Well Gladys survived the trek up to Hull but bloody hell she needs firmer shocks, I was getting seasick going round roundabouts! Worse than Vernie for body roll!!!
Upon arrival at the Parental Units' residence, father crawled all over Gladys, up her skirt and under her bonnet, and announced her to be a decent and worthy purchase for the money. Mother started her unrelenting routine of asking me if I wanted anything to eat, and to this very minute at 2130 hours she is still offering me all manner of foods including chocolate cake and lemon meringue.
"Do you want some cheese on toast"
"No I'm not hungry"
"What about dippy eggs, or I can get a quiche out"
"No I'm not hungry I've eaten already"
"I've made you some chocolate krispies or there's strawberries in the fridge"
"I've eaten mum!"
"But it's teatime now you have to have something"
"No thanks"
"What about some soup"
[Rache gives up]
[An hour later the conversation repeats, with varied other foods being offered]
[Said conversation keeps going in a bluescreen of death loop all weekend until my departure]
Then she moans about how she's put on 5lbs in the last few days :-D
Not sure if it's just my parents, but they have a TV in EVERY ROOM of the house apart from the bathroom. And during the day EVERY TV IS SWITCHED on, resulting in a cacophony of mixed TV-noise-blare that makes you dizzy after a few hours. When I go to switch one of the TVs off, despite the fact my mum is upstairs and busy doing something, she gets narky cos I switched the kitchen TV off:
"I was watching that!!!"
"But mum you're upstairs watching it"
"Well if I come downstairs I want to have it on there too"
"Well switch the tellies on and off as you come into each room then, I can't hear myself think!"
"Don't just walk into this house and start trying to change my routines!"
The resulting mixed-TV noise plus mine and mum's bickering (dad just goes into the garage to "fix the car" and escape the yelling) sets off the BLBs (Bloody Noisy Budgies) that my parents insist on keeping as pets. The slightest conversation or TV noise or fart sets them off on their incessant screeching that only ceases when a slipper is thrown at the cage, but resumes about 2 minutes after the missile attack, during the screeching from my mum at me for throwing said slipper at cage. After a prolonged whining session from me, plus the TV being turned up to full volume to drown out the screeching budgies, they are finally removed to an upstairs bedroom, to be kept company by another TV blasting at them that they can screech at till their hearts content. Ohh to be back home with my quiet ratties!!!
We sat and watched Sleepless in Seattle, agreed with eachother (for once) how bloody ugly Tom Hanks is, then I tried to watch the film while mum talked most of the way through it then complained that she missed bits of the dialogue. Then we watched a bit of Pretty in Pink (Duckie Dale rocks) on DVD and she pre-empted nearly every line until I threatened to throw a slipper at her too. (I am actually guilty of line pre-empting in Star Wars Ep 4 5 and 6 though!)
Then I had a bath, and whilst lazing in their avocado suite corner bath, I perused the labels of shampoo in my mum's collection. L'Oreal "Body Boost Shampoo with Expansyl" with "Non-stop volume" that "props hair up from the root": I read the small print where it tells you that consumer tests were done on only 102 WOMEN and that 55% of them claimed that "hair volume was maintained for over 18 hours". So on the basis of only 102 WOMEN out of a population of f*ck knows how many billion women, L'Oreal are marketing this worldwide brand of "Body Boost Shampoo" promising up to 18 hours of hair volume".
WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT. How can a shampoo "prop hair up from the root" ???? It's A SHAMPOO!!!! It cleans your hair and does NOTHING at all regards "propping". The only thing that can give you body is a decent blow dry and a diffuser and a big fat round brush! Or rollers!! Not a frickin' shampoo!!!!
How come these companies are allowed to make such solid claims on the basis of 102 WOMEN and a 55% success rate, most of which is probably all in the minds of the women testers?
Same goes for Sunsilk "anti-flat" conditioner, promising "Visible volume for flat and sad hair" and "enriched with a 3D Complex" but no details on the said complex, and no figues of how many women were tested to prove this "visible volume". Or "L'Oreal Elvive for Men Body Building Shampoo" with Regenium X-Y (oh PURLEEEZ), that "fortifies and thickens men's thinning hair". Sorry but if a shampoo causes hair to thicken, won't that be swelling the hair shaft which would then split the hair, leaving it resembling straw? These claims were made "Based on a sample of 115 men". Oh that's OK then, it must be true!!!! Calling all baldies, go and waste money on L'Oreal!
Despite all the parental whinges I've had a good day, sorted through a load of my old stuff in the loft ready to move it down to Norwich when we get the keys to the house on Friday (yaaay!). Found all my old works leaving cards with various amusing comments in from old forgotten colleagues (ie, "Sod off!" and "If you ever need references I am a compulsive liar"). Also found a huge thick ring binder of all my old penfriend letters (in the days before email, shock horror!) so it will be fun reading them and reminiscing.
Whilst I'm being ruthless and sacrificing my cars to tanks, I selected various soft toys for charity shop/car boot or to be kept. I felt like a Nazi choosing prisoners to live or be gassed as I held each teddy up, scrutinised it's pleading glassy little eyes, weighed up how sentimental each one was for whatever reason, then consigned it to the relevant bin bag.
The two wombles that my Auntie Issy made for me and my bro when we were toddlers were definitely to keep, as was "Blue ted" who seems to be developing cataracts as his plastic eyes have gone a bit gooey, and a shapeless cuddly owl that I was permenantly attached to for about 2 years when I was 8, plus the infamous "Jazzy" the little white bunny that I once dropped into the docklands mud where my dad used to work, causing him and his workmates to all make fishing rods from brooms and string and hooks, and fish out a stinking muddy Jazzy from the Humber mud, if only to stop my hysterical screaming and crying :-D
Also very pleased to find a bag of my old office clothes from about 8 years ago and find that the skirts still fitted perfectly on the waist. Yaaay, no middle aged spread yet!!
Tomorrow I will probably trek into town and peruse various Sofa establishments just to compare prices of Hull sofas with Norwich sofas. If they are mightily cheaper I have to first ask if they will deliver to Norwich, or weigh up the cost of the sofa plus the cost of van hire and petrol for us to get it back to Norwich, versus the extortionate costs of Norwich sofas. Then back home again to more force-feeding from Mother, and more slipper-throwing at the screeching budgies, followed hopefully by a Hugh Jackman DVD session, with mum so gobsmacked at the horniness of Mr Jackman that she actually doesn't talk throughout the whole film.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Rock Music Will Send You To Hell
Good blog from http://spaces.msn.com/members/halfsara666/
Rock Music Will Send You To Hell
No, really.
Just look at this if you don't believe me.
http://www.bible-truths.org/tracts/rockmu~1.htm
I particularly enjoyed the part about rock concerts involving ritual sacrifice and encouraging rape and murder. Now there's a gig I'd like to see.
The bunch of hypocrtical narrow minded bigots who wrote that load of rubbish also decided to completely disregard ANY rock musician who is religious (And there are loads) saying that "It is a deceit and is in deadly opposition to the life of Christ within you". Well, that's me petrified into believing doing or listening to anything remotely enjoyable will send me straight to the fiery inferno below.
Personally, I have no idea whether or not I believe in anything. Organised religion in particular is just an excuse for power over people, and is also the biggest excuse for war ever created.
Whatever happened to the freedom to worship whatever deity you happen to believe in, in the way you want to? If I want to pray to the Almighty while listening to Slipknot full blast and bedecked in pentagrams, then I will. So there.
Rock Music Will Send You To Hell
No, really.
Just look at this if you don't believe me.
http://www.bible-truths.org/tracts/rockmu~1.htm
I particularly enjoyed the part about rock concerts involving ritual sacrifice and encouraging rape and murder. Now there's a gig I'd like to see.
The bunch of hypocrtical narrow minded bigots who wrote that load of rubbish also decided to completely disregard ANY rock musician who is religious (And there are loads) saying that "It is a deceit and is in deadly opposition to the life of Christ within you". Well, that's me petrified into believing doing or listening to anything remotely enjoyable will send me straight to the fiery inferno below.
Personally, I have no idea whether or not I believe in anything. Organised religion in particular is just an excuse for power over people, and is also the biggest excuse for war ever created.
Whatever happened to the freedom to worship whatever deity you happen to believe in, in the way you want to? If I want to pray to the Almighty while listening to Slipknot full blast and bedecked in pentagrams, then I will. So there.
Friday, July 22, 2005
LEST WE FORGET: THESE WERE 'BLAIR'S BOMBS'
By respected journalist John Pilger (http://www.johnpilger.com/)
In all the coverage of last week's bombing of London, a basic truth struggled to be heard. It has been said quietly, politely, guardedly, as if it might somehow dishonour the dead, instead of speaking truth to the cause. While not doubting the atrocious inhumanity of those who planted the bombs (as if anyone could), no one should doubt that these were "Blair's bombs"; and he ought not be allowed to evade culpability with yet another unctuous Bush-inspired speech about "our way of life". The bombers struck because he and Bush attacked Iraq, having been warned by the Joint Intelligence Committee that the "by far the greatest terrorist threat" to this country would be "heightened by military action against Iraq".
Indeed, this was the one reliable warning from British intelligence in the run-up to the invasion of Iraq. A House of Commons committee has since verified this warning. Had Blair heeded it instead of conspiring to deceive the nation that Iraq offered a threat the Londoners who died on Thursday might be alive today, along with tens of thousands of innocent Iraqis.
Three weeks ago, a classified CIA report revealed that the Anglo-American invasion of Iraq had turned that country into a focal point of terrorism. None of the intelligence agencies regarded Iraq as such a flashpoint before the invasion, however tyrannical the regime. On the contrary, in 2003, the CIA reported that Iraq "exported no terrorist threat to his neighbours" and that Saddam Hussein was "implacably hostile to Al-Qaeda".
Blair's and Bush's invasion changed all that. In invading a stricken and defenceless country at the heart of the Islamic and Arab world, their adventure became self-fulfilling. Denial of that by those who supported the invasion insults the memory of all those who have died as a result. Blair's epic irresponsibility has brought the daily horrors of Iraq home to Britain and he is not (to paraphrase one of the few challenging questions put to him before the invasion (by John Humphries) fit to be prime minister.
For more than a year, he has urged the British to "move on" from Iraq, and last week it seemed that his spinmeisters and good fortune had joined hands. The awarding of the 2012 Olympics to London created the fleeting illusion that all was well, regardless of messy events in a faraway country. Moreover, the G8 meeting in Scotland and its accompanying "Make Poverty History" campaign and circus of celebrities served as a temporary cover for what the greatest political scandal of modern times: an illegal invasion conceived in lies which, under the rule of international law established at Nuremberg, represented a "paramount war crime".
Over the past two weeks, the contrast between the coverage of the G8,its marches and pop concerts, and another "global" event has been striking. The World Tribunal on Iraq in Istanbul has had virtually no coverage, yet the evidence it has produced, the most damning to date, has been the silent spectre at the Geldoff extravaganzas.
The tribunal is a serious international public inquiry into the invasion and occupation, the kind governments dare not hold. Its expert, eyewitness testimonies, said the author Arundathi Roy, a tribunal jury member, "demonstrate that even those of us who have tried to follow the war closely are not aware of a fraction of the horrors that have been unleashed in Iraq." The most shocking was given by Dahr Jamail, one of the best un-embedded reporters working in Iraq. He described how the hospitals of besieged Fallujah had been subjected to an American tactic of collective punishment, with US marines assaulting staff and stopping the wounded entering, and American snipers firing at the doors and windows, and medicines and emergency blood prevented from reaching them. Children, the elderly, were shot dead in front of their families, in cold blood.
Imagine for a moment the same appalling state of affairs imposed on the London hospitals that received the victims of Thursday's bombing. Unimaginable? Well, it happens, in our name, regardless of BBC's suppression of the Fallujah and other atrocities. When will someone draw this parallel at one of the staged "press conferences" at which Blair is allowed to emote for the cameras stuff about "our values outlast (ing) theirs"? Silence is not journalism. In Fallujah, they know "our values" only too well.
While the two men responsible for the carnage in Iraq, Bush and Blair, were side by side at Gleneagles, why wasn't the connection made between their fraudulent "war on terror" and the bombing in London? When will someone in the political class say that Blair's smoke-and-mirrors "debt cancellation" at best amounts to less than the money the government spent in a week brutalising Iraq, where British and American violence is the cause of the doubling of child poverty and malnutrition since Saddam Hussein was overthrown (Unicef).
The truth is that the debt relief the G8 is offering is lethal. Its ruthless "conditionalities" of captive economies far outweigh any tenuous benefit. This was a taboo during the G8 week, whose theme was not so much making poverty history as the silencing and pacifying and co-opting dissent and truth. The mawkish images on giant screens behind the pop stars in Hyde Park included no pictures of murdered Iraqi doctors with the blood streaming from their heads, cut down by Bush's snipers.
Real life became more satirical than satire could ever be. There was Bob Geldoff on the front pages resting his smiling face on smiling Blair's shoulder, the war criminal and his smitten, knighted jester. There was an heroically silhouetted Bono, who celebrates men like Jeffrey Sachs as saviours of the world's poor while lauding "compassionate" George Bush's "war on terror" as one of his generation's greatest achievements; and there was Paul Wolfowitz, beaming and promising to make poverty history: this is the man who, before he was handed control of the World Bank, was an apologist for Suharto's genocidal regime in Indonesia, who was one of the architects of Bush's "neo-con" putsch and of the bloodfest in Iraq and the notion of "endless war".For the politicians and pop stars and church leaders and polite people who believed Blair and Gordon Brown when they declared their "great moral crusade" against poverty, Iraq was an embarrassment. The killing of more than 100,000 Iraqis mostly by American gunfire and bombs -- a figure reported in a comprehensive peer-reviewed study in the The Lancet -- was airbrushed from mainstream debate.
Untold numbers of loved ones are missing in Iraq because of the horror Bush and Blair have inflicted on that society. But where do the families post their pictures, as the grieving do in London? If they ask at the American bases, they run the risk of themselves disappearing. In our free-speaking societies, the unmentionable is that "the state has lost its mind and is punishing so many innocent people", as Arthur Miller once wrote, "and so the evidence has to be internally denied." Not only denied, but distracted by an entire court: Geldoff, Bono, Madonna, McCartney et al, whose "Live 8" was the very antithesis of 15 February 2003 when two million people brought their hearts and brains and anger to the streets of London. Blair will almost certainly use last week's atrocity and tragedy to further deplete basic human rights in Britain, as Bush has done in America. The goal is not security, but greater control. Above all this, the memory of their victims, "our" victims, in Iraq demands the return of our anger. And nothing less is owed to those who died and suffered in London last week, unnecessarily.
In all the coverage of last week's bombing of London, a basic truth struggled to be heard. It has been said quietly, politely, guardedly, as if it might somehow dishonour the dead, instead of speaking truth to the cause. While not doubting the atrocious inhumanity of those who planted the bombs (as if anyone could), no one should doubt that these were "Blair's bombs"; and he ought not be allowed to evade culpability with yet another unctuous Bush-inspired speech about "our way of life". The bombers struck because he and Bush attacked Iraq, having been warned by the Joint Intelligence Committee that the "by far the greatest terrorist threat" to this country would be "heightened by military action against Iraq".
Indeed, this was the one reliable warning from British intelligence in the run-up to the invasion of Iraq. A House of Commons committee has since verified this warning. Had Blair heeded it instead of conspiring to deceive the nation that Iraq offered a threat the Londoners who died on Thursday might be alive today, along with tens of thousands of innocent Iraqis.
Three weeks ago, a classified CIA report revealed that the Anglo-American invasion of Iraq had turned that country into a focal point of terrorism. None of the intelligence agencies regarded Iraq as such a flashpoint before the invasion, however tyrannical the regime. On the contrary, in 2003, the CIA reported that Iraq "exported no terrorist threat to his neighbours" and that Saddam Hussein was "implacably hostile to Al-Qaeda".
Blair's and Bush's invasion changed all that. In invading a stricken and defenceless country at the heart of the Islamic and Arab world, their adventure became self-fulfilling. Denial of that by those who supported the invasion insults the memory of all those who have died as a result. Blair's epic irresponsibility has brought the daily horrors of Iraq home to Britain and he is not (to paraphrase one of the few challenging questions put to him before the invasion (by John Humphries) fit to be prime minister.
For more than a year, he has urged the British to "move on" from Iraq, and last week it seemed that his spinmeisters and good fortune had joined hands. The awarding of the 2012 Olympics to London created the fleeting illusion that all was well, regardless of messy events in a faraway country. Moreover, the G8 meeting in Scotland and its accompanying "Make Poverty History" campaign and circus of celebrities served as a temporary cover for what the greatest political scandal of modern times: an illegal invasion conceived in lies which, under the rule of international law established at Nuremberg, represented a "paramount war crime".
Over the past two weeks, the contrast between the coverage of the G8,its marches and pop concerts, and another "global" event has been striking. The World Tribunal on Iraq in Istanbul has had virtually no coverage, yet the evidence it has produced, the most damning to date, has been the silent spectre at the Geldoff extravaganzas.
The tribunal is a serious international public inquiry into the invasion and occupation, the kind governments dare not hold. Its expert, eyewitness testimonies, said the author Arundathi Roy, a tribunal jury member, "demonstrate that even those of us who have tried to follow the war closely are not aware of a fraction of the horrors that have been unleashed in Iraq." The most shocking was given by Dahr Jamail, one of the best un-embedded reporters working in Iraq. He described how the hospitals of besieged Fallujah had been subjected to an American tactic of collective punishment, with US marines assaulting staff and stopping the wounded entering, and American snipers firing at the doors and windows, and medicines and emergency blood prevented from reaching them. Children, the elderly, were shot dead in front of their families, in cold blood.
Imagine for a moment the same appalling state of affairs imposed on the London hospitals that received the victims of Thursday's bombing. Unimaginable? Well, it happens, in our name, regardless of BBC's suppression of the Fallujah and other atrocities. When will someone draw this parallel at one of the staged "press conferences" at which Blair is allowed to emote for the cameras stuff about "our values outlast (ing) theirs"? Silence is not journalism. In Fallujah, they know "our values" only too well.
While the two men responsible for the carnage in Iraq, Bush and Blair, were side by side at Gleneagles, why wasn't the connection made between their fraudulent "war on terror" and the bombing in London? When will someone in the political class say that Blair's smoke-and-mirrors "debt cancellation" at best amounts to less than the money the government spent in a week brutalising Iraq, where British and American violence is the cause of the doubling of child poverty and malnutrition since Saddam Hussein was overthrown (Unicef).
