Back again

I see Igor and pals have been keeping up their end of the bargain, bless their patchwork little hides. For my part I’m feeling a little down, the muscles of my sarcasm feel a little weak and overstressed. As kind of an antidote I’ve gone back to the best rhymer ever, Rudyard Kipling, for a little dark relief.

Back in pre Interweb days, I contracted a life threatening condition. No known cause, just bad luck. A form of cancer which required major surgery resulting in six months of constant pain despite heavy medication, the post surgical injuries still giving me the odd twinge twenty years on. All the time I was rendered immobile or feverish I picked up my dog eared paperback copy of ‘The complete works of Rudyard Kipling’ and repeatedly read it cover to cover, until it finally fell apart in my hands. Now I simply go to an online source and read quietly. I even have downloaded copies on my little Samsung for those odd moments.

To my mind he’s the greatest poet of all time. Not merely because his work was consistently good, but because he was a master of literary form. Technically he rarely fell below brilliant. Double and even triple rhyme schemes that scanned and bounced merrily along, unlike so many other poets I can think of. It was Kipling that taught me the value of learning the nuances of cadence, iambus, pentameter, hexameter and the Norse Saga form. Kipling who spoke simple truths, even though his meanings have been twisted over the years and unfairly deemed ‘right wing’, ‘racist’ and wallpapered over with unjustified dismissal. As far as those particular slurs are concerned he was a man of his time, and his works should be viewed more as historical and social documents. Not in terms of accuracy, because he was first and foremost a newspaperman, but containing a very strong flavour of how many people thought during the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. His work preaches a sort of pragmatic wisdom, which lays out the alternatives and says “If that’s what you want – this is the price.”

That has stuck with me ever since and seen me through some very tough times. I’ll leave you with my favourite lines from “The Mary Gloster

“The things I knew was proper you wouldn’t thank me to give,
And the things I knew was rotten you said was the way to live.”

Watch the dramatic reading in the video below.

The Case Against Facebook

Gweetingth onth again from the ladth in the lab here at the Bill Thticker Inthtitute of Thtating the bleeding Obviouth. Note that young Igor, who is in charge of blog potht titleth ith very modern in hith outlook and declineth to uth our traditional lithp. We’re very worried about him, ath some of uth think hith thtitching ith jutht a little too neat.

There are lotth of thtorieth in the mainthtream preth about thome poor thoul who hath had to thoot a family pet becauth it wath dangerouth to hith children or wath in too much pain, or thomeone who voithed an opinion that thomeone elth did not agree with on Fathebook. People who make thilly pronouncementth on twitter and end up being villified and thubject to one of thothe moronic Change.org campaignth.

We have wordth for people who bully otherth uthing change.org. Motht of thethe wordth are thort, pithy and Anglo-thaxon, otherth are Tranthylvanian in origin and do not tranthlate well from the original Magdyar dialect thyrillic. People who cry out for more government intervention on change.org are, ath far ath we can tell, not the tharpetht toolth in the vărtha. Tho emothional, tho completely free of logic. Not that thothe occathioning thuch outrageth are much better. If they had any thenth, they’d keep thuch thingth to themthelveth inthtead of pothting them for every hipthter and thimilar dunderhead to get all aereated about. Itth one thing to potht private methageth to family and fiendth, quite another to let every eathily outraged thlaphead into oneth private affairth. Ethpethially ath motht them to want to be offended. How bored they mutht be with their liveth.

Out in the real world thethe people are eathy to thpot. Totally fixated on their thmartphoneth (‘Thmart’ – hah!), even when crothing a buthy road. Hardly theeming aware of where they are going or what they are doing outthide of their tiny little screen-world. Thome even drive like that. Thome of uth think the Polithe thould have a thoot on thight polithy towardth texting driverth.

We Igorth do not uthe Fathebook, Twitter, Inthtagram or other thuch abominationth becauthe much of what we do ithn’t exactly thocial. Popping out to fetch a freth brain from a handy dithpenthary, for example, ithn’t exactly the thort of thing you potht in a public forum, ith it? Ethpethially after hourth. Not that we are prethently involved in any thuch projecth. It’th jutht a hypothetical thenario. Bethideth, there’th no call for that thort of research any more. Tho no, we will not be putting “Giving monthter life now – Amathing!” or tharing ‘thelfieth’ of ourthelveth and the marthter with frethly reanimated fleth, no matter how neat the thtitching. If we went in for that thort of thing, which we of courthe don’t. Well, apart from the odd nethethary tranthplant or three, but thatth another thtory.

