Food is bad for you.

Not to worry, the State (or rather, the Superstate run by a faceless band of people who have deluded themselves into believing that they know what they are doing) will save you.

Well, not save you, so much. More… tax you. That is all they really know how to do.

The food tax will result in a massive administrative problem requiring whole departments staffed with idiots who think they know best. It will probably cost so much that the tax will have to be extended to carrots, lentils and tofu. In a sensible world, this would mean the whole idea would be dropped as unworkable and filed in the darkest drawer of the ‘this is stupid’ filing cabinet.

We live in the EU which cannot, not even by the most talented spin doctor, be considered in any way ‘sensible’. To that mob, an idea that rakes in more money and results in employing more useless beurocrats to adminster, at great expense, a measure that makes no difference, is exactly what they are looking for.

I’m sure I read that there have already been calls for plain packs for those foods deemed ‘unhealthy’. Pictures of Bernard Manning in a thong (he’d have needed to use pliers to take it off) will adorn the ones aimed at men, while pictures of Bella Emberg spattered with vomit and diarrhoea will cover those aimed at women. They are both dead, and the establishment regards the dead as fair game these days.

For products aimed at children, Jamie Oliver’s face would do it. With a speech bubble saying ‘I recommend this’. In fact for anything aimed at anyone…

Food is now equated with booze (which has calories so counts as food) and tobacco (which does not, well, unless it’s tobacco wine or a tobacco salad). Which reminds me, I still have to get to Smoky-Drinky early enough to pass round that bottle of tobacco wine. They are mostly incoherent by the time I arrive these days, especially since I don’t finish until 9 pm. That small bottle will be my celebration of freedom from this job. It’s still here.

It will start with the so-called unhealthy foods, all of which are only unhealthy if you eat them all the time, and to excess at that. You can live on burgers and not get fat. If you feel your belt shrinking, reduce the number of burgers per day until it fits your waist again. It will not end with those foods. Once the wall that stops the taxing of essentials has been breached there is no turning back.

Is it possible to convince people that food is bad for them? Take a look at this first line from a Mail article -

Nature can appear cruel and heartless but unlike man animals eat out of necessity rather than greed.

Yes, we humans only eat through greed. It is not necessary. There are three choices of lunacy here – the article was written by a) a Breatharian, b) an escapee from a secure mental hospital or c) the Mail editor’s pet flying monkeys, sometimes abbreviated to ‘reporters’.

The commenters aren’t falling for it but you can be sure there are many drones out there who will.

I rarely eat at a burger bar. The stuff is awful. I prefer a decent burger. Still there are times when I get hungry in an airport or railway station and it’s all that’s available. It’s tolerable and I have eaten worse in the past. Also, I admit I do like those ultra-thin chips. I don’t care how they are made, they taste nice and they have never made me ill. Good enough.

Yet, even though I personally regard such places as a last resort, I would never advocate banning them. I just don’t use them. They are not frogmarching me inside, emptying my wallet (wouldn’t take long) and then force-feeding me. They are not doing that to anyone. Just like the places dedicated to bad-coffee connosieurs and tofu addicts, you go there or don’t go there. Your choice.

There is an obsession now with controlling everyone else. The drones are all at it. It’s hard to understand. I don’t want to be fat and am not fat. If someone else is happy with a waistline that puts them ahead of Pluto in planet status, that is not my concern. If another person wants to live with their after-death remains showiing through their pallid skin, that is also not my concern. I have enough to do living my life. Yours is your business.

It’s a simple outlook on life really, but it is too complex for any politician to understand.

I think that says more about politicians than they could ever say about themselves.



By the way, Mopman got the job he was after. Good thing I resigned or I’d be working all day, every day. His start date for his new job is pretty much the same as my end date for mine. Area Manager will be furious. I will try to keep a straight face but I’m not succeeding so far.

If I’m honest, I’m not trying all that hard.

The drone mind.

Just a ramble tonight, I’m tired and almost out of whisky (once you open a bottle, it evaporates very rapidly, I find. There’s not much of last night’s Black Bottle left at all).

Interesting conversation with Mopman today. He asked if the manager had given me a date for leaving.

