Tag Archives: Amusement

Halloween and stuff

Halloween is a big deal over here. People deck their houses in carved pumpkins, fake cobwebs and all sorts of foolery. Lots of kiddies dress up in silly and totally unscary costumes, students put on Zombie makeup and totter around the streets muttering “Brains, brains.” Are they asking for a donation or lunch? So I thought I’d get into the spirit of things. Join in the fun. For a given value of ‘fun’ (Evil snigger).

This whole trick or treat business however, has always struck me as rather mean spirited. A “Give us sweeties or we’ll kick your bins over, spatter your windows or scratch your car” kind of meanness. Which isn’t really fun at all and simply encourages tooth decay and hyperactivity.

My Halloween tradition circulated around bonfire jumping (Small bonfires), bobbing for apples, pub crawls, cider drinking games and general horseplay between consenting youth. No one went round banging on doors demanding candy with menaces. The older folk were always part of the festivities, but mostly as spectators while the youngsters made bloody idiots of themselves. Those who didn’t want to play stayed home and no one bothered them. Well, apart from drunken singing stumbling past at two in the morning. The only real fallout was massive hangovers and the odd inexplicable bruise the following day. On one rare Halloween when it wasn’t raining, a bunch of us ended up on top of a local hill having a howling contest at the Hunters Moon. No-one called the cops. Although I recall one old farmer type did turn up in his Land Rover with Purdey on the front seat. He took one look at us, muttered something about ‘bloody kids’ before promptly turning round and going home to bed. We got the hint and dispersed. Of course this was a long time ago. Nowadays we’d have a bloody SWAT team round our necks. Which begs the question; when did people become such wussies?

This year my fancy dress is going to be a ‘biohazard’ sign for the front door, hooded painters overalls flecked with a little red, breath mask, face shield or safety glasses. Perhaps Wellingtons or even these to top off the ensemble. Which can all be used if and when I get round to a little DIY, or there really is an Ebola epidemic. So win-win there I think.

Treatment for mild alcoholism

Back in the UK, those wacky proponents of medication at NICE have decided that anyone who imbibes a couple of glasses of wine a day is a ‘mild’ alcoholic. Oddly enough these chaps have the exact pill for this ill. Now chums, isn’t that lucky? Specifically a medication called Selincro or Nalmefene. Which is designed to ‘cure’ you of your need for a nice glass or two of Cabernet Sauvignon, Foche, Pinot Gris, whatever.

Now most astute observers might ask friends over to debate this issue, say over a nice glass of wine or two, and tartly observe the ‘two glasses a day is mild alcoholism’ assertion as one of those ‘pulling spurious figures out of their arses whilst simultaneously using said anatomical feature as cranial storage facility and vocal apparatus’ affairs. Said astute observers might also perform a comparison between the two options.

Side effects of said pharmacological phenomena include;

Headaches, sleepiness, sleeping problems, nausea, vomiting, tachycardia, hypertension, acute pulmonary edema and pruritis with possible long term damage to the digestive tract in up to a fifth of patients who should also abstain from driving or operating machinery and spicy foods. Not to mention becoming a total self righteous pain in the arse who doesn’t want anyone else to enjoy themselves.

Side effects of imbibing two glasses of wine include;

Mild fuzzy feeling of well being or intoxication, slight garrulousness, sociability, relaxation and lowered stress levels with a very minor risk of long term liver damage in oo, let’s say seventy years. Do not drive or operate machinery heavier than the remote control ‘off’ button. Spicy foods are encouraged. Sex is not contra-indicated.

Rather puts you off going to see the old Quack doesn’t it? Or maybe, says my more Machiavellian side, that was the intention in the first place. Dee-dah-DAAAH! Costs to ‘wonderful’ NHS cut. Job done.

Ach, Weel…….

Well hasn’t that been fun?  The referendum on Scottish Independence which promised to be a score draw instead turned into a narrow away win for the ‘No’ faction. So no three points on the pools coupon.  No big payout. Upon sober reflection perhaps a bullet has been dodged, but I rather feel significant opportunities have been missed.