The truth is that the debt relief the G8 is offering is lethal. Its ruthless "conditionalities" of captive economies far outweigh any tenuous benefit. This was a taboo during the G8 week, whose theme was not so much making poverty history as the silencing and pacifying and co-opting dissent and truth. The mawkish images on giant screens behind the pop stars in Hyde Park included no pictures of murdered Iraqi doctors with the blood streaming from their heads, cut down by Bush's snipers.
Real life became more satirical than satire could ever be. There was Bob Geldoff on the front pages resting his smiling face on smiling Blair's shoulder, the war criminal and his smitten, knighted jester. There was an heroically silhouetted Bono, who celebrates men like Jeffrey Sachs as saviours of the world's poor while lauding "compassionate" George Bush's "war on terror" as one of his generation's greatest achievements; and there was Paul Wolfowitz, beaming and promising to make poverty history: this is the man who, before he was handed control of the World Bank, was an apologist for Suharto's genocidal regime in Indonesia, who was one of the architects of Bush's "neo-con" putsch and of the bloodfest in Iraq and the notion of "endless war".For the politicians and pop stars and church leaders and polite people who believed Blair and Gordon Brown when they declared their "great moral crusade" against poverty, Iraq was an embarrassment. The killing of more than 100,000 Iraqis mostly by American gunfire and bombs -- a figure reported in a comprehensive peer-reviewed study in the The Lancet -- was airbrushed from mainstream debate.
Untold numbers of loved ones are missing in Iraq because of the horror Bush and Blair have inflicted on that society. But where do the families post their pictures, as the grieving do in London? If they ask at the American bases, they run the risk of themselves disappearing. In our free-speaking societies, the unmentionable is that "the state has lost its mind and is punishing so many innocent people", as Arthur Miller once wrote, "and so the evidence has to be internally denied." Not only denied, but distracted by an entire court: Geldoff, Bono, Madonna, McCartney et al, whose "Live 8" was the very antithesis of 15 February 2003 when two million people brought their hearts and brains and anger to the streets of London. Blair will almost certainly use last week's atrocity and tragedy to further deplete basic human rights in Britain, as Bush has done in America. The goal is not security, but greater control. Above all this, the memory of their victims, "our" victims, in Iraq demands the return of our anger. And nothing less is owed to those who died and suffered in London last week, unnecessarily.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
What's wrong with these lyrics??
"Land of Hope and Glory,
Mother of the Free,
How shall we extol thee,
Who are born of thee?
Wider still and wider
Shall thy bounds be set;
God, who made thee mighty,
Make thee mightier yet. "
Do these lyrics offend you? Do they seem to you to be far to patriotic? Too political? Or is it just a song aobut how proud we are of our country?
COUNCILLORS want to ban Land Of Hope And Glory from a Remembrance Day festival because it is “too political”.
Labour members are pushing for the stirring patriotic anthem to be kicked out and replaced with Rod Stewart’s 1975 hit Sailing.
Wolverhampton Councillor Peter O’Neill said: “It is my view that the song has political connotations. It should be replaced by Sailing because that will connect better with the younger generation.”
But old soldiers who will proudly carry the Union Flag blasted the plan. The Royal British Legion’s John Mellor said: “It’s nonsense. To say it is political is barmy.”
=======================
FFS, what a crock of SHIT. WE ARE SAILING?? WTF?? So we can't even sing anthems to our own country now? Does this mean the end to "Last Night of the Proms" and all that pomp and flag waving and choruses of "Rule Britannia"? Heave forbid we should sing songs to praise our own country! Is all this crap in case we offend non-Brits living over here? Well I'm sorry but if you come to live in Britain then you should NOT be offended by some of our customs - in fact ALL of our customs.
"Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves..." we sing, even though she DOESN'T rule the waves any more, but hell, we like singing it, it boosts our flagging pride in this country we live in that seems to be slipping down the drain of political correctness, and having its identity stripped away from it by political do-gooders who are terrified of offending anyone and everyone.
These classic anthems remind a lot of us of the time when Britain was under a very real and tangible threat, when she stood alone in Europe with Hitler snapping at her heels from over the English Channel, when our brave and outnumbered Spitfire and Hurricane pilots held them back during the Battle of Britain, and when our morale and heads were held high despite the Blitz and bombings and death that surrounded us, and the worry of our loved ones away fighting. Songs such as this held us together, kept our pride alive, kept our belief alive that we WOULD succeed and we WOULD conquer, and we'd smash the Nazis into oblivion. And do that we did.
Today in the midst of accusations about the current war and why it was even started, and now the very real threat of more attacks in the UK thanks to Blair's ass-kissing of Bush, we are not allowed to sing those very same anthems. Not allowed to fly our flags, not allowed to be too Patriotic in case it is mistaken for racism against our fellow foreigners. I feel as if our pride is being slowly sapped and sued away, airbrushed, gone for ever.
We can sing what we like where we like, if we're proud of Britain we should bloody well be allowed to express it - if you don't want to hear the songs then put some bloody earplugs in or turn the radio/TV off.
Mother of the Free,
How shall we extol thee,
Who are born of thee?
Wider still and wider
Shall thy bounds be set;
God, who made thee mighty,
Make thee mightier yet. "
Do these lyrics offend you? Do they seem to you to be far to patriotic? Too political? Or is it just a song aobut how proud we are of our country?
COUNCILLORS want to ban Land Of Hope And Glory from a Remembrance Day festival because it is “too political”.
Labour members are pushing for the stirring patriotic anthem to be kicked out and replaced with Rod Stewart’s 1975 hit Sailing.
Wolverhampton Councillor Peter O’Neill said: “It is my view that the song has political connotations. It should be replaced by Sailing because that will connect better with the younger generation.”
But old soldiers who will proudly carry the Union Flag blasted the plan. The Royal British Legion’s John Mellor said: “It’s nonsense. To say it is political is barmy.”
=======================
FFS, what a crock of SHIT. WE ARE SAILING?? WTF?? So we can't even sing anthems to our own country now? Does this mean the end to "Last Night of the Proms" and all that pomp and flag waving and choruses of "Rule Britannia"? Heave forbid we should sing songs to praise our own country! Is all this crap in case we offend non-Brits living over here? Well I'm sorry but if you come to live in Britain then you should NOT be offended by some of our customs - in fact ALL of our customs.
"Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves..." we sing, even though she DOESN'T rule the waves any more, but hell, we like singing it, it boosts our flagging pride in this country we live in that seems to be slipping down the drain of political correctness, and having its identity stripped away from it by political do-gooders who are terrified of offending anyone and everyone.
These classic anthems remind a lot of us of the time when Britain was under a very real and tangible threat, when she stood alone in Europe with Hitler snapping at her heels from over the English Channel, when our brave and outnumbered Spitfire and Hurricane pilots held them back during the Battle of Britain, and when our morale and heads were held high despite the Blitz and bombings and death that surrounded us, and the worry of our loved ones away fighting. Songs such as this held us together, kept our pride alive, kept our belief alive that we WOULD succeed and we WOULD conquer, and we'd smash the Nazis into oblivion. And do that we did.
Today in the midst of accusations about the current war and why it was even started, and now the very real threat of more attacks in the UK thanks to Blair's ass-kissing of Bush, we are not allowed to sing those very same anthems. Not allowed to fly our flags, not allowed to be too Patriotic in case it is mistaken for racism against our fellow foreigners. I feel as if our pride is being slowly sapped and sued away, airbrushed, gone for ever.
We can sing what we like where we like, if we're proud of Britain we should bloody well be allowed to express it - if you don't want to hear the songs then put some bloody earplugs in or turn the radio/TV off.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Water
It seems amazing to me that this country is actually being affected by a water shortage. Britain - the country of endless grey skies and a 9 month winter - actually had its driest winter in nearly 30 years. Hosepipe bans are in place now and are likely to spread further afield as the summer progresses.
Typically, the South East and London areas are the worst hit, and Ken Livingstone has requested that Londoners don't flush the loo "just for a pee". I quite agree! I mean, how many of us flush the loo - all that full tank full of water - just to get rid of less than a pint of piss??? FFS leave it there until it's time for a number 2, then flush it, won't do any harm and the combined effort of people doing this would save millions of litres daily. Naturally if you're a guest in a house or have guests, then yes I guess you have to flush, nobody wants to stare at other people's pee-pee. And unfortunately all the huge motorway service stations and public toilets are perpetually flushing.
But why hasn't more been done to introduce economical flushing toilets, specially in the public buildings and service stations? Australia has the good old "two button" loos, a short flush for pees and a long flush for poos. Great idea, why aren't we following suit? What about the old vacuum toilets that suck your poops away with the minimum of water?
Would be interesting to hear how Prescott would cope with his "let's build a billion more houses near London" plan - where the f*ck will the water come from to cope with all those new loos? These days everyone wants en-suites and all new houses have at least 3 toilets. Nobody seems to be regulating the building companies and saying "hey, you HAVE to fit ecoflush loos or we'll fine your arses big time".
Last week, Thames Water was criticised by Ofwat, the water regulator, for failing to meet its target for tackling leaks. It loses 915 million litres of water a day from old and crumbling pipes but says it has an extensive programme of pipe replacement. Hmmm must be going well the huh guys? Replacing water pipes is probably like painting the Sydney Harbour bridge - never-ending task. But who came up with that huge figure and how on earth can they measure and accurately state that leakage figure though???
Not sure why I wanted to whinge about this today, guess I just wanted to "talk shit" hur hur hur ....
Typically, the South East and London areas are the worst hit, and Ken Livingstone has requested that Londoners don't flush the loo "just for a pee". I quite agree! I mean, how many of us flush the loo - all that full tank full of water - just to get rid of less than a pint of piss??? FFS leave it there until it's time for a number 2, then flush it, won't do any harm and the combined effort of people doing this would save millions of litres daily. Naturally if you're a guest in a house or have guests, then yes I guess you have to flush, nobody wants to stare at other people's pee-pee. And unfortunately all the huge motorway service stations and public toilets are perpetually flushing.
But why hasn't more been done to introduce economical flushing toilets, specially in the public buildings and service stations? Australia has the good old "two button" loos, a short flush for pees and a long flush for poos. Great idea, why aren't we following suit? What about the old vacuum toilets that suck your poops away with the minimum of water?
Would be interesting to hear how Prescott would cope with his "let's build a billion more houses near London" plan - where the f*ck will the water come from to cope with all those new loos? These days everyone wants en-suites and all new houses have at least 3 toilets. Nobody seems to be regulating the building companies and saying "hey, you HAVE to fit ecoflush loos or we'll fine your arses big time".
Last week, Thames Water was criticised by Ofwat, the water regulator, for failing to meet its target for tackling leaks. It loses 915 million litres of water a day from old and crumbling pipes but says it has an extensive programme of pipe replacement. Hmmm must be going well the huh guys? Replacing water pipes is probably like painting the Sydney Harbour bridge - never-ending task. But who came up with that huge figure and how on earth can they measure and accurately state that leakage figure though???
Not sure why I wanted to whinge about this today, guess I just wanted to "talk shit" hur hur hur ....
Thursday, July 14, 2005
A scary forecast for the future
I read these two stories today and was highly disturbed:
"A BOY of 14 faces SEVEN charges of raping four primary school girls in a park near their homes. The lad is accused of carrying out the sex attacks on a seven-year-old, two girls of eight and one of ten. They had been playing on swings in Mandley Park, Salford, Greater Manchester, before the alleged incidents last Sunday. The Salford boy, who cannot be named, is said to have attacked each in turn in secluded undergrowth."
A BOY of 13 told yesterday how a “happy slapping”gang tied him to a tree and set him on fire. Kyle Parker — who also had a monkey mask forced on to his face — screamed in terror during the 20-minute ordeal, filmed by the yobs on their mobile phones. Kyle was bound to a tree with masking tape and had his legs tied together with his tie. He said: “The gang were all laughing at me and then they set the tape on fire. “I managed to get out of the tape but they tied me back up again and set it on fire again. “I felt the heat from the flames on my shoulder but I managed to get out of the tape and put out the flames before I was seriously hurt.” Police will quiz eight boys, believed to be 15 and from the same school. They also seized seven phones.
What on earth can be going on in the mind of a 14 year old for him to rape such young girls??? What happened in his life to fuck him up so much? 14 year olds shouldn't even KNOW about sex at that age, let along RAPE? He should be out on his bike after school or playing with his mates or on his computer, or going to football club or something???? And what will happen to him regarding punishment?
He's too young for prison, will he go to a YOI where he will doubtless learn the trades of crime from his fellow teen inmates? Will he get a slap on the wrist and be released into the community again? Will he get an ASBO and be forced to stay indoors? Will he be counselled by a bunch of do-gooders? And will someone investigate his family and parents to find out what the fuck happened in his young life to mess him up so much?
More importantly, how will his future be shaped and monitored to prevent this happening again when he is older and physically stronger, to prevent more violent abuses and rapes from happening to innocent victims?
As for the "happy slappers", it seems their borders between fantasy computer-game violence, and real fear and pain have been thoroughly blurred. How can they think that setting someone alight is a) funny, and b) NOT dangerous???? It's a shame that they can't be given the same treatment as a form of punishment, see how they like it. Maybe if one of the boys had accidentally burned himself while setting the other boy on fire, he could have sued someone for emotional trauma because his crime was interrupted by his own clumsiness. No doubt we would have given him legal aid and supported his case all the way to the European Court of Human Rights too???
Childhood has lost its innocence and it seems that every day more evidence is presented that assures me that it will never return.
"A BOY of 14 faces SEVEN charges of raping four primary school girls in a park near their homes. The lad is accused of carrying out the sex attacks on a seven-year-old, two girls of eight and one of ten. They had been playing on swings in Mandley Park, Salford, Greater Manchester, before the alleged incidents last Sunday. The Salford boy, who cannot be named, is said to have attacked each in turn in secluded undergrowth."
A BOY of 13 told yesterday how a “happy slapping”gang tied him to a tree and set him on fire. Kyle Parker — who also had a monkey mask forced on to his face — screamed in terror during the 20-minute ordeal, filmed by the yobs on their mobile phones. Kyle was bound to a tree with masking tape and had his legs tied together with his tie. He said: “The gang were all laughing at me and then they set the tape on fire. “I managed to get out of the tape but they tied me back up again and set it on fire again. “I felt the heat from the flames on my shoulder but I managed to get out of the tape and put out the flames before I was seriously hurt.” Police will quiz eight boys, believed to be 15 and from the same school. They also seized seven phones.
What on earth can be going on in the mind of a 14 year old for him to rape such young girls??? What happened in his life to fuck him up so much? 14 year olds shouldn't even KNOW about sex at that age, let along RAPE? He should be out on his bike after school or playing with his mates or on his computer, or going to football club or something???? And what will happen to him regarding punishment?
He's too young for prison, will he go to a YOI where he will doubtless learn the trades of crime from his fellow teen inmates? Will he get a slap on the wrist and be released into the community again? Will he get an ASBO and be forced to stay indoors? Will he be counselled by a bunch of do-gooders? And will someone investigate his family and parents to find out what the fuck happened in his young life to mess him up so much?
More importantly, how will his future be shaped and monitored to prevent this happening again when he is older and physically stronger, to prevent more violent abuses and rapes from happening to innocent victims?
As for the "happy slappers", it seems their borders between fantasy computer-game violence, and real fear and pain have been thoroughly blurred. How can they think that setting someone alight is a) funny, and b) NOT dangerous???? It's a shame that they can't be given the same treatment as a form of punishment, see how they like it. Maybe if one of the boys had accidentally burned himself while setting the other boy on fire, he could have sued someone for emotional trauma because his crime was interrupted by his own clumsiness. No doubt we would have given him legal aid and supported his case all the way to the European Court of Human Rights too???
Childhood has lost its innocence and it seems that every day more evidence is presented that assures me that it will never return.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Unbelievable ....
13 July 05
I saw what must be one of the most pointless inventions ever today, in a newsagents....it was a "cigarette packet bottom", which was basically the empty bottom of a fag packet in lots of pretty stripey patterns. The slogan underneath the sign said "hides the health warnings on your cigarettes". So you buy your Marlboros with that screaming slogan on "Smoking Kills" and you slip it into your pretty packet bottom, and hey presto, the slogan has gone! Well done you, how clever you are in denying the obvious dangers!!!
WTF?????? What on earth is the point of that, and which clever bugger thought of it and by now probably patented it and is retiring on the profits - or is he? What kind of person would BUY one of these things? What's the point? To make you feel less guilty about smoking? To make you think that if you cover up the health warning, the risks will also disappear? There's absolutely no point in trying to disguise any part of what ciggies do to your health, we ALL KNOW they kill you, so if you cover it up with a silly pretty fag packet bottom, we'll just think you're a twat for doing so! Get a life!!!!
I saw what must be one of the most pointless inventions ever today, in a newsagents....it was a "cigarette packet bottom", which was basically the empty bottom of a fag packet in lots of pretty stripey patterns. The slogan underneath the sign said "hides the health warnings on your cigarettes". So you buy your Marlboros with that screaming slogan on "Smoking Kills" and you slip it into your pretty packet bottom, and hey presto, the slogan has gone! Well done you, how clever you are in denying the obvious dangers!!!
WTF?????? What on earth is the point of that, and which clever bugger thought of it and by now probably patented it and is retiring on the profits - or is he? What kind of person would BUY one of these things? What's the point? To make you feel less guilty about smoking? To make you think that if you cover up the health warning, the risks will also disappear? There's absolutely no point in trying to disguise any part of what ciggies do to your health, we ALL KNOW they kill you, so if you cover it up with a silly pretty fag packet bottom, we'll just think you're a twat for doing so! Get a life!!!!
Monday, June 27, 2005
Let her DIE
Once again The Sun have dragged Princess Diana into the news, with the "revelation" that she slept with JFK Junior.
Once again most people will probably say "WHO CARES??" She has been dead for umpteen years now and we're all sick of hearing about her chequered love life. She was certainly no saint and yes, she bedded several men - but wouldn't you if you were married to a handsome hunk like Prince Charles, whose jug-ears and obsession for being Camilla's tampon drove her round the twist??
Even more odiously is the endless trek of Diana's "confidantes" who jump on the bandwagon and sell their souls and their stories for money about how THEY were her "biggest friend" and confidant and how "she told me EVERYTHING", then they divulge more gory details about her sex life.
NOBODY IS THINKING ABOUT HER TWO SONS. I wish they could sue everyone who tells a story about their mother, to finally stem this flow of boring lascivious morbid crap. The more revelations about Diana's "men" there are, the more the boys must hurt, but they cannot step forward and say anything publicly, so it will continue. Enough is enough!
Once again most people will probably say "WHO CARES??" She has been dead for umpteen years now and we're all sick of hearing about her chequered love life. She was certainly no saint and yes, she bedded several men - but wouldn't you if you were married to a handsome hunk like Prince Charles, whose jug-ears and obsession for being Camilla's tampon drove her round the twist??
