:: Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Happy birthday, baby
Today is Gordon's birthday.
Wee Precious's mummy bought him a neat pressie and his friend Patrick sent him a special birthday card.
He is very spoilt, is Gordon.
"What are YOU looking at??"
"If it would just stand still, I could kill it."
"Get your hands off, it's MINE!"
"Too much excitement, must take nap"
For his next birthday, his mummy might buy him some hair product to keep the fuzz in line.
CLICK HERE FOR A CHANCE TO OWN YOUR VERY OWN PERMANENT MEMORY OF GORDON!
(Don't forget to read the questions to ensure you know what you're bidding on) 
Wee Precious's mummy bought him a neat pressie and his friend Patrick sent him a special birthday card.
He is very spoilt, is Gordon.
"What are YOU looking at??"
"If it would just stand still, I could kill it."
"Get your hands off, it's MINE!"
"Too much excitement, must take nap"
For his next birthday, his mummy might buy him some hair product to keep the fuzz in line.
CLICK HERE FOR A CHANCE TO OWN YOUR VERY OWN PERMANENT MEMORY OF GORDON!
(Don't forget to read the questions to ensure you know what you're bidding on)
:: Friday, November 25, 2005
Word enrichment
I love new words, or revisiting old words you don't hear very often.
Words like:
segue
SEG-way; SAYG-way
verb:
To proceed without interruption; to make a smooth transition.
[From Italian, there follows, third-person sing. present tense of seguire, to follow, from Vulgar Latin *sequere, from Latin sequ. See sekw-1 in Indo-European Roots.]
Onomatopoeia
on·o·mat·o·poe·ia
noun:
The formation or use of words such as buzz or murmur that imitate the sounds associated with the objects or actions they refer to.
[Late Latin, from Greek onomatopoii, from onomatopoios, coiner of names : onoma, onomat-, name; see n-men- in Indo-European Roots + poiein, to make; see kwei-2 in Indo-European Roots.]
antebellum
adjective:
Belonging to the period before a war, especially the American Civil War.
[Latin ante bellum : ante, before + bellum, war.]
Words like:
segue
SEG-way; SAYG-way
verb:
To proceed without interruption; to make a smooth transition.
[From Italian, there follows, third-person sing. present tense of seguire, to follow, from Vulgar Latin *sequere, from Latin sequ. See sekw-1 in Indo-European Roots.]
Onomatopoeia
on·o·mat·o·poe·ia
noun:
The formation or use of words such as buzz or murmur that imitate the sounds associated with the objects or actions they refer to.
[Late Latin, from Greek onomatopoii, from onomatopoios, coiner of names : onoma, onomat-, name; see n-men- in Indo-European Roots + poiein, to make; see kwei-2 in Indo-European Roots.]
antebellum
adjective:
Belonging to the period before a war, especially the American Civil War.
[Latin ante bellum : ante, before + bellum, war.]
:: Thursday, November 24, 2005
It's a kind of magic
Today is the 14th anniversary of the passing of the fabulous Farookh Bulsara.
Born in Zanzibar of Zoroastrian Indian parents, he arrived in England as an 18 year old and gained for himself a Diploma in Art and Graphic Design at Ealing College.
In 1972, he recorded a one-off single under the stage name Larry Lurex.
He wore outrageous costumes, paraded around the stage in tights and a cape and crown, sang like an Angel and no one could ever replace him when he left.
You, of course, know him as Freddie Mercury, the dynamic, talented front man of Queen.
He may be gone, but his music and his reputation as one of the most oustanding performers of the 20th Century live on.
What a Champion :-)
Born in Zanzibar of Zoroastrian Indian parents, he arrived in England as an 18 year old and gained for himself a Diploma in Art and Graphic Design at Ealing College.
In 1972, he recorded a one-off single under the stage name Larry Lurex.
He wore outrageous costumes, paraded around the stage in tights and a cape and crown, sang like an Angel and no one could ever replace him when he left.
You, of course, know him as Freddie Mercury, the dynamic, talented front man of Queen.
He may be gone, but his music and his reputation as one of the most oustanding performers of the 20th Century live on.
