MAINLAND.
Sinister forces.
I have long pooh-poohed the implication - furthered by innumerable US television cop and spy dramas - that America (together with any country that may be defined, vaguely or otherwise, as one of its allies) is under constant threat from sinister forces in kaftans, turbans and shoes with upturned pointy toes.
Now there has been the Boston bombing which killed little Martin Richard, followed last week by the savage murder of Drummer Lee Rigby at Woolwich.
In the face of such gratuitous brutality, what on earth can one think, say or do?
Well, apart from expressing how much one abhors the perpetrators and sympathises with every one of the relatives involved, very little.
I suppose anyone who questions the existence of a vast organisation hellbent on world domination (al-Qaeda or whoever) has to ask whether the instantly identifiable people who committed these atrocities were under instruction from such an organisation, or were simply individual fantasists seeking their own twisted glory.
I think probably the latter.
I regret (but can conjecture why) the police refrained from putting them six foot under, but trust they will spend the remainder of their sick lives in maximum security prisons. In the meantime, knee-jerk attacks on peaceful Muslim individuals and communities must cease, as must the constant demand on them to apologise for the sins of their lesser brethren.
If all religions were forced to seek forgiveness for the sins of their fallen members, every one of them would be in a state of constant apology.
Bully boys cannot be allowed to run riot, whatever their colour or creed.
Speaking of which…
Last Monday in i the columnist Yasmin Alibhai-Brown reported that since the Oxford sex abuse case and the slaughter of Drummer Rigby she has been receiving letters (some adorned with swastikas, others with pictures of Enoch Powell) containing “words of such odium that it felt as if acid was burning my hands.”
Her heinous crime? Simple. In a world where Johnny Foreigner can no longer be silenced by the threat of a gunboat, she is an unflinchingly outspoken Muslim.
Oh dear oh dear. How very dare she.
But this is a woman who only speaks her mind; she neither preaches hatred and sedition, nor supports those who do. And, the PC Brigade notwithstanding, are we not still supposed to be a country where freedom of speech is a right and common courtesy the norm?
So, no matter how little we relish another’s views, should we not respect his or her right, within the law, to express them? The ‘proud Britons’ who sent those shitty missives to Mrs. A-B have clearly not learned the cardinal rule of being a true Brit.
Fair play.
But why would they? Shits write shit. And usually join shit organisations like the BNP.
Which brings me to the average elderly Brit’s inborn dislike of a cosmopolitan society. We have long been multi-racial in this country and there’s no turning back. Even the most determined isolationist cannot fail to see that. No good moaning. Learn to live with it.
Or, in modern parlance, suck it up!
ISLAND (OF WIGHT).
More cat chat.
Sinister forces.
I have long pooh-poohed the implication - furthered by innumerable US television cop and spy dramas - that America (together with any country that may be defined, vaguely or otherwise, as one of its allies) is under constant threat from sinister forces in kaftans, turbans and shoes with upturned pointy toes.
Now there has been the Boston bombing which killed little Martin Richard, followed last week by the savage murder of Drummer Lee Rigby at Woolwich.
In the face of such gratuitous brutality, what on earth can one think, say or do?
Well, apart from expressing how much one abhors the perpetrators and sympathises with every one of the relatives involved, very little.
I suppose anyone who questions the existence of a vast organisation hellbent on world domination (al-Qaeda or whoever) has to ask whether the instantly identifiable people who committed these atrocities were under instruction from such an organisation, or were simply individual fantasists seeking their own twisted glory.
I think probably the latter.
I regret (but can conjecture why) the police refrained from putting them six foot under, but trust they will spend the remainder of their sick lives in maximum security prisons. In the meantime, knee-jerk attacks on peaceful Muslim individuals and communities must cease, as must the constant demand on them to apologise for the sins of their lesser brethren.
If all religions were forced to seek forgiveness for the sins of their fallen members, every one of them would be in a state of constant apology.
Bully boys cannot be allowed to run riot, whatever their colour or creed.
Speaking of which…
Last Monday in i the columnist Yasmin Alibhai-Brown reported that since the Oxford sex abuse case and the slaughter of Drummer Rigby she has been receiving letters (some adorned with swastikas, others with pictures of Enoch Powell) containing “words of such odium that it felt as if acid was burning my hands.”