Even more odiously is the endless trek of Diana's "confidantes" who jump on the bandwagon and sell their souls and their stories for money about how THEY were her "biggest friend" and confidant and how "she told me EVERYTHING", then they divulge more gory details about her sex life.
NOBODY IS THINKING ABOUT HER TWO SONS. I wish they could sue everyone who tells a story about their mother, to finally stem this flow of boring lascivious morbid crap. The more revelations about Diana's "men" there are, the more the boys must hurt, but they cannot step forward and say anything publicly, so it will continue. Enough is enough!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Is There A Cheating Gene?
Saw this article by Todd Katz on the internet, I think it's just an excuse for men to shag around....
========================
We've all known someone who just can't commit. Now, research suggests that staying faithful is a matter of genetics.
We all know there seem to be some folks out there who "can't help but" stray...or so they say. Now, scientific research reveals that there may be some truth to that-that some living creatures are genetically programmed to seek out many partners.
The saga begins with the prairie vole, one of the world's only monogamous mammals. When the male of the species is smitten by that special somebody, the pair bonds for life. Avoiding all other females, he'll spend hours grooming his lover's fur, and when necessary lay down his life in defence of her or their pups. But the prairie vole's player of a cousin, the meadow vole, jumps from partner to partner, with no loyalty to any one female…that is, until a group of scientists started tinkering with his noggin.
"We had two closely related species exhibiting startlingly different behaviour, and we believed there might be a biological or physiological component," explains Miranda Lim, Ph.D., of Emory University's Yerkes National Primate Research Center. What she and her fellow researchers discovered is that the monogamous prairie voles, unlike the promiscuous meadow voles, have high levels of vasopressin receptors—a chemical released after sex in both rodents and humans—in the reward centre of their brain. These receptors help the prairie vole make a link between the smell of a particular mate and sexual pleasure, leading to instant monogamy.
The researchers isolated the vasopressin-receptor gene, and introduced it into some meadow voles. The result: The lecherous little rodents became hopelessly monogamous romantics.
So what does this indicate about the human male? "People in love seem to activate this same reward region of the brain," Lim says. "Obviously rodents are far simpler than humans. But vasopressin does appear necessary to establishing long-term bonding relationships."
While Lim says it's worth further investigating the role of vasopressin in humans, she says it's unlikely to lead to an actual cure for infidelity anytime soon. Rats…
New Yorker Todd Katz writes for Maxim and Stuff. While he has never cheated on a girlfriend, more than once has compared his behaviour to that of a rodent.
========================
We've all known someone who just can't commit. Now, research suggests that staying faithful is a matter of genetics.
We all know there seem to be some folks out there who "can't help but" stray...or so they say. Now, scientific research reveals that there may be some truth to that-that some living creatures are genetically programmed to seek out many partners.
The saga begins with the prairie vole, one of the world's only monogamous mammals. When the male of the species is smitten by that special somebody, the pair bonds for life. Avoiding all other females, he'll spend hours grooming his lover's fur, and when necessary lay down his life in defence of her or their pups. But the prairie vole's player of a cousin, the meadow vole, jumps from partner to partner, with no loyalty to any one female…that is, until a group of scientists started tinkering with his noggin.
"We had two closely related species exhibiting startlingly different behaviour, and we believed there might be a biological or physiological component," explains Miranda Lim, Ph.D., of Emory University's Yerkes National Primate Research Center. What she and her fellow researchers discovered is that the monogamous prairie voles, unlike the promiscuous meadow voles, have high levels of vasopressin receptors—a chemical released after sex in both rodents and humans—in the reward centre of their brain. These receptors help the prairie vole make a link between the smell of a particular mate and sexual pleasure, leading to instant monogamy.
The researchers isolated the vasopressin-receptor gene, and introduced it into some meadow voles. The result: The lecherous little rodents became hopelessly monogamous romantics.
So what does this indicate about the human male? "People in love seem to activate this same reward region of the brain," Lim says. "Obviously rodents are far simpler than humans. But vasopressin does appear necessary to establishing long-term bonding relationships."
While Lim says it's worth further investigating the role of vasopressin in humans, she says it's unlikely to lead to an actual cure for infidelity anytime soon. Rats…
New Yorker Todd Katz writes for Maxim and Stuff. While he has never cheated on a girlfriend, more than once has compared his behaviour to that of a rodent.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
"Come On Tim"
Wimbledon is upon us again and SW19 is steadily filling up with those tireless "Henmaniacs", who this year are bleating and pouting because they can't wear their silly huge floppy Union Jack hats when they cheer on their hero, Tim Henman ("You Can Do It Tim") because security say that they could hide "concealed weapons".
I read a great column in the paper that described "Henmaniacs" as "Football hooligans for the upper class". With their tennis ball earrings, their matching Tim T-shirts and their painted faces, these fans (mostly women) irritate the shit out of me. Sitting there with their strawberries, their constant cries of "Come on Tim, come ON Tim, COME ON HENMAN" after each volley must drive the poor lad crackers. I think security have just invented the "weapons" excuse to dry to deter Henmaniacs from turning up at all. Unfortunately they've not been successful. Or maybe they're preventing people like me sneaking a water cannon in under my floppy felt hat and drenching the lot of them with rancid cranberry juice.....
Tim ("You Can Do It Tim") must dread Wimbledon every year, and is probably praying for another British Wunderkid to turn up and take the heat off his butt. People don't seem to realise that Tim is a GOOD player, but not an OUTSTANDING player - he's pretty average really. But the media pump up the pressure every year and the Henmaniacs appear with their screeching, and poor old Timmy tries his best but never quite makes it. Then he has to face a deflated media who once again bemoan the fact that Tim "Didn't quite do it", and snicker at the fact that all he seems to be able to do is get his wife pregnant.
A Brit hasn't won Wimbledon since the late seventies. Give Timmy a break, stop screeching at every chance, take the pressure off and maybe one year he will get lucky and "do it".
Meanwhile, get your fat kid off the couch, away from the Playstation and into a tennis club and maybe he will inherit this blessed following of "Maniacs" one day.
I read a great column in the paper that described "Henmaniacs" as "Football hooligans for the upper class". With their tennis ball earrings, their matching Tim T-shirts and their painted faces, these fans (mostly women) irritate the shit out of me. Sitting there with their strawberries, their constant cries of "Come on Tim, come ON Tim, COME ON HENMAN" after each volley must drive the poor lad crackers. I think security have just invented the "weapons" excuse to dry to deter Henmaniacs from turning up at all. Unfortunately they've not been successful. Or maybe they're preventing people like me sneaking a water cannon in under my floppy felt hat and drenching the lot of them with rancid cranberry juice.....
Tim ("You Can Do It Tim") must dread Wimbledon every year, and is probably praying for another British Wunderkid to turn up and take the heat off his butt. People don't seem to realise that Tim is a GOOD player, but not an OUTSTANDING player - he's pretty average really. But the media pump up the pressure every year and the Henmaniacs appear with their screeching, and poor old Timmy tries his best but never quite makes it. Then he has to face a deflated media who once again bemoan the fact that Tim "Didn't quite do it", and snicker at the fact that all he seems to be able to do is get his wife pregnant.
A Brit hasn't won Wimbledon since the late seventies. Give Timmy a break, stop screeching at every chance, take the pressure off and maybe one year he will get lucky and "do it".
Meanwhile, get your fat kid off the couch, away from the Playstation and into a tennis club and maybe he will inherit this blessed following of "Maniacs" one day.
Monday, June 20, 2005
BRAIN SHUT DOWN BY SEX
This from the Sky news website - I couldn't believe what I was reading:
================
An orgasm is literally a mind-blowing experience for a woman, scientists have revealed. Much of her brain shuts down when she reaches a sexual climax.
The discovery was made during experiments in the Netherlands when couples' brains were scanned during lovemaking.
Neuroscientist Dr Gert Holstege, from the University of Groningen said it appeared that shutting down the brain during orgasm ensured that obstacles such as fear and stress did not get in the way.
"When you are fearful or have a very high level of anxiety, then it's hard to have sex because during sex you really have to give yourself and let go."
Men were studied in the same way but because the male orgasm typically takes such a short time it was difficult to obtain meaningful brain scan data. - [HAHAHAH cos there isn't any]
A total of 13 women and 11 men, ranging in age from 19 to 49, took part in the experiments at Dr Holstege's laboratory. Since it was vital to remain completely still in the scanner, volunteers had to have their heads restrained while being stimulated. The rest of the body was free to move.
Participants lay naked on a table with their head inside the scanner - but had to wear socks to avoid cold feet. [WTF!!!]
And there could be a connection with the aphrodisiac effect of alcohol. "Alcohol brings down the fear level," said Dr Holstege. "Everyone knows if you give alcohol to a woman it makes things easier." [FUCK OFF, and men aren't an easy lay when they are drunk????? Actually, probably not if Mr Floppy comes into play due to the booze ...]
What a patronising crock of shit article, is this mainstream news nowadays????
================
An orgasm is literally a mind-blowing experience for a woman, scientists have revealed. Much of her brain shuts down when she reaches a sexual climax.
The discovery was made during experiments in the Netherlands when couples' brains were scanned during lovemaking.
Neuroscientist Dr Gert Holstege, from the University of Groningen said it appeared that shutting down the brain during orgasm ensured that obstacles such as fear and stress did not get in the way.
"When you are fearful or have a very high level of anxiety, then it's hard to have sex because during sex you really have to give yourself and let go."
Men were studied in the same way but because the male orgasm typically takes such a short time it was difficult to obtain meaningful brain scan data. - [HAHAHAH cos there isn't any]
A total of 13 women and 11 men, ranging in age from 19 to 49, took part in the experiments at Dr Holstege's laboratory. Since it was vital to remain completely still in the scanner, volunteers had to have their heads restrained while being stimulated. The rest of the body was free to move.
Participants lay naked on a table with their head inside the scanner - but had to wear socks to avoid cold feet. [WTF!!!]
And there could be a connection with the aphrodisiac effect of alcohol. "Alcohol brings down the fear level," said Dr Holstege. "Everyone knows if you give alcohol to a woman it makes things easier." [FUCK OFF, and men aren't an easy lay when they are drunk????? Actually, probably not if Mr Floppy comes into play due to the booze ...]
What a patronising crock of shit article, is this mainstream news nowadays????
Friday, June 17, 2005
Kill them all ....
17 June 05
I can't bear to watch more than 30 seconds of this year's Big Brother - I've put the telly on a couple of times but it's so bad that after 30 seconds I can't stand it. What a bunch of media-conscious fake pratts.
I watched the very first BB all those years ago, when the Housemates didn't know what to expect, and the producers and the audience didn't know either. Everyone was innocent, and everyone acted naturally, and it was gread fun to watch. Then the tabloids and the media started to make "celebs" out of the evictees and the winners, and a whole new culture of Housemate entered the scene. People that wanted the z-list fame and knew how to act to get it. Now it's unbearable to watch because every move, every eyelid twitch, every sexy smile and every kiss, every argument, is carefully thought out by either the Housemate or the producers to create controversy, attract attention, and boost ratings or that person's future z-list status.
They know that if they give their housemate a BJ under the covers that The Sun will pay them £150k for their story, they know that if they get their tits out they will command frontpage headlines over such trivial news items like world poverty and the farcical Iraq war, they know that if they hook up with another housemate after BB, that OK and HELLO will pay them £££ for sugary stories about "Our perfect Love", then ultimately they will end up on a another trash reality TV show where they will humiliate themselves accordingly, just to stay in the spotlight a little longer.
Should we praise them for being media savvy and earning as much as they can while their star glitters temporarily? Or should we roll our eyes and brace ourselves for another crop of Jade Goodys who refuse to f*ck off, and constantly haunt us with their presence at so much as the opening of an envelope?
Watching them now isn't entertaining because they aren't behaving naturally, the fakeness is nauseating. The stunts will get even more daring to the point where Endemol will be encouraging them to have a full-on orgy, then they will pull up their prim starched collars, and say "ooh we can't show that cos it's a family programme". FFS!!!!
I can't bear to watch more than 30 seconds of this year's Big Brother - I've put the telly on a couple of times but it's so bad that after 30 seconds I can't stand it. What a bunch of media-conscious fake pratts.
I watched the very first BB all those years ago, when the Housemates didn't know what to expect, and the producers and the audience didn't know either. Everyone was innocent, and everyone acted naturally, and it was gread fun to watch. Then the tabloids and the media started to make "celebs" out of the evictees and the winners, and a whole new culture of Housemate entered the scene. People that wanted the z-list fame and knew how to act to get it. Now it's unbearable to watch because every move, every eyelid twitch, every sexy smile and every kiss, every argument, is carefully thought out by either the Housemate or the producers to create controversy, attract attention, and boost ratings or that person's future z-list status.
They know that if they give their housemate a BJ under the covers that The Sun will pay them £150k for their story, they know that if they get their tits out they will command frontpage headlines over such trivial news items like world poverty and the farcical Iraq war, they know that if they hook up with another housemate after BB, that OK and HELLO will pay them £££ for sugary stories about "Our perfect Love", then ultimately they will end up on a another trash reality TV show where they will humiliate themselves accordingly, just to stay in the spotlight a little longer.
Should we praise them for being media savvy and earning as much as they can while their star glitters temporarily? Or should we roll our eyes and brace ourselves for another crop of Jade Goodys who refuse to f*ck off, and constantly haunt us with their presence at so much as the opening of an envelope?
Watching them now isn't entertaining because they aren't behaving naturally, the fakeness is nauseating. The stunts will get even more daring to the point where Endemol will be encouraging them to have a full-on orgy, then they will pull up their prim starched collars, and say "ooh we can't show that cos it's a family programme". FFS!!!!
Thursday, June 16, 2005
FFS ...
Motorists in Norwich are whingeing because the time they have to wait at traffic light crossings is "too long". Some say that the time has been lengthened to allow elderly people to cross safely - but they still whinge.
FFS!!! I was at a crossing today and I was sad enough to time it - about 15 seconds. 15 SECONDS. IS THAT A BIT TOO MUCH TIME OUT OF YOUR BUSY DAY???? Can't you just chill and sit there and wait?? Look around you, notice the tree at the side of the road, the blackbird hopping along the path, the clouds in the sky, the flowers in the garden to your left, the Chav kicking an empty bottle along the pavement to your right ... Notice what is around you and that 15 seconds will pass quickly enough.
Or if you're a total impatient tw*t, put your foot down and run over old Mabel who is shuffling across the road in front of you. I'm sure sitting in a jail cell you'll have plenty of time to enjoy your surroundings ...
FFS!!! I was at a crossing today and I was sad enough to time it - about 15 seconds. 15 SECONDS. IS THAT A BIT TOO MUCH TIME OUT OF YOUR BUSY DAY???? Can't you just chill and sit there and wait?? Look around you, notice the tree at the side of the road, the blackbird hopping along the path, the clouds in the sky, the flowers in the garden to your left, the Chav kicking an empty bottle along the pavement to your right ... Notice what is around you and that 15 seconds will pass quickly enough.
Or if you're a total impatient tw*t, put your foot down and run over old Mabel who is shuffling across the road in front of you. I'm sure sitting in a jail cell you'll have plenty of time to enjoy your surroundings ...
Monday, June 13, 2005
Let the parents pay!
£700m is to be "made available" so that working mothers can drop little Timmy off earlier at school, and keep him there AFTER school until as late as 6pm, so she can stay at work. School normaly kicks out at just gone 3, so what's little Timmy meant to do for another 3 hours? All his mates will be going home and he has to stay there - how pissed off will he be? Not to mention being dropped off about an hour earlier in the mornings!
Teachers or child carers will have to hang around too, and think of things to do to amuse the little darlings. I suggest extra phonics and anti-text spelling lessons for the little buggers, nip those bad habits in the bud.
I'm curious as to where the Govt is "making available" £700m from though, with all the other urgent things in the country that need funding, they are throwing money at after-school care cos bloody working mums/dads can't knock off early?? It's like the £250m "made available" for better school dinners for kids - which I think is brilliant but has the money come forward? Is it in a lump sum or bit by bit over a few years? And how do we know ultimately that the full amount WILL be delivered to the school dinners cause?
Personally I think why should the Government and our taxes fund after-school clubs - each parent who wants their kid to go early or stay behind should pay seperately for his care in those hours - if the kid was left with a private nanny early and late in the day, the parent would pay, so why should the Govt pay just cos they are left at a school? If you have a kid and go back to work, it should be up to you to sort out the proper work hours so you are available to drop off/pick up little Timmy at the RIGHT hours. After all, 3 hours extra stuck in a school room is valuable TV-hypnotism or X-Boxing time wasted, how shocking!!!!!!!!!!
Teachers or child carers will have to hang around too, and think of things to do to amuse the little darlings. I suggest extra phonics and anti-text spelling lessons for the little buggers, nip those bad habits in the bud.
I'm curious as to where the Govt is "making available" £700m from though, with all the other urgent things in the country that need funding, they are throwing money at after-school care cos bloody working mums/dads can't knock off early?? It's like the £250m "made available" for better school dinners for kids - which I think is brilliant but has the money come forward? Is it in a lump sum or bit by bit over a few years? And how do we know ultimately that the full amount WILL be delivered to the school dinners cause?
Personally I think why should the Government and our taxes fund after-school clubs - each parent who wants their kid to go early or stay behind should pay seperately for his care in those hours - if the kid was left with a private nanny early and late in the day, the parent would pay, so why should the Govt pay just cos they are left at a school? If you have a kid and go back to work, it should be up to you to sort out the proper work hours so you are available to drop off/pick up little Timmy at the RIGHT hours. After all, 3 hours extra stuck in a school room is valuable TV-hypnotism or X-Boxing time wasted, how shocking!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Is Jacko innocent - discuss!
Let's have your opinions then cos I honestly don't know whether the Pop Paedo will get off the hook or be put away for good ... how can the jury be impartial after all the media revelations over the years? How do we know it's not just evil mothers using their sons to get millions out of him by forcing them to lie? How do we know if he's a really dangerous paedo who hides behind his fame and fortune to abuse young boys?
from what I've heard the evidence points to the latter - he says he "loves children" but you never see him with young girls, it's always been young boys. When they grow up and their voices crack and they are no longer tiny and cute, he drops them like a stone ... he openly admits to sharing a bed with a child and thinks nothing of sharing a bed with children he is not related to - fair enough if your son is feeling ill and you snuggle up in bed with him, but if your neighbour's son was feeling ill would you crawl into bed with him too?!?!
