I don't get hurt. I get unhappy.
I don't use the word 'depressed', because although that is the accurate word, describing as it does a general lowering of human functions, it is used by trained idiots, divorced from context and meaning.
In other words, they talk about the effect (depression) as though it had no cause or reason, and this is quite honestly a load of delusional bollocks.
If my wife dies for no reason, and I am happy, even though I love her, that is mental illness.
If I am depressed, that is normal.
If the depression lasts years, that is normal.
Depression is not an illness, especially one they regard as 'validly causated' or some such rubbish; it is normal, it is a part of life, and death.
So I am depressed today. Because I sent a book to someone and it was sent back.
In fact, it was probably due to the lack of a customs declaration on the envelope(it wasn't just a book), but if it happens a second time, there will be no escaping it.
I won't be depressed tomorrow.
I may be a little, who knows? But I won't be taking pharmaceutical drugs to destroy the causal link between my value judgements and the reality of events.
I will not acquire mental illness on behalf of 'health'.
Tuesday 29 January 2013
Wednesday 16 January 2013
Oh, Bama.
Having watched the television news for a while this evening, I was treated to the sight of the US President perched behind a teeny little writing desk, with a background of (specially selected) 'cute' children.
Presumably this cretinous pantomime, where he high-fived the kids before sitting down and giving some pieces of paper a jolly good signing, the more to show him being a man of action, was designed to impress total bloody halfwits worldwide.
Never mind; by the already lamentably low standards of junior school show and tell, this was a real tonic for the troops.
And therein lies the truth of this piece of theatrical child abuse; it is designed to appeal only to the sing-song-leading, activism-spouting, green-credentialled youth camp leading perpetual adolescents of his caucus, and nobody else.
His contempt for the actual adults of America is roaring its message by the ritual ignorance of their existence.
This man makes me embarrassed for the entire country.
Presumably this cretinous pantomime, where he high-fived the kids before sitting down and giving some pieces of paper a jolly good signing, the more to show him being a man of action, was designed to impress total bloody halfwits worldwide.
Never mind; by the already lamentably low standards of junior school show and tell, this was a real tonic for the troops.
And therein lies the truth of this piece of theatrical child abuse; it is designed to appeal only to the sing-song-leading, activism-spouting, green-credentialled youth camp leading perpetual adolescents of his caucus, and nobody else.
His contempt for the actual adults of America is roaring its message by the ritual ignorance of their existence.
This man makes me embarrassed for the entire country.
Saturday 12 January 2013
Duck-ess.
Once again the media channels of all types have been filled with fawning, sycophantic shite as the new portrait of the Duckess Of Cambridge is presented to the world.
For those not appraised of the situation, the Duckess is a somewhat bony, hatchet-faced young lady, attractive in the sense of a mass-produced Chelsea Party Girl way, with carefully manicured eyebrows that youth cannot prevent from turning into drawn on stitches when she is ten years older, the inevitable product of starvation diets and over-preening.
But, being more generous, she looks 'nice', if a little manic, and is surely enjoying life as the future queen with an appetite for celebrity which is only matched by the now-traditional media obsessions with what she's wearing, how she looks, and whether she is producing her little arse off for the dynasty.
As reward for being used as an unbloodied human sacrifice for the remaining supporters of the establishment, she has been turned into an icon.
And what an icon.
The person in the painting is grimacing through the wizening effects of the years with lined dotage showing in her 45 year old face, thus seeking to bridge the gap by falsely imbuing her with the aged virtues of the present queen, much as North Korea might reference its founding father by including his image in icons of the current putz-in-chief.
In an attempt to turn this vacant, ordinary young woman into a touchstone of future stability, they have mutated her by about fifteen years and a species gap into a comfort blanket for the future.
Nice try.
Didn't work.
For those not appraised of the situation, the Duckess is a somewhat bony, hatchet-faced young lady, attractive in the sense of a mass-produced Chelsea Party Girl way, with carefully manicured eyebrows that youth cannot prevent from turning into drawn on stitches when she is ten years older, the inevitable product of starvation diets and over-preening.
But, being more generous, she looks 'nice', if a little manic, and is surely enjoying life as the future queen with an appetite for celebrity which is only matched by the now-traditional media obsessions with what she's wearing, how she looks, and whether she is producing her little arse off for the dynasty.
As reward for being used as an unbloodied human sacrifice for the remaining supporters of the establishment, she has been turned into an icon.