Just think of the jobs that could have been created by the ‘Yes’ voters as they;

  1. Rebuilt Hadrians Wall to keep those English bastards out.
  2. Found real, meaningful jobs for the proposed glut of repatriated Ginger people (Like Chris Evans).
  3. Gone back to the growth industries of cross border cattle and sheep raiding
  4. Created a massive urban renewal programme when they found out there wasn’t enough oil left to keep them in the style to which they wished to become accustomed.
  5. Created a new ‘Auld Alliance’ with that other failing European socialist republic (France)

What the narrow ‘No” vote means is;

Alas, poor Alex Salmond will not be the first Minister of a newly independent Scotland (Shame).

David Camoron keeps his job (Heavy sigh).

The Queen will not have to put Balmoral on the market (Huzzah for Liz).

No inadvertent ‘Brexit’ caused by invalidated EU treaties (Bugger).

No doubt there will be many petty recriminations from disappointed ‘Yes’ voters against those who did not vote or who voted ‘No’ and perhaps many useful construction jobs will created by the resulting riots for Polish tradesmen who actually learned to solder a joint, lay a brick, cut a straight piece of wood, fix a pipe and actually turn up on time for a job.

However, let’s look on the bright side; at least Scottish MP’s may not have to drag their arses down to Wastemonster in future to bother voting on issues that only concern the Sassenachs.  Which means, oh.  Not so good.  Scottish MP’s will have to take a cut in expenses (Shame, boo hiss).  Oh dearie me.  Tsk.

Another random thought on Scottish devolution v1.08 – v1.11 rel 2

Okay, suppose the ‘Yes’ vote does have it, and Alex Salmond leads the Scots towards an oil-funded socialist utopia. Which has worked out really well for the Venezuelans hasn’t it?

Will this mean;

  1. The expulsion of any person with an accent deemed ‘Too English’ or ‘Not Scottish enough’.  Trust me, this does happen.  I have a relative who left Scotland in the early 00’s because he was sick of the prejudice against him (Graffiti on house, social exclusion, overt hostility) because his Dundee University educated accent sounded ‘Too English’
  2. The resumption of cross border cattle (or sheep) raiding as an (Even greater) economic growth area?
  3. Civil unrest when the Scots find out there’s not so much oil to fund their economy and all the real money goes South?
  4. Subsequent forcible repatriation north of the English / Scottish border for anyone who is Ginger?

 

Random thought on Scottish devolution v1.05

Right.

Pre results musing.

If the Scots have voted ‘Yes’ to devolution and the United Kingdom is no longer the UK any more…..

Does this mean;

That all treaties signed on behalf of the UK since the Act of Union in 1707 may now become null and void because the UK will no longer be the same UK as it was when say, the Lisbon and Maastricht treaties etcetera were signed? Those treaties were signed for the UK as England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, not as England, Wales and Northern Ireland.

I know it’s a pretty fine hair to split but could these treaties be seen as truly binding should the Scots get independence?

Brexit by cock-up. Now that’s an interesting thought.

Insider info on Scottish Devolution v1.03

Now don’t ask me where I got this as it’s top secret.   In a last minute bid to ‘Save the Union’ David Cameron’s office has sent the following to SNP leader Alex Salmond;

Okay Alex

Here’s my final offer. If the Yes vote wins, please doesn’t secede from the Union, Scotland can;

  1. Keep its Crown Jewels
  2. Have those new powers we talked about and a bigger chunk of the oil revenues

Only one condition; You lot keep Gordon Brown. This is non-negotiable.

Regards, D

That Playboy Gary Oldman interview

This comes under the category of “Well, it put a smile on my face”. Gary Oldman fulsomely deserves something like one of DK’s old ‘Bloody Devil’ awards for outspoken sweariness. Read the Playboy interview here. I enjoyed it immensely.

The terrified mealy mouthed statement from Gary’s agent published underneath an article about the interview in the Barclay Brothers Beano about ‘Taken out of context‘ and but, but, but, ‘he really supports gay marriage‘ underneath made me chuckle all the more. Sounds like Urbanski is terrified that the interview would be a career killer for Oldman, and hence his fat agents fees would dry up.

Which is where the issue over political correctness lies. PC is dishonest and mendacious. It makes honest words curdle in the face of authority’s wrath. It’s the trump card in Victimhood Poker. The battle cry of the perpetually thin skinned. The poison of society. Passive-aggression for the emotionally retarded. I think what’s really wrong with PC is that it’s from people who’ve been told by bloodless bureaucrats what emotions they should have as opposed to what they’re really feeling.