There was a British lad on GMTV this morning who had been outside the trial with his placards and protests, and who thought Jacko was innocent. When asked "is it normal for a grown man to want to share his bed with dozens of non-related young boys?" his pathetic answer was "well it's not normal for a 5-year old to be performing on worldwide TV but that's what Michael did" - er great argument!!!!
If he is convicted what then - you can hardly throw him in a normal US jail - he will be isolated and mollycoddled and have a special team to look after him at a cost of millions to the taxpayer. I say throw him in a cell with a fat guy called Bubba who REALLY likes little boys, then give him a taste of his own medicine.
If he's not convicted what then - will his circle of little boy friends continue, and will we sit back and watch and allow it to continue? Will more boys start coming forward with "he touched me here" stories, wanting $$$$ payouts? can you arrest a man AGAIN for a crime that he was aquitted of?
Jacko's recent "back trouble" stories just as the jury start to deliberate are pathetic. Is a little back problem or illness going to sway the jury??? It sure wouldn't if he were Ted Bundy ... "oh he's got a bad back let's let him go, poor lamb!" And no medical problems in the world should not sway their decisionmaking when it comes to Jacko either.
from what I've heard the evidence points to the latter - he says he "loves children" but you never see him with young girls, it's always been young boys. When they grow up and their voices crack and they are no longer tiny and cute, he drops them like a stone ... he openly admits to sharing a bed with a child and thinks nothing of sharing a bed with children he is not related to - fair enough if your son is feeling ill and you snuggle up in bed with him, but if your neighbour's son was feeling ill would you crawl into bed with him too?!?!
There was a British lad on GMTV this morning who had been outside the trial with his placards and protests, and who thought Jacko was innocent. When asked "is it normal for a grown man to want to share his bed with dozens of non-related young boys?" his pathetic answer was "well it's not normal for a 5-year old to be performing on worldwide TV but that's what Michael did" - er great argument!!!!
If he is convicted what then - you can hardly throw him in a normal US jail - he will be isolated and mollycoddled and have a special team to look after him at a cost of millions to the taxpayer. I say throw him in a cell with a fat guy called Bubba who REALLY likes little boys, then give him a taste of his own medicine.
If he's not convicted what then - will his circle of little boy friends continue, and will we sit back and watch and allow it to continue? Will more boys start coming forward with "he touched me here" stories, wanting $$$$ payouts? can you arrest a man AGAIN for a crime that he was aquitted of?
Jacko's recent "back trouble" stories just as the jury start to deliberate are pathetic. Is a little back problem or illness going to sway the jury??? It sure wouldn't if he were Ted Bundy ... "oh he's got a bad back let's let him go, poor lamb!" And no medical problems in the world should not sway their decisionmaking when it comes to Jacko either.
Monday, June 06, 2005
6th JUNE
Today is 6th June - 61 years since D-Day. The news and world media seem to have forgotten. Have you?
After last year's pomp and ceremony of the 60 year anniversary and George Bush's sickening speech about "freedom and democracy", nobody is bothering to remind us that this year is just as important for remembering ... so is every year. As i type this, veterans will be returning to the beaches of Normandy and standing on the vast plains, looking out to sea and remembering their fallen comrades. The beaches are silent and beautiful now, but in their ears they will still hear the noise of the machine guns and the screams of agony, see the tide turn red with blood, hear the deafening explosions of the bombs. Some of them have moved on and prefer not to remember, some are trapped back on that day in 1944, unable to move on because of injuries or constant nightmares.
The Veterans are getting less and less, and soon there will be none left to look us in the eye and say "remember". The war was 60 years ago and today's generation may never fully understand just what was sacrificed, therefore they may not care as much, may not buy their poppy, may laugh and take the piss about the "old farts who always talk about The War".
I am of that new generation but I have spoken to many veterans and have read many books of what they went through. I've been to Normandy and walked among the rows and rows of white crosses at Omaha Beach American Cemetary, I've stood on the stunning golden flat sands of Gold and Sword beaches, and I've walked on Omaha beach and looked up a the soaring cliffs with their gun emplacements still there, staring coldly down at me - to imagine them spitting machine gun fire at terrified young men as they were told to run TOWARDS them and take the beach - still makes me shiver when I remember it.
It was very sad to walk amongst all the immaculate white headstones. The only sound was the padding of my feet on the dewy grass as I walked along row after row of young lads, a whole generation of men lost, and some family lines discontinued for good. I rarely saw any that were over 35. They were all so young, and many shared the same day of death – 6th June 1944 age 20, 6th June 1944 age 23, 6th June 1944 age 19, 6th June 1944 age 25...and so it went on.
Throughout the visit, four words were shouting loudly in my head “Why hasn’t anyone learned?”. Why haven’t our “leaders” learned from this stupid waste of lives? Why do our politicians still put profit and big business before human lives? How can they sleep at night? How can all the Presidents and Prime Ministers and world leaders come here every year on 6th June and stand and make speeches about the “heroes” and the “glory” and the “sacrifice”, then go back home in their bulletproof limos to their daily grind of sending more young boys off to fight their oil wars? I think if I were one of those politicians I would find it very hard to look into the eyes of any D-Day Veteran and then go home and sleep at night.
So many lives lost, for the greedy power-hungry whims of so few men ...
We should never forget because remembering each year should drive home to us how fucking pointless and what a waste these wars were and still are, and how the men who start and continue them should be removed from the reins of power.
Every person on this earth should walk amongst the graves any War Cemetary in Normandy, or elsewhere in the world. School trips should take today's selfish and self-centred teens there, to slap some humility and respect into them, and teach them how NOT to run the world in the future.
Next time you see a Veteran out on the streets rattling a can to raise money for a Veterans Association, take time to speak to him, stick a quid in his can, look at his medals or his regiment badge and ask him what he did - you will find he may have some great stories to tell and you'll walk away feeling very humbled. Most of all, say thank you to him for what he did.
And so the killing continues and will doubtless continue until we've successfully managed to wipe ourselves out. Maybe that would be the better thing to do???
After last year's pomp and ceremony of the 60 year anniversary and George Bush's sickening speech about "freedom and democracy", nobody is bothering to remind us that this year is just as important for remembering ... so is every year. As i type this, veterans will be returning to the beaches of Normandy and standing on the vast plains, looking out to sea and remembering their fallen comrades. The beaches are silent and beautiful now, but in their ears they will still hear the noise of the machine guns and the screams of agony, see the tide turn red with blood, hear the deafening explosions of the bombs. Some of them have moved on and prefer not to remember, some are trapped back on that day in 1944, unable to move on because of injuries or constant nightmares.
The Veterans are getting less and less, and soon there will be none left to look us in the eye and say "remember". The war was 60 years ago and today's generation may never fully understand just what was sacrificed, therefore they may not care as much, may not buy their poppy, may laugh and take the piss about the "old farts who always talk about The War".
I am of that new generation but I have spoken to many veterans and have read many books of what they went through. I've been to Normandy and walked among the rows and rows of white crosses at Omaha Beach American Cemetary, I've stood on the stunning golden flat sands of Gold and Sword beaches, and I've walked on Omaha beach and looked up a the soaring cliffs with their gun emplacements still there, staring coldly down at me - to imagine them spitting machine gun fire at terrified young men as they were told to run TOWARDS them and take the beach - still makes me shiver when I remember it.
It was very sad to walk amongst all the immaculate white headstones. The only sound was the padding of my feet on the dewy grass as I walked along row after row of young lads, a whole generation of men lost, and some family lines discontinued for good. I rarely saw any that were over 35. They were all so young, and many shared the same day of death – 6th June 1944 age 20, 6th June 1944 age 23, 6th June 1944 age 19, 6th June 1944 age 25...and so it went on.
Throughout the visit, four words were shouting loudly in my head “Why hasn’t anyone learned?”. Why haven’t our “leaders” learned from this stupid waste of lives? Why do our politicians still put profit and big business before human lives? How can they sleep at night? How can all the Presidents and Prime Ministers and world leaders come here every year on 6th June and stand and make speeches about the “heroes” and the “glory” and the “sacrifice”, then go back home in their bulletproof limos to their daily grind of sending more young boys off to fight their oil wars? I think if I were one of those politicians I would find it very hard to look into the eyes of any D-Day Veteran and then go home and sleep at night.
So many lives lost, for the greedy power-hungry whims of so few men ...
We should never forget because remembering each year should drive home to us how fucking pointless and what a waste these wars were and still are, and how the men who start and continue them should be removed from the reins of power.
Every person on this earth should walk amongst the graves any War Cemetary in Normandy, or elsewhere in the world. School trips should take today's selfish and self-centred teens there, to slap some humility and respect into them, and teach them how NOT to run the world in the future.
Next time you see a Veteran out on the streets rattling a can to raise money for a Veterans Association, take time to speak to him, stick a quid in his can, look at his medals or his regiment badge and ask him what he did - you will find he may have some great stories to tell and you'll walk away feeling very humbled. Most of all, say thank you to him for what he did.
And so the killing continues and will doubtless continue until we've successfully managed to wipe ourselves out. Maybe that would be the better thing to do???
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Queue here please
Half-term again and once more I marvel at the stupidity of the average Human Being. Why do people get up late, drive into town at lunchtime, on a HALF TERM day, and expect to get a parking place in the city centre mall car park???? HELLO??
Norwich centre has been jammed up by queues of Chelsea-tractor driving twats, waiting for hours, queueing, blocking junctions and getting all pissed off because they can't get into the Castle Mall to satisfy their bored whingeing teen's appetite for half-term shopping.
FFS Get up early and get in there for 9am shops opening time, then you will get parked, have crowd-free shopping, and get out again all before the other idiots have got out of bed! Or get a Park & Ride into town or just a plain old bus ....
Norwich centre has been jammed up by queues of Chelsea-tractor driving twats, waiting for hours, queueing, blocking junctions and getting all pissed off because they can't get into the Castle Mall to satisfy their bored whingeing teen's appetite for half-term shopping.
FFS Get up early and get in there for 9am shops opening time, then you will get parked, have crowd-free shopping, and get out again all before the other idiots have got out of bed! Or get a Park & Ride into town or just a plain old bus ....
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Can we stoop any lower
ITV have really taken the cake with their "Celebrity Love Island". FFS can we scrape any more off the bottom of the barrel?
Concept: Take a bunch of Z-List "Celebs" who are desperate for any sort of publicity, shove them all on a Fijiian island, and hope they shag eachothers brains out. Oh but we can't show the shagging, cos we're a responsible family TV channel. That's why we are rotting your brains with this mindless, pointless CRAP that dumbs down TV even more.
The "Celebrities" include such luminaries as:
* Beckham-shagger Recebba Loos whose last TV deed included wanking off a pig
* Media-whore-orgy-freak Abi Titmuss (Hereafter known as "Scabi Titface")
* Liz from Atomic Kitten (you know, the cute one that can NEARLY sing)
* Once-cool Geordie TV presenter Jayne Middlemiss
* Wannabe "IT" girl Lady Isabella Hervey
* Calum Best (only claim to fame seems to be the famous alcoholic footballer dad)
* "Nightclub-owner" and Jodie-Marsh-shagger Fran Cosgrave, who is quoted on the breathlessly syrupy ITV website as saying "All you needed to romance me used to be two pints of Guinness, a bag of crisps and a push-up bra"
Now these are the kind of people you want to take home to your mum aren't they? They just EPITOMISE romance in every way! What a fucking excellent choice of wonderful people to bracket under the word LOVE!!!!!
I tuned into this one night and was amazed at the levels of boredom, absurdity and banality of the shite they wibbled on about. THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT FUCKING CELEBRITIES!!! The very word CELEBRITY has been shat on, cheapened, and devalued beyond any hope of rescue, by these piss-poor excuses for human beings that continually invade the tabloid rags, the chat shows, the "Sleb" magazines, and anywhere else that may afford them any sort of publicity. They have achieved nothing but airing their filthy rancid knob-cheese, breast implants, and kiss and tell rubbish to a population that seems to find who they shag interesting and whose continuing interest in their no-hoper lives will keep fuelling trash TV like this until we all fucking wake up and start ignoring these filthy turds of humanity.
The "Sleazy Senorita" Rebecca Loos once again dragged up her Beckham affair and wibbled on about how Posh weighed 8 stone - WOW! I was transfixed! Scabi Titface whined on about orgies and lesbian affairs and porn TV, and Fran burbled about how he had his heart broken at the tender age of 19. I cried buckets .... really ... no, I did really!
The ITV website is a must for a laugh a minute, the webmasters there must have sick bagks permenantly installed at their desks. Tune in at http://www.celebrityloveisland.tv/ for such gems as:
"Given that our Fijian hideaway is ram-packed full of megastars, it’s sometimes difficult to remember who they actually all are" and "Abi Titmuss is famous for many things beginning with ‘s’, but until tonight you might not have thought that spelling was one of them"
I personally would like to track down the morons who conceived this programme and put them up against a firing squad. No, actually that's too good for them, too quick a death. Maybe force them to spend an hour with Ms Titface or Ms Loos, to listen to them whine about how they have been "unfairly treated" and "misrepresented" by the media that they so intensly court.
I know that "reality" TV is really a farce, all pre-arranged, all planned out, all geared to shock and to bring in viewers. My own small brush with Reality TV opened my eyes to it all, but these Slebs willingly go along with it and do whatever they are told, like puppets, like those people on 80s TV-fest The Word "The Hopefuls" who did anything to get on TV, including drinking their own puke, bathing in cow shit, and snogging toothless grannies.
Our Love Island Puppets will happily get horny with whoever the programmers tell them to, safe in the knowledge it will bring along another kiss and tell front page SUN newspaper headline, ousting such unimportant headlines as "Iraq security chief assassinated". Dutifully followed by more gushing OK Magazine "How we found love as we shagged up a palm tree" articles. And so it will continue - AS LONG AS IDIOTS OUT THERE CARRY ON WATCHING AND READING ABOUT THESE PEOPLE.
YOU HAVE TO STOP - NOW! It's the only way to stem this flow of TV TRIPE. It worked for "Celebrity Wrestling", that was withdrawn after poor viewing figures, and it can work for Love Island and any other Reality TV programme that is foisted upon us. FFS Big Brother is hitting our screens soon, isn't that enough tripe?????
Last Saturday's Daily Mail featured an article by ex-Mirror editor Piers Morgan, about how the reign of Z-list celebs is now over. Ironic for a guy who helped to build the Celebrity Culture in the first place, but I bloody hope he's right.
Concept: Take a bunch of Z-List "Celebs" who are desperate for any sort of publicity, shove them all on a Fijiian island, and hope they shag eachothers brains out. Oh but we can't show the shagging, cos we're a responsible family TV channel. That's why we are rotting your brains with this mindless, pointless CRAP that dumbs down TV even more.
The "Celebrities" include such luminaries as:
* Beckham-shagger Recebba Loos whose last TV deed included wanking off a pig
* Media-whore-orgy-freak Abi Titmuss (Hereafter known as "Scabi Titface")
* Liz from Atomic Kitten (you know, the cute one that can NEARLY sing)
* Once-cool Geordie TV presenter Jayne Middlemiss
* Wannabe "IT" girl Lady Isabella Hervey
* Calum Best (only claim to fame seems to be the famous alcoholic footballer dad)
* "Nightclub-owner" and Jodie-Marsh-shagger Fran Cosgrave, who is quoted on the breathlessly syrupy ITV website as saying "All you needed to romance me used to be two pints of Guinness, a bag of crisps and a push-up bra"
Now these are the kind of people you want to take home to your mum aren't they? They just EPITOMISE romance in every way! What a fucking excellent choice of wonderful people to bracket under the word LOVE!!!!!
I tuned into this one night and was amazed at the levels of boredom, absurdity and banality of the shite they wibbled on about. THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT FUCKING CELEBRITIES!!! The very word CELEBRITY has been shat on, cheapened, and devalued beyond any hope of rescue, by these piss-poor excuses for human beings that continually invade the tabloid rags, the chat shows, the "Sleb" magazines, and anywhere else that may afford them any sort of publicity. They have achieved nothing but airing their filthy rancid knob-cheese, breast implants, and kiss and tell rubbish to a population that seems to find who they shag interesting and whose continuing interest in their no-hoper lives will keep fuelling trash TV like this until we all fucking wake up and start ignoring these filthy turds of humanity.
The "Sleazy Senorita" Rebecca Loos once again dragged up her Beckham affair and wibbled on about how Posh weighed 8 stone - WOW! I was transfixed! Scabi Titface whined on about orgies and lesbian affairs and porn TV, and Fran burbled about how he had his heart broken at the tender age of 19. I cried buckets .... really ... no, I did really!
The ITV website is a must for a laugh a minute, the webmasters there must have sick bagks permenantly installed at their desks. Tune in at http://www.celebrityloveisland.tv/ for such gems as:
"Given that our Fijian hideaway is ram-packed full of megastars, it’s sometimes difficult to remember who they actually all are" and "Abi Titmuss is famous for many things beginning with ‘s’, but until tonight you might not have thought that spelling was one of them"
I personally would like to track down the morons who conceived this programme and put them up against a firing squad. No, actually that's too good for them, too quick a death. Maybe force them to spend an hour with Ms Titface or Ms Loos, to listen to them whine about how they have been "unfairly treated" and "misrepresented" by the media that they so intensly court.
I know that "reality" TV is really a farce, all pre-arranged, all planned out, all geared to shock and to bring in viewers. My own small brush with Reality TV opened my eyes to it all, but these Slebs willingly go along with it and do whatever they are told, like puppets, like those people on 80s TV-fest The Word "The Hopefuls" who did anything to get on TV, including drinking their own puke, bathing in cow shit, and snogging toothless grannies.
Our Love Island Puppets will happily get horny with whoever the programmers tell them to, safe in the knowledge it will bring along another kiss and tell front page SUN newspaper headline, ousting such unimportant headlines as "Iraq security chief assassinated". Dutifully followed by more gushing OK Magazine "How we found love as we shagged up a palm tree" articles. And so it will continue - AS LONG AS IDIOTS OUT THERE CARRY ON WATCHING AND READING ABOUT THESE PEOPLE.
YOU HAVE TO STOP - NOW! It's the only way to stem this flow of TV TRIPE. It worked for "Celebrity Wrestling", that was withdrawn after poor viewing figures, and it can work for Love Island and any other Reality TV programme that is foisted upon us. FFS Big Brother is hitting our screens soon, isn't that enough tripe?????
Last Saturday's Daily Mail featured an article by ex-Mirror editor Piers Morgan, about how the reign of Z-list celebs is now over. Ironic for a guy who helped to build the Celebrity Culture in the first place, but I bloody hope he's right.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Puschairs
Today it was mayhem in town, and the main culprits were fucking PUSHCHAIRS . Every aisle in every shop was blocked by them, paired with a woman who didn't give a stuff about the fact she was blocking everyone's path, while she browsed the £1.99 socks in Primark.