And what an icon.
The person in the painting is grimacing through the wizening effects of the years with lined dotage showing in her 45 year old face, thus seeking to bridge the gap by falsely imbuing her with the aged virtues of the present queen, much as North Korea might reference its founding father by including his image in icons of the current putz-in-chief.
In an attempt to turn this vacant, ordinary young woman into a touchstone of future stability, they have mutated her by about fifteen years and a species gap into a comfort blanket for the future.
Nice try.
Didn't work.
Friday 11 January 2013
Give Peas A Chance.
I have remained happily remote from the particulars of Piers Morgan and his one man crusade to reconquer the USA.
However it becomes apparent from the noise being generated by the press and public in the States that Morgan is just another of these supercilious gobshites who are exported with regularity after they become deluded that their talent must be shared with a wider world so to mould it more in the image of their England.
This latter-day colonialism is a constant source of embarrassment to me when overseas, as my accent frequently marks me as one of their compatriots; imagine my horror when friendly Americans immediately start apologising for the achievements of their country in deference to my 'Englishness', that much-exploited and entirely unfounded quality which lives on only in the sentiment of foreigners.
Who exploits it? Piers Morgan. Jeremy Paxman. A few people such as wrestlers and actors who have a persona to project. The government. The Royal Family. And so on.
Exploitation. Cold blooded and as subtle as a bludgeon or a stiletto, depending on how much is opportune at any time.
What is particularly disgusting about Piers Morgan's fraud is how readily he went to accusations of stupidity, assertions of 'superior intellect'(by virtue of his clothing budget and accent) and faked outrage.
These have ever been the tools of our English oppressors when confounded by the power of reason, and have been and still are the methods used to banish the mind from seeing the truth about the pure thuggery of British rule in Britain.
When the real world sees through one of these clowns, they are on the path to truth.
Don't let sentiment stand in your way.
However it becomes apparent from the noise being generated by the press and public in the States that Morgan is just another of these supercilious gobshites who are exported with regularity after they become deluded that their talent must be shared with a wider world so to mould it more in the image of their England.
This latter-day colonialism is a constant source of embarrassment to me when overseas, as my accent frequently marks me as one of their compatriots; imagine my horror when friendly Americans immediately start apologising for the achievements of their country in deference to my 'Englishness', that much-exploited and entirely unfounded quality which lives on only in the sentiment of foreigners.
Who exploits it? Piers Morgan. Jeremy Paxman. A few people such as wrestlers and actors who have a persona to project. The government. The Royal Family. And so on.
Exploitation. Cold blooded and as subtle as a bludgeon or a stiletto, depending on how much is opportune at any time.
What is particularly disgusting about Piers Morgan's fraud is how readily he went to accusations of stupidity, assertions of 'superior intellect'(by virtue of his clothing budget and accent) and faked outrage.
These have ever been the tools of our English oppressors when confounded by the power of reason, and have been and still are the methods used to banish the mind from seeing the truth about the pure thuggery of British rule in Britain.
When the real world sees through one of these clowns, they are on the path to truth.
Don't let sentiment stand in your way.
Tuesday 8 January 2013
Christmas Is Over.
Christmas 2012 ended today at 11 am.
At a church in Cardiff we celebrated the life of my late cousin.
When she died on Christmas Eve, she left the holiday hanging over us until 'all other business' had been taken care of.
In this way, she touched us all one, last time, somewhat incredibly making this Christmas her last even though she couldn't be here.
It was a more memorable time, rather than one which should be forgotten, and the image of her bright, smiling face, will forever be associated in our memories with Christmas 2012.
Her children, crying in the church as they paid tribute, crying again as the little coffin made its way to the burial ground, now have no reason to doubt the common sympathy and support of hundreds of people they barely know.
So long Gill.
At a church in Cardiff we celebrated the life of my late cousin.
When she died on Christmas Eve, she left the holiday hanging over us until 'all other business' had been taken care of.
In this way, she touched us all one, last time, somewhat incredibly making this Christmas her last even though she couldn't be here.
It was a more memorable time, rather than one which should be forgotten, and the image of her bright, smiling face, will forever be associated in our memories with Christmas 2012.
Her children, crying in the church as they paid tribute, crying again as the little coffin made its way to the burial ground, now have no reason to doubt the common sympathy and support of hundreds of people they barely know.
So long Gill.
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