What a Champion :-)
:: Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Rhyme-time
Mary had a little lamb
Her father shot it dead
So now she takes her lamb to school
Between 2 hunks of bread
Mary had a little lamb
she called him Little Ed
Now he's lying in a field
A pick axe through his head
Mary had a little lamb
It ran into a pylon
10,000 volts went up its arse
And turned its wool to nylon
Mary had a little lamb
She also had a duck
She put them on the mantlepiece
To see if they would fall off
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was black as soot
And everywhere that Mary went
Its sooty foot it put
Mary had a little lamb
The doctors were surprised
When old McDonald had a farm
The doctors nearly died
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was white and whispy.
Then it caught Foot and Mouth Disease
And now its black and crispy
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was slightly grey
It didn't have a father
Just some borrowed DNA
It sort of had a mother
Though the ovum was on loan
It was not so much a Lambkin
As a little lamby clone.
Reading: stupid nursery rhyme sites
Listening to: the dryer
Feeling: sheepish *shrug*
"Is it me, or was Frodo just hanging around in that field masturbating before I came along?" - Gandalf the Gray
Her father shot it dead
So now she takes her lamb to school
Between 2 hunks of bread
Mary had a little lamb
she called him Little Ed
Now he's lying in a field
A pick axe through his head
Mary had a little lamb
It ran into a pylon
10,000 volts went up its arse
And turned its wool to nylon
Mary had a little lamb
She also had a duck
She put them on the mantlepiece
To see if they would fall off
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was black as soot
And everywhere that Mary went
Its sooty foot it put
Mary had a little lamb
The doctors were surprised
When old McDonald had a farm
The doctors nearly died
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was white and whispy.
Then it caught Foot and Mouth Disease
And now its black and crispy
Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece was slightly grey
It didn't have a father
Just some borrowed DNA
It sort of had a mother
Though the ovum was on loan
It was not so much a Lambkin
As a little lamby clone.
Reading: stupid nursery rhyme sites
Listening to: the dryer
Feeling: sheepish *shrug*
"Is it me, or was Frodo just hanging around in that field masturbating before I came along?" - Gandalf the Gray
:: Saturday, November 19, 2005
Hair
My long hair, which became short hair, is becoming long hair again.
Just thought you'd like to know that.
Just thought you'd like to know that.
:: Friday, November 18, 2005
Pearl's a singer
I don't think I know anyone who is into opera as such and if I do they are leading a double life. I haven't even listened to a lot of opera (probably because it sounds like unintelligible screeching and has no drums or guitar presented the way I like it). I guess now days, even opera buffs who have the opportunity to attend a live performance get most of their operatic jollies listening to CDs at home rather than going to each performance of the season.
It would be rather expensive to go every night.
Three hundred years ago, that wasn't the case. Well they didn't have CDs back then, did they?
In the 17th and 18th centuries, opera was BIG in all the right circles and the Catholic church had control over most of the cultural elements of Italy and indeed much of Europe. One of the prohibitions set down by the Vatican was for the inclusion of female singers in church choirs. This was extended to singing in operas within the Papal states. Chicks were out.
How unusual.
To get around this (so that all their singers weren't all deep voiced and hairy), the Castrati was born, young boys with a natural gift for singing like angels gelded before puberty. Each castrato was rigorously trained in music conservatoria and, while the mediocre ones might find a lifelong calling within the church choir, the good ones might go on to become famous opera singers, feted and cherished for their pure soprano, mezzo-soprano and contralto voices, earning not just public adulation but large sums of money as well as they travelled through the decadence of the opera houses of Europe to sing the same songs for their supper, night after night for months on end.
But first they had to have their nuts off.
Similar to the eunuchs of a Sultan and his harem, these boy/men were able to engage in all aspects of sexual activity excluding ejaculation of sperm. They were the perfect panacea for the harem woman who only had her number cum up once a year. The eunuch could service all the needs of the royal ladies and never risk contaminating the bloodlines of his Master.
Handy that.
But back to the castrati, these children were often sold into this genderless servitude by poverty-stricken parents, or were encouraged to elect this career path if they were a younger son and therefore never going to be important in the patrician dynastic scheme of things. Once gelded, their bodies often developed differently without the input of male sex hormones to normal boys, achieving softer skin and hair, finer body frames and a female appearance helped in no little measure by the development of large chests from their amazing lung capacity as well as the high voice. Once dressed and made up, they became "woman" onstage and enjoyed great popularity. A top notch castrato was equally able to play the female part as he was the male.
One of the most famous castrati of the 18th century was Farinelli, who was castrated as a child after being nudged nastily in the nuts by a horse.
