Thursday 2 December 2010

Old School.

As anybody who read the old 'Society Matters' back in the heady days of 2002 will recall, we didn't always choose the strident message, the politically charged tenet; au contraire, good news was spread about.
As of a couple of weeks ago, I am living in Gloucestershire, in a big, comfortable house, working for an excellent British Engineering company not unconnected to Rolls-Royce.

I am doing software( which was the plan), and, as DEVO said, I have 'twisted away those gates of steel' to the point where I am now performing a function I was born for.
One of them.
And so, although my heating in this ambition of a house is insufficient to the -6C cold snap we are experiencing, the hiss of the trains going by on the nearby railway line and the Digestive warmth of my biscuits and coffee are more than enough to produce a feeling of enormous well-being as another week closes; tomorrow my White Goods arrive and the TV gets connected.
Tomorrow the White Goods; today the World.

Monday 29 November 2010

Global Farce.

Global Warming.
Either it is real, or it is rubbish.

I think it is rubbish.
Why?
It's very simple.

According to Warmist alarmists, the present cold snap could just presage the collapse of the Ocean Conveyor, leading to Arctic conditions most of the year and a total removal of oceanic food supplies.

This being true (which it isn't) I would have initiated a massive crash programme of Nuclear Power construction, at least twenty new power stations which would provide clean, competitive energy that we need in the new darkness.


But....
We haven't had that.
What we've had is nothing but bullshit, whereby mendacious politicians and their cohorts have engineered onerous regimes with which to browbeat and push around the population while doing nothing whatsoever to address any avowed problems that we may be facing.

They are liars, crooks and cheats who are only interested in funding a few more Dorset retirements for themselves and their friends.

To hell with them all.

Saturday 27 November 2010

Micro-Communism.

Winston Churchill said that the Soviets didn't want war, they only wanted the spoils of war without the actual fighting.
He was right of course, and this is what protected the West from the Soviet Union for 50 years, our preparedness to fight.

So, the Soviet Union took every opportunity to score bloodless, 'prestige' victories that would render material benefit to their regime, either by expanding the areas they could squeeze, or by encouraging their populations to believe in the lies.

Micro-Communism? What do I mean by this?

Well, the Soviet Union behaved in a certain way; but none of this behaviour was removed from our knowledge of individual human behaviours.
For example, when walking down a street, you might see a person coming the other way, and quiet rightly choose to pass them on the right or the left; then the next time you look, that person is back in your path.

This is pure Communism;
they want to push you around; they want to make you do something for them, without actually having to give an order; they want to demoralise you(rob you of emotional content) without any overt threat or violence, but by using any unrealised discrepancy between your avowed social principles and the actual mechanism of your psychology.

And if you just keep heading straight for them, they may or may not choose to escalate.

But in the vast majority of cases (including many psychopathological and criminal people), they will give way, as the Soviet Union did over Cuba and a dozen other places.

This is what Rand meant when she characterised Communism as plain, old Human evil.

Sunday 26 September 2010

The Granite Face Of Oppression.

What are the means of oppression in civil societies? Do the oppressors let the genie out of the lamp and start murdering at will?

Not quite.
While murder is always on the cards for those who do not conform, the real weapon at the disposal of oppressors is something that looks like (but isn't) indifference.

When we expect a fight, we are actually left with only boredom. Such boredom as makes us question whether there was a conflict at all, boredom that erases tension so fully that we are led to question ourselves, to question why we should question.

We are supposed to shrivel up and die.
The granite-face rarely shows any signs of life, and then only to our backs, lest we should realise we were right.

Oppression is a wall, a unity, a will to victory over all like us that encourages the few clowns who venture forth occasionally to torment us with their fraudulent sympathy and poisonous alliance; help, the more to enfeeble us.
And to question help?
Is to question common humanity.

When they take their rightful places in the wall, the wall between us and home, then we may wonder whether at all there was help.

But when the creatures of conformity see that we in turn are indifferent, then you see what led them to try and belong; the person you reflect to will feel the tables turned, and be brought back to their own distant defeat when that feverish, threatening indifference made them find the way to surrender, so as to feel the full kindness and welcome of the stinking sweat of the human crowd, a smell that has come to mean belonging.

And when you turn the tables on them, however fleetingly, you might see the human inside, struggling to belong to you instead.

But if you bring only freedom, you may find only hate.

Sunday Drivers.

I had to go and get fuel for next week; as I attempted to join the main road, a learner car came shooting up at way over the 40 limit.
I gave way and slotted in behind, but not without difficulty, as the guy slowed down sharply.

There was no student. It was the instructor.

For the remainder of the 40 limit, he did 34.
A queue started to form.

Back in the 60 limit, he accelerated, slowly and erratically, to 49. At one stage he nearly swerved into oncoming traffic.

Then we hit a 30 zone, in which he did 28.

Then we were back out on the open road, and I blew him away. Eventually he passed the petrol station where I was filling up.

This joker actually teaches this crap to people and they do it in real life, afterwards.

He should be sacked.

Anyway, on the way back I get the same shit from some people in an Alfa Romeo 2.0 Twin Spark.
Typical sports car being driven pathetically by a total incompetent.

I blew this one off as well on the next clear stretch, and never saw it again.

Why are there so many stupid bastards on the roads?

Wednesday 15 September 2010

Don't Keep Strange Society.

Every few years, something happens; a social interaction, a snub, a violation, something which moves into my consciousness and refuses to be dismissed easily.

It is sensitivity of a special sort, the sensitivity to something moving on me with a particular precision.

