That’s odd

Just as a matter of curiosity this afternoon, I googled “Bill Sticker” to see what was going on under that soubriquet only to find someone has created a user ID at the Guardian under my name. At first I read the comments under ‘Bill Sticker’ and went “Did I write that?” Then I looked again at the dates. I haven’t read the Guardian in what, five years? Not only that but either of my readers will note that I almost never use caps (Except for the titles of organisations) when posting, both here and elsewhere. It’s bad netiquette and jolly bad form which would get me kicked out of the Society for United Reformed Civil Enforcers (S.O.U.R.C.E.), which I never joined anyway. Also a number of the comments appeared on days when I was travelling and unable to post. Not only that but I have certainly never posted “VOTE UKIP” anywhere on any forum (Except in that example just then). Now this Disqus comment ID is mine. See the differences?

As anyone who peruses this blogs archives will note; between May 2013 and December 2014, my posting was pretty sporadic at best (it’s not much more regular now), I did drop by the old Tellytubbygraph and other blogs from time to time, but not at the Grauniad. So who has been taking the house of Stickers honour in vain? I have a few well chosen words to say to them. Some short, pithy and Anglo-Saxon, others a little more inventive, which might involve calling said perpetrator less well evolved than an Amoeba having a bad Cilia day, or a Nematode with a necrotising dose of the clap. All the time remarking on the narrowness and crudeness of their intellect which would make the most retarded of weasels seem like Albert Einstein.

Friends (Either of you);My official ID at the Groan, opened 21st July 2006 and not used since, is ID0938707. This eponymous poster is not me. It is an impostor, a traducer, a mountebank, charlatan and bunko-steerer. Heed him / it (Whatever) not.

There is only one real Bill Sticker. Me. Accept no inferior alternatives.

Smokeswagen?

Not much time to blog today as by only 8am my coffee machine died, we’ve started celebrating birthdays and that damn Chaos butterfly is making its presence felt. Fortunately the weather is being kind.

I see Volkswagen, already caught with ‘green’ credentials around their ankles and spanked for cheating an emissions test, have decided to admit that the fix has been in on just about every diesel engine they make, even the commercial models. I’ve had VW’s before and they’re a damned good make. Good quality control and a reasonable price. I see no reason for not buying one. If VW made a symmetrical All Wheel Drive as good as Subaru’s, we’d have bought one instead. Not a diesel though. I’ve driven other makes of ‘Eco-diesel’ and wasn’t impressed with the engine cutting out at traffic lights to ‘save’ fuel because an engine cutting out at low revs and speed is bloody unsafe. These things may auto-restart, but there’s a second and a halfs lag at best, which in heavy traffic can be an eternity. I hate them. They’re dangerous because they always stall right at an awkward moment.

Right. We’re eating a late breakfast out today. Must dash……

A grandiose plan

Youngest is with us for a weeks visit, so I took her out to the movies this afternoon whilst Mrs S got ahead of her work so we can all bunk off tomorrow. The movie was ‘Everest‘ which made me jolly glad walking out of the theatre into bright sunshine after watching all that cold in 3D and wraparound. Blood and sand. I almost got frostbite just watching it.

What made my BullShit antenna twitch madly wasn’t the movie, but an advert, an animated cartoon of cute furry animals being talked down to by of all things a Llama (Or was it an Alpaca – I wasn’t sure) at the United Nations. Essentially the UN have a plan to promote ‘Social Justice’, ‘Wealth Redistribution’ and combat ‘Climate Change’, which can be translated as follows; the United Nations want to steal everyone else’s property and give it to their friends. Which won’t be us plebs. We’ll all be at the back of the Soup kitchen queue (providing of course anyone has anything left to make soup with) whilst behind locked security gates, the ‘in crowd’ will be dining the best food off fine china and drinking the finest wines while billions starve. But apparently they can’t make it happen without our help. Which is why I won’t be giving them any. Unlike all the luvvies who think this is a jolly good wheeze and would sell out their own grandmothers and children for a place at top table.

I seem to recall hearing once that the late and unlamented Osama Bin Laden once plotted to blow up the UN building. I’m beginning to think he had a point. Which is why this excerpt from ‘Kingsman – The Secret Service’ where all the politicians and their hangers on share a truly mind blowing experience, which they’d intended to give to the hoi polloi, always puts a smile on my face. Happy viewing.

So what’s a feminazi?