He spent his long life singing on the stages of Venice, Milan, Rome, Naples, Bologna, Vienna and London and everywhere in between, living much of his life as a member of the Spanish royal household.
La Fenise, Venice
Italy outlawed castratism in 1870 and the last true castrato of the Pope's choir, Alessandro Moreschi recorded his voice for posterity in 1902 and 1904 and died in 1922.
He was the end of a strange cultural and artistic era. Now days we usually only castrate animals. Sort of gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "I'd give my left testicle to be able to sing like that" though, dunnit.
Mind you, Freddie Mercury didn't need his nuts off to hit those (t)highs of his. I remember as a young teen, Em's mother saying he was 'more endowed than your average male' or something similar when Freddie paraded around the tv screen in his black and white skin tight jumpsuit thingy proclaiming what a Champion he really was. I don't think testicular transplants or prostheses were common in the 70s and it sure didn't look like a sock.
You'd have to know Em's mother to truly understand how unusual it was to hear her utter such a comment. But that's a whole different topic.
Innit, Em?
It would be rather expensive to go every night.
Three hundred years ago, that wasn't the case. Well they didn't have CDs back then, did they?
In the 17th and 18th centuries, opera was BIG in all the right circles and the Catholic church had control over most of the cultural elements of Italy and indeed much of Europe. One of the prohibitions set down by the Vatican was for the inclusion of female singers in church choirs. This was extended to singing in operas within the Papal states. Chicks were out.
How unusual.
To get around this (so that all their singers weren't all deep voiced and hairy), the Castrati was born, young boys with a natural gift for singing like angels gelded before puberty. Each castrato was rigorously trained in music conservatoria and, while the mediocre ones might find a lifelong calling within the church choir, the good ones might go on to become famous opera singers, feted and cherished for their pure soprano, mezzo-soprano and contralto voices, earning not just public adulation but large sums of money as well as they travelled through the decadence of the opera houses of Europe to sing the same songs for their supper, night after night for months on end.
But first they had to have their nuts off.
Similar to the eunuchs of a Sultan and his harem, these boy/men were able to engage in all aspects of sexual activity excluding ejaculation of sperm. They were the perfect panacea for the harem woman who only had her number cum up once a year. The eunuch could service all the needs of the royal ladies and never risk contaminating the bloodlines of his Master.
Handy that.
But back to the castrati, these children were often sold into this genderless servitude by poverty-stricken parents, or were encouraged to elect this career path if they were a younger son and therefore never going to be important in the patrician dynastic scheme of things. Once gelded, their bodies often developed differently without the input of male sex hormones to normal boys, achieving softer skin and hair, finer body frames and a female appearance helped in no little measure by the development of large chests from their amazing lung capacity as well as the high voice. Once dressed and made up, they became "woman" onstage and enjoyed great popularity. A top notch castrato was equally able to play the female part as he was the male.
One of the most famous castrati of the 18th century was Farinelli, who was castrated as a child after being nudged nastily in the nuts by a horse.
He spent his long life singing on the stages of Venice, Milan, Rome, Naples, Bologna, Vienna and London and everywhere in between, living much of his life as a member of the Spanish royal household.
La Fenise, Venice
Italy outlawed castratism in 1870 and the last true castrato of the Pope's choir, Alessandro Moreschi recorded his voice for posterity in 1902 and 1904 and died in 1922.
He was the end of a strange cultural and artistic era. Now days we usually only castrate animals. Sort of gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "I'd give my left testicle to be able to sing like that" though, dunnit.
Mind you, Freddie Mercury didn't need his nuts off to hit those (t)highs of his. I remember as a young teen, Em's mother saying he was 'more endowed than your average male' or something similar when Freddie paraded around the tv screen in his black and white skin tight jumpsuit thingy proclaiming what a Champion he really was. I don't think testicular transplants or prostheses were common in the 70s and it sure didn't look like a sock.
You'd have to know Em's mother to truly understand how unusual it was to hear her utter such a comment. But that's a whole different topic.
Innit, Em?
:: Thursday, November 17, 2005
Blardy kids!
It doesn't matter how much you set up a PC to stop the nasties getting through, the kids still manage to screw it up. Instead of using Firefox (as per numerous nag sessions) Heather insisted on using Internet Exploder for some of her dodgy teenager crapola sites and completely fucked their computer with pop up spyware.
Again.