It usually comes as an attack from a quarter which is classed as friendly, without warning.
There are certain people who operate with a type of reserve which is anything but passive, and in fact is only waiting for the right opportunity to attack.

The attack can come when you're doing well, when you are relaxed and happy, or when you are down and out.

Come to think of it, the attacks on me are launched at times when any reasonable slug, peering out from under its stone, might presume to think that I am fragile or experiencing difficulties.

Of course, they underestimate me; and most people in fact.
Whereas somebody might look at me and think I'm alone and unemployed and short of money, in fact my prospects are bright, I have enough money (rosy circumstances of my own arrangement) and I enjoy being alone.

Usually it is some coward who fears my circumstances who tries to enforce their lame-brained classification of me, in order to feel superior.

This gratuitous evil can always be erased from their records by acceptance of relatives, or friends, or priests(!), but it leaves a permanent and growing psychological mechanism in their minds, the very mechanism they try to impose.

The plain fact is that a lot of these people exist only in terms of their own property, and to lose it would destroy them.
Give me a self-made man anytime. They won't be a vicious little moral weakling. Although they may well have their vices, social relativism isn't likely to be one of them.

Then of course, for the suspicious among us, there is the possibility that sometimes these people apply pressure all too exactly, all too precisely; that in fact they have given some thought to the matter.
At these times one has to be careful not to yell "Conspiracy!" too quickly.

But sometimes the depth of thought required to account for the unaccountable persistence over time of an encounter's bad flavour, is such that there can only be an active intelligence somewhere in the chain of delivery.

Who knew where evil grew, eh?

Saturday 11 September 2010

Why? I'll Tell You Why.

Our leaders(by presumption) call in every law enforcement, legal and publicity instrument every time someone threatens to reply in kind to Islamic terrorism and abuse; yet they do this at a time when the armed forces are fighting wars against the people who represent that hatred against us.

Why on Earth do they do that?

Well, it is simple.
The central principle(and excuse) for all socialist intervention and abuse is this:
Disinterest!

The adoption of disinterest as the sole excuse for all their crimes is the big fire curtain protecting their minds from the events of the World Stage, the only thing that allows them to go on doing what they do without realising what they do.

And the central tenet of disinterest demands one thing in particular;
action, but action divorced from morality.

What the socialists do understand, but never let on, is that morality isn't a dead collection of rules written in a book on etiquette, but is a real, dynamic, living feeling invested in the physical nature, the humanity, of Human Beings.

So to maintain the delusion of disinterest, they must at all times act and run contrary to human nature, they must try to neutralise it.

In other words, our armies must not kill Islamist murderers because of righteous hatred.

They must do it for the Islamists own good.

Monday 6 September 2010

It Beggars Belief

FOSS means 'Free, Open Source(code) Software.
I've been nibbling at FOSS for about 4 years now, by way of various Linux-based systems.
And what you get for nothing is nothing short of stupendous.
My present Operating System is supported for three years, but can be updated every six months to the next complete version; at any time, several updates may appear. There is no fuss, the process is open and leaves an audit trail with complete control over what and when things are updated.
For nothing, I get Gimp, which is equivalent to Adobe Photoshop. I can edit audio with Audacity to close to studio quality.
I can extract sound from video, I can play with the sound, put it back in and have fun on youtube with WinFF and Kdenlive.
I can produce full-length DVDs. At no cost except the blank DVDs.

Never mind that the market share is small.

The latest Linux distributions are what is driving the prices of Windows 7 down to £60 for Home Premium 7; Microsoft is now having to work its butt off to produce a product anywhere near as good, and it is only habit which is preserving market share, the habits of people who produce software for Microsoft systems, game authors and so on.

I'm now seeing jobs advertised for gaming programmers able to work in Linux; once this takes off, the youngsters will no longer have a reason to use Microsoft, and the price will fall further.

They cannot win. Their technology is, up to now, fundamentally inferior to Linux. I can obtain free Studios for programming which also work on windows.
Microsoft is supposed to be a great example of Capitalism, but it is valid to say it resembles the monolithic State Capitalism(if you take manipulation of capital as the definition) of the Soviet Union, which is dying in the face of People Power.

In ten years, maybe five, the alleged monopoly of Microsoft may well be a memory like the Soviet Union.

The real challenge for the future is how to embrace the FOSS movement in such a way that it is profitable and Capitalistic without anachronistic business restriction, so that it avoids all the pitfalls of politicised sponsorship and subversion.

Oracle is a large corporation; it has absorbed two of the fundamentals of FOSS, Open Office(a completely compatible substitute for Microsoft Office) and MySQL, a FOSS SQL-type server system.

Whether Oracle moves forwards with a new business model, or simply tries to snuff out the Linux market by killing two of its 'killer apps', will determine how soon the model changes, or whether we have to start again with replacements.

What the corporations are going to learn, one way or another, is that they don't own us or our minds.

Friday 3 September 2010

Another Exerpt From "The Hunters"

Straw was enjoying his breakfast, if that was the word for it.

The hotel had a breakfast bar supplied by a Chinese company called 'McFarm', which was supplying yolk-free eggs and salt-free pork patties in muffins, like the real thing but without the flavour.

A blue Chinese Rover 75 pulled up outside the lobby, and the driver waited while a shaven-headed SSS man – sorry, SP, they'd changed their name to Special Police – bounded up with a fresh smile and a banker's coat.

The announcement went out from the lobby desk for Robert Travis.