This is a question that’s been bugging me for a while. I’ve been hearing this particular neologism of an adjective bandied around for quite a while, so I gave the Igors down at the adjective testing department of the Bill Sticker Institute for just messing around with words a call. “Oh that.” Said Igor, current project leader, in weary tones. “It’s just a rather crude insult Boss, not even worth getting out the Thesaurus to swat it with.”
“Well, you might think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment.” I replied. “It’s got a lot of Interweb types hot under the collar and shouting angrily at everyone they meet.”
“Oh all right, Boss. It’s only Sunday.” He grumbled, but I could hear the voices behind him. Some of the lads were bored and fancied a bit of a (maniacal) laugh. Even on a Sunday.

A few hours later, their analysis is on my desk. The term is (obviously) a contraction of ‘Feminist Nazi’, used to describe certain public feminists who say wild and wacky tinfoil hat stuff like “Cull the male population” because all us male humans are so uncouth and tewwibly wuff don’cha know. Generally being a ‘couth‘ sort of chap, I think this is not sufficient justification for culling anyone, and Mrs S would no doubt have a few stern words with anyone who tried to ‘cull’ her considerate and loving husband (Her words, not mine). She’s very possessive, and my beloved sometimes displays a hair trigger temper hot enough to scorch shadows onto sidewalks (See inset picture.) I love her to bits. Even if I have to step in to save her from herself sometimes.

To distil the analysis, those to whom the ‘Feminazi’ descriptor may be most accurately applied seem mostly to be unattractive (Mentally or physically) Socialist Academic types who deliver courses for commercially worthless degrees on ‘Gender studies’. Or according to a graffito often found in University toilets next to the toilet roll holders; ‘Liberal Arts degrees; please wash hands after use‘. Essentially displaying that the belief that their specific view (Which is usually about as ‘feminine’ as a pair of my Marcus Expensius Y-fronts) should rule supreme, and all us males are going to be casualties. Then when all men are slaughtered, or subdued and stripped of our troublesome gonads, everyone can (safely) stride ‘forward’ under the banner of ‘Progressivism’ which is the philosophy that promises wholesale theft of personal property, and no drink or drugs allowed to take the edge off its bleak nihilism. Unless you’re one of the self selected ‘elite’ of course. Then you become one of the ‘Alpha’ class, and you get to lord it over all the other zeebs, even if you’re one of those who need staff to help you find your own arsehole in the morning. Then huzzah! There will be world peace, apart from when the new Alpha prima donna class get squabbling over the morning concepts, then bring in their private security to duff up the opposition, or at least claim they’ve been rude and horrid and must therefore have their Alpha membership (and if necessary their gonads) forcibly removed at gunpoint. Then hordes of conditioned warriors will be primed to beat up the opposition for daring to ask them to pass the toast without saying please or licking the Socialist Academics boots. Which rather sums up the tone of public discourse on these topics.

Such beliefs as modern progressivism, and extreme ‘Feminism’ can therefore be seen to be firmly rooted in supremacist doctrines, which, as any psychologist will tell you, are themselves firmly rooted in near-monolithic inferiority complexes. Or in other words “I know best, so shut up Pleb and do what you’re told, or you’ll never work in this town again.” Which is just as bad as (if not worse than) the ‘sexist’ all-women-are-property-bend-over-my-sweetness medieval world view.

What these radical types miss by a country mile is that men and women have different skill sets, and are (obviously-duh) differently equipped from a biological standpoint. Therefore neither sex can be viewed as ‘superior’. Some men will always be better at some things than some women and vice versa. Individuals have differing strengths. Humans are not born to be ‘equal’. This is a simple observation, so simple that these highly educated Academic Social Justice types cannot comprehend it. Even if you were to figuratively take hold of their head and forcibly point their eyes in the right direction. However, giving everyone a fair shake regardless of genetic inheritance is a good idea, because everyone’s abilities, aims and objectives are different. Let everyone achieve as they may. The SJW’s and radical feminists think that ‘Social Justice’ (Which does not really exist) can be enforced by the heavy, Godzilla-like hand of the state. Unfortunately, involving the state in anything as delicate as the nuances of human liberty is an accident waiting to happen because one size does not, never has and never will fit all.

As for ‘Feminazi’, this term can only be applied to the quota demanding, men hating (Why? Don’t know, care even less) loveless nutjobs. Regular feminists, who only ask for an equal chance to prove they can do a specific task as well as their male counterpart and want to earn their say, are fine by me. Just don’t demand that the standards are lowered or ‘quotas’ applied to allow the less able to push the able aside. That never works. That’s not meritocracy, it’s mediocrity.