I was momentarily baffled. I replied that I had given her a date for leaving. August 10th, just over two weeks from the date I gave notice.

It had not occurred to me that anyone would request permission to resign, or that anyone would think it necessary. The terms of the contract are that either side can terminate the contract by giving the other party two weeks’ notice. I have done this. There is no need to ask permission to leave – it’s a cleaning company, not the Army! I don’t have to buy myself out. My contract will terminate at 7pm on August 10th, the end of my final shift. There is nothing anyone in the company can do to prevent it. It amazed me that he thinks the people he works for have some kind of hold over him. Perhaps he believes she has his soul in a jar somewhere?

It further transpired that he is now being paid at supervisor rate and was concerned that I might be a bit pissed off about it. I am not. I have already resigned anyway and never wanted the supervisor job. What I already knew, and what he is now finding out, is that it is a pittance extra and comes with a mass of paperwork, much of it nonsense. There is important and serious documentation in there but it is under a pile of irrelevant rubbish that is of no real consequence other than to keep an administrator employed somewhere.

Anyway, Mopman has a job interview tomorrow. I hope he gets it. He’s a decent, if somewhat dim bloke and young enough to still have a chance at a career. There is nothing for him in the Secret Ninja Cleaners beyond the supervisor level. Next level is area manager and there will be an awful lot of people ahead of him in the queue for that one. He has been there three years, others in the area have been with the company for over a decade. I doubt he’d live long enough to be promoted above supervisor. I certainly wouldn’t.

Besides, having met a few of those the area manager has to deal with – Gadget Man, Frankenstein’s First Attempt, the Cousin the Addams Family Never Mention and Sitting Down Man, I really would not want to be their manager. Replacing them all would be impossible, the pay for new entrants has been reduced and is too low for the level of cleaning they want done. They are now paying peanuts so only monkeys are applying. The company is killing itself to save money. Mopman is an excellent cleaner. They are not paying him enough to stay and he, like me, is on the old, higher rate.

The job he is going for is as a shop storeman. Not much of an increase in hourly rate but he’d be in an environment where he could reasonably expect to progress up the ranks. Especially since most of the shops locally have a high turnover of staff. They gain experience then move to a better job in another shop. There are always openings at the bottom.

As for me, I have now experienced the retail environment so if I do ever feel the need to return, I won’t be starting from the bottom. I won’t need to come back as a janitor.

And I have seen enough to fuel five horror novels that won’t need a single ghost or demon. There are stories that would have everyone growing their own food and buying nothing at all from shops. Did I mention I planted carrots this year and am looking to grow potatoes next year?

But those tales are for the future. First I have to finish the three nearly-done ones. Then the not-quite-so-nearly-done ones.

Mopman has helped a little, even though he will probably never realise it. The idea that you are somehow owned by your employer even though they have no actual power over you at all had never crossed my mind. It will be woven into Panoptica somewhere. It already has been, in the sense that 10538 believes the State is his benevolent master, but I can now extend that to his immediate employer.

That will make his acceptance of what they do to him so much easier to explain.

Fantasy becomes reality.

A somewhat surreal post tonight, possibly brought on by the madness resulting from trying to stay in 10538’s head for hours and perhaps influenced by Black Bottle, who have finally renounced their green bottle shaped like a rather scary thing you might see on the BDSM circuit. The whisky is once more in black glass, in a bottle reproducing their original from 1879 – 1914 (the bottles were made in Germany so they became somewhat difficult to get hold of after 1914). I just hope they are not now getting the black glass from Russia. That would be a bit of a bugger.

It tastes the same but the experience is definitely improved by not having to pour it from a large green butt-plug.

Fortean Times’ latest issue is taken with the Slender Man, the entirely fabricated being that inspired two little American girls to try to kill another girl. There have been other instances of Slender Man’s malevolent influence but here’s the kicker – he does not exist at all. Not in anyone’s mythology. He is not even a hoax. The Slender Man first appeared in two pictures in an online Photoshop competition to see who could make a subtle yet really scary image. It was declared as Photoshop from the outset. There was never any intent to deceive anyone at all. The original images have been shown over and over again, with the photoshopper given credit.