Arthur walked over, with an outstretched hand;

Hello, good morning, everybody calls me Rab.”

Good morning mister Travis, I've come to take you to see the big man. You ready?”

The brightness and head jerking exaggeration of the SP man were something Arthur disliked immediately. He smiled.

Certainly, let's go.”

They walked out to the Ersatz Rover, which really had some sort of unpronouncable Chinese name, and the rough diesel moved them briskly through the streets, West to Whitehall.

Straw took in the sights with a deceptively idle gaze; gone were the sandbags and barbed wire at Trafalgar Square. Instead the approaches were preserved behind a gated wall similar to the Peace Wall in the Falls Road in old Belfast.

Notice anything different?” asked the SPC.

Can't say I do. Years since I came South. I'm guessing the barriers are new?”

Yes, mister Travis. There was something of a terrorist problem a few years back.”

Terrorists?”

Sectarians, malcontents, what you will.”

We're safe now though?”

Oh yes.” Again with the exaggerated smile.”Quite safe.”

There was a hint of madness about Straw's grin.

That's good to know.”



Monday 30 August 2010

For What?

Every evil has a point of delivery.
Every evil has a point of origin.

When evil comes seeking you out, from a variety of sources, and at various times, but producing the same effects over and again, you can triangulate.

You can see what launched the attacks. Or at least deduce the source.

And this leads me to ask this: did hundreds of thousands of people go to war to kill thousands of foreigners, simply because the sororities, the fraternities, the societies behind American society, decided that furtherance of American conquest and the need for 'healthy' bloodletting required it?

I think so.

And I think that they found a natural ally in the public school-educated rulers of the British allotment.

On The Other Hand....

On the other hand I just finished working for a bloke who went out of business owing me £1500.
I really have no hard feelings about that.
This guy was more of a friend than a boss, and I received nothing but encouragement and was able to learn loads of new skills and enjoy my work.

I really don't mind if good old 'JB' can never pay me, because although it would be nice, he really did risk everything, was not vicious, did not lie to me, and when he lost everything, and I do mean everything, we shook hands, he signed my papers, gave me a reference and let me take one of the desk-lamps I'd always wanted.
Thoroughly good egg.

Sunday 29 August 2010

But Seriously.....

I was named on a patent or two for an invention which used a Piezo-electric sensor to monitor the heart from an implanted valve.
The guy who actually suggested putting a chip on an implant was removed from the (European) patents, but he's still on the American.

The patent owner put together a business plan in which I was personally guaranteed a percentage of the gross. The person he removed was promised a large percentage.

Towards the end the owner mentioned a smaller and smaller percentage for me, and when I mentioned that this was actually the other guy's idea, the guy he wanted to remove completely, I was made redundant within two weeks.

After I left, the creep kept trying to get me to sign further rights away, as if I owed him something. Actually he owed me several thousand pounds.

So I went to an industrial tribunal and got it.

Then he scoured the old 'Society Matters' page for potential leverage via any comments I had made, and tried to threaten Paul McKeever and I with legal action.

I still wouldn't sign his bloody papers. And I sent back his £10 cheque which was supposed to secure the rights to my invention(illegally, as it was the condition for keeping my job, a part of the bargain he had already violated).

I said the rights were disputed and was ignored.

He made arrangements with two tech companies in the UK to exploit the technology.
I found this out with a little counter-stalking.

I wrote to them telling them that as an inventor I was disputing ownership of the technology; the government partner ignored me.
The commercial partner dropped him like a hot brick.

Interesting.
Anyway, this loony liked to do things at Christmas or on my birthday, so he wrote on Christmas saying I was not to mention anything on the internet or write to people ever again or......
he would sue me.

He then demanded that I pay his legal bill.

I told him he was nuts ("the suggestion ....is utterly fantastic") and ignored him.

But you've just got to love the 'sunk my battleship' moment!

Of Cabbages And Twits.

There was an old joker called Alban,
Who wasn't as nice as the Taliban,
When he ran out of money,
He business was phoney,
And he wouldn't partake of his medicine.

Tuesday 24 August 2010

Don't Ya Just Love It?

Somebody is tucking me in. Yesterday 'analytics' showed a day-old visit to my website by Tel Aviv. Today, the data is gone.
How many more visitors are 'disappearing'?
More importantly, how many of them are trying to contact me and being bounced?

Sunday 22 August 2010

Iran? So what?

Bush let the genie out of the bottle, and now we have been hitting the bottle for 9 years.

The genie of war.
Rather than put the stopper back in and remember the attitudes of our elders and the hard lessons they learned, we are looking for a new drunk to beat up in the name of 'international law' and 'self defence'.

When Jack-The-Hat McVitie, an East End gangster, repeatedly got stoked on alcohol and threatened to kill the Cray Brothers, back in the early 60's, they killed him.

They were imprisoned for the rest of their natural lives. They died in prison.
Now we have a gangster in Iran shooting off drivel like a drunk who can't help himself, and from all sides I hear people saying we should bomb Iran because they could have a nuclear weapon in a year.

As usual Moronic Media and the think tanks and the retired spooks and generals are jibbering like Turkeys about Iran preparing for war while Rome burns in the West.

Let's face this - in the 50's our parents built enough weapons to render the real evil of the Soviet Union a mere inconvenience, an after thought which the vast majority of people were able to ignore while happily getting on with their lives.

They had courage. They had phlegm. They didn't run about like Chicken Little because a bunch of single-browed towel heads staggered to within 60 years of the present day with joke weapons and tons of Russian help.