Why on earth are pushchairs nowadays so BIG?? They are like 4x4s of the Buggy World, specially the bloody "sports" 3-wheeler ones, with their huge fat wheels, industrial quality tyres, and massive undertray that is big enough to carry another kid, and the ridiculous plastic bubble "rain cover" so you can seal your kid in at the slightest sign of humidity.
Why do we humans have to have everything BIG, it's Americanism coming over here and it has to be stopped. First the Chelsea Tractors: why drive a normal hatchback to Asda when you can drive a fucking huge gas-guzzling beast there instead?? "It's bigger, I feel safer" say the stupid mums who drive them. Is it the same attitude about pushchairs now? "It's bigger, my hermatically sealed-asthmatic-allergic-to-everything-never-been-near-a-germ child will be safer in it, safer from dangerous grannies and their walking sticks, or uncaring teens who may throw a Mars Bar wrapper at them.
I started out politely, saying "excuse me" and waiting to be let thru. But they carried on browsing and only moved their pushchairs about 2" out of my way, allowing me to squeeze through, holding my bag up to avoid smacking little Timmy on the head as he sat there wiping his bogies over the clothes. Or they would glare at me and look hassled as they moved, as if I was the one causing the problem. Then as I stood browsing myself, they barged past me with a curt "excuse me" as they skinned my ankles with their tractor tyres if I didn't move fast enough. If I'd had my industrial-thickness VANS trainers on I'd have not budged my foot just to see if they'd ram me repeatedly to get me out of their way.
I walked through to the next shop and was frequently cut up by more women with their child-tractors as they walked right across my path, forcing me to stop in my tracks as they ponced by. One woman was pushing a young kid that was old enough to NOT be in a chair anymore but was as fat as butter - I resisted the urge to tell her to make the little brat walk, but heaven forbid that he may drop his Walls Feast he was guzzling.
These new über-buggies also take up the luggage racks on buses and trains too, so if you've had a hard trek around TopShop and you want to dump your overpriced hipsters anywhere, well tough! One über-buggy takes up the whole bloody rack, and you get clobbered if you sit or stand nearby when mummy wrenches it out with one hand while hanging on to a screaming little Timmy with the other.
I remember the old buggies when I was younger - skinny little things that carried your kid, and one hook for a shopping bag and that was it. Simple, easy to handle and functional. I think todays chariot-wielders should pay "Buggy Tax" on them and be forced to undertake driver training so they can learn the etiquette of interacting with humans in shops, malls and on paths. Start the legislation now!
Why on earth are pushchairs nowadays so BIG?? They are like 4x4s of the Buggy World, specially the bloody "sports" 3-wheeler ones, with their huge fat wheels, industrial quality tyres, and massive undertray that is big enough to carry another kid, and the ridiculous plastic bubble "rain cover" so you can seal your kid in at the slightest sign of humidity.
Why do we humans have to have everything BIG, it's Americanism coming over here and it has to be stopped. First the Chelsea Tractors: why drive a normal hatchback to Asda when you can drive a fucking huge gas-guzzling beast there instead?? "It's bigger, I feel safer" say the stupid mums who drive them. Is it the same attitude about pushchairs now? "It's bigger, my hermatically sealed-asthmatic-allergic-to-everything-never-been-near-a-germ child will be safer in it, safer from dangerous grannies and their walking sticks, or uncaring teens who may throw a Mars Bar wrapper at them.
I started out politely, saying "excuse me" and waiting to be let thru. But they carried on browsing and only moved their pushchairs about 2" out of my way, allowing me to squeeze through, holding my bag up to avoid smacking little Timmy on the head as he sat there wiping his bogies over the clothes. Or they would glare at me and look hassled as they moved, as if I was the one causing the problem. Then as I stood browsing myself, they barged past me with a curt "excuse me" as they skinned my ankles with their tractor tyres if I didn't move fast enough. If I'd had my industrial-thickness VANS trainers on I'd have not budged my foot just to see if they'd ram me repeatedly to get me out of their way.
I walked through to the next shop and was frequently cut up by more women with their child-tractors as they walked right across my path, forcing me to stop in my tracks as they ponced by. One woman was pushing a young kid that was old enough to NOT be in a chair anymore but was as fat as butter - I resisted the urge to tell her to make the little brat walk, but heaven forbid that he may drop his Walls Feast he was guzzling.
These new über-buggies also take up the luggage racks on buses and trains too, so if you've had a hard trek around TopShop and you want to dump your overpriced hipsters anywhere, well tough! One über-buggy takes up the whole bloody rack, and you get clobbered if you sit or stand nearby when mummy wrenches it out with one hand while hanging on to a screaming little Timmy with the other.
I remember the old buggies when I was younger - skinny little things that carried your kid, and one hook for a shopping bag and that was it. Simple, easy to handle and functional. I think todays chariot-wielders should pay "Buggy Tax" on them and be forced to undertake driver training so they can learn the etiquette of interacting with humans in shops, malls and on paths. Start the legislation now!
Friday, May 13, 2005
WAKE UP
Been back in the UK for 5 days now, and it's shit. I hate having my life dictated to me by the ticking of a clock again, I hate having to rush cos there's no time left, or to be frustrated cos work is crap and I'm clock watching, only the clock isn't moving. I found myself rushing in my lunch hour today as I had so many errands to run, then I stopped myself and thought why should I rush, whatever I need to get can wait, I'll go another time. I'm through getting so stressed and worked up about needless meaningless crap. So I slowed down and ambled, and felt a lot better.
The streets of Norwich teemed with people, people with shiny new carrier bags full of crap - crap they don't really need but have convinced themselves that they really want, must have, else they will shrivel up. In a few weeks or months those same treasured posessions will doubtless be in a landfill or in a charity shop. Stressed mums dragged their kids in and out of McDonalds, satisfying their every whim just to get 5 minute of peace, before the sugary chemical milkshake kicked in and off they went again. Tubby teens were out in force, eating their crisps and ice lollies, yet still yearning for the body of a supermodel.
Everyone was preoccupied, everyone else was clock-watching, everyone was in a rush. But occasionally you spot people who look different, they walk different, their eyes are different, the way they watch the other teeming masses; it's as if they - like me - are the ones who have woken up, who have realised what the life they used to lead was, and now want nothing more to do with it.
Like in "The Matrix", when you take the right pill and you wake up...WAKE UP, and it hits you that your entire life was a farce, you followed the masses, you did what they did and what they expected you to do, and it all turned out to be a bunch of crap. Your eyes are opened and what you now see is ugly and has to be changed, and it's up to you to fight and change it, make it better, make it what YOU want it to be, not what the tainted, biased and controlled Governments and media want it to be, not what the crappy "fashion" and "lifestyle" mags want it to be, not what your friends and family expect it to be.
I'm through buying meaningless crap so the money will be used for better things, things that get me away from this grimy city life and help me to escape and get some peace. I'm going through my entire flat and gutting it of junk - only the most sentimental things will remain, everything else is going on Freecycle for other people who want it to use. I've kept things in boxes for over 4 years now, and never used them - why? What's the fucking point of that? They are going, it's all going. First clean out the flat, then start on my life.
Ten days in Dahab made me realise that I want more freedom, a simpler life, less shit to worry about, and to be as far away as possible from this modern life and the way we all live it.
The streets of Norwich teemed with people, people with shiny new carrier bags full of crap - crap they don't really need but have convinced themselves that they really want, must have, else they will shrivel up. In a few weeks or months those same treasured posessions will doubtless be in a landfill or in a charity shop. Stressed mums dragged their kids in and out of McDonalds, satisfying their every whim just to get 5 minute of peace, before the sugary chemical milkshake kicked in and off they went again. Tubby teens were out in force, eating their crisps and ice lollies, yet still yearning for the body of a supermodel.
Everyone was preoccupied, everyone else was clock-watching, everyone was in a rush. But occasionally you spot people who look different, they walk different, their eyes are different, the way they watch the other teeming masses; it's as if they - like me - are the ones who have woken up, who have realised what the life they used to lead was, and now want nothing more to do with it.
Like in "The Matrix", when you take the right pill and you wake up...WAKE UP, and it hits you that your entire life was a farce, you followed the masses, you did what they did and what they expected you to do, and it all turned out to be a bunch of crap. Your eyes are opened and what you now see is ugly and has to be changed, and it's up to you to fight and change it, make it better, make it what YOU want it to be, not what the tainted, biased and controlled Governments and media want it to be, not what the crappy "fashion" and "lifestyle" mags want it to be, not what your friends and family expect it to be.
I'm through buying meaningless crap so the money will be used for better things, things that get me away from this grimy city life and help me to escape and get some peace. I'm going through my entire flat and gutting it of junk - only the most sentimental things will remain, everything else is going on Freecycle for other people who want it to use. I've kept things in boxes for over 4 years now, and never used them - why? What's the fucking point of that? They are going, it's all going. First clean out the flat, then start on my life.
Ten days in Dahab made me realise that I want more freedom, a simpler life, less shit to worry about, and to be as far away as possible from this modern life and the way we all live it.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Kids and junk food
This from Pinky's blog, interesting, yet seems common sense to me but most parents choose to ignore it. What's it going to take before it finally sinks in that processed foods, fatty foods and sugary foods are BAD when fed to your kids every bloody day!!! How long can parents continue to be so blind and not notice little Timmy is 3 times his normal weight? Or so hyperactive that he can't sit still for more than 30 seconds??? Are they going to have to raise the issue in an episode of EastEnders, just to seep through to the nation's conscience???
Quote
Kids and junk food
'Diets high in processed foods are causing bad behaviour and learning difficulties in children, scientists have warned. They claim junk food stops the brain working properly, leading to underachievement and a host of disorders.
Such foods not only lack the vitamins, minerals and essential fatty acids that boost brain power but actually reduce the body's uptake of nutrients that improve concentration, a study has found.
Patrick Holford, who runs the Brain Bio Centre which tackles mental health problems through nutrition, said: "We're seeing outrageous imbalances in brain chemistry caused by the kinds of foods that sadly millions of kids are eating, and no one's doing anything about it. These kids are digging their own graves with a knife and fork. We know some fats found in processed and fried foods should be avoided."
In a study of children with learning and behavioural disorders such as dyslexia and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, half the children were given omega-3 essential fats capsules for three months, while the remainder were given "dummy" treatment with capsules of olive oil. In some cases, children improved their reading age by up to four years.
Dr Richardson, who is also co-director of the Food and Behaviour Research charity, said that unhealthy dietary fats can actually displace the healthy fats in the brain. Known as trans fats, they are mostly found in processed foods such as crisps, biscuits and cakes.
Many teenagers get 40 per cent of their calories from fat. The researchers are worried that such poor diets could permanently damage brain development.'
Quote
Kids and junk food
'Diets high in processed foods are causing bad behaviour and learning difficulties in children, scientists have warned. They claim junk food stops the brain working properly, leading to underachievement and a host of disorders.
Such foods not only lack the vitamins, minerals and essential fatty acids that boost brain power but actually reduce the body's uptake of nutrients that improve concentration, a study has found.
Patrick Holford, who runs the Brain Bio Centre which tackles mental health problems through nutrition, said: "We're seeing outrageous imbalances in brain chemistry caused by the kinds of foods that sadly millions of kids are eating, and no one's doing anything about it. These kids are digging their own graves with a knife and fork. We know some fats found in processed and fried foods should be avoided."
In a study of children with learning and behavioural disorders such as dyslexia and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, half the children were given omega-3 essential fats capsules for three months, while the remainder were given "dummy" treatment with capsules of olive oil. In some cases, children improved their reading age by up to four years.
Dr Richardson, who is also co-director of the Food and Behaviour Research charity, said that unhealthy dietary fats can actually displace the healthy fats in the brain. Known as trans fats, they are mostly found in processed foods such as crisps, biscuits and cakes.
Many teenagers get 40 per cent of their calories from fat. The researchers are worried that such poor diets could permanently damage brain development.'
Monday, May 09, 2005
Ten days in Dahab ...
Some people go on holiday, get sunburn, drink too much, catch an STD, buy tacky souvenirs then go home back to their life and their job, and allow the holiday memories to fade, accepting the life they live and not feeling any urge to change it. And some people travel to countries and see how others live, work and play, then find themselves examining their own lives and wanting to change them. My diving towel is still damp, it still smells of the dive centre, it has sand in it, it brings back the warmth of the sunshine to me, I never want it to dry out, I never want to wash it.
I was looking forward to getting the hell out of the UK for 10 days of sun and scuba, travelling with my brother Iain and his girlie Hosanna, and their friends Darryl and Philippa. Gooseberry Central travelling with two couples but what the hell, I needed a holiday. We flew out with Thompsons holidays who projected the image of being a very “young and trendy airline” with their new 757 resplendent with uncomfortable plastic Recaro-branded seats, male air hostesses that were camper than a row of pink tents, and TV screens playing trendy “Yoof” stuff including J-Lo videos , Little Britain, The Office, and the dire “Ocean’s 12”. £3 for headphones if you wanted to watch though, or plug your own headphones in but then you only hear the sound in mono. Food madam? £7 for two sandwiches, or a “meal deal” consisting of individual portions of plastic food sealed in plastic bags or tubs, eaten with a plastic knife and fork sealed in plastic bags – a feast of environmentally friendly food packaging that would take hundreds of years to rot.
Average age of the plane inhabitants was about early to mid-thirties, and most of them were going to Sharm-el-Sheikh to sit by pools and roast themselves during the day, go to meat-market nightclubs to get pissed by night, gamble all their money in the casinos, get a shag from anyone who was up for it, then convince themselves they had a “fooking great time”. Guys wandered up and down the plane aisles in their “Amsterdam Ganja Tour ‘04” t-shirts, and girls wearing their ill-fitting hipsters showing their nice spare-tyre overhangs babbled incessantly about their tans. We were perversely fascinated by one girl who had the strangest-looking plucked eyebrows in the history of eyebrows, she looked like a brunette Penelope Keith but her eyebrows were the shapes of square brackets ], giving her such a strange look I was stopped from reaching for my camera to get photographic evidence…
We landed at Sharm and were told the temperature was 33oC – big cheer from all on the plane, fucking brilliant. Walking out of the plane we were hit by a hairdryer-warm blast of hot air, I felt my skin shrivel immediately, it was glorious – warm warm sun sun sun, I couldn’t wipe the fat grin off my face. Luggage queue, visa queue, stared at by various Arabian men, passport blah blah and we were met by a driver from the dive centre for the hour long journey to Dahab.
What a dustbowl of a journey … sand, dust, more dust, rubble, half built roads, Bedouin camps, camels, sand, did I mention sand? The minibus was boiling even with all the windows open, and I was already sticking to the plastic seats. Craggy mountains rose out of the ground like teeth of the desert, they looked like they would crumble at the slightest touch. The sky was blue, blue, so blue and not a cloud in sight.
The Driving Code of Dahab is pure genius:
* Drive on whatever side of the road you like as long as there’s nothing coming.
* If there IS something coming you can still drive on the wrong side of the road but remember to pull over just before they scream past you with horns blaring.
* If you’re talking on a mobile phone while driving, remember to look where you’re going while still driving on the wrong side of the road.
* When any driver overtakes you or if YOU overtake someone, you have to sound your horn to say “I’m coming so don’t swerve”.
* Take the racing line around corners, even if they are blind bends, and at night time don’t turn your headlights on until you see an approaching driver, when you promptly turn them on, beep as he passes, then turn them off again.
* When in Dahab feel free to grind to a halt in the middle of the road to chat to another driver, and move on when you please.
* Avoid the street goats unless you’re in a rush then just hope they don’t bend your already-bent jeep too much.
* Remember to leer at any passing female Tourist, while not looking where you’re going and trying to avoid goats and street-kids.
It’s hard to know where to start when describing Dahab. It’s being aggressively developed now and promoted as a major Dive Resort. Hotels are cropping up everywhere and there is already a Hilton on the outskirts of the city, resplendent in it’s pristine white Arabian architecture, with it’s manicured lawns sucking up precious water from the 24/7 sprinklers. So many new developments but as far as I know, no new sewage plant to cope with the influx of Tourist Shit that will doubtlessly be pumped out into the sea via a long pipeline.
I was scared shitless but the build quality of some of the new hotels – we’re talking seriously wobbly-looking brickwork with mortar that looks like it’s been randomly dropped on, patted down with hands, then squashed with another wobbly brick on top. Solid foundations, umm didn’t look like it! Then all cleverly disguised with lovely white plasterwork. How the f*ck do they stay up in a strong wind? But they obviously succeed because I saw no crumbled buildings. However, I’d advise not walking onto any brick hotel balconies in Dahab, specially if there is a fat person on the same balcony – could just be enough to tip the scales, so to speak…
After an hour of dangerous driving and a tape of brash Arabian Music set to repeat, we rolled up to the Marine Garden Bedouin camp, where we’d be staying. A large sandy courtyard flanked by the rooms and a large “Wadi” chillout area, it looked very nice. Our rooms were basic and mine had two single mattresses on the floor, some shelves made of wood cartons, one window, one socket and one light bulb. Someone had attempted to paint stuff on the rough white-plastered walls – stars, a house, some flowers, the faded chipped paint was very “Changing Rooms” rustic, only this was genuine not Linda-Barker fakery. The ceiling was smooth wood planks, each painted a different colour, and sunlight slanting through the gaps. I hoped it wouldn’t rain but I guess that’s stating the obvious … We met Salah, the dude who ran the place, dumped our gear, sat in the Wadi and I had my first taste of Bedouin tea, which is served in a tiny glass, is the colour of a morning urine sample, and is massively sweetened. Er yum!
The toilet block was a seperate building and was kept fastidiously clean by a very quiet guy who kept to himself but was constantly in attendance mopping the floors, emptying the poopie paper bins, and unblocking the loos that constantly blocked with the tiniest of turds - need larger U-bends guys ... the floor was tiled with VERY shiny and slippy tiles, and when wet they proved lethal, so if you were suffering from Dehli Belly and made a dash for the bog you were very likely to go flying onto your back and end up lying in a pool of your own poop with a huge bruise on your head.
Suddenly we were surrounded by Egyptian cats, and even better, about 7 or 8 kittens. Now I still maintain that Cats Are Evil, but after 10 days of Egyptian Kittenry I’ll admit to a soft spot for them – but only Egyptian cats, who are way cooler than fat, fluffy and pampered British cats. Egyptian cats are thin and sleek with small heads, very pointy ears, and a much more laid back attitude. The kittens were fab, a sprawling mass of big velvety paws that gently swatted anything in sight, wide and innocent eyes that never missed a movement, tiny tails that they constantly tried to eat or chase, and best of all, Banzai kung-fu giant “kitten leaps” on top of eachother that resulted in a rugby scrum of open mouths, swatting paws, squirming bodies, and high-pitched mewling. We had our breakfast with them every morning and they fell asleep in our laps, suckled from their mum, slept, then ran off to do some more Banzai kitten-rugby.
