Wednesday, May 6, 2015

What Really Died at Auschwitz?

This blog examines the perspective of Rodriguez presented verbatim below, and counters with an alternate viewpoint for the reader's consideration. 

"European Life Died In Auschwitz"
       By Sebastian Vilar Rodriguez

I walked down the street in Barcelona and suddenly discovered a terrible truth - Europe died in Auschwitz ... We killed six million Jews and replaced them with 20 million Muslims.  In Auschwitz we burned a culture, thought, creativity, talent. We destroyed the chosen people, truly chosen, because they produced great and wonderful people who changed the world.

The contribution of this people is felt in all areas of life: science, art, international trade, and above all, as the conscience of the world. These are the people we burned.

And under the pretense of tolerance, and because we wanted to prove to ourselves that we were cured of the disease of racism, we opened our gates to 20 million Muslims, who brought us stupidity, ignorance, religious extremism and lack of tolerance, crime and poverty, due to an unwillingness to work and support their families with pride.

They have blown up our trains and turned our beautiful Spanish cities into the third world, drowning in filth and crime.  Shut up in the apartments they receive free from the government, they plan the murder and destruction of their naive hosts.

And thus, in our misery, we have exchanged culture for fanatical hatred, creative skill for destructive skill, intelligence for backwardness and superstition. We have exchanged the pursuit of peace of the Jews of Europe and their talent for a better future for their children, their determined clinging to life because life is holy, for those who pursue death, for people consumed by the desire for death for themselves and others, for our children and theirs.

What a terrible mistake was made by a miserable Europe!

A lot of Americans have become so insulated from reality that they imagine America can suffer defeat without any inconvenience to themselves. Recently, the UK debated whether to remove The Holocaust from its school curriculum because it 'offends' the Muslim population which claims it never occurred. It is not removed as yet. However, this is a frightening portent of the fear that is gripping the world and how easily each country is giving in to it.

It is now more than sixty years after the Second World War in Europe ended. This e-mail is being sent as a memorial chain, in memory of the six million Jews, twenty million Russians, ten million Christians, and nineteen-hundred Catholic priests who were 'murdered, raped, burned, starved, beaten, experimented on and humiliated.'  Now, more than ever, with Iran, among others, claiming the Holocaust to be 'a myth,' it is imperative to make sure the world never forgets."


Thinking about the above, I perceive more fundamental issues underlying some of these observations :

1. Yes - never forget the holocaust. It most definitely happened. We must remember it as an object lesson of what happens when blinkered ideology is allowed to take root, while scapegoating minorities to divert the masses from the real issues at hand and from what is taking place under their very noses - in the case of German National Socialism, the very destruction of democracy itself and the seizing of power by a small elite. We also need to be mindful here of the very willing role played by the catholic church in the holocaust itself and the cooperation given by the pope to the Nazis. This is a matter of historic record. "We" killed 6m Jews, aided and abetted by the Christian church - who , it will be realised, always had an axe to grind with world Jewry, from the foundation of the creation of Christendom and their collective "role" in the supposed crucifixion of the Christ, and denial of the "messiah".

2. It's probably over-simplistic to single out the Muslims (or any particular religious sect/cult/whatever) as the cause of the woes of the world. Yes - their beliefs are bizarre and they are dangerous. There are some frighteningly backward tenets contained in the Koran, and certainly I would not want a Muslim theocracy taking root anywhere I am remotely close to, or influenced by. However, a closer reading of history reveals that were it not for the Arabic people circa 325 A.D and shortly thereafter, the vast majority of the great philosophical writings and poetry of the Greeks, early Romans, Persian, Sufi etc. would have been destroyed by the new emerging movement which was state-sponsored and which was known as "Christianity". This syncretistic movement borrowed much of its thinking from religions that preceded it, and adopted a stance of intolerance to any school of thought which contradicted its dogma, including torturing and killing its proponents. 