They have started to fuel up a single nuclear reactor, with massive aid from Russia. Eventuallly they will be able to build one bomb a year with the enriched fuel, assuming they are capable; they have rockets. These rockets cannot lift first generation bombs any great distance.

They have the 'Ambassador of Death' , a crude UAV that looks like a Nazi glider bomb, but is less effective, as it carries a single, small, Iron Bomb, which will miss it's target and make the UAV (which is slow) appear huge on radar, as well as killing range with drag. I mean come on, it looks like something a three year old drew.

Welcome the Iranian nation to the early fifties. Meanwhile, in the 21st century if we are really worried, we can build the Missile Defence Shield, or just rely on being able to wipe Iran off the face of the Earth if they try something.

All this weak-bladdered knicker-twisting does is make the Iranians believe they're own bullshit.

Thursday 12 August 2010

Excerpt From "The Hunters"

Arthur Straw strolled quietly down the pedestrian street. He was not exactly tall, not exactly broad, but there was about him the air of potential violence, a frame that moved fluidly and not in any way identifiable with any of the usual traits.

In fact it was this that led to trouble – as it always did – whether or not Arthur gave a damn. Which he usually didn’t.

His face was violent only in its calmness, and his eyes roved sardonically from incident to incident with barely a flicker of interest.

He had a scar above his left eye, a small scar that told little of the fury that had caused it.

As he walked down the street, he saw the local neighbourhood kids standing outside one of the doors.

He liked them. They’d asked him his name and made friends with him. On the way back from the Chinese take-away the other night, they’d showered him with their water pistol while screeching with delight.

Tuesday 10 August 2010

Friday 6 August 2010

Cliche?

Lethal Weapon is on tonight.
And I am recalling just what a good film it is.
At the time it was made, I was built like Mel Gibson.
And experiencing a few of those things.
It's a film which is often mocked. But the truth is, the original 'Lethal Weapon' was a superb, well-made and honest action adventure with the ring of truth to it.

Lest we forget.

Sunday 25 July 2010

Wednesday 21 July 2010

Sewer.

Whenever I go for a drive, I end up behind a vehicle displaying the 'Help For Heroes' bumper sticker.
This shows the silhouette of two soldiers carrying a stretcher with an injured comrade.

Yes.
Once again we are told the bedtime story of how the military is about saving lives, and how to be a hero all you have to do is dedicate yourself to the legacy of Blair's lies and go off to kill people whenever you're told.
If you do get hurt, you're supposed to rely on the readers of the tabloid press to dub you a hero and cover the stench of lies and murder in heaps of paper flowers.

This is the thinking that made it possible for the Germans to murder millions and invade Europe 60 years ago, and it shouldn't belong in Britain.

Britain has an all volunteer military; in what possible universe can volunteering for fighting qualify you to whine to the Sun or the Daily Mail after you get hurt? It is no coincidence that the public boosting of the image of the military in this country has reached new levels, the less actual honour they really deserve.

The real cause of this sympathy is the blunted guilt being deflected by the criminals that abuse our military. By appearing to encourage sympathy for the British victims of their murderousness, they hoped to fasten themselves to one last streak of decency in the British people, and by doing so, exterminate it - so that they could turn around with a smile when they were found out and say it was our fault, not theirs.

Which makes the military the dupes of both domestic and foreign politics.

Tuesday 20 July 2010

They Lied, Thousands Died. But Really.

Today's testimony at the Chilcot Enquiry into the invasion of Iraq can produce only one conclusion; George W. Bush and Tony Blair invaded Iraq using our defence forces, and killed thousands of people, because they wanted to.

All the noises they made about Weapons Of Mass Destruction, and Terrorism, and Threats to our Safety, all these were absolute lies.

MI5 and the CIA both agreed that Iraq was not a threat.

But they were overruled because a handful of elected politicians wanted to invade another country which was no threat.

Our system is broken.

If it is beyond repair, these individuals will continue to live their lives unmolested.

If the system works, these people will be exposed to the public sight in the spectacle of a criminal trial, and imprisoned.

That's really all there is to say on the matter.

Is The Writing On The Wall?

Kodak is an American, English-speaking company.

When I ordered a remote control for my ZX1 video camera from the Kodak online shop, it was shipped to me all the way from Versmold, Germany.

Increasingly, Amazon products are sent from France or Germany as well.

Now, the German and French postal services are no better than the GPO, probably not as good.

And UPS operates in Britain just as well as in Europe, as does FedEx and CitiLink.

So why are online shops sourced in Germany?

It may be this: the German economy is still massively based on the manufacture of physical items for sale around the world; thus it makes sense that German export infrastructure is first rate.
The Dutch have made a business out of Rotterdam, called 'Europort', which makes Rotterdam(I believe) the biggest sea port in the world.

Meanwhile, in Britain, the export industries largely died in the 60's and 70's, due partly to Union irresponsibility, but mostly due to the absurd monopolistic edicts of the state, the Socialist state of 1945, which made business impossible and destroyed the infrastructure upon which the superbly integrated machinery of the British economy depended. And yes. The unions were put in the position of running the monopolies. both economically and politically.

So Britain no longer has the ability to sustain large-scale bulk (but not necessarily low added value) exports.

Couple this with the building of the Channel Tunnel, which cuts most trans-shipping operations out of the equation, especially for low volume items, and you see that despite the mediocre postal services in Europe, it is better, easier and cheaper to build logistics facilities there.

Also, Germany and Holland use English as a primary business language, leaving an even more appealing option for our American cousins.