And yet the drones believe it is real. We’ll come back to that.

An analysis of UFO sightings down the ages has linked them to aerotechnology and then to movies. Maybe there are real alien UFO’s, I don’t know (or much care, although if one is ever proven then I will suddenly become very interested indeed). Early sightings described things that looked like balloons and blimps, rare at the time so for most people they were, indeed, ‘unidentified’. Then the saucers followed the early space films, then there were black triangles seen everywhere at night just before those radar-dodging planes were suddenly in air force operation. Shaped like… black triangles. Of course they did the test flights at night. Of course the local airport didn’t see them on radar. That was the whole point of them.

Plans for saucer-shaped aircraft were drawn up by the Nazis in WWII and the Americans, at least, have tried to make one. There is an old film somewhere of a trial flight. It was horribly unstable and difficult to control. Maybe they have now succeeded. If someone saw a highly secret aircraft on a test flight, what would be the air force response?

a) “Oh yes, that was one of our highly secret test aircraft.”

b) “No such aircraft exists, you are eating too much sugar and hallucinating.”

I’ve missed out an awful lot but you get the idea. The abductions are all pretty similar too, apart from the first recorded one, Antonio Villas-Boas, who had a steamy romp with an alien. Everyone since then just seems to get probes shoved up their bums. Maybe it’s the aliens’ idea of revenge.

Or maybe they are being secretly screened for colon cancer by the NHS… you need two tinfoil hats for that one.

Note that I’m not looking anything up tonight. This is a babble from memory, such as it is. There might be errors and wild deviations from reality, it depends how far down the bottle I get. As it’s now black glass it’s actually quite hard to tell. The typo-count will be the giveaway that I’ve passed half way.

If you doubt the Nazis would try to make something mad that flies, check out the Dornier range of aircraft. That guy was definitely on the good stuff.

Crop circles are a load of shit. The plain circles can be formed by the weather. The artistic ones are formed by men with planks and string. Britain gets an awful lot of tornadoes, you know. I’ve seen a few here. The difference is that most of ours don’t touch down, and those that do rarely do it anywhere anyone will notice. We don’t get the Kansas twisters but once in a while, one rips through a city. The almost-touchdown ones will easily form a perfect circle in any crop without sending anyone to Oz.

Most ghosthunters of the past never saw anything at all in haunted houses. They didn’t have the digital cameras that pick up infrared and turn dust into ‘orbs’ and they never saw a manifestation. Those things happened at seances (often with the help of muslin and luminous paint) but belief in ghosts goes back to before humans learned to speak.

UFOs, ghosts, crop circles made by aliens, is any of it real? There has been so much fakery it’s almost impossible to tell. Maybe some of it is real but picking out the real from the fantasy is as much fun as looking for a strand of hay in a stack of needles. You try getting in amongst the believers and that is exactly how it feels when you start asking awkward questions. It’s like going to Mecca and saying ‘but it’s just a black rock, what’s the big deal?’

I do not recommend you try that. Not unless you are backed by air support and many, many tanks.

In Tibetan lore (I might not get this quite right, I am working with no notes) there is a thing called a tulpa. A thought form. You concentrate and meditate until you bring your imagined thing into reality. One person can make it real for themselves although nobody else sees it. I’ve never tried. If I did, and succeded, she probably wouldn’t fancy me anyway.

But what if you connect a huge part of humanity through the internet and they all believe the same thing? This blog and many others have demonstrated over and over that most of humanity will believe whatever they are told to believe. Controlling thought is depressingly easy. Whether a thought form can be brought into reality doesn’t matter all that much. Reality doesn’t matter all that much. What matters is what people believe.

All this satanism nonsense is of no real consequence until you realise that whether Satan is real or not does not matter. Satanists believe and they will slip a real knife between your real ribs because they believe Satan told them to. Whether Satan is real or not, you’re just as dead.

Likewise the mad Mullahs who will strap bombs to themselves and spread themselves liberally over the surrounding area because they believe that Allah will give them 72 virgins. It doesn’t say that they are female virgins. It doesn’t even say they are human virgins. Before you press the mince-button you guys, you might want to give that some thought.