Have a cigar

In the thpirit in which we with to continue, back here in the lab we have one critique of the above video; a true gentleman never, ever utheth a lighter to light hith cigar. The unburned lighter fuel coontaminateth the tobacco. But then the gentleman who made the above video ith American and ith not expected to know thith. As gentlemen to true gentlemen all know, lighting one’th thigar mutht be performed with a match or lighted taper / thpill after it hath been warmed to ambient room temperature. A candle can be uthed in a pinch, but a lighter? Herethy!

Justht goeth to thow you can’t believe everything you thee on YouTube. Including thith little exthpothition on whithkey drinking.

No true gentleman would ever dream of adulterating a thingle malt. No ithe, no water. Adulterathion ith for mountebankth and cadth. Young Marthter Bill would thtop whipping uth altogether if an Igor dared adulterate hith favourite tipple and that would never do.

We leave you with Mithter Pink and Mithter Floyd at their muthical betht.

Introducing

Greetingthe, young marsterth.  Jutht a quickie to thay hello on behalf of the Igorth here at the Bill Thticker Inthtitute for Taking the Pith. It ith our great pleathure to be given the ‘keyth to the Kingdom’ ath it were, to bring you the world from a particularly Igor perthpective.

Theeing ath Young Marthter Bill ith buggering off for a thort while, the ladth in the lab have found thith rethurrected old clathic.

Back thoon.

Regardth,
Igor

Admin changes

Just a quickie; as many regular readers (Either of you) have observed, the quantity of posts has been in decline for some time. Mostly because I’ve sarked most of I want to sarc about the apparent insanity of the world and how it is reported upon.

Now before the sackcloth and ashes come out, I’ve decided to hand over the day to day duties of posting to the Duty Igor at the Bill Sticker Institute of whatever it happens to be this week. I may chime in the odd contribution now and again, but the Igors (A smile, a quip and a little freelance brain surgery) will be taking over the main posting duties from now on. The boys have informally agreed to try and increase the humour and satirical quotient of this blog but keep the main thrust of editorial policy intact.

N.B. Igors are a little rough around the edges (It’s the stitching) and tend to lisp a lot, but you can trust them with your afterlife. Until of course the mob arrives with torches, then they’ll be away on their tootsies faster than you can blink. Well, that’s my problem and nobody else’s. Please return any wayward monsters you may find to your local branch of the S.P.C.M.E. (Society for the Protection and Care of Monstrous Entities)

TTFN

Bill

Whatever happens to……..?

Bit of a loose end day today on the run down to the festering season. Just had some good career news from both Stepkids. They’ve both had promotions and pay rises recently, so I’m feeling fairly light of heart.

Whilst decking our modest hall prior to our planned low key Xmas break I found myself wondering whatever happens to Social Justice Warriors as they age? The majority are young, highly political, idealistic and energetic in their criticism, ostracism and even real life harassment of people they disagree with. To them, all appears Racist, elitist or sexist, and God help you if you’re not their preferred skin colour or sex.

But what happens to these latter-day Wolfie Smiths when they actually try to grow up? Do they hang up the keyboard, learn to wear business clothes and embrace the culture they once hated so virulently? I remember one guy from college who was a long haired extreme left winger until he discovered the joys of capitalism in the late 1980’s. Last heard of in 2005 on his second trophy wife and buying a new Porsche Carrera. So it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.