Wednesday 14 July 2010

Sunday 11 July 2010

Harrowing

Turning the channel, I came across a film called "The Counterfeiters".
It shows life in a concentration camp.

Not what I'd generally watch.
But I can't stop.

I'm Not Allowed.

Monday 5 July 2010

The Helping Hand.

My sample programmes are designed to help me find a job.

One of them is a high-spec encryptor.
Because of this, my anonymous ftp site has been disabled, and now requires password access.

We can't have the masses talking to each other in private. Of course.

Just like we can't have me getting a job. Naturally they didn't tell me, or my hosting company apparently, so my last four applications referred the recruiters to non-available sample programmes.

Well, anyone who wants this:













Simply use Filezilla to login to ftp.simonoriordan.com, username boss@simonoriordan.com,
password quixote1112 and download it.
It's good, and it's fun.
Enjoy it while the bastards let you.

Friday 25 June 2010

This is the Real BBC

The BBC has a long-term strategy.
That strategy has moved, in the past ten years, from surviving and feathering its nest, to promoting the continuing imposition of socialism on the world in general and Britain in particular.

The BBC uses its legacy standing in the world to steal legitimacy from foreign audiences and bolster its reputation at home, while stealing illegitimate propaganda from domestic sources to give the seal of approval to when talking to those foreign audiences.

Meanwhile, in the most unsubtle and embarrassing way, it is milking the presumed British tolerance of the idiosyncrasies of a 'national treasure', ie the BBC, to create the illusion of radical truthfulness when in fact it is preparing the way for the return of the experiment in five years or less.

With breath-taking cynicism, it promotes the Labour view on any issue at every opportunity, and usually in any case, opportune or not; it engages in pantomime-by-facial-expression, whereby its news teams show more expressive mobility to underline their opinions of facts than Marcel Marceau.
These facts are themselves trimmed and carefully selected, in a blatantly off-balance way, always led by BBC value judgments, and always supported by entirely partial alleged expert witnesses who are in fact the exiled cohorts of the previous regime, the regime which they are so careful to drop from any context which is unfavourable.

As far as the BBC is concerned, history started in May 2010, and they don't like it.

Quite whether they will again persuade enough fools to dislike the present and vote for the same old, same old, change, remains to be seen.

I say, scrap the license fee.

Sunday 20 June 2010

Studies In Insolence

By looking 'over the side' occasionally, I can see the context in which I am attempting to operate.

When the movers and shakers of society comprise people with no guiding principle at all, except to hang on, we get the unedifying site of modern social de-evolution.

The governments of the West have no policies, only the wish to remain in their game for the rest of their miserable lives.

And ours.

They cannot formulate an effective response to Islam, which is the same now as it was a hundred and fifty years ago, because the only thing this infestation of politicians is capable of doing is imitating the apparent successes of past actors, invoking these supernatural totems against the fear, but not wishing to face up to identifying the threat that causes it.

This is because to do that, they would inevitable have to identify themselves and their ambitions, which is something they are not mentally equipped to do.

From their first years of 'life', they have inducted themselves into the sheltering influences of whatever they perceive to be dominant, without any thought as to what it is, only that it represents safety from having to stick out their scrawny necks.

So today, when all that comforting fog has evaporated due to the violence of a few desperate, suicidal men, they are utterly unable to act.

Oh yes. They can commit our armies to violence, plus apologies, because violence tends to be absolute.
They make our response conditional on rules, humanitarian aid, ineffectiveness and a total lack of any desire to win a war.

They don't want to call it a war.
Compared to the last ten years, the eighties, that age of excess and explosive liberty, was a prime example of disciplined debate and decision-making, up until the end when in denial of identity, the ruling coalition of soft tories and republicrats ran as fast as they could from identifying the nature of the death of the beast that had been dying so fast up until then.

Because they saw in our freedom, the end of their games.
When they talk of 'society itself being threatened' they mean that there is a cold wind gathering that might blow the dead wood out of their Home Counties gardens and make it necessary for them to come out from behind the Eight Ball.

Well, I've got news for them.

Society is well and truly broken, and the only thing left for them soon will be to shelter behind each other and be the last to be first, like the people with the stones in the Islamic crowds murdering alleged moral law-breakers in the darkening corners of the world.

Which is why they have such sympathy for the murdering bastards.

Friday 11 June 2010

Round Up The Usual Suspects.

The methods that have served weaseling, scum-sucking, socialist insurgents for generations are being applied to such organs as Facebook today.
The rules are as follows:
1)Never lose your temper.
2)Repeat, repeat, repeat.
3)Let no society remain unjoined.
4)Let no opinion go unchallenged; in the event that support is overwhelming, make a token challenge.
5)Use any kind of 'standard' to kill spontaneity.
6)Use any kind of standard to discredit authentic fun and joy.
7)Make belonging to such clubs as Facebook such a bore that any self-respecting Human leaves.
8)By these means use social osmosis to take control of the organisations.
9)Always appear positive and responsible(like Barack).
10)Pretend to lose your temper if it will carry the gullible in a group over to acceptable beliefs.

These are the rules of social insurgence. I just thought you'd like to know what's going on.
And when it's too quiet, don't like that either. The Prime Directive is to ignore things they don't like until they can be acknowledged in a negative way when it is unavoidable.
The curly-brained bastards are always up to something.

Tuesday 8 June 2010

Brownian Motion.

When I was a wee sprogg in school, the teacher decided to demonstrate something called Brownian Motion.
Taking out a cigarette, he blew smoke into a box, then put the box under a microscope.