Then there are the modern Satans. The paedophiles. A word which translates to ‘loves children’ but in a far too literal sense. What does not make sense is that any Satan would want his potential future followers to utterly despise his current ones. Child abuse is not a real part of satanism. When Aleister Crowley talked of ‘sacrificing a child’ he was talking about anal sex  The act of procreation defiled in that it is the act but cannot result in the product. He sacrificed the child before it was conceived. To put it crudely, he shot his potential offspring right into the sewer. Like a politician, except he only did it with his offspring, rather than yours.

Anna Raccoon has been debunking the new Beelzebub’s crimes for some time. Jimbo Saliva has been demoted from small-boy bugerrer to procurer of small boys for other buggers. There is no evidence he did it himself so he must have been a go-between for someone else. That ‘someone else’ must have been a Satanist because… well… because.

I always regarded Saliva as a creepy wierdo but the revelation that he sometimes availed himself of the young girls who threw themselves at him is not a surprise. There has been nothing to suggest he was into toddlers like so many of the really nasty ones. There has been plenty to suggest that he was not even present at so many of his alleged crimes. He has become, like Gary Glitter, a tulpa. A thought form brought into reality by the fears of parents, encouraged by the likes of the Daily Mail.

So we come back to the Slender Man. He was not real and never intended to be. Not even intended to be pretend real. Not a hoax. Yet he is having real effects on people even though he does not exist.

Okay, I can see all the ghost stories and UFO tales and so on being taken as real. Those people really, genuinely believed it happened and maybe it did. I have nothing to prove otherwise. I have to accept that they believe something happened and have to accept that they might have been right. Unless it’s orbs. Then they are talking out of their arses.

But Slender Man was not a mistake. Not a hoax. He was declared as a fabrication from the outset. He was a Photoshop entry in a competition. No mythos. No backstory. Purely made up.

Many people now believe he is real. He is not, he cannot be, he has been repeatedly proven not to be, but they steadfastly believe it anyway.

Do we create reality? There is a theory that says so.

As for me, I just think that people are unbelievably stupid and will believe anything at all if presented correctly.

So far, it’s worked every time.


The insanity has reached levels that simply could not have been predicted. The latest deadly thing we all have to avoid is mineral water. Because it has, um, minerals in it.

One of those minerals is the utterly deadly sodium chloride and mineral water can have as much as ELEVEN TIMES as much salt as… er… tap water.

Yes, it’s the loonies from CASH behind it all. They were astounded to find that there are more minerals in mineral water than in tap water. I was astounded to find that two of those mineral waters actually contained less salt than tap water! If I buy mineral water I damn well expect it to have minerals in it.

Today was a very hot day so I have been drinking some tap water. It was not a good day for whisky, it was a day for high volume fluid intake and doing that with whisky just makes things worse. And blurry.

Since I did not expect tap water to contain any salt and since sweating loses salt as well as water, I supplemented this water intake with some very nicely salted bacon sandwiches.

There is, apparently, some salt in tap water. About 0.04 grams per litre. No wonder I’ve never noticed. To get your RDA of 6 grams you’d have to drink 150 litres of tap water and that’s more than enough to kill you.

Eleven times 0.04 grams is what the howling idiots claim is a dangerous level – found in one brand of bottled water which had 0.45 grams of salt per litre. It is good to see the utter morons who still fall for this crap are well into the ‘worst rated comments’, and some sensible talk in the ‘best rated comments’.

There really is only one sensible response to all this now, and it’s started happening. People are starting to say ‘Oh, just get stuffed’ and realising that all these little Puritan groups have no real power at all. They are just noise.

I have yet to see a better response to the idiots than the one presented by BrewDog. More of this, please.

I also highly recommend BrewDog beers. Which reminds me, I haven’t had one of those for a while.

The Last Day Off.

Tomorrow is likely to be my last day off until the resignation kicks in so I am celebrating. Venison for supper, (rare, of course, and fried in butter, served with a nicely salted salad and a whisky jus) courtesy of this fine Scottish butcher. The whisky jus came with the steaks, I’m a good cook but not that good. The pack says it serves two but after a 7-hour cleaning shift on my own, I was very hungry.