3. It can be noted that at this time, the Arab culture (and I purposely do not use the word "Muslim") had many extremely intelligent and enlightened thinkers, so one might wonder what happened between then and now. The answer is simple : religious fundamentalism - which is where we can now start using the word "Muslim", since the adoption of widespread religion across the region became synonymous with statehood. A narrow superstitious worldview was adopted and minds were enslaved under a cloak of rules and dogma. Dissenters were tortured and killed. As an aside, one might also remember that other "great" period where the (Christian) church ran the state - known as the dark ages. Presumably this does not need to be amplified, but the underlying principles are exactly the same, as is the mode of operation. One might suggest that the Muslim dark ages might now be underway?

4. I think censorship of any historical fact is wrong and should be guarded against. We do not want to be so quick to appease the modern striving for political correctness and unwillingness to "offend", that we sweep history under the carpet. On the contrary, history - warts and all should be valued as the means by which we learn from the positive and the negative, as a means to guide our thinking and actions going forward. And xenophobia in any of its forms, is dangerous and ill-advised. I do not begrudge anyone a place to live - as long as they do not think that they have a right to impose their narrow and superstitious worldview on either myself, or society at large.

5. However, given the tendency of the religious fundamentalist to want to impose their will on broader society, this of course is where the contention arises today - and it's not only the Muslims we are talking about. There have to be boundaries which are observed and respected so that those who choose to live their lives according to a particular belief system are able to do so, while not imposing on those who do not adhere to the particular belief. In the interests of broader society, it is also a good idea to practice clear separation of church and state. This is called "freedom of thought and association" - and the human race seems to be a long way from achieving this ideal.

Thursday, December 26, 2013

God Lives in America

I have long had a sneaking suspicion that God (or god, if you like) is not somewhere floating up in the stratosphere, but is a little nearer to home - to wit, living in America. Why America? - you ask. Well, when I was a kid, I grew accustomed to hearing frequent bouts of fervent prayer at church youth guild, and whenever this happened, the leaders (who always were the first to get smitten by the divine (or Divine, if you prefer) presence (or Presence - "now stop that!")) OK OK - divine presence -  and dive into prayer, always did so in American. Think about it - they are waffling on in a nice local accent then suddenly :

"Ar Laard , yes Laard, Ah kin feeel His presence movin' among uz, hallelujah Laard" & etc. You get the picture. Which made me think that the holy spirit at least might have spent some time growing up in America while the father and the son were footling around the middle east dropping tribesmen into holes for disobedience and getting crucified and resurrecting.

And then some years later, as a not-so-devout churchgoer, I noticed that whenever god (or Gaad, if you're American) was said to be doing a new thing in the church (I used to feel like a surfer having to keep getting out the spiritual surfboard so I could ride the new wave of whatever was going around every so often), it ALWAYS originated in the good ol' US of A. Which means god has a hotline to the spiritual head honcho in America (it doesn't matter which church it is - they tell all their mates about it in the other churches pretty quick, in the scramble for attendances and offerings).

And then America of course exports god's natty moves to the rest of the world on their continual quest to convert the infidel ("infidel (n) - anything not American").

However, I then wondered why God couldn't phone and tell us himself, rather than placing trust in the Americans to get the message right, what with line-loss etc., this might be preferable and definitely quicker. And it would be great for conservation of precious currency, not having to give it to visiting American preachers. And then it dawned on me. God doesn't call, because he doesn't have to - he's right in there with the Good Ol' Boys, doin' the thing in congress, or having congress or whatever they do in those august chambers. I bet in the off season he goes duck-hunting with them too - uses a bit of that divine will to plummet a few ducks out of the sky to stop the old codgers getting embarrassed about continually missing with large gauge shotguns.

However, there are many places in America where it's downright unhealthy to live - for example tornado alley, up through the gulf into Louisiana and the Carolinas and into the heart of Kansas. So God clearly doesn't actually stay there : he's probably there every so often twiddling the tornados so that they trash whoever has not been doing enough grovelling lately, and an extra quirk of ill-will in demolishing a few schools, kindergartens etc. He gets around - they don't call him omnipresent for nothing.