We all got the chance to see the little smoke particles being bounced around by the air molecules, and even the bad guys were impressed, because, well, it was cigarette smoke.

To the uneducated eye, the reportage of papers such as the Times, Telegraph and Guardian appears to take a consistent position; one of these organs is supposed to be enough to inform and confirm the predispositions of various types in the social firmament.

Look closer.

For every random occurrence of truth, there will be at least five gyrations about the mean of the meaningless 'centre ground'; the publishers are trying to play a numbers game with an entirely imaginary beast, the doyen of the centre, something which only can exist so long as they betray every principle in their attempts to pander to it.

So they try to be 'blue but not too blue', or 'pink but not too pink', and end up being nothing at all.
Their opinion pieces and editorials follow the path of Brownian Motion, bouncing randomly about a fixed point.
Fixed in smoke.

But beware.
The smoke box may be about to fall off the edge of the desk.

Or smoking itself may be banned.

Monday 24 May 2010

What Do You Know?


My video editor crashed when finishing this. At exactly the same time, the phone rang, a recorded message starting 'If you die without leaving a will....'

Saturday 22 May 2010

Junk Mail.

The mental processes leading to the creation of junk mail headers must be both remarkable and banal at the same time; the assumptions made are utterly fantastic.
Would I really be referred to as 'Mr. Voluntary'? Am I impotent because I'm in my forties? Even more amazing, are my own mental processes sufficiently malformed that I would seriously consider taking drugs to concentrate?
What the hell is it with people and 'drugs'?
Why do so many people hate their own nature so much that they would consider consuming chemicals to change or disguise it?

The answer is straightforward actually.

People who take drugs are judging themselves by unattainable standards, standards which it is not humanly possible to reach.
For this reason, they are already sick before they take the drugs. What happens after just takes them further away from being human.

Saturday 15 May 2010

Notional Health.

Imagine the relief with which so many doctors welcomed the creation of the National Health Service in the middle of the last century; no longer would they have to worry about the comparisons being made, the judgment suspended above them like the Sword Of Damocles by their patients.
The National Health service was the worst possible implementation of a bad idea, no-one would be able to trade off good repute, the patients would have no choice about their doctors, they would no longer be able to trade their custom and make the doctors work for their living.

So today, instead of a National Health Service where patients choose who treats them, based on publicly traded reputations, ie, too many people die at this or that surgery, don't go - they have to take their chances with the 'bog-standard' GP, the doctor upon whose judgment their lives depend being just a unit, a cog in the bastard machine.(And no, the SF Chronicle did not coin that phrase, I did, on the old Society Matters - but hey, that's MSM for ya!).

Where they could have had a system in which free care followed the patients and they could still vote with their (surrogate) government custom, a system was expressly designed which prevents all competition and thus eliminated the thrust to improve or even maintain standards; and where there is no motivation or sanction other than rarely used express punishments, then the standards established(in an obsolete age) will surely disintegrate.

Thus we will have medical students going to college for the drinking contests, hospitals which kill their patients with preventable disease, and Doctor Harold Shipman, the authority figure who was a law unto himself(according to the state model) and murdered dozens of people who innocently believed in the State Medical Care Scam.
And all sorts of crummy deals being made behind the scene by alleged doctors who are in with the in-crowd.

Sunday 9 May 2010

Latest Beer Bug.

Unexpected Behaviour.

When I got to Shirley's there was a lot of bustle; the preparations for the town hall party were being run from the bar.
There were about five crates on the jeep, two of rum and three of Scotch. She sent one of the men out to unload, then stopped and looked at me properly for the first time.
When our eyes met, she smiled, and I felt a stirring that had nothing to do with 'good turns' such as booze-hopping from the depot.
All at once she was busy again and I was left drifting. I couldn't leave it at that.
"Shirley? Anything else I can do for you?"
"We'll see. The dance is at eight."
"See you there then?"
She looked a little flustered. And not a little pleased.
"Yes. Now unless you've got any skill with bunting, lose yourself!"

Which I did.
I went back to my old hut by the airfield, the one with the plumbing for twenty and the peace and quiet.
Time to take myself in hand.
My demob sports jackets were in good shape; I chose the light fawn-coloured one, and pulled out a pair of gray-blue slacks.
Then to the showers. Ten minutes later, after a lukewarm hosing, I shaved. It didn't matter that I was strolling about naked. The big old Nissen Huts were deserted, apart from my Alsatian wandering about. Her name? Dog. A dog called Dog.
Anyway, I dressed and put on some sort of Italian cologne I'd traded off an Italian officer for cigarettes when we'd had a few POW trustees doing the cleaning back when I was trained.

I was definitely looking smarter than usual when, at a quarter to eight, I slung myself into the Jeep, jammed it into gear and set off for town.

As I passed Shirley's I stopped and went onto the veranda. It was open. Jack was behind the bar.
"The boss in?"
"Who, miss Shirley? No baas, she's gone to the dance."
"Okay Jack, thanks."
The town hall was only a couple of streets up in the square. As I turned off the engine, I could hear the sounds of laughter, music and conversation coming from the hall.
I went in.
The people were gathered in the middle of the dance floor, all clapping.
And in the middle was Shirley.
Dancing with Max Keiser. They were really cutting the rug.
As the tune ended, Keiser spotted me and grinned.
"Hello Billy."
The grin stayed just long enough to be a sneer, as I held his gaze. I heard myself saying,
"Hello Max. You're a little off course aren't you?"
"I don't think so."
He turned and looked at Shirley.
"I think I made what is called a happy landing."
"A happy landing is one you can walk away from...."
The grin vanished. The scar above the eye glowed under the lights. Then Shirley spoke up.
"So you two are old flying buddies? Come on. Let's have a drink and you can tell me all about it."
So she walked us over to the bar, one on each arm.