Her heinous crime? Simple. In a world where Johnny Foreigner can no longer be silenced by the threat of a gunboat, she is an unflinchingly outspoken Muslim.
Oh dear oh dear. How very dare she.
But this is a woman who only speaks her mind; she neither preaches hatred and sedition, nor supports those who do. And, the PC Brigade notwithstanding, are we not still supposed to be a country where freedom of speech is a right and common courtesy the norm?
So, no matter how little we relish another’s views, should we not respect his or her right, within the law, to express them? The ‘proud Britons’ who sent those shitty missives to Mrs. A-B have clearly not learned the cardinal rule of being a true Brit.
Fair play.
But why would they? Shits write shit. And usually join shit organisations like the BNP.
Which brings me to the average elderly Brit’s inborn dislike of a cosmopolitan society. We have long been multi-racial in this country and there’s no turning back. Even the most determined isolationist cannot fail to see that. No good moaning. Learn to live with it.
Or, in modern parlance, suck it up!
ISLAND (OF WIGHT).
More cat chat.
“David Beckham has hung up his boots then.”
I struggled my electric recliner into an upright position and stared across at him.
“Thought you couldn’t be bothered with football any more.”
“Oh, I can’t,” he said. “But ol’ Becks is world news, ain’t he? He’s not just football news.”
“By which I take it you do not see Sir Alex Ferguson’s retirement as world news?”
“What? The boot kickin’ Scot? Na-a-ah, he’s just football news - and Manchester football at that.“
“Well they did win the Premiership again,” I said. “You’ve got to give it to the man, his team has a mightily impressive record.”
There was no response except for a gentle cat snore to inform me the chat was at an end.
He never did like ol’ Fergie.
TELELAND.
More comings and goings.
I cannot be sure they were responsible for the convoluted storylines in the Dr.Who series which has just finished on BBC1, though; but I do suspect the writers have been producing what they imagine may be acceptable in the US. Anyway, young Matt Smith appears to be signing off as The Doctor (to go to America, perhaps?) and in the final episode we caught a glimpse of John Hurt: make of that what you will.
I’m a bit beyond caring about most tele stuff right now. Still can’t abide either the contestants or the presenters on most reality shows (The Apprentice, Four in a Bed, MasterChef and Perfection are prime examples) and even begin to tire of all the CSI stuff. Just how many “the only one of its type in the tri state area, the entire country, anywhere in the world, or the whole of the universe” can these people keep finding? OK, so it makes the crooks with bad foreign accents easier to catch in the space of an hour including adverts. But it’s lazy scriptwriting.
Fortunately there is still a little light relief to be found.
We have also quietly enjoyed Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries Series 2, even if episode 13 (the last) did somehow get lost from our Planner. Alibi has just started a rerun, so we’ll see it eventually.
And then there was Murder on the Home Front which was pretty much CSI: Foyle’s War. I enjoyed that.
FILMLAND.
Epic
Epic was totally different from the Ice Age films but no less a value production. Any film that keeps an eight year old boy glued to his seat for nigh on a couple of hours has to have a good plot and a lot of action.
Not as funny as Ice Age but we all enjoyed it.
BOOKLAND.
Pam Ayres.
Maureen and I may be rediscovering the past for months to come.
And as if to prove that good books can, like buses, arrive in pairs:
Graham Hurley
I am two-thirds through The Perfect Soldier (Macmillan) first published in 1996. This is set in Angola and Molly Jordan’s reckless son, James, has died in a minefield. Her life in chaos, she flies out to the war torn country determined to discover the whys and wherefores of his death. Andy McFaul, the battered ex soldier and mine clearance expert who recovered James’s body, is not initially the most sympathetic of allies…
Mr. Hurley’s Angola has me well and truly hooked.
I’m just so glad I never had to go there.
SEEKING LAND.
Still slightly adrift.
The late finish to my May post is down to an intermittent fault that has bugged the old Dell of late.
The computer lifeboat captain has been notified and I believe he may be launching the lifeboat.
I shall try to publish this before we sink.