I bet he doesn't stay in New York or some other really cold parts in winter either - no self-respecting god would be seen rubbing his hands and blowing on them to keep warm - besides the gusts of breath may flatten the city - and that's never happened. God clearly winters in Florida where it's nice and warm, but then moves before tornado season gets underway.

In fact I think the most likely place for god to spend most of his time is in New Hampshire : the Scallion world maps indicate in the event of violent seismic upheaval, that New Hampshire is a safe place to be - certainly it seems many of the American politicians know this already, which is why they cluster there. And it certainly makes sense that God and the American supremos should mingle together after hours, so what makes more sense if you're intending to unleash a little death and destruction on the Earth, than to have a nice safe hidey-hole where you and "da boyz" can party on late into the night?

But remembering the earlier injunction? God gets around a lot - he may be there for a while, when there's a good party and everyone's getting pissed, but he'll move on as soon as there are a few new politician babies to kiss, or one of the televangelist's asses needs to be lit up during a religious rally. I mean - can one imagine not having Benny Hinn's backside lit up while rows of the devout are mown down by his waving jacket? It would be heresy!

Do you remember the US state that gave old George "Dubya" Bush the presidency? Yep - you're right - Florida. God needed Dubya in the Whitehouse so he could get him to be the puppet dumbass while the real matters of state were sorted out by the old boys club.

The Night Before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, there was nothing that stirred
And all through the house came the wafting of turd
It was laid on the hearth by Daisy the dog
The cat was outraged, and aghast and agog!

It crept from the lounge down the hall like a fog
In a large pungent cloud from that fertile wet log
It ran up the stairs like a trail of green light
Why didn't the gas spontaneously ignite?

The parents were sleeping, the kids were awake
Watching and waiting for Santa to make
The familiar sound when the sled came to rest
While blissfully quietly the fog killed the guest

In the third bedroom off the landing en-suite
Just a stone's throw away from the adults replete
From the day's preparations, exertions and stress
It came upon them in their state of undress

And outside the house in the snow on the roof
Santa had landed and to tell you the truth
The chimney looked narrow and still very hot
And Santa's big ass got burnt in the spot

Which he used to control his rate of descent
Past the fluepipe, the soot, his red suit was rent
In several pieces and fell on the fire
Raising smoke and some dust like a great funeral pyre

And gasping and coughing, the danger he spurned
Ensuring his chestnuts would not get too burnt
He bravely stepped down with cunning and guile
Right on top of the rich stinking wet Daisy pile

He was nothing if not a resourceful old gent
As he went on arranging the presents he bent
Down and thought he caught just a bit
Of a smell that resembled some wet reindeer shit

Shrugging his shoulders he finished the chore
Ascending the chimney to fly off once more
And each place he stopped he anointed the floor
Round the presents the children had long waited for

And all round the world wherever he went
Sharing the infamous wet excrement
When people awoke aghast they did find
Their boyfriends and budgies and aunties were blind

From the clinging disastrous odorous blight
What was to have been a heavenly night
Turned into a nightmare the very next day
Of cleansing and steaming and no time to play

Christmas that year - a disaster, they said
When the clumsy fat guy on the roof wearing red
From not looking at where it was carefully curled
Wiped out half of the modern civilized world!

Thursday, January 3, 2013

The Bourne Getaway

Well - we've seen the Bourne Identity, the Bourne Supremacy and the Bourne Ultimatum, and lately, possibly even the Bourne Legacy.

Here now is the new blockbuster in the trilogy - nay quadrilogy - quintilogy about the life and goings-on of Jason Bourne. And everybody knows that in any good spy thriller, there has to be a getaway-thing going on. So why was Robert Ludlum so remiss that he missed it? Anyway, here for the first time, is The Bourne Getaway. Enjoy it.

The white BMW drew up almost soundlessly at the curbside, the fat tyres scrunching gently on the sandy gravel and the engine was cut. As the rear door was opened, a flurry of fur exploded outwards as the dogs from hell reunited with terra firma, locating the nearest rock and piddling voluminously to release the pressure of a long confinement. The front gate was unlocked with difficulty and swung wide on squeaky hinges and the  animals happily rushed away, around to the back and the freedom of the extended plot.