Instead of the usual ‘cheapest drinkable one’ whisky selection, I saw a drink so dangerous it comes in a cage, and so strong it bent the bars -

monkeyI’ve tried this one before. It’s very nice, but this is the first time I’ve seen it in a cage. Who could resist? I have now set it free, pulled its head off and am drinking its blood. Which is what you are supposed to do with things in cages. What will I do with the cage afterwards, I wonder? It’s well made and cannot be simply thrown away. I might have to buy another bottle.

So, with no work to go to tomorrow but intense work to deal with in the run-up to my final day, tonight will be a late writing night. I’m working on Panoptica this evening. It will have two POV characters, mainly because the drone is so damn wearing to write, and likely to be extraordinarily tedious to read if he has the whole book to himself. There will be a non-drone carrying part of the story. Has to be, really, since the drone cannot possibly know much and never questions anything. From his POV, everything in Panoptica is perfect. Until…

As for work, Manager has decided to ‘hold on to’ my resignation letter until she returns from holiday and has another attempt at persuading me to stay. I thiught she might try this one. If I am determined to still quit then she can claim my two weeks’ notice starts from when we meet. Which is why I resigned by email – time and date stamped – and her response means she cannot pretend the email didn’t arrive.

Okay, writing time starts now and ends when my fingers can no longer see.

Sugar gives you cancer.

Update on the job front. Manager has accepted my resignation gracefully although at this stage she still thinks she can persuade me otherwise. Nope. However I have cunningly averted her rage by suggesting that I might resume working there on a new contract after resigning this one. That is a possibility. I could consider working Saturday and Sunday just to get me out of the house. Working alone for long periods can drive you nuts.

The weekend would be the hard part for her to cover since the (mostly) youngsters she is likely to get applying are not going to want to work weekends. I can have Smoky-Drinky on Wednesday, the weekend means nothing to me. However I am going to let the resignation take full effect. I want to see how the company handle my final pay before deciding whether to go back. I have not heard good things on that score.

We are now at the stage where Mopman works mornings to mid afternoon and then I work the rest to closedown. It is far too much for what they are paying. Food grade cleaning is not a trivial job and if the company want the best, they are not going to get them on the wages they offer. Especially not at this workload.

On Panoptica, I have settled on the main character being 10538, with a quote from ELO’s ‘10538 Overture’ as a starting credit. That song was one of the things that set the story in motion, a long time ago. Everyone has a number, not a name. Nobody needs a name when every interaction involves your ID number. That’s all the identification you need. It also reinforces the ‘prison’ aspect of Panoptica.

Watch for that becoming law soon. Every time I say something about Panoptica, the Mail has the story the next day.

Right. Digressions out of the way, here’s the meaning of the title.

Now that we are to give up carbohydrates, especially sugar, the Church of Science has unearthed new scriptures to support their latest fatwa.

And… it’s crap. At least, the report on what is actually likely to be real science is crap. The real science does not look like it’s all that good either.

One. They used mice. Mice are not human. They do not react well to human diets.

Two. They used mutant mice who are genetically predisposed to a hereditary form of colon cancer. If you are part of a family where this cancer is hereditary you will need to take more care of your pipework than someone who is not at such hereditary risk. The findings can only apply to those who have a family history of the botty-lumps and strictly speaking, only if you and your family are genetically mutated mice. I don’t think they have WiFi in those cages but you never know. Perhaps the mice do read this. Perhaps there’ll be a comment one day of ‘Eeek, eek eek’.

If you do have such a history, get the arse camera inserted at the first opportunity. Caught early, this one is easy to snip out. Caught late and you get your arse sewn shut and the unfashionable version of the bum-bag on your side forever – if you’re lucky.

Three. Butyrate causes gut cell proliferation. This is very, very old news. It does not necessarily cause cancer but if you are genetically predisposed, it can make the lumps grow faster. Normally it just causes rapid gut cell shedding and replacement. In an environment permanently coated with digestive enzymes, decayed food, shit and bacteria, this is actually a good thing. Especially since many pathogenic bacteria start out by sticking to the gut surface. If you are rapidly shedding and replacing the surface cells, bye-bye pathogen.