That was easy

Guests have come and gone. Suitably full of wine, curry and a hearty fruit and cereal breakfast. We must have got it right because they’re angling for a return visit already. My Pratchett Discworld collection just grew by another six, and I’ve compiled a list of the few remaining hardbacks left to fill the gaps. I can buy a copy of The Shepherds Crown (Terry’s final work) locally. Details have been left with all the local secondhand bookstores to let me know the minute a copy of Sourcery with Josh Kirby’s dustcover artwork becomes available. There is a particular, if sentimental reason only that edition will do. It was the first Discworld novel I ever read, and had me in fits from start to finish. Coin, eighth son of an eighth son of an eighth son, Conina the Barbarian Hairdresser, The Drunken Seriph of Al Khali, Rincewind, Nigel (Signature battlecry; “Erm….”) and guest appearance by the Ice Giants (“Vot you vant? Go Avay hot person.”) all left a strong impression with me. This is from someone who generally doesn’t like Fantasy. You can keep Tolkein about what you find Hobbit forming, but I just wish the LOTR mob would stick an Orc in it.

Otherwise life trundles on; I seem to have contracted some obscure form of lurgy, but the quacks aren’t sure what it is yet, so I’m off to get do my best impersonation of a pincushion yet again this week. It’s nothing debilitating, just bloody annoying. Results of the first set of tests came in thankfully all clear yestere’en. However, I was sent a web link and code to register for future results, which of course didn’t work because I tried to register ‘too early’. Blood and sand. Hey ho. None of my bits are dropping off (Yet) so I’ll simply try and register again on Friday.

I see a few rather less than genius level intellects have an ill advised “Shout out your abortion” campaign on `social media`. Personally, even having seen the procedure done properly, I have no issue with terminating unwanted pregnancies. But ‘shouting out’ to the world you’ve had one? Seriously? That will come back to bite you, people. Are we going to have ‘shout out’ campaigns for Haemorrhoid removal next?

Never mind the strident misandry of certain campaigners. All I have to say is it takes two to Tango folks. Never mind leaping up and down after sex, screaming “You should have done something!” at your chosen bedmate when the test result is positive. You can’t use politics (or even shouting) on biology. Pregnancy is the female bodies way of telling them “Congratulations! You can conceive.” That said, I have always been a firm believer that the decision to terminate or carry to term is the woman’s choice, no-one else’s. Not the family, nor the biological father, clinic manager, nor priest or politician. That foetus does not belong to them.

This is from someone who has two grown up stepdaughters about whom he cares very deeply. Even if they are a right pair of (well educated) little rascals. Should they become ‘with child’ I would, regardless of what they decide to do, support their decision. No matter what my personal feelings are at the time.

It’s one of the things they don’t tell you when you sign up for this parenthood lark. That little bundle of gurgles and pinkness will gravitate (Whether you like it or not) from the cute as a button / Mummy and Daddy’s little darling stage, through “Well he / she doesn’t get it from me…” and “Don’t slam the….” (Too late) and unsuitable ultrashort clothing to “Your college fees are how much?” and “OMG! I’m too young to be a grandparent!”

It’s life. Enjoy it while you got it.

Warm is good

Curry night in the Sticker Household tonight, with guests. So we’re going to go the full nine yards, poppadoms, a little mint raita and Major Greys Mango chutney. Cocktails, followed by a modest but economical Malbec for quaffing. There may be cheesecake. After that I’m going to fade into the back room to let Mrs S and sisters chew the fat, or more often these days, the fat free. Whatever.

Still blogging at a much reduced level because there’s so little I want to blog about. The sun is shining, the skies are blue, and I’m feeling quite relaxed about everything. Even if my little office overlooking the garden is a little chilly first thing. Once I’ve been in there for a couple of hours it’s cosy enough. Still waiting for this global warming to turn up, failing that my cheque for being a ‘shill for the fossil fuels industry’, or my arrest for being a ‘denier’. Not that I’m holding my breath you understand. I think a late January break in Hawaii or somewhere warm is on the cards. I like warm, warm is good.

So, what’s in the news? Volkswagen have become ‘Smokeswagen’ after being caught cheating on their emissions test. The penalty for which is having your green pass removed and sent to the headmasters office for a quick spanking with your share prices around your ankles.