Like a lot of people, I applaud Mr Oldman’s forthright stance on many issues. I consider his name on a movie billboard a hallmark of quality work, regardless of his political views. He’s entitled to them. They are honestly his and do not detract from his work. Such honesty in public life is very rare and like all rare things, precious and worthy of preservation.

Update: Score (Yet another) one for the forces of darkness. Oldman has ‘apologised’ because of pressure from the pro-Israeli Anti-Defamation League. Even though his comments were a defence of free speech citing what happened over a drunken rant by Mel Gibson and not a direct attack on things Jewish.

Chilled

Mrs S and I have finally moved in properly to new Victorian gaff here in BC and just delivered our first weekend guest safe home. To celebrate we took a bus downtown and did a little bar surfing. While we were on our way, the oddest feeling crept over me. A sense of complete calm, serenity, even a sense of being touched by God. A veritable nexus of null anxiety, to the point where my paranoia kicked in and whispered salaciously to my hindbrain “It’s been a wonderful day so far-so what’s going to go pear shaped? Who is going to screw it up?” You know what? Nothing did.

In Iraq, 800 crazies, including three holders of UK passports so we are told, are murdering all they choose while an army flees in front of them. The Ukraine crisis lumbers on. The USA seems weak and vacillating. UK Civil liberties are eroded with every half baked directive from the EU Commission and everywhere the media are complicit in the decline.

Yet none of that matters, because at present we’re having a lovely time. Walking here and there, enjoying the locality. Don’t take this personally, but I won’t say ‘wish you were here’. There’s only just enough happiness for me, Mrs S and the dog.

A Victorian afternoon

Taking advantage of our new domiciles proximity to the provincial capital, Mrs S and I took the bus downtown to have a pootle around and a few drinkies without the necessity of putting hands anywhere near a steering wheel.

Around one of the clock, having bought birthday presents to try and heal a rift with sister in law, Mrs S saw a jewellery store on Government Street and bade me wait outside in the sunshine, which I did, just settling down on a bench to peoplewatch from behind sunglasses and generally chill. While I was amiably ensconced on a bench, from down the street came a steady drumbeat. Thump, thump, thum-thum-thump. At first I thought it was a busker. There were guitarists, violinists, so hey, why not a drummer? The only thing was this sound kept getting closer. At length I caught sight of a small phalanx of marchers, about a hundred or so coming up the street, holding a banner in front, a good portion of which was obscured by two marchers, one a well built girl consulting her phone, and the other a stripy hi-viz jacket wearing body. The sign read, at least from my angle ‘TWALK’.

“Oh that’s interesting” thought I in my innocent reverie. “Must be a march to raise funds for breast cancer perhaps?” At this point a guy in a black T-shirt and faded jeans, to my minor annoyance, stood on the bench I was sitting on, as did his girlfriend. I glanced around at the banner again. Still the girl in front on her iPhone or whatever, blocking out my line of sight. The marchers were chanting something I wasn’t paying really attention to. Hell, I’ve seen enough demo’s and tend to zone them out. My major concern is always to get where I’m going and let the marchers get wherever the hell they’re going.

As the front of the march drew level with where I was sitting, Mrs S arrived and said into my ear with a grin. “I bet you didn’t expect to see that today, Bill?” I stood up and turned around to take a look. Too right, several of the female marchers were sans brassieres. Letting it all hang out so to speak, or in several cases letting their exposed nipples wobble fearsomely on a ‘Slutwalk’. Holding banners proclaiming their opposition to being raped or otherwise sexually molested. None of which has changed my mind from my previous post on this subject. While I am in full accord with the view that how a girl dresses does not automatically entitle every red blooded male to haul her off down a dark alley for some non-consensual sexual activity, I still think that three years on from one Ontario Cops original remark, still to be harping on about it is a bit obsessive-compulsive to say the least. Especially as a number of the marchers weren’t exactly, how can I put this gently, (Ducks behind keyboard and hides) that likely to attract the kind of sexual misconduct they were protesting against. As I whispered into Mrs S’s ear as the marchers passed us; “Now I know why the brassiere was invented.”

As I swung my gaze around, the guy who’d stood on the bench next to me gave me a nudge and made some remark about the procession. Tell you the truth I wasn’t really listening, I’d just caught sight of the bar I’d been looking for. Mrs S and I went into the pub to lay the dust on our tongues with a couple of nice beers. The marchers carried on up the street.