The whole ‘butyrate causes cancer’ bollocks was comprehensively shattered at least twenty years ago. Here it is again, back to see us like the one that won’t flush.

Now it is linked to carbohydrate. It can’t be directly linked to sugar at once because free sugars are not going to make it to the colon. Starch will, especially retrograde starch (heated and cooled, as in frozen oven chips) but mostly that’s a good thing too. Well, unless it’s too much, in which case the gas production could get you banned from elevators and enclosed spaces, in case you burst them.

You need that butyrate from your gut bacteria. It encourages your gut to shed and replace its surface cells, and shed attached pathogens and orther nasties from the surface at the same time. If you have a family history of colon cancer you’d need to be a bit more careful about it but if you don’t, get them chips in the oven now.

In Scotland they send you tests for botty-lumps on your 50th birthday (happy birthday, please shit on the card and send it back) and every two years after that. In England and Wales they don’t start the poo tax until you are 60 (we want 10%, squeeze it out and hand it over). For most of us this is fine. For those who have families with a history of the botty lumps, get to a doctor at the very first sign of a red-spattered pan and demand the arse camera. Do not wait for their crappy birthday card.

It might only be haemorrhoids. Unpleasant but not dangerous. If the lumps are in the family, do not assume.

But butyrate does not cause cancer. It might make it worse if you have the wrong genes but it does not cause it.

When they get around to ‘sugar causes bowel cancer’, as they will, remember that your gut is a very long pipe and it’s grabbing everything it possibly can absorb, all the way down. The sugars are gone long before they get to the colon. Any not absorbed have been used by bacteria (which are present along the entire gut, yes, even in your acidic stomach).

The last paragraph of the article, a direct quote from the research paper, is true. They foiund that a lot of carbohydrate makes bowel cancer worse in mice genetically predisposed to bowel cancer. That is all the experiment could conclude.

Now sit back and watch it spin.


The smoker war.

A light hearted interlude to begin…

If Mrs. Queen gets to the age of 100, do we all have to send her a telegram? I will, if everyone else will.

What about His Royal Hubbiness? He’s nearly there. Picture the scene on Phil’s 100th birthday -

Mrs. Queen: “Happy birthday Phil. Oh, you must have heard that a hundred times before,” (girlie Royal giggle).

His Royal Hubbiness: “Never mind all that, woman, where’s my bloody telegram? Every Tom, Dick and Harry gets one. Where’s mine? No, hand-writing it on a napkin does not count. Get down the post office. Now.”


And now the serious stuff.

War in Syria, in Ukraine, in Israel, in Iraq, anti-Semitism on the rise everywhere because the Lefties want to kill all the Jews in the name of peace, civil unrest reaching global levels… and what is the pressing concern of the UK government?

That someone should fire up half a gram of leaf in a car carrying children. Seriously. That is their primary concern.

Children are one of the most distracting things to have in a car if you’re driving. There is a strong case for building in a soundproof screen between the front and back seats or for buying a pickup truck and a large cage to fit in the back. Then they’ll get fresh air delivered at 70 mph and won’t have to worry about the adults smoking in the front. The young are fast-moving so will have no trouble dodging the odd thrown-out butt.

There are many other things that can take a driver’s attention from where it should be – the road ahead. Handsfree phones do not work. I have been in a car with someone chatting handsfree and while both hands were indeed free to control the car, their thoughts and concentration were on the conversation. It was scary. Then there are car radios which are not like the ones of my youth (bolted under the dashboard with two Meccano strips and with no more than six huge buttons and dials to deal with). Now they can even pop up TV screens and have a million atom-sized buttons labelled in writing only ants can see.

Just a few examples of the things that can distract a driver. Should we really be adding a £10,000 fine if anyone burns a bit of a leaf in their car to all the things that can distract them now? This is just like the pub smoking ban. Unpaid enforcers.

Soon smokers will not be allowed to drive at all. We’re apparently at a high risk of suicide so we might just drive our child-free car into a school bus to end our misery and give at least fifty children cancer at the same time.