The current middle eastern refugee crisis is full of people we’re all supposed to feel very sorry for, even if a goodly proportion may want to see us western types and our culture ground under the heel of religious repression. It may mean the end of free movement across European borders as countries like Hungary stick up massive razor wire fences and drop their Schengen treaty obligations like a hot rock. Oh well, at least it will increase employment opportunities for border guard work. Perhaps some of these new wannabe immigrants might be considered for all the new customs and immigration jobs this will create? Germany seems to have some vacancies.

Yes, and more inconveniently, Skype fell over big time yesterday. Well what do you expect? It’s owned by Microsoft, which is one of the reasons I won’t buy Ford. All the onboard satnag and stuff on the Escape for example, have been running on Microsoft for a while. It’s what steered me away from buying one and towards a Subaru instead.

The more observant of either of my readers might observe that the header image has been adjusted. Our motley crew of Igors slaved day and night for at least half an hour to make the ‘improvement’ which saves me having to post the ‘trigger warning’ graphic all the time because this whole site can be considered to be chock full of ‘triggers’, but not Roy Rogers. Incidentally, that old joke was found in a Downtown Thrift Store, where it has been hidden (Some would say rightly so) for over thirty years. As for the ‘no soliciting’ rule, well, that has been covered on the comments policy page.

Offended? Oh I do hope so.

A predilection for Ginger Beer

I like Ginger Beer, specifically the non-alcoholic kind, which is proving a little difficult to source here on Vancouver Island. Now let me explain that I’m not talking about Ginger Ale, which is a completely different beverage altogether, but real, firebomb your gullet Ginger Beer. This Summer, our local supermarkets bought in a job lot of a very fine example of non-alcoholic Ginger Beer called Old Tyme Jamaica Ginger Beer which I must confess I got quite partial to. Hint for the web site guys; list your stockists. Although at ten bucks for a six pack, I think it’s a bit on the pricey side. Nice though. I’ve tried Phillips and Crabbies, which are freely available, but they aren’t quite as gingery as I’d like. Which is a shame. That Old Tyme is non-alcoholic and has a better bite than a hungry Grizzly.

Now that it’s disappeared off the shelves, I decided to have a go at brewing my own since Ginger was under three bucks a pound a few days ago. I already had some yeast and sugar, so why not? Grate the Ginger, add the sugar, boil up a gallon, add the yeast and sugar mix and stick it in a big container. Dead simple. That was three days ago, and I’ve decanted the sieved mix into a four litre plastic milk carton three parts full of the sieved mixture. This mornings taste test of my murky brew told me I’m on the right track. Not too fizzy with only natural carbonation and a nice gingery bite, quite dry on the palate, but I do have to keep depressurising the fermenting mix at least three times a day to stop the container exploding.

Easing off the pressure can be a delicate job, as if I undo the cap too fast, pow! The cap shoots out from between my fingers and bounces around the laundry room. However, the milk carton was a good choice of container as there’s a fair bit of give in the plastic. Now I could of course spend a small fortune on brewing kit, but as this is by way of one of my culinary experiments, I don’t see the point.

Anyway, have picked up Youngest from airport, and she is visiting with the aunts and uncle up island for a few days until she’s down in the fleshpots of the provincial capital in our little domicile. I have to keep her entertained while Mrs S is in Seattle with sisters, so I’ll be setting up currys and cocktails so she doesn’t get homesick. Not that she ever does.

Update: I’ve just discovered that Wal-mart do something called ‘Grace Island Ginger Beer‘. Investigations have concluded that it has precisely the right heat in the back of the mouth, and it’s half the price of the alternatives. Our crew of Igors have given it three big thumbs up. Each. Heavy sigh. Looks like I’m going to have to buy a few caseloads then. Of such little things are the equations of happiness formed.

The last word on Trigger Warnings

Excuse the lack of blog activity, but a new tranche of my Pratchett hardback collection arrives next week and I’m busy catching up on my re-reading of the last batch. Yes, like with my ‘Hitchhikers guide to the Galaxy’ collection I can almost quote them all off by heart, but it’s not the same as having the real paper and board thing in your hands. Seeing the same old gags and laughing at them in the same old way. It never gets old. I’m just saddened that he will write no more.

As a matter of interest, I always reckon Terry only ever had one real competitor in comic fantasy, Tom Holt, who has written books like the very funny ‘Expecting someone taller’. I recommend him to anyone capable of appreciating fantasy humour.