Yet what actually happens to people who have boasted about being a ‘social activist’ on their Twitter, Facebook, Tumbler or Insterwossname feeds? Nowadays it’s well known that the HR departments of many companies routinely vet prospective employees by checking their social media profiles, but how does that affect their recruitment? I put the question to the Staff Igor at the Bill Sticker Institute of Asking Awkward Bloody Questions.
A prothethional igor“Dunno Botth. What I do know ith thoth thothial activisthts are jutht a pain in the bums. No thenth of humour. Did you know one came in yethterday and told me to check my priviledgeth?” I was told.
“How’s that again?” I replied, wiping spit off my sou’wester. “Would you mind dropping the lisp.”
“Thorr- sorry Boss. She told me I was too male to be a proper evil assistant.” He complained. “Said I had to cut off my genitalth and wear a dress.” He added. “I told her the whole transgender thing was so last year and I’d changed back because I didn’t like it much. Aunt Igorina wasn’t happy with me because I kept borrowing her best dresses and getting them taken in at the hips.” He replied ruefully “If you ask me I think the activists are just professional pains in the bum. No sense of humour because they actually think what they’re doing is socially useful. No wonder thome famous comedians have stopped playing colleges.”
“And are these activists useful?” I enquired.
“They’re a bloody nuisance, pardon my Quirmian.” Igor said. “Always trying to shut people up. Po-faced bunch of puritanical perverts.”
“What I mean is; is what they do of benefit to the rest of humanity?” I reiterated.
“Only if you’re in their preferred minority group.” Igor replied candidly, fixing me with a look that said that whilst he might be in a minority, no-one in their right mind should mess with an Igor. At least if you don’t want to wake up with your nose on upside down. Especially when it starts raining and you’ve forgotten your hat. Decent bunch, Igors. Great with the old cut ‘n paste surgery but with a funny sense of humour.
“Yes, but what happens to them when they finally finish college and have to get a job?” I asked.
“Local authorith. Thothial Work. Non-profithts. Academia. Politicth. Living off social security or parents money. Prothethional protethting.” Igor replied. Thtealing Chihuahuas off peopleth front porcheth. Thupermarket thelf thtackerth.” He added darkly.
“You’re lisping again. It’s going to take me hours to get dry.” I complained.
“Tho- sorry Boss.”
“No problem” I replied, thanking Igor for handing me a freshly laundered towel. “So what happens to them, these Fascist anti-racists and Racist anti-sexists?”
“Thome- sorry some, get low level jobth, thorry Botth, can’t drop the listhp, it’th cultural.”
“Along with the extra thumbs and fingers you mean?”
“Prethithely.” Igor grinned back at me. Which was a bit disconcerting as he’s experimenting with his teeth at the moment. Don’t ask. It’s too weird. Let’s just say people should not have triangular dentition, no matter how good that type of tooth is for cutting gristle. I feel sorry for the Sharkth – damn! He’s got me at it now.
“So they’re ‘B’ ark people?” I said.
“Yeth.”
“Got it.” Right, I’m going to go off to have a good long shower and dry off. There are some things I’m happy to do in the spirit of enquiry, but in future I’ll ask my faithful crew of Igors to simply write their answers down.

Black Friday…….

What’s the old Steely Dan number that’s been running through my head all morning? Oh yes, ‘Black Friday’. How does it begin? There’s that lovely, distinctly Steely Dan style keyboard riff to open and four or five bars in launching into the song; “When Black Friday comes / I’ll stand down by the door / And catch the grey men when they / Dive from the fourteenth floor”

This is the day for traditionally queueing up outside the big box stores to indulge in a bit of rampant overspending, maxing out those credit cards in the pre Xmas sales, and perhaps trampling the odd fellow shopper or innocent member of staff. Yet today my thoughts are perturbed by the news that Anna, Gildas, and Petunia at the Raccoon Arms are apparently hanging up their keyboards. Thus I will forego my desperation for that must-have discount on a multipurpose slow cooker / egg poacher / toasting machine to think out loud about their tireless dig for the evidence of truth.

End of the raccoon arms Being a natural sceptic, I’ve seen too much of what is presented in the lamestream media as ‘fact’ found wanting when it comes to real evidence. Instead of real journalism, what we seem to get is regurgitated press releases from people with a bigger agenda than the Committee for Really Screwing up Big Projects Again. Retrospective ‘Justice’ demanded by the mentally unstable with faulty memories for what was not an ‘offence’ over thirty years ago. The pursuance of petty grievances more realistically suited for a programme like the offensively lowbrow Jeremy Kyle show on British daytime TV “He touched my arm in 1979 and I’ve been peculiar ever since.” Anna, Gildas, Pet and friends had the experience and training needed to cut to the chase and expose the glaring lack of evidence. They brought their rationality to bear on the seeming juggernaut of lies daily presented as ‘facts’ in the media when faced with the angry, pointing denouncements of the unthinking mob.