I have never, ever, contemplated suicide. Murder, often. Suicide, never. I could rewrite Omega Man as Marlboro Man. The last man left alive finds someone else alive. “Do you smoke? No?” Bang.

Oh, but the best bit, the ultimate, is the ‘third hand smoke is everywhere’ scare. I would love to claim credit for the idea that all grey dust is tobacco ash which started accumulating in the late 1500s and never degrades. The Mail does not mention my part in that game.

Even if you don’t smoke and never have – gotcha. Your pets and children are tracking four hundred years’ worth of smoking into your home every day and so are you. Every time you open a door or a window, the poison of smokers past gets in there. This is better than Freddy  Kruger. It’s not a dream. We can terrify you long after you have killed us all. And you antismokers will do it to yourselves.

Naturally, this will develop to where no smoker can sell a house or car to one of the Weak in case it gives them cancer. No matter. I’ll buy a smoker house and/or car. There are still enough of us to have our own economy. Hell, we already have homegrown and Man with a Van and have had both for years. The Smoker Home and Smoker Car dealerships are just waiting to happen.

This will also mean that employers will come under pressure to not employ smokers. Well, there are employers who smoke and who will have the pick of the intelligent, non-suicidal, non-psychotic, non-pompous and non-lumpy staff. They will do well but the government will pretend that the businesses full of hysterical girlie-men are doing better. Probably by propping up the hypochondriac horde with the tax money taken from those who think it’s all such a brilliant idea.

As with all wars our government think they are well prepared to win, they will lose.

Because, basically, they have no idea what they are doing.


Let’s stay clear of the conspiracy theories, of which there are innumerable. Let’s ignore the theory that the earlier Malaysian flight was some kind of practice run, that the Americans or the EU did it to force Putin into a corner, ignore it all.

I don’t think Putin or Russia are to blame. The ‘Russian separatists’ in Crimea are a rag-tag band of rebels, most of whom are barely under any kind of control from their ‘generals’. If they get hold of a missile launcher they are going to want to fire a missile. It is quite possible that Putin has supplied them with some equipment but he has no more control over how they use it than we had over Saddam’s chemical weapons (that we sold him) or what those Syrian rebels do with the guns we send them.

I’t akin to the antismoker argument that tobacco companies sold something they knew was dangerous so are responsible when those who buy the product get sick. It’s the same as arguing that the car dealer is at fault when someone flattens Granny – and if they were drunk, it’s the drinks industry’s fault too. When you sell or give something to someone else you no longer have any say in what they do with it.

I gave away an air rifle a while back. If it is later used in an armed robbery, am I to be held responsible? I have sold toy trucks on eBay in the past. They are covered in easily detachable small parts so I made clear that they should not be given to small children. That is, I stated that I knew they were potentially dangerous. If some idiot gives one to a child and they choke on a wing mirror, whose fault is that?

If Putin has supplied those rebels with weaponry, he did so expecting the weapons to be used against their local enemy. He, I am quite certain, did not say ‘Yeah, shoot the Westerners and if any of those Malaysian jets fly over, get them too.’

The Mail had identified the type of missile used and the launcher it came from almost before the plane hit the ground. Nobody outside Crimea has had a good look at that wreckage as yet. The investigation is yet to happen but the Mail, and most of the English press, talks as if Putin himself aimed and fired it.

So now we have the Cameroid calling for sanctions against Russia. Where does this idiot think most of our gas supplies come from? Then he demands that France break a 1.2 billion deal with Russia over some helicopter ships they have built for Putin’s navy. Is France so cash-rich it can afford to scrap whole naval vessels, all the cost that went into building them, just to make a petty point?

It was not Russia who fired that missile. They just made it. If the Russians use those helicopter ships to shoot down an American plane, will that be France’s responsibility? It doesn’t work that way.

Today the Mail is claiming that only 200 bodies were recovered. ‘What happened to the other 98′ they howl, among claims that those showing signs of shrapnel were hidden away.