Anyway, I was watching a few YouTube videos about so-called ‘trigger warnings’ being used to suppress the opinions of others, and the following thought sprang to mind; all these people who complain about microagressions and all that jazz, what’s it all about? In the spirit of enquiry, I did a little reading through some serious scholarly texts on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and found out where the whole ‘trigger warnings’ meme originated. Well, chums, here’s the skinny; if you don’t have post traumatic stress disorder or an associated debilitation, ‘trigger warnings’ are imaginary. Yup; you got it, only a person suffering from a genuine traumatic mental stress disorder needs ‘trigger warnings’. Anyone else is bullshitting worse than a herd of pedigree Charolais Steers with the trots. Or should that be Bullock shitting, as you can’t really say that Cows, Heifers or Steers are non-castrated male bovines? A.k.a. Bulls. Therefore the excreta of uncastrated male cattle cannot justifiably be called ‘bullshit’, but I digress.

In other words, if someone who has not suffered severe mental trauma claims that a text or speech needs to be suppressed because it causes them some vague personal mental discomfort – they are, by their own admission, suffering from a mental dysfunction and in need of treatment. In which case they should be gently led away into a quiet room where they don’t have to see or hear anything that might upset them. Can’t stand the text? Maybe it’s time to get out of the classroom.

Perhaps these non-PTSD types would be happier if their Interweb and TV access were cut off so the poor darlings wouldn’t have to look at anything upsetting? Perhaps a small room with soft walls might be more their speed? Maybe a private walled garden full of nice trees fluffy squirrels and cute kittens, puppies and lovely songbirds to soothe their untrammelled but strangely troubled souls? Oh. Hang on a minute, that wouldn’t work as the kittens would chase the lovely songbirds and cute squirrels and leave claw marks in the trees after digging up the flower beds and crapping amongst all the lovely flowers while the puppies chewed at anything capable of being masticated, barked at the kittens chasing the birds and killing the mice, frogs, trees and flowers so that the peace of the garden would be so terribly stressful that the afflicted would have to hide their faces and plug their ears and noses. Just so they wouldn’t be ‘triggered’ by anything they saw, heard or smelled? It might rain. The sun might burn their skin. The sun might not shine and they’d get really depressed by all the grey skies. Never mind the hay fever and being eaten, bitten and stung by all the insects. OMG! Was that a spider! Gardens are so STRESSFUL!

Ah. Yes. Not such a fantastic idea after all. On the other hand, perhaps a little growing up on their part might be in order? In the words of the late, great St Terence of the Pratchett; it’s a million to one chance, but it might just work.

Upgrading my book collection

Australian sister in law is visiting at the moment, I was let off the leash while she and Mrs S shared some sistahood girly time downtown. So I disappeared into a bookshop and ended up with the following to shore up my P.J.O’Rourke collection:
Bachelor Home Companion
Modern Manners
On the Wealth of Nations

I also found a copy of ‘Evil Plans‘ by Hugh McLeod, which I bought on impulse, because I’m fresh out of Evil and Cunning Plans at the moment and feel in need of a little inspiration. More on this at another juncture.

Looks like we’re going to need considerably bigger bookshelves…..

A little musical interlude

A minor hit from the early 1980’s, I’ve always loved the Blues Bands stuff. High energy harmonica solos, boogie piano, and late night tobacco throat singing. Yeah.

Alternatively, may I offer this excuse for my low blogging output this merry Sunday;

Concur

Sargon of Akkad on the week in stupid. Dickheads wanting global ‘blasphemy’ laws. Dickheads getting excised about a Muppet and so much more. Do any of these people step back for a moment and think?

On the other hand, in order for some people to be of above average intelligence, there must be a far greater number below, because that’s part of how we derive an ‘average’.

Gay shark jumping

Well isn’t that fun? Jailing a clerk for refusing marriage licenses. The latest episode in the ‘rights for all’ crusade has resulted in an otherwise blameless (if deluded) woman being jailed. Superficially over refusing to issue marriage licenses to a number of the entitled. Who, instead of simply saying “Okay” and going off to Lost Wages for a weekend of excess and a (Still equally legal and binding) wedding by an Elvis Presley impersonator made a big issue of things, instead electing to involve the increasingly ironically named American Civil Liberties Union; and when they couldn’t have the stubborn God-squadder fired or fined, ended up with an elected county official in jail.

