came and then collapsed on my body to sleep while his drippin cock was still inside... which felt nice and almost romantic. Forgive my whacked sense of romantism.
When he's finally conjured enough energy to go clean up, he went to the bathroom and then came back to collapse beside me as we slept and snuggled some more. As his breathing gets heavier and was fast asleep, I slowly crept out of bed to look for my clothes. I found most of it, except for my panties which he had flung god-knows-where. After I got dressed, I inched close to him and kissed him goodbye but sorta woke him up instead. I told him I was going and we shared our last kiss before I made my way out of his apartment, half wishing that I could just sleep over.
I dragged my heavy eyes to the lobby and tip-toed with my clackers in hand. The condo estate looked spectacular against the moon-lit night and I dipped my toes in the pool just as a way to maybe say... I'll be back ;)I Spy
I suppose someone had to love him......
I thought the brown rose would be particulary appropriate as the new Labour logo
Pigs can't fly....
A company in America - where else? - has announced that it hopes to be selling a flying car by the end of 2011.
"It's the next 'wow' vehicle," said the company's vice president. "Anybody can buy a Ferrari, but as we say, Ferraris don't fly."
Now I don't know about you, but the thought of motorways in the sky fills me with fear and trepidation. I don't really fancy sitting in the back garden waiting for some spotty faced teenager to drop out of the sky on my head in his stolen flying Ferrari!
Apparently, the target market is private pilots who want to get round the inconvenience of having to use a car to get to the airport. You just drive up, unfold the wings and off you go! Magic - except that a purchase price of around $194,000 would pay for a hell of a lot of taxis.
And the dropping out of the sky problem? No problem at all! It comes with an optional full vehicle parachute - so provided the driver remembers to sound his horn on the way down, I should have time to duck out of the way just before it flattens my house...
VIVA ESPAÑA, VIVA EL FÚTBOL
El domingo por la noche, cerca ya de la medianoche, apenas uno se preocupaba en celebrar como si de cualquier otro éxito se tratara. Fueron varias horas de tensión, como las del choque de cuartos ante Paraguay, como las horas previas a la semifinal ante Alemania o como todos los minutos desde que sonara nuestro himno en el Soccer City hasta que Iker Casillas levantara la Copa.
Sin duda, era día de festejar para todos los españoles, pues nunca habíamos vivido un hito deportivo como ese. En las calles había gente de todo tipo, abundando seguro aquellos que lo más redondo que han visto en su día es un melón, pero tras el festejo el momento de disfrutarlo nos toca a nosotros: a todos los que vivimos esto del fútbol como algo propio la victoria en el Mundial será un recuerdo para toda la vida, algo que contar a los nietos. Y también ha servido para despojarnos de nuestros complejos, para vivir sueños que parecían inalcanzables, para mirar al futuro de otra manera, con una estrellita sobre el escudo…
Y es que esto del fútbol a veces da su cara buena. Como quien dice, hace sólo un lustro comenzaba a pensar que el deporte rey sólo daba sufrimientos a sus aficionados. Pero el fútbol se desató en 2006 con UEFAS y Copas del Sevilla, Champions del Barça, el ascenso del Almería y para colmo la selección nacional deja de ser mediocre para convertirse no sólo en campeona, sino en la mejor del mundo con una diferencia abismal.
Esa es mi sensación tras la disputa de este Mundial. Pienso que España no ha dado de sí todo lo que podría dar, y de todas maneras hemos sido campeones. Es cierto que no se le puede achacar un solo error a los jugadores de la selección, pero creo que le ha faltado esa excelencia que al menos creí vivir en la Eurocopa. Aunque claro, llegados a este punto eso da exactamente igual.
Jamás he vivido un Mundial con la intensidad de éste. He visto aproximadamente 40 partido y puedo decir con argumentos de peso que España ha sido el mejor con diferencia. Recordaré de Sudáfrica 2010 muchas cosas: el infierno de las Vuvuzelas, el indignante balón, el fracaso de las selecciones africanas, el papelito de Italia y Francia, la decepción de una Brasil que no juega a Brasil, la injustucia con Ghana y la marrullería uruguaya mal sancionada por la FIFA, la mancha de Maradona, el nivelito arbitral personalizado en un tal Howard Webb que casi se carga una final… y también cosas buenas como una Alemania que bien habría merecido ser campeón si no fuera porque se cruzó con la mejor España del Mundial o una atractiva Japón.
Pero la mejor, ésta:
Siempre recordaré todos los partidos del Mundial, el de Suiza en casa con Luis; el de Honduras en casa con Lola; el de Chile en Huelva con Lola; el de Portugal en los Cien Montaditos de Triana con Luis, Lola, Fabio y Ana; el de Paraguay con Arturo y Lola en el 4/4 de Ayamonte; la semifinal en casa con Luis y Lola y, sobre todo, la final en casa de mi tío Paco con toda la familia.