Wednesday 5 May 2010

Ubuntu 10.04

It's official. Lucid (Ubuntu 10.04) trashes all video. Don't believe what any gibbering fanboy says to the contrary.

Monday 3 May 2010

Pub Without The Crawl

Sadly Missed. Tragic.


Just learned today that Ofra Haza died in 2000. Apparently she caught AIDS from somebody despite being fastidious.
Her voice and music are truly wonderful, and bring back many memories of the times and places and thoughts I have held.

Saturday 1 May 2010

A Message To Rudy!

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Sunday 18 April 2010

Game On.

The geyser climbing down from the Storch was dressed in a long, leather coat and a canvass flying helmet.
"Watcha mate! That's a splendid specimen you were flying there!"
"Oh. What? Ach, you mean my Feiseler? Ya! Gut plane."
"German eh? Thought you'd all been grounded."
He took off his hat. The hair was short and blond. There was a scar above the right eye.
"Only ze ones they caught!"
He barked with laughter at his own joke.
He held out his hand.
"Max Keiser!"
"Prattebourne. Lord. But everybody calls me Billy."
"Pleased to meet you Billy."
Then he did the whole 'bow and heel-click' thing.
"Say, Max, we're just off to get something to drink. If you're looking for directions, we can fix you on the way."
"Not directions, Billy. I'm after drink too."
We must have given him a strange look.
"For the gold prospectors? Up at the Linford seam?"
"Well you've come to the right place!"
Max laughed when he heard the reason for our business.
"Also? A dance you say? Maybe I can come?"
"Doubt you'd like it. But I'm sure they'd allow one more. Over West at Murrayville."
"What time?"
"Eight."
Max took off, with a crate of Schnapps. Didn't seem odd at the time.
Robbie and I were pissing ourselves with suppressed laughter anyway. Murrayville was thirty miles in the wrong direction!
I put the booze on the back seat and started up.
Within the hour I was back at the field, and put the crates into the old jeep Doc Ellis had lent me.
I was really surprised at what I saw when I got to town.
But first to Shirley's.

Saturday 17 April 2010

Progress Has Been Made.

I'm having an intriguing time at work; developing multi-layer encrypted systems is fun!

Monday 5 April 2010

Kick Ass really does!




This is picture of Hit Girl.

I won't give anything away, except to say that if you value your fun, you MUST go and see the film.

Saturday 3 April 2010

A Vote For Cameron Is A Vote For The 80s!


I wasn't going to vote at all, but having seen the paranoid presumption behind this poster, exposing the lies and fear at the heart of the Labour government, I shall definitely be voting, and voting Conservative. I love the 80s!

Sledgehammer.

The'music industry' paid me a nasty little visit; they arrogated the right to plaster two of my videos with adverts, because they used small clips of UMG-owned songs.

Obviously I'd already paid for these to add them to my music collection.

Obviously I wasn't making money from them.

Equally obviously, I have taken the clips down, and will remaster the videos without the music.

Sunday 28 March 2010

Because We All Know One.

Dying For A Drink.

I left Shirleys Pub with a promise of a hot bath and company at the town hall dance - if I could get the booze.
The Cub was sitting in the afternoon heat in a patch of Veldt near the overgrown field that used to be the grass strip. A few cattle kept the grass down, but made the availability of the strip variable. Especially after dark.

The little plane rattled and creaked as I climbed aboard. Switches on, plenty of juice. I got out, checked the dipper - plenty of petrol. Okay. Start her up. Quick magneto check - there are old pilots, there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. Fine Buckle up and swing onto the strip.
A few yards and we clawed into the air.

I flew at about 500 feet, keeping an occasional eye on the engine and looking over the side.
At one point I saw a lion, a female, a small herd of Zebra. They didn't look startled. The cub wasn't a startling sort of plane.

Eventually I spotted the rail depot at Morrisville, where the holding warehouses for the region were. I circled until I saw a roadway between the tracks. Then I landed. Again, I pulled up in a few yards.
Switching off, the silence wasn't complete. There was a faint buzz in the air. I paid no attention.
Robbie Reiker had seen me; I got out as he came running up.
"Hiya Pratty!"
"Hello Robbie!"
"What can I do for you?"
"Need whisky and rum. Crate of each for the pub."
"Can do, Pratty. Old surplus stock do? Usual price?"
"Yes man."
The drone was getting louder. We both looked up. Coming in on the very same roadway was a contraption looking like a gnat, still about 50 feet up.
It was a Fiesler Storch.
What the hell?

Thanks To Borge on Facebook.

Win-Win Situation

The lights went out at the Houses Of Parliament for Earth Hour last night.
I turned extra lights on and watched Walk The Line till midnight.

If only this could be a permanent state of affairs.

Saturday 27 March 2010

The Man Comes Around.

Some Had A Good War.

Hello. Artemis Prattebourne here. I became the third Earl Of Prattebourne in 1943. My uncle was killed, leading his regiment onto Sicily as we were beginning to turn things around.

Me? Came through the whole shooting match without a scratch. Joined up with the Royal Air Force in '45, sent for pilot training in South Africa.
Then the war ended, and I chose to be paid off where I was.