Now as I understand it, this particular clerk can still be carborundum in the oil of law administration in her county while banged up, and is being so by refusing to instruct her staff, who are reportedly a little nervous about taking decisions without their bosses approval. A judge can’t issue court documents themselves, nor can the Sheriff. The Judge and Lawyers do the law, the Sheriff and Deputies do the enforcement. Many critical courthouse documents however, are issued by the county clerks office. Which kind of puts everything in a little bit of a procedural quandary. The Judges can give out all the orders they want, but if a key person in the administrative process has been slung in the old hoosgow for refusing to issue a document over a matter of conscience, certain aspects of the administrative process of law in that county can be sabotaged. Especially if unsigned licenses are given out under duress, as is reportedly the case. Will a less sympathetic judge or civil servant refuse to accept those licenses at some future date? They are after all official court documents, and in all western jurisdictions, if the i’s and t’s aren’t properly dotted and crossed, well, there’s a fine howdy-do and no mistake. Some lawyer down the track is going to have a complete field day.

The whole matter is such a comedy of hurt feelings and entitlement that you’d need, as dear old Oscar Wilde once wrote; “A heart of stone not to laugh.” The massive, one size fits all, hammer of Federal law brought down on someone whose only ‘crime’ was one of conscience? Kind of makes a mockery of the whole freedom of conscience principal the good old US of A was founded upon. The whirring noise from the vicinity of Martin Luther Kings tomb is nothing to worry about. Move along now.

North of the 49th Parallel of course it’s a different matter. If two people want to get ‘married’ regardless of sex; fine, no problem. No one bats an eyelid. Well, no-one of a critical nature anyway. No-one has that kind of power, apart from the court itself. In the USA it’s different; they have ‘States Rights‘.

Other clerks in various Kentucky counties are also refusing licenses. Possibly because states law hasn’t (at the time of writing) caught up with Federal and still prohibits the following;
Prohibited and Restricted Marriages: (In Kentucky)
Marriages between persons who are nearer of kin to each other by blood, than second cousins.
Marriages between first cousins.
Marriages with a person mentally incompetent.
Marriages where there is a husband or wife living, from whom the person marrying has not been divorced.
Marriages not solemnized or contracted in the presence of an authorized person or society.
Same sex marriages.
Common law marriages.
Proxy marriages.

I have a distinct feeling this one isn’t over yet. Midden, windmill, incoming!

Offshore Banking Business

Well, I’m going to bite the bullet and do what I should have done a few years ago, which is to open an offshore account. The reasons behind this are, as I’ve probably mentioned before, my Canadian Banks reluctance to let me do business without; a) Taking over a week to do a simple wire transfer, b) Refusing to let me transfer funds via my currency brokers who can move money in under forty eight hours, or c) Charging up to five percent of the transferred amount do a similar task that otherwise costs me a more modest flat fee. Then there are the proposed ‘Tobin Taxes’ if I want to move money through mainland Europe. I know the proposed amount is ‘only’ a tenth of one percent, but you can safely bet your entire wardrobe that the banks will hike that up with ‘administration costs’. So the Eurozone, at least as my funds are concerned, will become a ‘No-go’ zone.

Going offshore is not that easy nowadays, there are all sorts of hoops to jump through meaning lots of form filling to prove who you say you are and that you’re not a tax dodger. Certified copies of this that and the other, all to go snail mail. Although I shall get mine couriered. Then there are the money laundering regulations which limit transaction size. Well, at least for individuals. Hell, you’d think you were considered a criminal just for moving your own damn money around.

Any old road up, taxes have already been paid, and the tax man on both sides of the pond has accepted my paperwork to say I don’t owe any more, so that’s a base covered. Unless some git of a politician decides it should be illegal to have more than your ‘fair’ share and changes the law to give my money to their ‘deserving’ cases (a.k.a. ‘vote buying’), in which case my money will immediately migrate to a less unfriendly domicile. Perhaps even become a domicile, who knows what the future holds?

I suppose it’s no use me bitching about the rules if I want to play the game. But now I have a stake, I intend to put my money to work internationally. Two main reasons. Firstly; I don’t want to rely on the largesse of the state when I finally retire. Secondly; I want to see what I can do to ensure our girls don’t have to struggle so much with buying houses, raising families, building lives. We already help them out when things are a little rough, but not all the time. That would be worse than no help at all and we’d only lose their respect.

Anyway, the rain has stopped, and it looks like it’ll be a nice weekend for the Classic Boat Festival downtown. I may go, I may chill out elsewhere. We shall see.