Bourne was home. At least he liked to think of it as "home", although it was more of a retreat into silence, albeit punctuated sporadically by the cries and curses of the onderdorp. He tried to screen these out when they occurred, although with his mind almost destroyed by the years of abuse it was almost impossible - the brain no longer obeyed him implicitly, it was starting to become "autonomous" in his older years. Sodding brain cells, doing their own thing.

He still entertained the occasional recollections of Treadstone and the anonymous brown stone frontage, but these days he was more attuned to tyre treads and skipping flat stones on the fusty little leiwater dam in the back yard. Bourne had found his refuge - granted, he often wondered whether the bastards would come after him again and would puncture his elaborate disguise as an overweight, arthritic accountant. He shrugged off the sombre thought of the pudgy old body, and fumbled around in the trunk for the big soft red ball that he would perch his bottom on a bit later while he pretended to do his spinal exercises.

Shit - this bloody boot lid needs adjusting - it was just a couple of days back that the damn thing had started to slam down rather quickly. Must be something wrong with the damping mechanism. Stupid thing nearly closed my fingers in the trunk. He held up the nicotine-stained fingers of the right hand - the trigger finger, honed through years of action and discipline, and noted with satisfaction the tremor that he had deliberately trained into the nerve response. Never know when you need a fast quivery trigger finger - wonderful for rapid-fire. Grab the trigger, and tremble. Works like a charm. He lost count of how many had died while he trembled his digit.

Having stowed all the crappola from the trunk and back seat in a large heap on the lounge carpet, he shambled through the back french door onto the concrete patio and gratefully lit a cigarette, sucking deep the smoke into every available cavity of lung alveolae. All this shit about cancer was just a bunch of dingoes kidneys, he sourly noted - if he was really meant to die, it would have been a lot sooner and considerably more painfully than he foresaw his own demise. Suck ciggy- so. Having flicked the butt into the outside braai area, he turned his attention to a second major priority in life. A drink, and a stiff one too.

It was still early, so he deposited his shapeless form into a plastic garden chair, farted and sagged in front of his laptop to do some exam paper setting. To him fell the burden of teaching clueless little tossers the finer things in life, like debits and credits, and amortized book values. And, Bourne noted, there is nothing finer after a braai of succulent lambs flesh, than picking your teeth with a T- account. The only thing that outdoes that, is a month end consolidation. Sparkling stuff!

He paused. Something in his subconscious niggled at him. What was different? He felt the hairs on the back of his scalp prickle, and his latent training although rusty and long-dormant, sprang to the fore. There was no sound. McGregor was holding its breath. No onderdorp dogs were barking, and even the carp in the stagnant leiwater dam seemed to be frozen. Was it that cold recently? Almost imperceptibly, he became aware of the faintest snick of sound, something that the untrained ear would never have detected. But his did. And it sounded like the arming of something extremely nasty and high powered, and very very automatic. Idly, he wondered how they'd found him in this backwater. What trick had he missed when he arrived? He supposed in his heart of hearts that they would never have let him live. And now it was time.

Where the hell were the dogs? Why hadn't they barked, or at least torn the kneecaps off the intruder? Bourne was getting rather edgy, what with the prospect of his imminent demise and the goddam arthritis wandering up his right arm. He tried very slowly to move his wrist, hoping that the movement would not be misconstrued by whoever was standing behind him. There it was again - the soft snick sound of a weapon being cocked.

"He's already cocked the goddam thing once" Bourne thought "what happened to the first bullet?" Had the hired gun managed to miss him at point blank range, or had he deliberately shot one of the dogs from hell? And why did he cock the gun only when I moved my wrist - maybe he's edgy? At that moment, as he steeled himself for the bullet to explode in his skull, there came a revelation every bit as violent in his addled brain - it was him causing the snick snick sound. Have they booby trapped my laptop? Awwshit - it's the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard - nearly killed myself by accident there, he mused. Jesus - imagine putting a bullet through my laptop keyboard. What would the missus say? "Jason - come away from that bottle! NOW!!"