Unfortunately we humans are not rational beings. If we were there would be fewer wars, less violence, fewer threats and perhaps we could turn our species’ boundless energetic curiosity to take us out beyond the stars, just to see what’s out there. To follow in the footsteps of our gods rather than kneel under the rule of priests. Instead we find ourselves perennially grubbing in a mud wallow of our own making, unable or unwilling to look upwards and outwards. Preferring the lowest common denominator of our own natures to that great expansionist impulse that could take our species onwards and upwards. Repeating the same old errors in the same old ways without seeming to learn very much. Sheltering under the umbrella of unreason, because comforting untruths are always preferred to feeling the refreshing rain of reality wash our spirits clean. Letting ourselves be ruled by habit rather than reason. Using the primitive Thalamus rather than our more highly evolved frontal lobes.

What’s worse is that we let people with an agenda build labels, those petty little mental fortresses built of words, or try to wall others in by projecting their worse natures onto them. Not only that, we apply these labels to ourselves; conservative, liberal, anarchist, communist etcetera. Not seeming to realise that applying a label is to paint a bloody big target on your position so the heavy artillery of propaganda and untruth, from all sides, can find you more easily. Anna and friends bravely planted a flag in their patch of sand and stood up for what they felt was real, questioning every piece of evidence, word by word, point by point. Questioning the main narratives. Defiantly refusing to be cowed by those who thought shouting the loudest and making sniping personal attacks made them right. For that alone the Anna Raccoon bar staff and some of the crowd in the Snug (a.k.a the Comments threads) all deserve medals. I hope that this time around they leave the site up as an archive rather than delete it all. At least while the domain name and hosting payments remain up to date.

Now I know very few people will ever bother to read and try to digest what I’ve written here. Most of those that do will think that Bill is going off on one yet again, and perhaps I am. It’s just my opinion about a far more worthy blog, and in the court of human words that doesn’t amount to much, except to me. But perhaps that is all that really counts.

Update: Looks like it’s not so much an end but a new beginning.  Whilst the Landlady (The eponymous Anna) has retired and Gildas also, Petunia is keeping the ball rolling in his own inimitable style in a new place called ‘The Tap room’.  Blogroll amended.

A nice day out

I like Vancouver. It’s my second favourite city on the planet. Well at least of those I’ve visited. Although I’ve got a soft spot for Berlin, and haven’t had time or money to visit Auckland, Sydney, Melbourne, Hong Kong, Singapore etcetera. Despite there being a Starbucks or Tim Hortons on every other corner. To be honest I prefer Tim Hortons coffee to Starbucks, firstly it’s cheaper, secondly it’s less bitter. Their doughnuts aren’t bad either. Although I’m more partial to an Apple or blueberry fritter for a cheap carb and calorie treat.

While we were in Vancouver we hopped on the Skytrain and I popped into the Telus ‘Science’ Museum because the Animals Inside Out exhibit was on, which I was interested to see. I was to be disappointed. What I found was somehow redolent of a 19th and 20th century travelling carnival freak show. Plenty of ‘Euw’ factor with the anatomy of people and animals on display, but woefully short on detail. For example; the Mako shark exhibit made little mention of what the Blue Dynamite with the short fuse was all about. Nothing about how it is one of the fastest sharks in the sea (Able to swim in bursts of over 80Kph), or that they run over 3.2 (12ft) metres long and more than 600kg (1300lb+). Little about habitat and diet (Apart from being a sea creature). The split down the middle Giant Squid display was impressive, As was the trifurcated Camel, but was there any information about the curious structure of the giant squids eyes? Not really. There was one museum staffer wandering around with an anatomised and plasticised human arm, inviting visitors to examine it, but as far as information was concerned, I found myself thinking this was the intellectual version of junk food. While the exhibition promised much in the way of mental nourishment, all it delivered was hollow emotion. The same was true for the the rest of the displays at ‘Science world’. Rather than have layers of information where, if interested, displays could direct people to where they could find out more, all they had were toys for toddlers, of which there was a plethora. Shrieking and pressing buttons, aimlessly playing without actually seeming to learn anything. A sort of Fisher Price level of ‘Science’. Which is a bit of a shame. Shrieking toddlers tend to put off older children and even young adults who want to know more about science in general.