We dumped our stuff and walked to the dive centre “Desert Divers” (http://www.desert-divers.com/), a luvvely set-up full of friendly people who all knew Iain from when he worked there last year. I was introduced to too many people whose names I forgot immediately, and who told me that I had the same nose as my brother, which was a bit annoying cos he has a massive conk and I didn’t think mine was that big.
After sorting out our dive gear we went for a walk up the main drag of Dahab sea front. This is a bizarre fuck-up in the planning stakes because for some stupid reason they decided to build all the shops and restaurants right on the beach, then pave over the rest of the beach, leaving only 3m of beach in some areas. Other larger areas of beach have been taken over by the restaurants, who put shades and seating out there, and even build out into the sea by filling it with rocks and sand and putting their tables on there. Um why not build further back from the beach in the first place, and bloody leave some of it there for us to sit on!
By now it was dark and warm and bliss – people ambled, street dogs wandered, stretched, yawned then promptly lay down where they stood, regardless of whether it was in your way or not. Sleek cats frequented the outdoor eating areas, becoming your best friend if you had food on your table, and little kittens bumbled around and amused tourists with their squeaky mewls and their paw-swatting antics. Conflicting music of all genres crashed out at you as you walked along, some of it modern Western music and some of it grating Arabic prayer-music with bashing percussion that set your teeth on edge.
Young local kids, mostly scruffy little girls, accosted us with their plastic bags of anklets and bracelets and things made of beads, their cries of “buy one!” or “I know you want one!” hounding us as we walked by. I gave in and bought a nice key-ringy thing from one of them, she sat right up next to me and blinked up at me with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen, she had skin that would make a supermodel cry and she sniffled thru her bunged-up nose and waited patiently while I looked at her wares. The 0.0004% of me that is maternal said “awww she’s cute” while the other 99.99999% of me that is NOT maternal screamed “stop it, stick to your pet rats they don’t fuck up your life!!”. For 10 Egyptian Pounds/1 English Pound, the keyring was mine, and a fine piece of beadwork it is too. If it helps buy her food then great.
People sat on the main beach wall just watching other people, talking, making friends, laughing. Shops were open late selling a myriad of stuff, some of it horribly tacky and some of it beautifully crafted, their wares spilling out onto the pavements and shop fronts, the owners inviting you to come in and have a browse. The first Arabic phrase I learned was “la shukran” for “no thank you”. However, the shopping was brilliant and so cheap, fooking bargains galore to be had … I loved arguing and bartering with the owners, who always gave you an inflated price to start with, and always ended up selling it to you for under half that price.
The “Restaurant Boys” or RB’s as I shall now call them, were unrelenting. “Ahhhh you come eat with us my frrrriends” they said, while directing us towards their seating areas. We La Shukran’d ourselves to death over the ten days we were there, they never gave up in their quest to lure us into their lairs. “How are you, what are you doing, where you going, where you from, you come sit with me and talk to me” all the time, and if you said “England” most of them went “Ahhhh luvvely jubbuly” or “one banana two banana”, as if they had been taught to say it parrot fashion by idiot tourists, like people teaching a parrot how to say rude words. It got to the point where we took the back streets just to avoid “running the gauntlet” but on the occasions that we had to walk past them, I was always singled out because I was the only one who wasn’t walking with a boyfriend, despite my fake wedding ring to try and deter them. Because I find it hard to be openly nasty to people and say “fuck off and stop bothering me” I was an easy target.
Ahhhh Bibo, Akim, Waleet, Ahmet, Akhmed, they all wanted “dreeenks” with me, to “sit and talk” with me, to wax lyrical into my ear, to say all the things they save up for any other tourist girl they see, only I wasn’t so gullible. It’s fun, you say yes yes nod your head smile, have a laugh, take the piss, “La Shukran” then walk away, and the next day you have to repeat it all over again – with every single one of them. I have to admit some of them were rather tasty treats but I’d not touch any of them with a barge pole.
Right, onto the diving. Utterly fabulous. I can only describe it as swimming into the cinema screen during the coral scenes of “Finding Nemo”, only minus the talking fish and Disney political-correctness and moralising. You’ve all seen those aerial shots of New York City where the camera is looking right down onto the rooftops and onto the streets, as the skyscrapers pass slowly beneath you and the cars look like ants zooming inbetween them … I felt as if I was flying slowly over vast, vast coral cities, with the fish as the cars, zooming inbetween each piece of coral, going about their daily lives totally oblivious to the huge hulking shape of my hovering above them. So many colours and textures I can’t even describe, all blending together to produce stunning natural pieces of pure coral art. How I wished to be freed from the constraints of my heavy tank and noisy regulator and bubbling breath, to swim underwater silently and listen to the sounds of the reef, the snap, crackle and pop of the corals, to escape into the silence from the noisy world above, to never surface.
The dive sites we visited were the Eel Garden, a descent onto flat white sands that is carpeted with question-mark shaped eels that stick out of the sands and catch food from the currents. (http://web.ukonline.co.uk/peter.stensones/photos/photos_big_picture.htm?diving/dahab/new_year_2003/eel_garden.jpg) When you approach them they zip down into the sand again, and if you land gently on the sea bed and wait, they come out again right in front of you and continue feeding – awesome. Also visited Golden Blocks, Three Pools, The Lighthouse, which featured a lovely and massive Gorgonian Fan Coral that was 30m down, and Coral Gardens which was my favourite site of the whole holiday, The Islands, and the notorious Blue Hole – a site that has claimed many divers lives, but is a must see:
Descending from the Bells entry point, we went down a narrow ravine that looked out into the ocean, then at 27m out the ravine to look back and face a HUGE wall of coral and sea life that plummeted down, and down, and down … a yawning, abyssal, uncharted chasm of nothing but blue, blue underneath you, blue on top of you, blue to one side, and a visual overload of corals and sea life on the other. If you looked down for too long you felt that the darkness below you would suddenly suck you into it’s depths, never to be seen again. The lingering invisible threat of “what’s down there?” seeped into my mind and I had to start looking at corals and pretty fish, banishing thoughts of abyssal monsters that would come out and snap at my feet.
At 56m there is an archway and a passage that leads into the sea, it is trying to find this archway that many inexperienced divers have got Nitrogen Narcosis (http://www.scuba-doc.com/n2narc.htm) from the depth, and have lost their lives. Memorial stones are set into the rock in tribute to these divers and also as a warning to any idiots out there.
We saw some divers going deeper than us and as I hung suspended (yep, finally sorted my bloody buoyancy) over the chasm watching them fade away down into the darker blue, watching their streams of bubbles rise slowly to the surface like a glittering silver curtain, I couldn’t help but shiver inwardly – I’d never want to trade places with them. Vern, a smashing retired Aussie bloke and instructor dived the Hole with us and dared me to go down the Bells Chimney head first not feet first, I said yes but only if he dived in the niff – he refused but I still went head first down the chimney .
We also dived The Canyon, an essential dive for all fanatics of caves and cavern diving. A narrow crack in the seabed at 18m marks the main opening into the canyon, which depths reach over 30 metres inside. Snaking its way up from the depths, it emerges in a glorious, glassfish filled coral dome, the Fish Bowl. When the Canyon is full of divers you can hover over the top and watch the air bubbles stream out from the narrow crack, quite a spectacle when merged with the huge shoals of purple-eyed goldfish that are also there. When you’re actually IN the canyon you lie on your back and just look up through the opening at the blue above you and the divers hovering and waiting their turn (http://www.thisisvlad.com/gallery/albums/dahab/mini_IMG_5813.jpg). Some great photos to be had but the depth made my cheapo camera refuse to wind on – arse!
My brother was impressive as a diver, he had gone out to Dahab last year and had started with his Open Water certification then gone right up the ranks to be a Divemaster, then started work taking groups out to the dive sites. His buoyancy was spot on (apparently I’d been 50% overweight with mine for my last 4 years of diving!) and cos he’s a lanky skinny bugger, he looked like a sort of fucked-up bastard love-child of a seal and a stringbean in his wetsuit. Because he has long hair down to his bum he also has to wear a rubber hood to keep it under control, which added to the “Captain Condom” image. He soared slowly through the water with only a flick of his fins, floated upside down looking under corals and pointing stuff out to us, and on one occasion at the Coral Garden, he spread his arms and slowly rotated in an aeroplane “barrel-roll” style as he passed over the corals, seemingly doing so out of the sheer joy and freedom of being underwater and a witness to some of nature’s finest creations.
I was flooded with awe, happiness, sheer open-mouthed-nearly-popped-out-my-regulator-amazement at the beauty that was in front of me, but at the same time I felt a constant sadness that the downfall of these beautiful reefs was already set in stone, the destruction had begun, the roads being built to bus tourists in and the flood of divers trekking in and out of each dive site entry point … the fabulous visual feast and biological diversity that these and other reefs in the world offer is also their death and downfall. Snorkelers were seen walking on the tops of the reef, we spotted snapped coral, found bits of it in chillout areas, collected plastic bags during our dives, saw the inevitable Coke can on the sea bed. There were plenty of respectful divers there for sure, but there is always that small percentage who truly seem to not give a shit, and think that the one seashell they collect, or the one fag butt they flick into the sand, or the one plastic bottle or bag they leave to blow around “won’t make a difference”. But combined with all the other “don’t-give-a-shit” people, it fucking DOES make a difference.
You suddenly feel so small, so insignificant, so fucking inferior when faced with any breathtaking sight of nature in all its glory, there in front of your eyes, living, breathing, growing, teeming, and not giving a shit about whether you are there or not. But at the same time it’s so fragile, so delicate, so easily destroyed by a Tsunami, an oil slick from a careless tanker, a clumsy diver with three left fins, overfishing, drag fishing, souvenir hunters – the power that the small insignificant human being in its multiples all over the world can wield, the power to utterly destroy nature, twist it, fuck it up totally with our mindless pollution and our careless attitudes.
The diving I’ve done in Western Australia paled into insignificance compared with Dahab (well except maybe for Busselton Jetty - http://www.rache.plus.com/img/scuba/jetty/index.htm). I’m not clued up on what all the different fish and stuff are but there were tons of ‘em – most notably what looked like normal Goldfishes, except they had ultra-violet coloured eyes that contrasted fabulously with the bright orange of their bodies and the rich blue of the sea. Baby barracudas, large Napoleon fish, and yes, I found Nemo – clownfish EVERYWHERE, always in pairs, always near an Anemone. I cursed my new digital camera underwater housing, which had broken and flooded on its empty test-run on our first dive – my digicam could have got great pics but I had to settle with a poxy reusable one from the local shop, which takes quite crappy photos. Better than nothing though!
The Jeep rides to and from the dive sites were death-defying feats of bravery – rocky roads, petrol fumes, wayward goats on the street, a close encounter with a camel at the Blue Hole, and shoehorning yourself into the back of the dodgy jeep with half a dozen air cylinders and your dive gear either strapped precariously to the roof or crammed in with you, threatening to burst you out of the back door onto the road at top speed. Not to mention the frantic Arab music always on a loop, always with garish percussion and blending seamlessly with the crunching of the jeeps gears. I’d have not changed a thing though, those bumpy hot dusty cramped rides to the sites were totally part of the entire trip for me. So were the post-dive chillouts at the local Wadis, with pizza and Bedouin tea, camels rocking sedately by, and Arabs staring at the girls in their swimsuits. Iain’s Arabic is very good and one of the waiters who came to take our order was impressed and fascinated at this “Eeeenglish” lad who was so keen to learn and speak the language. He ended up sitting down, offering us all ciggies, and conducting an Arabic lesson with him, his face a picture. Then his boss came out and barked at him and he jumped up, invited Iain back the next day to talk more, then scuttled off to fetch our pizzas.
When we weren’t diving we were chilling out. If you do NOT like lazing around in the sun, doing nothing, and chatting and people watching, then don’t come to Dahab. I sat in the sun for hours on the roof of various eateries, just watching, observing ... the RBs and their persuasive tactics, the cats and dogs, the Arab horses being ridden along the beach, the noisy Japanese tourists talking at the tops of their voices, Ali the incredibly-tanned and rather fierce-looking chainsmoking owner of the Sun Restaurant to-ing and fro-ing with food for his customers, the cheerful banter of the shop owners, the snorkelers, the PADI dive courses trekking to and from the bay to practice their mask clearing, and the tourists – the red, sunburned, impractically dressed, overweight, beer-bellied tourists a big percentage of them Brits, and truly making me ashamed to BE a Brit … it was fascinating and not in the least boring, and all bathed in glorious bright colourful warm happy sunshine.
However, away from the bright lights of the main beach strip, the rest of Dahab needs a good sweeping up. Dust, goat poop, litter and rubble line every street, the kerbs are about a foot high and lethal to cars (that would stop the School Run Mums HAHAAA), the street goats hide in the shade and eat unmentionable things, street kids wander around on the boiling concrete barefoot, cars honk constantly, with cries of “taxi??” whenever we were spotted. Camels are tethered to walls, scary smells of God-knows-what waft over you depending on what you are walking past, and local shops offer all sorts of necessities like loo roll, bottled water, and plastic pyramid incense-holders …
Huge camels are ridden around by the tiniest boys you have ever seen, and they seem to keep them perfectly under control too – usually just randomly beating them with a stick seems to convey the correct orders, and the camels gurgle and grumble and get on with it. New buildings are spotted around in the usual scary-brickwork styleee, and there is a conspicuous absence of ANY Arabic/Egyptian women on the streets. It’s either kids, or men, or tourists. It seemed that the only women in Dahab were the tourists. For sure, the only grossly FAT people in Dahab were the tourists, with a few exceptions. I never saw a single fat kid, unless he was a pinky-white sunburned tourist kid. Is this because they’ve not got much food or because they lead much more active lives and eat much less crap than our roly-poly mollycoddled inactive asthma-ridden idle children?
The cheaper cafes in the back streets do brisk business, but mostly with the locals – tourists who may venture in there would be put off by the number of flies that frequent them, but you soon learn that the flies are just a way of life and they didn’t do us any harm. We ate at a few places during our stay and were warmly welcomed, particularly “Captain Condom” and his Arabic. The food was great and bloody dirt cheap, the tables and floors clean, and there were no RBs nagging us to come in, we went of our own choice. A visit to the local fruit shops is also a must, with divine juicy peaches and a huge tray of lush, large, sweet strawberries for the equivalent of 50p – fucking brilliant.
One evening we were driven out up one of the mountains to watch the sun set. A big group of us and friends from Desert Divers took rugs and food and joints, and settled in with a fab view of Dahab as the sun faded. Nearby was a group of tourists being carted around on camels, I got hysterics watching one poor bloke who was jerking back and forward in the saddle, his nads must have been the size of grapefruits…and we all crossed our legs when the camel went to kneel down, shooting Mr Tourist forward onto the pommel and briskly off into the sand, where he got up and attempted to walk in a straight line without his legs crossed.
My payback came when one of the young lads brought a camel over to see us, and while I was trying to photograph it as it loomed above me, it kicked and nearly trod on my bag, then unleashed a torrent of perfectly formed dark round dry poops all over my nearby flip-flops. The young lad laughed, said something in Arabic and left me there, blinking at my poop-covered footwear while everyone wet themselves laughing. I took a pic of the poopy flipflops.
As the sky darkened and the first stars came out, I wished that there was only the five of us on the rug, so that we could all be silent and drink in the sky above, and the surroundings. The guys that had driven us and the others out to the mountain were talking constantly and their mobile phones were ringing with comical Arab polyphonic nonsense, leading to animated loud and annoying conversations. I lay on my back (avoiding the camel poop) and looked at the stars, minus the light pollution of the UK – lovely. Night times were the best, we usually spent them at the Marine Garden camp, sitting in the Wadi surrounded by kittens and talking, reading, getting thoroughly stoned (apart from me, I only passively smoked everyone else’s), or I would go and lie in the hammock overlooking the sea and read my books or plug into my stereo and Artie Shaw. I’ve never read so much in such a short space of time, it was great to be looking at text in a book again, instead of on a bloody computer screen. Or we’d go wandering around the shops, “La Shukran” the RBs, and bump into people that Iain knew and sit around chatting and people-watching. My diet consisted of chocolate, honey and banana pancakes, fruit juices, water, falafel and pizzas. I didn’t have any milk or any fibre or broccoli (shock horror) for ten days and by the end of my stay, my digestive system was complaining…oops.
On our last night we resolved to get up at about 5.30am and see the sun rise from the roof of the dive centre. However we didn’t get to bed until about 1.45am so that idea went out of the window. I awoke on my last day at about 6.15am though, and refused to lie in bed daydreaming, so I got up and went for a wander with my camera. It was fab, I wished I’d had more early mornings. The sun had just risen and was still low in the sky, giving off a gentle warmth and a lovely golden light. It was dead quiet, the shops and restaurants were only just coming to life, and thankfully, no RBs in sight. Early divers clanged their tanks and hissed their regulators, the sea was mirror-calm, and the dogs were splayed out over the main walkway, scratching lazily and raising their heads to sniff at passing tourists. I went down to the beach and found a big rock, sitting on it and putting my feet in the water. Got some fab pics of this nice quiet time, but the silence was shattered by two of the dogs coming onto the beach and play fighting, spraying me with sand and water as they lolloped and sploshed around near me, finally running off and leaving me slightly soggy. I moved up onto the dive centre roof and watched as more of the restaurants came to life, but thankfully without their blaring music. Guys went for a swim, or sat on the walls with their faces up to the sun, said morning to eachother and chattered away in Arabic as they plumped cushions and raked the sand ready for the days business.
They all splashed water onto the main walkway but they never swept it, so it dried and remained just as dirty as before they splashed it. The walkway is a lovely red paved pattern with a thick snake of black twisting down the centre, and would look fab with a bit of a scrub, but I guess there’s so much dust and sand around it’s kind of pointless. By now it was about 8am and the sun was already getting too hot. In the distance something big arched out of the water three times and then disappeared – the local dolphin, that had come right into the bay with it’s baby a few days ago, and frolicked with snorkelers while we WEREN’T in the water – bugger.
I wandered down to the Blue Moon and had my final choc, banana honey pancake of the day and a fabulously rich strawberry juice. I also sorted out their PC, which had booted up in DiskCheck mode and they didn’t understand what was happening. After a quick Disk CleanUp and words of advice they gave me a discount on their breakfast. Said byebye to all the RB’s, duly collected some email addresses off two of them, ignored their “I’m missing you already” and such tripe, then went back to the Marine Garden to pack up.