Bourne gave up for the day - it was all too much excitement. He'd try setting papers tomorrow, after some supper and quick surreptitious page through a lewd book about Generally Accepted Accounting Principles in the bath. Would need to be careful the pages didn't get wet.

Sunday dawned in its normal splendour and by the time he had roused, the dogs were at frolic as usual, sniffing and shitting and scratching up the plants that Hardy, The Gardener had so painstakingly put in recently. No point in calling off the dogs - there's plenty more money where that came from - Hardy can plant some more next week.

What's for breakfast? "Scrambled eggs on toast on the back patio, as usual - then the normal 11.30 braai, and then we leave for home, as usual". Bourne sighed. One of the little problems of enforced anonymity is that one has to do such mundane things, over and over, and over and over without end. God how he hated the life of an under-cover accountant. He had wanted to be a lumberjack as a youth, but the local council had cut down all the trees over 3 feet in height so the traffic cops could hide in comfort while peering over the stumps to trap unsuspecting motorists. So, thwarted in his ambition, he'd answered a local advert for "wet work" in the smalls, thinking that it had something to do with gardening. It was only years later that he discovered why they called it "wet work", when he had to do his own clean up after accidentally killing the local sweeper team who had been on standby for the hit. There'd been hell to pay for that little lark.

But that was all history - he'd moved on, and survived in a field that most didn't. And he had his pudgy body to show for it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought stirred. He wondered if it was in fact the right thing to be doing - accountancy and progressive death in easy stages.

The compulsory braai over, he shovelled the crap back into the car, lobbing the unused laptop onto the pile and slammed the trunk lid, neatly snapping the laptop in two. Fuck, he screamed. There go all my T-accounts. Geddin goddamn dogs - we're outta here.

The BM swished majestically away, leaving nothing but the faintest imprint of dirt, neatly furrowed like a miniature Zen-garden at the roadside. The Treadstone agent bent down and examined the pattern minutely. Damn, he thought - missed him again. You can never get your hands on a good accountant when you need one.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : The published work is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Now out on Maxi DVD 5-disc set : 

The Bourne Weekender : Jason Bourne's Secret Places; 
More of Jason's Secret Bitz
Jason's Country Getaways 
Braaiing with Bourne : The Greasy Fingers Guide to Lamb Chops
Wetwork Accounting : The Treadstone Guide to Writing off Liabilities  and 
The McGregor Fine Dining Guide : Jason's Gastronomique Gut   

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Monday, December 31, 2012


"Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone the song is over, thought I'd something more to say"

(Time - Pink Floyd)

Appropriate for the end of a year.

G and I were sitting and musing on the passing of years, and the fact that there will (as usual) be the crop of new year binges across the country tonight. And we thought "so what is time, exactly?".

And of course greater minds than ours have examined the conundrum of time. Mathematicians have declared it to be the 4th dimension, following length, breadth and height, the familiar three. So while I sit here, hardly moving in 3 dimensions, I am speeding along in the 4th with all the rest of us. I shudder to conceptualise the other 7 or so dimensions that I'm reliably informed also exist.

So what will 2013 bring, and why do we want to especially welcome it with parties and lotsa booze and drugs and trance and all that crap? The easy answer to this double-barreled question is : 2013 will bring the same as 2012 and all the years before. Good things will happen, bad things will happen, people will be born and people will die. All of us will grow older. It's called "life" and it happens all the time.

And we welcome it with parties, because there are many clever people out there who know how to take advantage of many other people. And there are far more other people out there who are hell-bent on spending money in order to be convinced that they're having a good time. And they will - at least they think they will - on New Year's eve. They will drink and rock and roll and party and quite a few of them will kiss complete strangers in a fit of bonhomie in the "spirit of the season" and some may wind up having spontaneous sex either with a partner or a stranger; and many more of them will wake sometime on 1 January (or later) with a hell of a hangover and wonder what happened and why they did it (again) this year?