I'd learned to fly by then, and rather than go back to Prattebourne Manor, I left it as it was, a military hospital for American airmen still recovering.
The yanks paid me good money to use the place, so there I was in 1946, in the bush near Bloemfontain, with a surplus Piper Cub I'd bought for five pounds and a crate of Webster's Cream Mild. I was running medics out into the country for subsistence and drinks, generally spending the morning delivering the doctors and their supplies, sometimes flying patients back to the town so that they could be properly looked after.
In the afternoons I''d go up to the best flyers bar there was, at least when the school had been open.

Shirley's Pub was in a corner by the railway station and opposite the post office. She left it to her native help to run and almost never showed her face. At least, I'd never seen her. Just Henry, the barman with the deepest black skin and the slowest, whitest smile.
He knew what I wanted without asking, and when I would pull up in the doctor's old Jeep, he'd have a frosty Castle lager, brought up specially, waiting for me.

One day, as I was sitting quietly, nursing my beer, and Henry was wiping the counter by way of swiping a fly away from the taps, there were footsteps from upstairs.
Henry looked up at the ceiling.
"Better look busy baas. That'll be Shirley, coming to do the books."
he smiled and put a few of the empties back on the bar.
Then he poured me another cold one, just as Shirley entered.
"That'll be half a Crown baas."
I reached into my pocket for the money. I sensed the footsteps stop. I looked around.

Shirley was a tall, blonde, blue-eyed woman, very, very beautiful, and she was looking at me with narrowed eyes.
She paused long enough to take in the scene. Just as our eyes met, she turned to Henry.
"Henry Gabon, you don't fool me for a minute. Get those empties off the bar."
He laughed. She smiled. Then she turned at the end of the bar and looked at me questioningly.
"You a flyer?"
"Am I a flyer?"I smiled.
"Well, are you?"
"Stayed on after the school shut."
"Still live at the camp?"
"No. It's shut. I stay with Doc Ellis. Sometimes."
"You don't look clean enough to live with the Ellises."
"Sometimes. Others, I'm under the wing, or else sleeping in the hangar by the runway."
She wasn't llistening. She was examining the ledger.
"Henry, when did we run out of Rum. And Whiskey. Gosh Henry, why didn't you say?"
"I did ma'am, but you were...busy."
"Busy."
"Busy looking for Rog.... for the baas."
She looked suddenly distant. Just for a fleeting instant, the shadow of grief crossed her face. She brushed it away like a strand of hair.
Like I said, some had a good war. And some hadn't. A lot of people, in fact.

I moved closer, and said, quietly, "I can get you a couple of crates of Whiskey and Rum. When do you want them?"
"There's the town committee dance tonight. Nobody could get them by eight."
"Shirley? Consider it done."
Why I cared, I don't know, but this was peacetime, and things would get better. But only if we made them better.

Home Of The Brave?

America has been dragged, kicking and screaming, back into the 20th century.

They finally have health care as applied by the governing classes. Quite where the governing classes will go for their suddenly essential care is a mystery. President Obama showed sleight of hand and not a little cold-blooded thuggery in destroying what was left of medicine, and making sure that nobody will ever experience any miracles again.

He was able to do this due to the fantasy that 'America' can do things.
America is a state.
A free state is one where things happen, because people do them. So when Fleming discovered Penicillin in 1929 in Paddington Hospital in London, it wasn't until the more properly industrialised health businesses in the US got their hands on it, that it was mass-produced into a wonder drug - in 1944, 15 years later.

Now Obama has made sure that there will be no more miracles.
Why?
Because he has killed both the means and the motive to improve.
Profit.

But rest assured, you will all be entitled to the diminishing standards of whatever old treatments are deemed sufficient.

America truly did this.
Americans won't be able to look after themselves or anybody else any more.

The Story So Far.....

Long long ago, in a city far, far away, lived a man who had a lot to say.
He was working for a businessman, name of Alban.

Alban often used to lose his temper with the man, because the man was honest and couldn't see why a real businessman like Alban would wish to keep all things quiet.

One day, another man called Nicholas had an idea an invention was born. The man immediately contributed technology he had been thinking about for four years, thinking that he would be looked after, rather than 'taken care of'.

Promises were made. The man was going to be 'rich and famous'; then he was going to receive 3% of the gross; then 1%.
Then 0.5 %.

Then he was told to sign a piece of paper for £10, or lose his job.

Then he was fired anyway.

He walked away.

Alban came after him, saying that he would take his name off the patents if he didn't sign away further rights.

The man put this on the old 'Society Matters' site. With some opinions about Alban.

Both he and Paul, the site owner, were threatened by Alban with legal action if they didn't stop.

Simon and Paul complied, and Society Matters started to die.

A few months later, Simon was driving a van to pay the rent, when he did a search for Alban's company on the web.

He discovered that the company was selling the ideas to two more partners.
Simon wrote to the partners, explaining that the IPR was disputed.
One of them withdrew.

Alban threatened Simon with legal action, again, and this time made demands with the threats, for legal costs then and there, attempting to twist Simon's arm by quoting remarks he'd made on Society Matters.
Simon wrote back, telling Alban and his solicitor that the suggestion he owed them money was 'utterly fantastic'.

Simon has documents to prove all of this.

Society Matters died.

Now it is reborn.

Simon O'Riordan is Out!

I'm back.
I feel as if I've been holding my breath for five years.
Put the word out - my instrument of social conflict is back and has a bone to pick with the bums running our world into the ground.

I hope to see my old friends - and enemies - back on top of the world.

Whether ma likes it or not!