Went for a final snorkel and hovered on the surface, just hanging there and watching the coral life, the pinkypurple jellyfish and the shimmering shoals of tiny glass-like fish that swim just under the surface. No dolphin reappearance unfortunately, if that had happened I would have died happy there and then. Divers swam deep underneath me and their bubbles rose up and tickled my face as they came to the surface.
The minutes ticked by towards my Return to the Oblivion that is My Life in England. Dried off, brought bags to the dive centre, had a final chillout and helping of Bedouin Tea, said goodbye to everyone, and tried desperately to hang on to every second that ticked by. I was so glad I’d got up early, it made the day a lot longer. The minibus picked us up from Desert Divers and then it was another maniacal hour long drive to Sharm airport.
We left the sandy warm hairdryer-hot desert and entered the concrete airconditioned hell that is the airport. Shiny polished floors replaced the rough Bedouin rugs we were used to, and the freezing aircon gave us a reminder of what was waiting for us back in Blighty. Passports, baggage, check-in, and a sit down to people watch all the tourists filter into the lounges. We played Spot The Pink Brit, as all the lobster-red fatties waddled past us with their fat kids and their bags full of tacky souvenirs. Penelope Keith with the Awesome Eyebrows also walked past, looking browner but still hilarious. Once again I reached for my camera but Iain stole it from me in the nick of time … many divers were spotted with their huge kit bags, “Dive Now Work Later” t-shirts, and natural non-lobster tans.
Back on the plane I wished I’d put my trousers on, my bare legs were slowly turning to ice from the freezing blast of air that accompanied us all the way home. A baby at the back of the plane screamed and gurgled that irritating sound that only small babies can make, and I got ready to chin Kevin the Air Hostess if he bumped my shoulder one more time while mincing down the aisle. A constant stream of trolleys went up and down, up and down, and we were harangued by questionnaires, charity scratch cards, and a duty-free catalogue containing hideous delights such as chocolate-scented bunny keyrings and fake pink diamond-encrusted watches. Thankfully we weren’t subjected to Ocean’s Twelve again but this time something worse starring Dennis Quaid. I gave up halfway through and went back to my stereo and dreams of what I’d just left behind.
A woman on the seat opposite me was reading a UK newspaper, I tried not to look but the headlines drew me – murder of a 14 year old, election misery, Howard resigns, NHS waiting lists, Jacko and his kiddy fiddling, more inflated libellous cases, mindless celebrity gossip, z-list slags getting their tits out – I just looked away, I didn’t want to know, I’ve still not switched the telly on since I’ve been back, it’s just too miserable to do so.
Due to turbulence pockets we took a slightly different route home and we missed out on seeing the Giza Plateau again (I missed it the first time round too, wasn’t near a window). The captain cheerfully announced that the forecast in Britain was approximately 9oC with projections of rain for the rest of the week and a top temperature of a roasting 16oC. Joy. I watched the plastic waste mount up from the airline food, Darryl and Philippa were forced to pay £7 for two sarnies cos they were starving, and I resolved to eat my own arm for food rather than pay such vastly over inflated prices. How dare they charge £3.50 for two slices of bread and some salad, it’s taking the piss that they are normally about £2 in the shops, but what the fuck is the difference just because you are a few thousand feet in the air?
During the five hour trip I pondered where my life was going. I guess everyone gets depressed when they return from a brilliant holiday, but they generally accept the life that they go back to, and just get on with it. I’ve been sick of my direction in life for a while now and I was NOT looking forward to returning to my flat full of stuff that I’ve accumulated, some of it useful, some of it a waste of space, but yet I’ve not thrown it out. I’d spent ten days living so simply and having so much spare time because I had no possessions to fill up my time with and to spend time faffing with, no computer to spend endless hours on, no TV to suck my brain dry. It’d be great to just shove everything into storage and do something completely different for 6 months, then to come back here and try to start again, doing something I enjoy.
But I feel so chained because of my rent, my bills, my accumulated possessions, the cost of storing them, the cost of finding another place to live when I return then finding a job that’s enough to pay the bloody bills again. Part of me is the Sensible part, wanting to have a secure financial future and not have the money worries, to have the pension, the savings, the house etc, and another part of me is the “Fuck it and enjoy life while you can” part that wants to just wander the world and experience it. People tell me “just do it”, tell me it’s simple, and it is simple because countless people have done it, but I’m so entrenched in a rut it seems like a Blue Hole-type chasm I need to climb out of, in order to just get started. I have to do something before it’s truly too late and I will never be able to do anything. I’ll start by having a major de-clutter of all my shit, downsizing, then taking it from there. In the meantime, my brother may be revisiting Dahab in September and I may hopefully be joining him again. I also have to get used to flushing my loo paper and not chucking it into the nearest bin …
I’ve just been to Lidl to buy some food, I fitted in with all the Chavs that were shopping there, with my unwashed airplane hair and bags under my eyes, but I didn’t care. I stood in the queue of lifeless people with my broccoli and Bran Flakes, and waited for the checkout lady to ignore me while she scanned my food … looking at them all, I was dying to tell them that 72 hours ago I was hovering over beautiful corals and fishes, bathing in the sun, teasing kittens, and scoffing chocolate banana honey pancakes while being hassled to “buy one, buy one” by scruffy little girls – but they’d probably not believe me, they’d assume I was drunk or on drugs. Stuck in traffic driving home, the greenness of the trees looked out of place, too lush, too green. A fat girl walked home from school eating a bag of crisps while her little brother kicked a plastic bottle along the path, out into the gutter, then walked off and left it there. Something has to change! Only I can make the changes, I have to get started.
If you can swim, then LEARN TO DIVE. If you never dive you are missing out on such a huge percentage of life, so many beautiful things that you would only ever see on your TV screen, they are waiting for yout under the sea. But if you dive then HAVE SOME RESPECT for the reefs, the fish, the water, the beach, every aspect of your surroundings. Watch your buoyancy, stay clear of the corals, do not touch or take anything off the reefs, do not leave litter at the dive sites, and most importantly, leave each site with a new found respect for nature, and make sure you are more conscious of the impact your life has on the environment and this world that you live in. And if you see any pricks defaming the reefs or marine life in any way, get over there an' fookin' chin em
I was looking forward to getting the hell out of the UK for 10 days of sun and scuba, travelling with my brother Iain and his girlie Hosanna, and their friends Darryl and Philippa. Gooseberry Central travelling with two couples but what the hell, I needed a holiday. We flew out with Thompsons holidays who projected the image of being a very “young and trendy airline” with their new 757 resplendent with uncomfortable plastic Recaro-branded seats, male air hostesses that were camper than a row of pink tents, and TV screens playing trendy “Yoof” stuff including J-Lo videos , Little Britain, The Office, and the dire “Ocean’s 12”. £3 for headphones if you wanted to watch though, or plug your own headphones in but then you only hear the sound in mono. Food madam? £7 for two sandwiches, or a “meal deal” consisting of individual portions of plastic food sealed in plastic bags or tubs, eaten with a plastic knife and fork sealed in plastic bags – a feast of environmentally friendly food packaging that would take hundreds of years to rot.
Average age of the plane inhabitants was about early to mid-thirties, and most of them were going to Sharm-el-Sheikh to sit by pools and roast themselves during the day, go to meat-market nightclubs to get pissed by night, gamble all their money in the casinos, get a shag from anyone who was up for it, then convince themselves they had a “fooking great time”. Guys wandered up and down the plane aisles in their “Amsterdam Ganja Tour ‘04” t-shirts, and girls wearing their ill-fitting hipsters showing their nice spare-tyre overhangs babbled incessantly about their tans. We were perversely fascinated by one girl who had the strangest-looking plucked eyebrows in the history of eyebrows, she looked like a brunette Penelope Keith but her eyebrows were the shapes of square brackets ], giving her such a strange look I was stopped from reaching for my camera to get photographic evidence…
We landed at Sharm and were told the temperature was 33oC – big cheer from all on the plane, fucking brilliant. Walking out of the plane we were hit by a hairdryer-warm blast of hot air, I felt my skin shrivel immediately, it was glorious – warm warm sun sun sun, I couldn’t wipe the fat grin off my face. Luggage queue, visa queue, stared at by various Arabian men, passport blah blah and we were met by a driver from the dive centre for the hour long journey to Dahab.
What a dustbowl of a journey … sand, dust, more dust, rubble, half built roads, Bedouin camps, camels, sand, did I mention sand? The minibus was boiling even with all the windows open, and I was already sticking to the plastic seats. Craggy mountains rose out of the ground like teeth of the desert, they looked like they would crumble at the slightest touch. The sky was blue, blue, so blue and not a cloud in sight.
The Driving Code of Dahab is pure genius:
* Drive on whatever side of the road you like as long as there’s nothing coming.
* If there IS something coming you can still drive on the wrong side of the road but remember to pull over just before they scream past you with horns blaring.
* If you’re talking on a mobile phone while driving, remember to look where you’re going while still driving on the wrong side of the road.
* When any driver overtakes you or if YOU overtake someone, you have to sound your horn to say “I’m coming so don’t swerve”.
* Take the racing line around corners, even if they are blind bends, and at night time don’t turn your headlights on until you see an approaching driver, when you promptly turn them on, beep as he passes, then turn them off again.
* When in Dahab feel free to grind to a halt in the middle of the road to chat to another driver, and move on when you please.
* Avoid the street goats unless you’re in a rush then just hope they don’t bend your already-bent jeep too much.
* Remember to leer at any passing female Tourist, while not looking where you’re going and trying to avoid goats and street-kids.
It’s hard to know where to start when describing Dahab. It’s being aggressively developed now and promoted as a major Dive Resort. Hotels are cropping up everywhere and there is already a Hilton on the outskirts of the city, resplendent in it’s pristine white Arabian architecture, with it’s manicured lawns sucking up precious water from the 24/7 sprinklers. So many new developments but as far as I know, no new sewage plant to cope with the influx of Tourist Shit that will doubtlessly be pumped out into the sea via a long pipeline.
I was scared shitless but the build quality of some of the new hotels – we’re talking seriously wobbly-looking brickwork with mortar that looks like it’s been randomly dropped on, patted down with hands, then squashed with another wobbly brick on top. Solid foundations, umm didn’t look like it! Then all cleverly disguised with lovely white plasterwork. How the f*ck do they stay up in a strong wind? But they obviously succeed because I saw no crumbled buildings. However, I’d advise not walking onto any brick hotel balconies in Dahab, specially if there is a fat person on the same balcony – could just be enough to tip the scales, so to speak…
After an hour of dangerous driving and a tape of brash Arabian Music set to repeat, we rolled up to the Marine Garden Bedouin camp, where we’d be staying. A large sandy courtyard flanked by the rooms and a large “Wadi” chillout area, it looked very nice. Our rooms were basic and mine had two single mattresses on the floor, some shelves made of wood cartons, one window, one socket and one light bulb. Someone had attempted to paint stuff on the rough white-plastered walls – stars, a house, some flowers, the faded chipped paint was very “Changing Rooms” rustic, only this was genuine not Linda-Barker fakery. The ceiling was smooth wood planks, each painted a different colour, and sunlight slanting through the gaps. I hoped it wouldn’t rain but I guess that’s stating the obvious … We met Salah, the dude who ran the place, dumped our gear, sat in the Wadi and I had my first taste of Bedouin tea, which is served in a tiny glass, is the colour of a morning urine sample, and is massively sweetened. Er yum!
The toilet block was a seperate building and was kept fastidiously clean by a very quiet guy who kept to himself but was constantly in attendance mopping the floors, emptying the poopie paper bins, and unblocking the loos that constantly blocked with the tiniest of turds - need larger U-bends guys ... the floor was tiled with VERY shiny and slippy tiles, and when wet they proved lethal, so if you were suffering from Dehli Belly and made a dash for the bog you were very likely to go flying onto your back and end up lying in a pool of your own poop with a huge bruise on your head.
Suddenly we were surrounded by Egyptian cats, and even better, about 7 or 8 kittens. Now I still maintain that Cats Are Evil, but after 10 days of Egyptian Kittenry I’ll admit to a soft spot for them – but only Egyptian cats, who are way cooler than fat, fluffy and pampered British cats. Egyptian cats are thin and sleek with small heads, very pointy ears, and a much more laid back attitude. The kittens were fab, a sprawling mass of big velvety paws that gently swatted anything in sight, wide and innocent eyes that never missed a movement, tiny tails that they constantly tried to eat or chase, and best of all, Banzai kung-fu giant “kitten leaps” on top of eachother that resulted in a rugby scrum of open mouths, swatting paws, squirming bodies, and high-pitched mewling. We had our breakfast with them every morning and they fell asleep in our laps, suckled from their mum, slept, then ran off to do some more Banzai kitten-rugby.
We dumped our stuff and walked to the dive centre “Desert Divers” (http://www.desert-divers.com/), a luvvely set-up full of friendly people who all knew Iain from when he worked there last year. I was introduced to too many people whose names I forgot immediately, and who told me that I had the same nose as my brother, which was a bit annoying cos he has a massive conk and I didn’t think mine was that big.
After sorting out our dive gear we went for a walk up the main drag of Dahab sea front. This is a bizarre fuck-up in the planning stakes because for some stupid reason they decided to build all the shops and restaurants right on the beach, then pave over the rest of the beach, leaving only 3m of beach in some areas. Other larger areas of beach have been taken over by the restaurants, who put shades and seating out there, and even build out into the sea by filling it with rocks and sand and putting their tables on there. Um why not build further back from the beach in the first place, and bloody leave some of it there for us to sit on!
By now it was dark and warm and bliss – people ambled, street dogs wandered, stretched, yawned then promptly lay down where they stood, regardless of whether it was in your way or not. Sleek cats frequented the outdoor eating areas, becoming your best friend if you had food on your table, and little kittens bumbled around and amused tourists with their squeaky mewls and their paw-swatting antics. Conflicting music of all genres crashed out at you as you walked along, some of it modern Western music and some of it grating Arabic prayer-music with bashing percussion that set your teeth on edge.
Young local kids, mostly scruffy little girls, accosted us with their plastic bags of anklets and bracelets and things made of beads, their cries of “buy one!” or “I know you want one!” hounding us as we walked by. I gave in and bought a nice key-ringy thing from one of them, she sat right up next to me and blinked up at me with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen, she had skin that would make a supermodel cry and she sniffled thru her bunged-up nose and waited patiently while I looked at her wares. The 0.0004% of me that is maternal said “awww she’s cute” while the other 99.99999% of me that is NOT maternal screamed “stop it, stick to your pet rats they don’t fuck up your life!!”. For 10 Egyptian Pounds/1 English Pound, the keyring was mine, and a fine piece of beadwork it is too. If it helps buy her food then great.
People sat on the main beach wall just watching other people, talking, making friends, laughing. Shops were open late selling a myriad of stuff, some of it horribly tacky and some of it beautifully crafted, their wares spilling out onto the pavements and shop fronts, the owners inviting you to come in and have a browse. The first Arabic phrase I learned was “la shukran” for “no thank you”. However, the shopping was brilliant and so cheap, fooking bargains galore to be had … I loved arguing and bartering with the owners, who always gave you an inflated price to start with, and always ended up selling it to you for under half that price.
The “Restaurant Boys” or RB’s as I shall now call them, were unrelenting. “Ahhhh you come eat with us my frrrriends” they said, while directing us towards their seating areas. We La Shukran’d ourselves to death over the ten days we were there, they never gave up in their quest to lure us into their lairs. “How are you, what are you doing, where you going, where you from, you come sit with me and talk to me” all the time, and if you said “England” most of them went “Ahhhh luvvely jubbuly” or “one banana two banana”, as if they had been taught to say it parrot fashion by idiot tourists, like people teaching a parrot how to say rude words. It got to the point where we took the back streets just to avoid “running the gauntlet” but on the occasions that we had to walk past them, I was always singled out because I was the only one who wasn’t walking with a boyfriend, despite my fake wedding ring to try and deter them. Because I find it hard to be openly nasty to people and say “fuck off and stop bothering me” I was an easy target.
Ahhhh Bibo, Akim, Waleet, Ahmet, Akhmed, they all wanted “dreeenks” with me, to “sit and talk” with me, to wax lyrical into my ear, to say all the things they save up for any other tourist girl they see, only I wasn’t so gullible. It’s fun, you say yes yes nod your head smile, have a laugh, take the piss, “La Shukran” then walk away, and the next day you have to repeat it all over again – with every single one of them. I have to admit some of them were rather tasty treats but I’d not touch any of them with a barge pole.
Right, onto the diving. Utterly fabulous. I can only describe it as swimming into the cinema screen during the coral scenes of “Finding Nemo”, only minus the talking fish and Disney political-correctness and moralising. You’ve all seen those aerial shots of New York City where the camera is looking right down onto the rooftops and onto the streets, as the skyscrapers pass slowly beneath you and the cars look like ants zooming inbetween them … I felt as if I was flying slowly over vast, vast coral cities, with the fish as the cars, zooming inbetween each piece of coral, going about their daily lives totally oblivious to the huge hulking shape of my hovering above them. So many colours and textures I can’t even describe, all blending together to produce stunning natural pieces of pure coral art. How I wished to be freed from the constraints of my heavy tank and noisy regulator and bubbling breath, to swim underwater silently and listen to the sounds of the reef, the snap, crackle and pop of the corals, to escape into the silence from the noisy world above, to never surface.
The dive sites we visited were the Eel Garden, a descent onto flat white sands that is carpeted with question-mark shaped eels that stick out of the sands and catch food from the currents. (http://web.ukonline.co.uk/peter.stensones/photos/photos_big_picture.htm?diving/dahab/new_year_2003/eel_garden.jpg) When you approach them they zip down into the sand again, and if you land gently on the sea bed and wait, they come out again right in front of you and continue feeding – awesome. Also visited Golden Blocks, Three Pools, The Lighthouse, which featured a lovely and massive Gorgonian Fan Coral that was 30m down, and Coral Gardens which was my favourite site of the whole holiday, The Islands, and the notorious Blue Hole – a site that has claimed many divers lives, but is a must see:
Descending from the Bells entry point, we went down a narrow ravine that looked out into the ocean, then at 27m out the ravine to look back and face a HUGE wall of coral and sea life that plummeted down, and down, and down … a yawning, abyssal, uncharted chasm of nothing but blue, blue underneath you, blue on top of you, blue to one side, and a visual overload of corals and sea life on the other. If you looked down for too long you felt that the darkness below you would suddenly suck you into it’s depths, never to be seen again. The lingering invisible threat of “what’s down there?” seeped into my mind and I had to start looking at corals and pretty fish, banishing thoughts of abyssal monsters that would come out and snap at my feet.