And the clever people will be more wealthy, and the masses will be poorer, but they will think they are happy, because they have been entertained. This is called "seeing the new year in". Consider it seen, and it's no different to the other 50 or so occasions (depending on how long you've been alive).

And when you drag yourself off the planet and you imagine yourself as a spaceman sitting far out in space, looking at the earth turning slowly, do you know time? You look at your watch and what do you see? It says 15H45, but it might as well say 03h03 or any other "time", because for everyone on the surface of the blue planet, it is every time and no time - all the time at every instant of the day. And while you hover in space for 1 million years or so, what do you see? You see the Earth spinning slowly and maybe the odd comet and orbiting moon and not much else. So what is the point of a watch?

And when you get back on earth, depending on where you land, your watch will either be "right" or "wrong", because time as we know it is a man-made local construct, useful only for ensuring you are at your next appointment "on time". It serves no other useful purpose in the greater scheme of things.

Consider the animals, or the early neanderthals. They saw the sun rise, and they lived their lives in the daylight. And when the sun dipped below the horizon, they made a fire if it was cold, they ate and they slept. The next day, the sun appeared again, and again. And at certain periods, it was warm, and at others it was cold. And those who were suitably prepared, kept warm or cool. And those that weren't, froze to death or died in the heat. This was called "survival of the fittest" and only the fittest survived. And so "time" passed, the only mark of its passing being the periods of warmer and cooler weather, and the fact that bodies become older and sagged more and were more frail. And sooner or later, some stopped breathing while others started. The passage of life.

Time. We all have a share of it, some more than others. And the only discretion you have, is deciding what you're going to do with your allocated portion of it.

Remember the last line of the song? "The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say". Say it, and do so wisely while you still have time.

Monday, December 24, 2012

The Pointless Politics of (Christmas) Partying

Oh wow. Are we glad we've given up on the mindless annual Christmas - thing. The months of worrying about where Christmas day celebrations will be this year and what to get so-and-so because tradition demands that we all scurry around like little lemmings with buying fever, maxing our credit in order to give out a bunch of doodads, most of which are unappreciated anyway. And if you visit the malls today, 24 December, you will find hordes of people pushing and bumping into each other, starting to look a little glazed and panicky because they are still trying to finish their Christmas shopping.

If you are one of the enlightened, you will by now know that the true meaning of Christmas has absolutely nothing to do with Christ (put Christ back into Christmas - yeah right. He was never there in the first place). And it also has nothing to do with a big fat dude called Santa Claus, who hails from Lapland and lives in a cave or somesuch. He also supposedly travels very fast - about 125000 homes per second in order to deliver all those goodies to every home in just one night. He must have permanent indigestion, eating 125000 mince pies and drinking a little over 93000 litres of beer per second. No wonder he's fat. He doesn't bother with the carrots and milk. Those go to the reindeer and down the plughole respectively. It's a time-management necessity.

It should be called Chris-myth.

But I digress.

So there we are, blinded by tradition, (un)happily mixing up a fat red and white Laplander with a skinny non-existent Palestinian who was (not) born in the middle of northern hemisphere winter or anytime else for that matter, and giving all our cash (and everybody else's cash on credit), to a bunch of mega conglomerates which control the retail market. And then we are paying our banks back at 15% the whole of next year, in what we are told is a "low inflation environment". Are we all out of our minds? I suggest we are. Most of us, at least.

So we stagger home triumphantly with our parcels which now have to be wrapped - a task that gets finished around 2am Christmas day. And while we are doing that we are multi-tasking the food in the oven which is determined to burn to a cinder everytime we take our eyes off it. Or (And) we are on the phone trying to iron out all the last minute little glitches, like the fact that Reg refuses to attend Xmas dinner because Mary will be there, or that Kate doesn't want anyone in her personal space trying to help, and doesn't really want to do too much herself either. Or that Sheila is whining (again) about the food I am making. If she doesn't like it, I urge her to stay at home and not grace us with her presence. What's that you say? It is her home - she's the hostess. Shit - why did I volunteer to prepare anything for the occasion? What about the fact that I'm totally out of freezer space? You can't get a greasy piglet into the fridge, and Jack Sprat and his noisy brat will be bringing 15 cases of beer and 300kg of meat for the braai. Shit - must still get charcoal and firelighters NOW - shops are closing in 15 minutes. HELP!