So, instead of blogging you a good one tonight, I've spent the whole evening rebuilding their computer and I still have another dozen apps to load before I'm done. And the printer, and the scanner, and all Adam's car games and his train game. This time they are banned from it until I have a clean image made to restore from or else I ain't ever rebuilding it for them again.
I bet you're as devastated about this as I am. I feel your pain, I really do.
Again.
So, instead of blogging you a good one tonight, I've spent the whole evening rebuilding their computer and I still have another dozen apps to load before I'm done. And the printer, and the scanner, and all Adam's car games and his train game. This time they are banned from it until I have a clean image made to restore from or else I ain't ever rebuilding it for them again.
I bet you're as devastated about this as I am. I feel your pain, I really do.
:: Sunday, November 13, 2005
Worm
Lynn recommended I read a book that she has recently read, about MS. So I got it from the library and I launched into it with enthusiasm, having not read any MS books for a long time.
I sort of wish I hadn't read this one.
It was really right on the button in a lot of ways; it reminded me of all the social problems MS brings when trying to deal with a world that, by and large, really doesn't have a clue what is wrong with us and doesn't really want to find out. It reminded me of all the silly big/little things that are wrong - the ones that seem trivial and almost hypochondriacal in nature to those who don't know what they feel like, especially when they've all got together for a hoe-down. It reminded me of the futility trying to maintain formal patterns of living that fit in with fulfilling the numerous roles a single parent has to fulfil and be able to take care of oneself at the same time. It reminded me that how I feel is perfectly normal for someone like me. It reminded me that, while it's mostly in my head, I'm not a raving nutcase, although being a nutcase might have been easier to live with. I don't have any of my MRI films or I could show you where I'm only dotty.
You might be reminded of that, too, the next time you are lying in a burning mud pool with worms crawling and wriggling up and down inside your leg whilst it dances with joy at 3.12 in the morning and you haven't been doing drugs.
Of course, it could be worse - you could have drunk all the tequila and got the worm.
I hate tequila and I've never even tasted it. My only encounter with it involved a pub lunch on Tequila Slammer Saturday with Rich and Cush and David when I was pregnant with Heather.
And so not drinking.
But the smell that came off those three later in the day when they had been licking, sucking, sipping and slamming tequila all afternoon whilst I was suffering terrible morning all day sickness will live on forever, stored in my memory banks in a deposit box marked "Things not to EVER do again".
It's a really big box.
I sort of wish I hadn't read this one.
It was really right on the button in a lot of ways; it reminded me of all the social problems MS brings when trying to deal with a world that, by and large, really doesn't have a clue what is wrong with us and doesn't really want to find out. It reminded me of all the silly big/little things that are wrong - the ones that seem trivial and almost hypochondriacal in nature to those who don't know what they feel like, especially when they've all got together for a hoe-down. It reminded me of the futility trying to maintain formal patterns of living that fit in with fulfilling the numerous roles a single parent has to fulfil and be able to take care of oneself at the same time. It reminded me that how I feel is perfectly normal for someone like me. It reminded me that, while it's mostly in my head, I'm not a raving nutcase, although being a nutcase might have been easier to live with. I don't have any of my MRI films or I could show you where I'm only dotty.
You might be reminded of that, too, the next time you are lying in a burning mud pool with worms crawling and wriggling up and down inside your leg whilst it dances with joy at 3.12 in the morning and you haven't been doing drugs.
Of course, it could be worse - you could have drunk all the tequila and got the worm.
I hate tequila and I've never even tasted it. My only encounter with it involved a pub lunch on Tequila Slammer Saturday with Rich and Cush and David when I was pregnant with Heather.
And so not drinking.
But the smell that came off those three later in the day when they had been licking, sucking, sipping and slamming tequila all afternoon whilst I was suffering terrible morning all day sickness will live on forever, stored in my memory banks in a deposit box marked "Things not to EVER do again".
It's a really big box.
:: Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Where was I?
I have a sore throat and a sore chest and my nose is all stuffed up and I'm sitting here with chicken-flavoured rice crackers and a drink of milk reading this. Where the hell was I when this site was gaining a huge following across the globe?
It's the Secret Diaries of Cassandra Claire and it's been keeping me amused for a couple of hours now.
Excerpt:
THE SECRET DIARY OF ARAGORN SON OF ARATHORN
Day 30:
In Lothlorien. Think Galadriel was hitting on me. Saucy wench.
Nice chat with Boromir. He's not so bad.