Now all these observations could be dismissed as the rantings of an “Ignorant, angry old white guy”, a description which incidentally hits the quadruple target of being incorrect, ageist, sexist and racist by the way, but for the fact that what is on offer is a solution. A solution that is easily and more importantly affordable and which does not shut out key demographics like simply catering to noisy toddlers with toys. All that is required is a few bar code links and a web site with all the information you need to share, or perhaps about associated exhibits there isn’t room to display. All the kids have Smartphones capable of reading barcodes, right? Print out one of those rinky dinky square barcodes and paste next to a short description of the exhibit. Link the square barcode to various web sites containing more in depth information about said exhibit, and Robert, as they say, is the male sibling of your biological parents. Ta-daah! Using such a barcode while visiting should also enlist the visitor on the Museums Twatter, Crapchat, Instagrunt and Farcebook feeds so that if they’re interested, previous visitors will know when to come back again to see a real exhibit up close and personal. Thus generating much needed extra visits and gift shop revenue. A useful tool for Parents, Teachers and those who simply like to see real science and history stuff on display.

The same principal could be applied to Theatres, Cinemas, grocery stores, Aquaria, and Zoos for a relatively low overhead. Latest production or movie release, new product line, birth of a rare baby sea creature or mammal, all the novelty of the world can be brought rapidly and in depth into the public eye. For those interested of course. All the components are out there, all the institution or business would have to do is a little regular link maintenance. But then I’m just an “Ignorant, angry old white guy” with a broad technical education covering well over twenty years and a deep seated love of technology, so what do I know?

Any old road up. Mrs S and I had a nice day in Vancouver, and despite missing our bus for the ferry (By five minutes) and spending fifty minutes hanging around in the cold, got home with much to think about. We did pass by the Cirque Du Soleil, but as we’ve already seen one of their disappointingly lowbrow shows of mugging contortionists a couple of years ago, I declined to repeat the experience.

Who are these people?

Who are these crazies? Enslavers of minorities. Ham handed YouTube butchers. Mass murderers and killers. The ‘Islamic State’ or whatever. Where did they come from and who are they? Who gives, or gave them the them money to get started? Who has declared war on our way of life? Because war is where we are. We are at war, declared or not. We are at war with the miserablist philosophy of radical Islam. That which hates joy in the human heart. That which hates music and art. Specifically those who claim their brand of killjoy Islam should dominate the world. They picked this fight. Not the secular West. The Daesh (Arabic pejorative) chose to take their petty little tantrums out on civilians. Bunch of murderous shitheels that they are. A single Police dog is worth more than the whole damn crew of them.

Now we hear that two one of the organisers of the Paris attacks are still on the run and two more are dead. Others are under arrest. The Daesh (ISIL / ISIS, Al – thingummy wossname) are also going to be on the sharp end of shock and awe. From not just the French, but also the Russians. The UK is also going to pitch in against these murderous bastards. Even if it means keeping the unpopular and murderous Assad regime in power. Stuff the Yanks. Some of this is the current US administrations fault. They began airstrikes in support of the Syrian rebels and created a void for the Daesh to move in. I’m glad Trudeau has pulled Canadian forces out of that mess. We shouldn’t have been fighting Assad in the first place.

Yet from what I can see, the Daesh are simply one head of the Hydra. In order to destroy the threat the whole beast must be destroyed. It has to be burned out and cauterised at source. Root and branch. No quarter. No mercy. I think the French understand this. At the moment of writing they are going loaded for bear. It’s worth noting that France has Nuclear weapons and might just be tempted to test one on a Daesh stronghold. The Charles De Gaulle, currently deploying to the middle east in response to the Paris attacks, has just such a capability.

Well this is a bit steep Bill. My better self says. Aren’t you over reacting a bit? Mmmm. I don’t think so. A few short months ago I stood, sat, walked, and drank Cafe-au-lait on the very ground where some of the murders took place, admiring the culture, the architecture, the fashion sense and the agility of the local graffiti artists. We didn’t just do the main tourist spots, Mrs S and I took in what I call the ‘real’ Paris and tried our best to fit in and live like locals. Even if the proprietress of my favourite corner Boulangerie / Patisserie did take the piss out of my terrible accent and muffed French pronunciations. After I went back a few times for my morning baguette, I was always greeted with a happy smile. There was the kindness of neighbours when Mrs S broke her arm. Fortunately none of whom have flagged up as victims. Therefore I’m claiming an emotional connection to that area. We were, and still are planning a return trip as part of a larger European tour next year. London, Paris, Amsterdam Maybe Antwerp and Bruges. We weren’t put off by the Charlie Hebdo massacre. We won’t be put off now. Screw the Daesh. If they hadn’t got that bunch of losers to shoot up Paris, there would have been little excuse to implement the European passenger tracking system. Which I object to because I think it’s yet another nail in the coffin of civil liberties. Practically it means more bloody paperwork. More disclosure every time we fancy a nice holiday.