At 56m there is an archway and a passage that leads into the sea, it is trying to find this archway that many inexperienced divers have got Nitrogen Narcosis (http://www.scuba-doc.com/n2narc.htm) from the depth, and have lost their lives. Memorial stones are set into the rock in tribute to these divers and also as a warning to any idiots out there.
We saw some divers going deeper than us and as I hung suspended (yep, finally sorted my bloody buoyancy) over the chasm watching them fade away down into the darker blue, watching their streams of bubbles rise slowly to the surface like a glittering silver curtain, I couldn’t help but shiver inwardly – I’d never want to trade places with them. Vern, a smashing retired Aussie bloke and instructor dived the Hole with us and dared me to go down the Bells Chimney head first not feet first, I said yes but only if he dived in the niff – he refused but I still went head first down the chimney .
We also dived The Canyon, an essential dive for all fanatics of caves and cavern diving. A narrow crack in the seabed at 18m marks the main opening into the canyon, which depths reach over 30 metres inside. Snaking its way up from the depths, it emerges in a glorious, glassfish filled coral dome, the Fish Bowl. When the Canyon is full of divers you can hover over the top and watch the air bubbles stream out from the narrow crack, quite a spectacle when merged with the huge shoals of purple-eyed goldfish that are also there. When you’re actually IN the canyon you lie on your back and just look up through the opening at the blue above you and the divers hovering and waiting their turn (http://www.thisisvlad.com/gallery/albums/dahab/mini_IMG_5813.jpg). Some great photos to be had but the depth made my cheapo camera refuse to wind on – arse!
My brother was impressive as a diver, he had gone out to Dahab last year and had started with his Open Water certification then gone right up the ranks to be a Divemaster, then started work taking groups out to the dive sites. His buoyancy was spot on (apparently I’d been 50% overweight with mine for my last 4 years of diving!) and cos he’s a lanky skinny bugger, he looked like a sort of fucked-up bastard love-child of a seal and a stringbean in his wetsuit. Because he has long hair down to his bum he also has to wear a rubber hood to keep it under control, which added to the “Captain Condom” image. He soared slowly through the water with only a flick of his fins, floated upside down looking under corals and pointing stuff out to us, and on one occasion at the Coral Garden, he spread his arms and slowly rotated in an aeroplane “barrel-roll” style as he passed over the corals, seemingly doing so out of the sheer joy and freedom of being underwater and a witness to some of nature’s finest creations.
I was flooded with awe, happiness, sheer open-mouthed-nearly-popped-out-my-regulator-amazement at the beauty that was in front of me, but at the same time I felt a constant sadness that the downfall of these beautiful reefs was already set in stone, the destruction had begun, the roads being built to bus tourists in and the flood of divers trekking in and out of each dive site entry point … the fabulous visual feast and biological diversity that these and other reefs in the world offer is also their death and downfall. Snorkelers were seen walking on the tops of the reef, we spotted snapped coral, found bits of it in chillout areas, collected plastic bags during our dives, saw the inevitable Coke can on the sea bed. There were plenty of respectful divers there for sure, but there is always that small percentage who truly seem to not give a shit, and think that the one seashell they collect, or the one fag butt they flick into the sand, or the one plastic bottle or bag they leave to blow around “won’t make a difference”. But combined with all the other “don’t-give-a-shit” people, it fucking DOES make a difference.
You suddenly feel so small, so insignificant, so fucking inferior when faced with any breathtaking sight of nature in all its glory, there in front of your eyes, living, breathing, growing, teeming, and not giving a shit about whether you are there or not. But at the same time it’s so fragile, so delicate, so easily destroyed by a Tsunami, an oil slick from a careless tanker, a clumsy diver with three left fins, overfishing, drag fishing, souvenir hunters – the power that the small insignificant human being in its multiples all over the world can wield, the power to utterly destroy nature, twist it, fuck it up totally with our mindless pollution and our careless attitudes.
The diving I’ve done in Western Australia paled into insignificance compared with Dahab (well except maybe for Busselton Jetty - http://www.rache.plus.com/img/scuba/jetty/index.htm). I’m not clued up on what all the different fish and stuff are but there were tons of ‘em – most notably what looked like normal Goldfishes, except they had ultra-violet coloured eyes that contrasted fabulously with the bright orange of their bodies and the rich blue of the sea. Baby barracudas, large Napoleon fish, and yes, I found Nemo – clownfish EVERYWHERE, always in pairs, always near an Anemone. I cursed my new digital camera underwater housing, which had broken and flooded on its empty test-run on our first dive – my digicam could have got great pics but I had to settle with a poxy reusable one from the local shop, which takes quite crappy photos. Better than nothing though!
The Jeep rides to and from the dive sites were death-defying feats of bravery – rocky roads, petrol fumes, wayward goats on the street, a close encounter with a camel at the Blue Hole, and shoehorning yourself into the back of the dodgy jeep with half a dozen air cylinders and your dive gear either strapped precariously to the roof or crammed in with you, threatening to burst you out of the back door onto the road at top speed. Not to mention the frantic Arab music always on a loop, always with garish percussion and blending seamlessly with the crunching of the jeeps gears. I’d have not changed a thing though, those bumpy hot dusty cramped rides to the sites were totally part of the entire trip for me. So were the post-dive chillouts at the local Wadis, with pizza and Bedouin tea, camels rocking sedately by, and Arabs staring at the girls in their swimsuits. Iain’s Arabic is very good and one of the waiters who came to take our order was impressed and fascinated at this “Eeeenglish” lad who was so keen to learn and speak the language. He ended up sitting down, offering us all ciggies, and conducting an Arabic lesson with him, his face a picture. Then his boss came out and barked at him and he jumped up, invited Iain back the next day to talk more, then scuttled off to fetch our pizzas.
When we weren’t diving we were chilling out. If you do NOT like lazing around in the sun, doing nothing, and chatting and people watching, then don’t come to Dahab. I sat in the sun for hours on the roof of various eateries, just watching, observing ... the RBs and their persuasive tactics, the cats and dogs, the Arab horses being ridden along the beach, the noisy Japanese tourists talking at the tops of their voices, Ali the incredibly-tanned and rather fierce-looking chainsmoking owner of the Sun Restaurant to-ing and fro-ing with food for his customers, the cheerful banter of the shop owners, the snorkelers, the PADI dive courses trekking to and from the bay to practice their mask clearing, and the tourists – the red, sunburned, impractically dressed, overweight, beer-bellied tourists a big percentage of them Brits, and truly making me ashamed to BE a Brit … it was fascinating and not in the least boring, and all bathed in glorious bright colourful warm happy sunshine.
However, away from the bright lights of the main beach strip, the rest of Dahab needs a good sweeping up. Dust, goat poop, litter and rubble line every street, the kerbs are about a foot high and lethal to cars (that would stop the School Run Mums HAHAAA), the street goats hide in the shade and eat unmentionable things, street kids wander around on the boiling concrete barefoot, cars honk constantly, with cries of “taxi??” whenever we were spotted. Camels are tethered to walls, scary smells of God-knows-what waft over you depending on what you are walking past, and local shops offer all sorts of necessities like loo roll, bottled water, and plastic pyramid incense-holders …
Huge camels are ridden around by the tiniest boys you have ever seen, and they seem to keep them perfectly under control too – usually just randomly beating them with a stick seems to convey the correct orders, and the camels gurgle and grumble and get on with it. New buildings are spotted around in the usual scary-brickwork styleee, and there is a conspicuous absence of ANY Arabic/Egyptian women on the streets. It’s either kids, or men, or tourists. It seemed that the only women in Dahab were the tourists. For sure, the only grossly FAT people in Dahab were the tourists, with a few exceptions. I never saw a single fat kid, unless he was a pinky-white sunburned tourist kid. Is this because they’ve not got much food or because they lead much more active lives and eat much less crap than our roly-poly mollycoddled inactive asthma-ridden idle children?
The cheaper cafes in the back streets do brisk business, but mostly with the locals – tourists who may venture in there would be put off by the number of flies that frequent them, but you soon learn that the flies are just a way of life and they didn’t do us any harm. We ate at a few places during our stay and were warmly welcomed, particularly “Captain Condom” and his Arabic. The food was great and bloody dirt cheap, the tables and floors clean, and there were no RBs nagging us to come in, we went of our own choice. A visit to the local fruit shops is also a must, with divine juicy peaches and a huge tray of lush, large, sweet strawberries for the equivalent of 50p – fucking brilliant.
One evening we were driven out up one of the mountains to watch the sun set. A big group of us and friends from Desert Divers took rugs and food and joints, and settled in with a fab view of Dahab as the sun faded. Nearby was a group of tourists being carted around on camels, I got hysterics watching one poor bloke who was jerking back and forward in the saddle, his nads must have been the size of grapefruits…and we all crossed our legs when the camel went to kneel down, shooting Mr Tourist forward onto the pommel and briskly off into the sand, where he got up and attempted to walk in a straight line without his legs crossed.
My payback came when one of the young lads brought a camel over to see us, and while I was trying to photograph it as it loomed above me, it kicked and nearly trod on my bag, then unleashed a torrent of perfectly formed dark round dry poops all over my nearby flip-flops. The young lad laughed, said something in Arabic and left me there, blinking at my poop-covered footwear while everyone wet themselves laughing. I took a pic of the poopy flipflops.
As the sky darkened and the first stars came out, I wished that there was only the five of us on the rug, so that we could all be silent and drink in the sky above, and the surroundings. The guys that had driven us and the others out to the mountain were talking constantly and their mobile phones were ringing with comical Arab polyphonic nonsense, leading to animated loud and annoying conversations. I lay on my back (avoiding the camel poop) and looked at the stars, minus the light pollution of the UK – lovely. Night times were the best, we usually spent them at the Marine Garden camp, sitting in the Wadi surrounded by kittens and talking, reading, getting thoroughly stoned (apart from me, I only passively smoked everyone else’s), or I would go and lie in the hammock overlooking the sea and read my books or plug into my stereo and Artie Shaw. I’ve never read so much in such a short space of time, it was great to be looking at text in a book again, instead of on a bloody computer screen. Or we’d go wandering around the shops, “La Shukran” the RBs, and bump into people that Iain knew and sit around chatting and people-watching. My diet consisted of chocolate, honey and banana pancakes, fruit juices, water, falafel and pizzas. I didn’t have any milk or any fibre or broccoli (shock horror) for ten days and by the end of my stay, my digestive system was complaining…oops.
On our last night we resolved to get up at about 5.30am and see the sun rise from the roof of the dive centre. However we didn’t get to bed until about 1.45am so that idea went out of the window. I awoke on my last day at about 6.15am though, and refused to lie in bed daydreaming, so I got up and went for a wander with my camera. It was fab, I wished I’d had more early mornings. The sun had just risen and was still low in the sky, giving off a gentle warmth and a lovely golden light. It was dead quiet, the shops and restaurants were only just coming to life, and thankfully, no RBs in sight. Early divers clanged their tanks and hissed their regulators, the sea was mirror-calm, and the dogs were splayed out over the main walkway, scratching lazily and raising their heads to sniff at passing tourists. I went down to the beach and found a big rock, sitting on it and putting my feet in the water. Got some fab pics of this nice quiet time, but the silence was shattered by two of the dogs coming onto the beach and play fighting, spraying me with sand and water as they lolloped and sploshed around near me, finally running off and leaving me slightly soggy. I moved up onto the dive centre roof and watched as more of the restaurants came to life, but thankfully without their blaring music. Guys went for a swim, or sat on the walls with their faces up to the sun, said morning to eachother and chattered away in Arabic as they plumped cushions and raked the sand ready for the days business.
They all splashed water onto the main walkway but they never swept it, so it dried and remained just as dirty as before they splashed it. The walkway is a lovely red paved pattern with a thick snake of black twisting down the centre, and would look fab with a bit of a scrub, but I guess there’s so much dust and sand around it’s kind of pointless. By now it was about 8am and the sun was already getting too hot. In the distance something big arched out of the water three times and then disappeared – the local dolphin, that had come right into the bay with it’s baby a few days ago, and frolicked with snorkelers while we WEREN’T in the water – bugger.
I wandered down to the Blue Moon and had my final choc, banana honey pancake of the day and a fabulously rich strawberry juice. I also sorted out their PC, which had booted up in DiskCheck mode and they didn’t understand what was happening. After a quick Disk CleanUp and words of advice they gave me a discount on their breakfast. Said byebye to all the RB’s, duly collected some email addresses off two of them, ignored their “I’m missing you already” and such tripe, then went back to the Marine Garden to pack up.
Went for a final snorkel and hovered on the surface, just hanging there and watching the coral life, the pinkypurple jellyfish and the shimmering shoals of tiny glass-like fish that swim just under the surface. No dolphin reappearance unfortunately, if that had happened I would have died happy there and then. Divers swam deep underneath me and their bubbles rose up and tickled my face as they came to the surface.
The minutes ticked by towards my Return to the Oblivion that is My Life in England. Dried off, brought bags to the dive centre, had a final chillout and helping of Bedouin Tea, said goodbye to everyone, and tried desperately to hang on to every second that ticked by. I was so glad I’d got up early, it made the day a lot longer. The minibus picked us up from Desert Divers and then it was another maniacal hour long drive to Sharm airport.
We left the sandy warm hairdryer-hot desert and entered the concrete airconditioned hell that is the airport. Shiny polished floors replaced the rough Bedouin rugs we were used to, and the freezing aircon gave us a reminder of what was waiting for us back in Blighty. Passports, baggage, check-in, and a sit down to people watch all the tourists filter into the lounges. We played Spot The Pink Brit, as all the lobster-red fatties waddled past us with their fat kids and their bags full of tacky souvenirs. Penelope Keith with the Awesome Eyebrows also walked past, looking browner but still hilarious. Once again I reached for my camera but Iain stole it from me in the nick of time … many divers were spotted with their huge kit bags, “Dive Now Work Later” t-shirts, and natural non-lobster tans.
Back on the plane I wished I’d put my trousers on, my bare legs were slowly turning to ice from the freezing blast of air that accompanied us all the way home. A baby at the back of the plane screamed and gurgled that irritating sound that only small babies can make, and I got ready to chin Kevin the Air Hostess if he bumped my shoulder one more time while mincing down the aisle. A constant stream of trolleys went up and down, up and down, and we were harangued by questionnaires, charity scratch cards, and a duty-free catalogue containing hideous delights such as chocolate-scented bunny keyrings and fake pink diamond-encrusted watches. Thankfully we weren’t subjected to Ocean’s Twelve again but this time something worse starring Dennis Quaid. I gave up halfway through and went back to my stereo and dreams of what I’d just left behind.
A woman on the seat opposite me was reading a UK newspaper, I tried not to look but the headlines drew me – murder of a 14 year old, election misery, Howard resigns, NHS waiting lists, Jacko and his kiddy fiddling, more inflated libellous cases, mindless celebrity gossip, z-list slags getting their tits out – I just looked away, I didn’t want to know, I’ve still not switched the telly on since I’ve been back, it’s just too miserable to do so.
Due to turbulence pockets we took a slightly different route home and we missed out on seeing the Giza Plateau again (I missed it the first time round too, wasn’t near a window). The captain cheerfully announced that the forecast in Britain was approximately 9oC with projections of rain for the rest of the week and a top temperature of a roasting 16oC. Joy. I watched the plastic waste mount up from the airline food, Darryl and Philippa were forced to pay £7 for two sarnies cos they were starving, and I resolved to eat my own arm for food rather than pay such vastly over inflated prices. How dare they charge £3.50 for two slices of bread and some salad, it’s taking the piss that they are normally about £2 in the shops, but what the fuck is the difference just because you are a few thousand feet in the air?
During the five hour trip I pondered where my life was going. I guess everyone gets depressed when they return from a brilliant holiday, but they generally accept the life that they go back to, and just get on with it. I’ve been sick of my direction in life for a while now and I was NOT looking forward to returning to my flat full of stuff that I’ve accumulated, some of it useful, some of it a waste of space, but yet I’ve not thrown it out. I’d spent ten days living so simply and having so much spare time because I had no possessions to fill up my time with and to spend time faffing with, no computer to spend endless hours on, no TV to suck my brain dry. It’d be great to just shove everything into storage and do something completely different for 6 months, then to come back here and try to start again, doing something I enjoy.
But I feel so chained because of my rent, my bills, my accumulated possessions, the cost of storing them, the cost of finding another place to live when I return then finding a job that’s enough to pay the bloody bills again. Part of me is the Sensible part, wanting to have a secure financial future and not have the money worries, to have the pension, the savings, the house etc, and another part of me is the “Fuck it and enjoy life while you can” part that wants to just wander the world and experience it. People tell me “just do it”, tell me it’s simple, and it is simple because countless people have done it, but I’m so entrenched in a rut it seems like a Blue Hole-type chasm I need to climb out of, in order to just get started. I have to do something before it’s truly too late and I will never be able to do anything. I’ll start by having a major de-clutter of all my shit, downsizing, then taking it from there. In the meantime, my brother may be revisiting Dahab in September and I may hopefully be joining him again. I also have to get used to flushing my loo paper and not chucking it into the nearest bin …
I’ve just been to Lidl to buy some food, I fitted in with all the Chavs that were shopping there, with my unwashed airplane hair and bags under my eyes, but I didn’t care. I stood in the queue of lifeless people with my broccoli and Bran Flakes, and waited for the checkout lady to ignore me while she scanned my food … looking at them all, I was dying to tell them that 72 hours ago I was hovering over beautiful corals and fishes, bathing in the sun, teasing kittens, and scoffing chocolate banana honey pancakes while being hassled to “buy one, buy one” by scruffy little girls – but they’d probably not believe me, they’d assume I was drunk or on drugs. Stuck in traffic driving home, the greenness of the trees looked out of place, too lush, too green. A fat girl walked home from school eating a bag of crisps while her little brother kicked a plastic bottle along the path, out into the gutter, then walked off and left it there. Something has to change! Only I can make the changes, I have to get started.
If you can swim, then LEARN TO DIVE. If you never dive you are missing out on such a huge percentage of life, so many beautiful things that you would only ever see on your TV screen, they are waiting for yout under the sea. But if you dive then HAVE SOME RESPECT for the reefs, the fish, the water, the beach, every aspect of your surroundings. Watch your buoyancy, stay clear of the corals, do not touch or take anything off the reefs, do not leave litter at the dive sites, and most importantly, leave each site with a new found respect for nature, and make sure you are more conscious of the impact your life has on the environment and this world that you live in. And if you see any pricks defaming the reefs or marine life in any way, get over there an' fookin' chin em
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