See what I mean?

And we have an ache in the pit of our stomach, from hoping that George will like the present we bought him this year (for a change), in contrast to last year's present which probably ended up in the unwanted returns queue last Dec 27th. And everyone wants bigger and more expensive. Last year I bought Keith a learjet. Now he wants a friggin' landing strip to put it down on, and didn't like it very much anyway. You see, he actually wanted a VTOL Harrier jumpjet so he could park it on his back lawn and not pay airport landing fees (he's a mean b@$tard, you see). So my humble CD that I'm giving him, is unwelcome and will be treated with active dislike and disdain. And don't get it into your head that "homemade" means anything significant to the majority of people. They just want stuff. And it better be good, expensive working stuff too. Don't give them any of your cost-saving cheap-assed home made shit. It doesn't mean a damn to them.

I forgot to mention. Everyone who is getting up everyone else's nose at this time of the year, are actually normally related to each other. They're family. Yep - you can choose your friends, but you're stuck with your family. Especially at Christmas time - the time we feel that for the sake of tradition, we just HAVE to be together.

G and I have a different view. We'd like to get together with our family whenever they want to get together with us - for no other reason that we like to be together. And if anyone in our family don't like to be with us at any other time of the year, why should they feel compelled to force a smile and do it specifically during a season which has no meaning? And when we see something we feel we'd like to give to someone in the family, we'll buy it and give it at that time. And they can too. Or not.

Christmas is indeed a special time for Children - may they continue to enjoy it, and be excited by all the fun and furore around the season of giving. And when they become adults, may they understand that because it is a season for the children, they should put away childish things and not continue to contribute to the blatant profiteering of commerce under the guise of romanticised fallacious tradition.

What are we doing tomorrow? Why, getting out of bed as normal. Around 11am I will have to get our bi-weekly irrigation water (it's the last water we'll get this season) and sometime around lunch, we'll probably fix a light salad and then watch a DVD, with some choccy for pudding, surrounded by our beloved furry and faithful companions. And sleep, like we usually do in the afternoon when we're on leave.

Are we jostling with neighbours or trying to keep a stiff upper lip in the family political party, hoping that everything we say will not be taken incorrectly, or gossiped about later? Bet your life we're not.

For us, Christmas time these days is as unstressed as most other days. And that's not going to change anytime soon.

Friday, December 21, 2012

Happy EOW

In accordance with the Ancient Mayans, (who weren't particularly successful in predicting their own demise), I would hereby like to wish you all


I'm not sure exactly at what time this will occur, and in retrospect I possibly shouldn't have paid today for a power supply to a computer which will (possibly) not be picked up tomorrow..... (!!)

However, I leave you to savour these thoughts from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, while you head for the closest bar (!)

" Ford", said Arthur, "would you please tell me what the hell is going on?"
"Drink up" said Ford "you've got three pints to get through"
"Three pints?" said Arthur, "at lunchtime?"
The man next to Ford grinned and nodded happily.
Ford ignored him. He said "time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so."
"Drink up"
"Why three pints all of a sudden?"
"Muscle relaxant - you'll need it"
Arthur stared into his beer
"Did I do anything wrong today," he said, "or has the world always been like this, and I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice?"
Ford gave up. It really wasn't worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end. He just said :
"Drink up"
He added perfectly factually:
"The world's about to end".
Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile. The rest of the pub frowned at him. 
"This must be Thursday" said Arthur to himself sinking low over his beer "I never could get the hang of Thursdays"

And with that, I leave you to go into the back garden, put my head between my legs and kiss my ass goodbye!! 

I sincerely hope the ancient Mayans are correct or the neighbours are going to wonder what the hell's going on....