Took a shower. Yay!
But still not King.
Day 32:
Orcs killed: none. Stubble update: subtly hairy.
Legolas told me that a shadow and a threat had been growing in his mind.
I think Legolas might be kinda gay.
Nope, not King.
THE VERY SECRET DIARY OF SAMWISE GAMGEE
Day Eight:
Off to Mordor. Other members of Fellowship v. dodgy if you ask me. Especially Boromir. "Teaching Merry and Pippin how to sword-fight" my Aunt Lobelia. Obviously pervy hobbit-fancier who likes to roll around with small men in shorts.
Day Nine:
Aragorn just as pervy as Boromir. Obviously fancies Mr. Frodo. Will kill him if he tries anything.
THE VERY SECRET DIARY OF PEREGRINE TOOK
DAY NINE
Sam all wrong about Boromir. Really very nice man. Invited me to go for a walk with him tonight and said he would let me blow his Horn of Gondor. Can't wait.
Later that night
Always thought blowing the Horn of Gondor was supposed to summon armies of the West?
Apparently not.
V. educational, all the same.
DAY ELEVEN
V. dark in mines of Moria. Still sort of a relief as means Boromir cannot corner me and complain how Aragorn is insensitive, stuck up git with hobbit fixation. Pot calling kettle black if you ask me. Aragorn obviously way into Frodo, however. Sam will kill him if he tries anything.
You don't have to be a complete LOTR nut to get a giggle
brb
ôôô This excerpt was lifeted completely without permission of it's owners, but hell, I gotta do something to drag you there ;-P) ôôô
It's the Secret Diaries of Cassandra Claire and it's been keeping me amused for a couple of hours now.
Excerpt:
THE SECRET DIARY OF ARAGORN SON OF ARATHORN
Day 30:
In Lothlorien. Think Galadriel was hitting on me. Saucy wench.
Nice chat with Boromir. He's not so bad.
Took a shower. Yay!
But still not King.
Day 32:
Orcs killed: none. Stubble update: subtly hairy.
Legolas told me that a shadow and a threat had been growing in his mind.
I think Legolas might be kinda gay.
Nope, not King.
THE VERY SECRET DIARY OF SAMWISE GAMGEE
Day Eight:
Off to Mordor. Other members of Fellowship v. dodgy if you ask me. Especially Boromir. "Teaching Merry and Pippin how to sword-fight" my Aunt Lobelia. Obviously pervy hobbit-fancier who likes to roll around with small men in shorts.
Day Nine:
Aragorn just as pervy as Boromir. Obviously fancies Mr. Frodo. Will kill him if he tries anything.
THE VERY SECRET DIARY OF PEREGRINE TOOK
DAY NINE
Sam all wrong about Boromir. Really very nice man. Invited me to go for a walk with him tonight and said he would let me blow his Horn of Gondor. Can't wait.
Later that night
Always thought blowing the Horn of Gondor was supposed to summon armies of the West?
Apparently not.
V. educational, all the same.
DAY ELEVEN
V. dark in mines of Moria. Still sort of a relief as means Boromir cannot corner me and complain how Aragorn is insensitive, stuck up git with hobbit fixation. Pot calling kettle black if you ask me. Aragorn obviously way into Frodo, however. Sam will kill him if he tries anything.
You don't have to be a complete LOTR nut to get a giggle
brb
ôôô This excerpt was lifeted completely without permission of it's owners, but hell, I gotta do something to drag you there ;-P) ôôô
:: Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Eh, what?
What do you do when it's almost 2 in the morning and you've woken up all shuddery and juddery on the inside and you've got a cold and your throat hurts and your ears are sore and everything is aching and you just know this is gonna be one of those nights?
You do what I do, of course and get out of bed, make some hot milk, roll up a doob and bore the shit out of any poor schmuck who visits your blog!
Don't you do that too?
Ok, I've stumbled you some new weirdness, just in case you're as deviant bored as me:
READ all about the cheerleaders arrested after bathroom sex!
LEARN a whole new set of pathetic excuses to save your sorry ass!!
BE ASTOUNDED at the things you can buy from a vending machine in Japan!!!
GENERATE your very own church sign!!!!
(OK, so that one was pretty stink...)
SEE the Bible come to life in Lego!!!!!
BECOME ENTHUSED by the new generation in bathroom decorations!!!!!!
GET LOST in Ebaums World!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
RUN OUT OF exclamation marks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
and finally go back to bed.