Seguro que a partir de ahora nos preguntarán donde estuvimos el 11 de julio del 2000, y dentro de décadas las nuevas generaciones nos pedirán recitar de memoria aquel once que empezó en Iker Casillas y terminó en Villa.
Quizás tengamos ya más estrellas en la camiseta, pero nunca ninguna será como la primera.
VIVA ESPAÑA
VIVA EL FÚTBOL
Un Saludo
Frying tonight...
It's an electrified third rail on the railway line. It's dangerous. It will kill you if you touch it.
And yet I've just been listening to some poor sod on the breakfast news bleating on about losing their daughter when she touched the third rail taking a short cut home.
This incidentally was not some small kid, but an adolescent teenager.
The mother apparently blames PS2 games where you get up again when you're killed for distorting kids' sense of real danger. She blames lack of authority for kids playing on railway lines. She blames lack of signage.
I am sorry for her loss, but she seems to be blaming everyone but herself. It's tragic, but at the end of the day, you have to take some responsibility for your kids upbringing yourself as well.
Still, look on the bright side. You can always sue Railtrack.
Decline and Fall of the Labour Party
Is the Labour Party now entering it's death throes?Let's consider the facts :
The Labour Party's origins lie in the late 19th century, around which time it became apparent that there was a need for a new political party to represent the interests and needs of the urban proletariat. In the 1895 general election, the Independent Labour Party put up 28 candidates but won only 44,325 votes.
But from little acorns, mighty oaks did grow. By 1910, the party had 42 MPs and was seen by many to take over from the Liberal Party as the true home of the left wing vote.
Then came the First World War and the Liberal failure to provide jobs for the returning heroes led to a surge in the popular vote for the Labour Party. This was further enhanced by the depression of the 1930s.
The graph on the right shows the share of the votes for the three main parties from the mid 1800's through to the present day. This clearly shows that Labour took its share of the vote not from the Conservatives, but the Liberals.When Tony Blair rebranded the party as New Labour he was ironically moving the party into the very position on the centre left of politics that Labour had claimed from the Liberals in the years following WWII - and it was this very repositioning that has led to the decline in the party's fortunes.
Taking its main backing from the Trades Union movement, Labour has also seen a fall in support following the militant actions of the 1970s so effectively crushed by Margaret Thatcher's government. This stemmed the power of the unions and led to a decline in union membership which has continued to the present day.
It is here that history begins to repeat itself. The Liberal Democrats have performed the very manoeuvre that worked so effectively for Labour. It is they, not Labour, who are now seen as occupying the centre left of politics - thus regaining the ground they lost to Labour in the first place.
Since Blair's departure, Gordon Brown has moved the party further back to the left and New Labour is once again seen as the Labour Party of old. Ironically, the Credit Crunch has mimicked in its own way the Depression that was the downfall of the old Liberal party - only this time it is Labour that is paying the price.
Over the coming years, the power of the union movement will continue to decline and take Labour with it. Social mobility has become a force to be reckoned with, moving the downtrodden working classes of old into the new middle class where they are more appropriately represented by the LibDems.
It is quite possible that Labour will not hold government again in our lifetimes - and when you look at the mess they have made of the country over the last 13 years, this seems wholly understandable.
Equal opportunities is bollocks
It will come as no surprise to you that I think Harriet Harman is a complete arse.So I was not surprised that she wants the shadow cabinet to be comprised of equal numbers of males and females.
Personally I have never understood the feminist movement. Why the hell would they want equality with men? Why would they want to come down to our level?
Successive administrations both in the UK and EU have consistently introduced legislation on sexual and many other types of discrimination until we have got to the point where I have become an ethnic minority in my own country...
Someone once asked Sammy Davis Jnr what he thought was the secret of his success. He replied, "I'm a one eyed black jew. How could I fail?" Sadly Sammy, I think you have hit the nail squarely on the head.
I'm white, so naturally there is positive discrimination in favour of non-whites. It is a fact that if I am interviewed for a job, no reason has to be given as to why I was rejected. If I was not white, then I could demand to know the reason and sue if I did not like it.
I'm not a member of a non-Christian church, nor am I an immigrant. I am able bodied and (arguably) in my right mind. All these conditions carry their share of positive discrimination and are monitored by the nanny state.
As regards being male or female, if women want equal treatment, then let them open the door for me and offer me a seat on the train. Stand up when I enter the room. Be bound by the same business dress rules as I am. Buy the first round in the pub, and pay when we go out to dinner.
The truth is that women want equality without giving up the perks of their sex, and that there is no such thing as positive discrimination because if it is positive to one party, then it is negative to the other.
So, Ms Harman, I suggest you stop talking bollocks and, Mr Cameron, you could save a shed load of money by scrapping the Equal Opportunites Commission.
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