There is, however, a bright side. Parisian hotel and travel prices might go down a little if some people decide to call off their visits as a result of the attacks. I will need a new hat for sitting outside on sunny days. Speaking of which, some Parisians are choosing to sit outside cafe’s as an act of defiance. Which is very civilised. And very French. “You shoot down my countrymen? Pah! I drink Espresso at you, scum. Now go away before I order my afternoon cognac!”

Anyway, Mrs S and I are in Downtown Vancouver tomorrow. It’s work related, but we’ll be making this trip our main Christmas shopping visit as well. Bonne journee mes vieux. Have a nice day.

Making an end of it

In Russell Books downtown yesterday, I was meandering around aimlessly while Mrs S was picking up a couple of extras for our bookshelves and whilst waiting for her to make a decision, idly perused a book about how to stop repeating history (Of which, maddeningly I have forgotten the Author and Title), one of the sections being about how terrorist attacks finally came to an end, from the Sicarii in ancient Judea, Assassins of early Medieval times through to the Anarchists of the mid to late 19th century, and more latterly the current Jihadist crop of murderers. With regards to the recent terrorist attacks in Paris, it seems there is little new under the sun.

That evening, all the facts and figures cited in the work buzzing around in what passes for my brain, I googled “How to stop terrorism” and came up with How to Stop Terrorism: Seven Ways to “Drain the Swamp”. There are actually eight, but the eighth involves mass genocide as practised by the Romans (amongst others), therefore is not a palatable solution to the current crop of terrorist problems.

Another school of thought is argued by the Rand institute, part of which is opening a dialogue with the Terrorist faction (Get a download copy of “How Terrorism Ends”here). But seeing as the current crop of Islamists are demonstrably a bunch of crazies who like to practice human sacrifice by crudely beheading their victims on video, I don’t hold up hope for any meaningful dialogue beyond ‘convert or die, infidel’. Even if we were to stop all military action in the Middle East, the likelihood is that attacks like those in Paris would continue. The crazies’ love of death being sometimes stronger than all other forms. We are not dealing with people who will say “Oh that’s all right then, home for tea and medals.” and neatly hand over their guns and other weapons when the need to fight has gone. ISIS (ISIL, whatever) have proven themselves too steeped in blood for reason to prevail.

The only national leader who seems capable (At least to my mind) of ending the current crisis is that big bad bogeyman of the Western media; President Vladimir Putin of the Russian Federation. No matter what else you think of him, he is both intelligent and ruthless, both qualities lacking amongst many Western leaders, wedded as they are to the politically correct idea of at least appearing ‘nice’ and therefore electable. The Russians I feel, are a little more realistic. For us, being ‘nice’ or ‘moral’, at least for a given value of ‘niceness’, and morality being the movable feast that it is, only seems to open up more cans of worms, politically speaking.

Right, what can we do? Cut off the money supply to terrorists? Easier said than done. So far the regulations intended to cut off the terrorist money supply, which I believe do not apply to the Islamic system of banking, or various ‘Intelligence’ agencies and other covert and not so covert Government offices known to fund terrorists, have proven ineffectual. When alliances shift and morph like fog, murdering fantasists will always find one agency or other more than ready and willing to fund the proxy wars of their political masters. Gosh, is that my cynicism? I was wondering where I left it. Said regulations are a pain in the bum for the law abiding, that much I do know. For those of us needing to legally transfer money between institutions, I think the phrase “Buggers muddle” seems appropriate. The levels of disclosure are quite incredible.

Having said all this are we any closer to a solution to terrorist attacks? I really don’t know, but the lessons of History, palatable or not, are out there for those who would read.

You know, if the UN really had the nerve, instead of faffing about with imaginary problems, it could spend far less and really enforce the outlawing of funding terrorist groups by nation states and their intelligence organisations. Although whether the various powers in question would comply is moot.

Expatriate expostulations from Canada; a.k.a. A Sarcastic man abroad

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