PS did you know... that today is the anniversary of a ship from New Zealand bringing the 1918 influenza epidemic to Western Samoa, killing 7542, about twenty percent of the population by the end of the year. 20,000,000 people were killed from the epidemic globally, including half a million Americans.
You do what I do, of course and get out of bed, make some hot milk, roll up a doob and bore the shit out of any poor schmuck who visits your blog!
Don't you do that too?
Ok, I've stumbled you some new weirdness, just in case you're as deviant bored as me:
READ all about the cheerleaders arrested after bathroom sex!
LEARN a whole new set of pathetic excuses to save your sorry ass!!
BE ASTOUNDED at the things you can buy from a vending machine in Japan!!!
GENERATE your very own church sign!!!!
(OK, so that one was pretty stink...)
SEE the Bible come to life in Lego!!!!!
BECOME ENTHUSED by the new generation in bathroom decorations!!!!!!
GET LOST in Ebaums World!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
RUN OUT OF exclamation marks!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
and finally go back to bed.
PS did you know... that today is the anniversary of a ship from New Zealand bringing the 1918 influenza epidemic to Western Samoa, killing 7542, about twenty percent of the population by the end of the year. 20,000,000 people were killed from the epidemic globally, including half a million Americans.
:: Sunday, November 06, 2005
Old bangers
No, this post isn't about Mark's birthday party last night (but it could have been), it's about Guy Fawkes and his being caught playing with explosives on November 5th.
Back in 1605, Mary Queen of Scots little boy James was King of both England and Scotland and not everyone thought he was marvellous. Sort of comes with the territory when a King or Queen, really. Anyway, some good 'ol Catholic boys got together and hatched a plot (the Gunpowder Plot) to kill the King and remove a few Lords from the gene pool and one of them was Guy Fawkes (aka Guido Fawkes/Faukes) who ended up taking the fall after one of the conspirators lost the plot and dobbed them in to a bloke called Lord Monteagle and poor old Guy was caught red handed in the basement of the House of Lords. Instead of getting the bang of his wet dreams letting off 2.5 ton of gunpowder, he got a few days of torture (courstesy of special permission of the King) before being hung, drawn and quartered at Westminster 3 months later.
Bit of a bummer all round, really.
Anyway, for the past 400 years this momentous day has been celebrated by the letting off of explosive devices. Some seem to think it's celebrating his failure as an anarchist, I prefer to think we celebrate his attempting to to a good deed for the world and blow up a monarch and a few politicos. Rich, Landed Gentry types of politicos.
Unfortunately, technology and commercialism have sort of taken over and now children as young as 14 are able to purchase these cheap and nasty mini(and not so mini)-weapons for 10 days before the event, and drive society mad using them inappropriately, burn down houses and blow up family pets. Wowsers People all over are calling for a ban on personal firework sales and outlawing them in private hands.
And I think that is really dumb.
Instead of legislating for the lowest common denominator (ie stupid little bastards with no brains born of lousy, dumb fuck parents) they should change the way they are marketed, restrict the age of those that can buy them and ONLY SELL THEM FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS instead of ruining the fun of all those people who aren't irresponsible, whose kids aren't brain-dead morons and just want to have a bit of fun in the back yard.
We always had them when I was a kid. Every year (up to about 10 or so when we moved) the man over the road would stockpile his timber in his front paddock and everyone from miles around made a Guy to put on the bonfire and families all rocked up with our bags and boxes of fireworks and we all let them off around the paddock and as far as I can remember no one ever got badly hurt. Funny, that. Kids + fireworks + responsible parents = bloody good time had by all. Maybe our Double Happies and Tom Thumbs weren't as sophisticated then as this rubbish offered for sale now, but at least they worked as intended, didn't crap out and malfunction and were hugely enjoyed in a safe, supervised environment. Watching the big organised fireworks displays on offer now just ain't a patch on that.
Oh, and if they can forbid the selling of decent skyrockets and the aforementioned Double Happies and Tom Thumbs, they can ban the importation and sale of these cannon fireworks, too. Easy peasy.
The whole issue isn't about safety (or not) of fireworks, it's about responsibility or lack thereof of the dipshit parents who (usually) give their kids money to buy them and then don't bother to supervise them, teach acceptable handling or respect and care for other people and their pets. It's a shame they don't blow their heads off instead of just their fingers and hands - that would be Natural Selection at it's very finest.