A plane crash is a very messy thing. A plane hit by a missile at 30,000 feet will come down in bits. Not all the bits will land in the same place. In fact, if the plane was hit by a modern anti-aircraft missile at that altitude it is impressive that they have already found two-thirds of the bodies aboard. Wreckage and bodies will be widely scattered and hunting for them in a war zone is not the easiest of tasks.

There is no point throwing blame at those who cannot have known about this tragedy until after it happened. Blame lies with a man or a few men. Not with a country. Someone brought this plane down but it wasn’t Putin.

Those responsible for firing the missile should be brought to trial and then shot. Calls of ‘But it’s a war’ only redefine the crime as a war crime, which makes the penalties available to the court that much higher. Should we demand Putin hands over the men responsible? How can he? He does not command those rebels and will have no idea who was pressing which button.

Someone does. Someone knows.

Someone has the power to avert a third world war.

But do they have the courage?


Damn those early mornings. The last one was Saturday and I’m still jet-lagged. Last night I conked out before the whisky was finshed! Gradually re-acclimatising.

Resignation letter is written. I will leave it at work tomorrow and send a copy by Email tomorrow night. I anticipate pleading followed by rage followed by telling everyone I’m no use anyway. That’s how it goes when someone resigns. She is going on holiday with her husband who also works for the company from this weekend. Note that there was never any question of that particular holiday being cancelled due to short-staffing. This will ruin her holiday. Watch me not care.

A realisation has dawned. If I am ever going to make a living as a writer I have to give myself no other choice. Writers are masters of procrastination. As long as the bills are paid we will diddle around with half-formed ideas and not concentrate on any one thing. It has to be Writer or Not Writer. There is no Writer-ish.

And so I return, gradually, to comfortable nocturnality. No need for sunscreen in my world. I have none in the house. I do have skin moisturiser since the incident with the chemicals just over a year ago, and I have Germolene which cures everything but that’s it. No sunscreen.

I would never trust myself to make a lotion out of strange concoctions found on the Internet and then rub it all over myself. It would end with scales, antennae and a tail, knowing my luck. Yet many people are now doing this.

There’s no need. As a child, if you could get hold of Factor 10 sunscreen you were at the cutting edge of sun protection and were pretty much using white emulsion paint. Now it goes up to Factor Holy Crap which I suppose must be like painting yourself invisible since no light can possibly reach you at all. Yet thousands of farm workers down the ages have never used any sunscreen, despite having jobs that keep them outside all day. During harvest time they’d be out in the sun from the time it rose to the time it set. They’d get every single ray. Is there a massive contribution from farm workers to the skin cancer figures?

No, it’s the silly buggers who spend 50 weeks of the year in an office or in front of the TV, then two weeks in a place hundreds of miles nearer to the sun than they’ve ever been before. They spend those two weeks lying about on beaches, trying to persuade their bodies to produce melanin in a matter of hours when it’s been out of the sun so long it’s forgotten what melanin is made of. That’s where the skin cancer figures come from.

Last time I was burned was quite recent. I went fishing for three hours on a very sunny day. A terrible idea. Since fish can’t close their eyes, they hide at the bottom when it’s really sunny. Also, warm water holds less oxygen than cold water so fish are avoiding too much activity when it’s hot. In hot and sunny conditions, fishing is a waste of time.

Also painful. It took just three hours to burn my face to the point where the cracks bled. This helps reinforce my conviction that nocturnality is natural. It also allowed me to explain at work that the horribleness of my face was because I failed to get back in my coffin before sunrise.

Even so, no sunscreen for me. I prefer to avoid the sun altogether. When I go out to smoke I do it in the shade because sunlight gives you cancer. Try telling the drones that one. The discordancy makes their eyes melt.

Well, knackerdness has caught up again. Later this time. I’m adapting to a real life again. This week Mopman is covering Gadget’s second week of holiday. He wasn’t supposed to be but he got railroaded into it as I was for the first week. No wonder he is also looking for another job – he now has two interviews lined up.

So I leave you tonight with a song (well, a sort of talking to music really) that amused me when it appeared many years ago. Maybe I still have the CD-single somewhere.



I like this YouTube version because it says it has English subtitles but doesn’t, and because the ‘about’ tag has a bit of history in it.