And as for the wussy "my cat/dog/bird/rabbit/guinea pig is terrified" people, I have 2 cats and a dog from all walks of animal life and none of them give a crap about all the noise and fireworks smoke emanating from the neighbours and the park right below. Wussy people = wussy pets. **YAWN** Lock them up safe if you have to and then you won't lose them, but don't try to ban MY fun cos your pets don't like it.
There, that's my rant say on the issue.
PS the kids make acetyline bombs down at the bridge all year round. Ho hum.
Back in 1605, Mary Queen of Scots little boy James was King of both England and Scotland and not everyone thought he was marvellous. Sort of comes with the territory when a King or Queen, really. Anyway, some good 'ol Catholic boys got together and hatched a plot (the Gunpowder Plot) to kill the King and remove a few Lords from the gene pool and one of them was Guy Fawkes (aka Guido Fawkes/Faukes) who ended up taking the fall after one of the conspirators lost the plot and dobbed them in to a bloke called Lord Monteagle and poor old Guy was caught red handed in the basement of the House of Lords. Instead of getting the bang of his wet dreams letting off 2.5 ton of gunpowder, he got a few days of torture (courstesy of special permission of the King) before being hung, drawn and quartered at Westminster 3 months later.
Bit of a bummer all round, really.
Anyway, for the past 400 years this momentous day has been celebrated by the letting off of explosive devices. Some seem to think it's celebrating his failure as an anarchist, I prefer to think we celebrate his attempting to to a good deed for the world and blow up a monarch and a few politicos. Rich, Landed Gentry types of politicos.
Unfortunately, technology and commercialism have sort of taken over and now children as young as 14 are able to purchase these cheap and nasty mini(and not so mini)-weapons for 10 days before the event, and drive society mad using them inappropriately, burn down houses and blow up family pets. Wowsers People all over are calling for a ban on personal firework sales and outlawing them in private hands.
And I think that is really dumb.
Instead of legislating for the lowest common denominator (ie stupid little bastards with no brains born of lousy, dumb fuck parents) they should change the way they are marketed, restrict the age of those that can buy them and ONLY SELL THEM FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS instead of ruining the fun of all those people who aren't irresponsible, whose kids aren't brain-dead morons and just want to have a bit of fun in the back yard.
We always had them when I was a kid. Every year (up to about 10 or so when we moved) the man over the road would stockpile his timber in his front paddock and everyone from miles around made a Guy to put on the bonfire and families all rocked up with our bags and boxes of fireworks and we all let them off around the paddock and as far as I can remember no one ever got badly hurt. Funny, that. Kids + fireworks + responsible parents = bloody good time had by all. Maybe our Double Happies and Tom Thumbs weren't as sophisticated then as this rubbish offered for sale now, but at least they worked as intended, didn't crap out and malfunction and were hugely enjoyed in a safe, supervised environment. Watching the big organised fireworks displays on offer now just ain't a patch on that.
Oh, and if they can forbid the selling of decent skyrockets and the aforementioned Double Happies and Tom Thumbs, they can ban the importation and sale of these cannon fireworks, too. Easy peasy.
The whole issue isn't about safety (or not) of fireworks, it's about responsibility or lack thereof of the dipshit parents who (usually) give their kids money to buy them and then don't bother to supervise them, teach acceptable handling or respect and care for other people and their pets. It's a shame they don't blow their heads off instead of just their fingers and hands - that would be Natural Selection at it's very finest.
And as for the wussy "my cat/dog/bird/rabbit/guinea pig is terrified" people, I have 2 cats and a dog from all walks of animal life and none of them give a crap about all the noise and fireworks smoke emanating from the neighbours and the park right below. Wussy people = wussy pets. **YAWN** Lock them up safe if you have to and then you won't lose them, but don't try to ban MY fun cos your pets don't like it.
There, that's my rant say on the issue.
PS the kids make acetyline bombs down at the bridge all year round. Ho hum.
:: Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Inviting
Mark's calling my bluff, the bastard, and has invited us to his birthday party on Saturday night.
Of course, that would mean leaving the Hermitage and being [gasp] social, but surely his turning 50 must be worthy of the sacrifice...right?
pffffffft, we'll see!
Of course, that would mean leaving the Hermitage and being [gasp] social, but surely his turning 50 must be worthy of the sacrifice...right?
pffffffft, we'll see!
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