Glob-a-log

Have you ever asked yourself what the meaning of news really is?

It’s like the meaning of life, isn’t it? Or the meaning of God, or love, or digestive biscuits. Maybe there isn’t any, I mean.

Anyway, whether there is any meaning to life, ABBA revival tours or news, I think we can all agree that there is a Hell of a lot of it. News, that is. (I try not to  notice or count ABBA revival tours.)

So, each and every day, there are millions of stories, big and small, that make it into the world’s many news outlets. From Washington Post to Huffington Post, from the Tel Aviv Telegraph to the Jihadist Journal, from the Inuit Examiner to the Papua Express, from… Well, you catch my drift.

Lots of stuff out there – and I’ve been writing a daily column about various news stories, for over two years now.

No, this is not a farewell post but I’m going on a holiday and I won’t have access to the Internet, for a week. Which will be a mother of a cold turkey, I’m sure. So, I won’t be able to follow the news or write about it – but I will leave you with some links to older, strange and sometimes wonderful news stories. I’ve built up quite an archive, over these two years…

Here’s the first instalment, called, ‘It’s all about sex’. Enjoy:

1) Scientists and handjobs

2) Subsiding sex museums

3) Pizza courier porn works

(Only their mother, et cetera, et cetera…)

I don’t know about you but me, I’ve heard quite enough about a certain dead DIY albino – up to and very much including the point that a BBC nitwit more or less compared the dead ‘King of Pop’ with the very much alive ‘King of Tennis’, Roger Federer.

Now, it tells you about all you need to know about our dearly deceased that he absolutely loved that stupid title – and anyone who knows even a little bit about Federer knows he would find this latest coronation acutely embarrassing.

What’s more, he may be too polite to mention it but I am not, so I am quite happy to state that such a claim, certainly in this particular context, is also in very bad taste.

Not quite as bad as a certain other BBC presenter who calls old gentlemen to inform them that he has fucked their granddaughters but bad enough anyway.

Enough about Michael Jackson though – and more than enough about BBC idiots.

There are, after all, more things in heaven and earth, Sue Barker, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. More things below earth too, as the following Telegraph article shows.

Again, I don’t know about you but some news stories just make me very happy – and this is one of them:

“As a thin drizzle fell on the World Worm Charming Championships on Saturday, Stan Allen strummed his guitar and felt the earth move at his feet. This was broadly the idea, although it wasn’t clear whether the worms emerging mob-handed around him were coming up to enjoy the entertainment or to escape from the noise. “They like rock best,” Stan 61, explained between riffs. “Easy listening doesn’t do it for them, and classical puts them to sleep.”

Worm charming is an ancient, noble and mysterious art, which, while intended primarily to bring worms out of the soil also manages to bring out the worst in its ultra-competitive practitioners. Tales abound of dirty tricks and dubious practices. One charmer was banned for life after concealing worms in his trouser legs to sprinkle on the ground – “we got suspicious when we saw him wearing bicycle clips,” says championship organiser Mike Forster. Others have sunk to chopping worms in half to double their totals.”

(Just say joey…?)

It’s not a state secret that the world’s governments are not exactly winning the War on Drugs. Spraying coca fields in Columbia, paying millions to corrupt dictators and ‘Just say no’ campaigns at home have not seen any serious reduction in the production, trafficking and consumption of drugs.

Banks may go broke, house prices may drop as fast as unemployment figures rise but the drugs cartels are not really in need of any government bail outs.

So, should we just give up and stop pretending that we ever had a chance of winning this grossly unequal fight?

Until today I would have suggested that that should indeed be the case. Better to tax the enemy than to continue this doomed and very costly war.

Thanks to an article in today’s Guardian, however, I’ve become a believer – a born again flag bearer for the War on Drugs, if you like.

The best part of the story is that fighting drugs can be fun. We won’t need to bribe militias and dictators anymore, won’t have to use dangerous chemicals to kill coca crops or pretend that’s it’s cooler to say no than to get high.

No, the only thing we need to finally win the War on Drugs is to breed more wallabies, teach them how to use a parachute and drop them above the world’s various poppy fields:

“Unlike their larger mainland cousins, the wallabies of Tasmania appear to be more trippy than Skippy. No lesser an authority than the island’s attorney general has discovered that hungry marsupials and thousands of acres of legal opium poppy fields do not mix.

“We have a problem with wallabies entering poppy fields, getting as high as a kite and going around in circles,” Lara Giddings told a budget hearing on Wednesday. “Then they crash. We see crop circles in the poppy industry from wallabies that are high.”"

(Give it up, love: You’re well past it…)

Today’s broadcast is sponsored by hair colour brand Clairol Perfect 10, which is running a new campaign, with the somewhat surprising and more than a bit dubious slogan, ‘Over the hill and far away.’

Anyway, as I’ve stated a few times before, I like scientists. Not just the humble white coats who merely slog on, in pursuit of a better type of throw-away pen, a more convincing-looking toupee or a cure for AIDS but also – and maybe especially – the kind of scientist that has his or her eyes firmly on tomorrow’s headlines, like a heat-seeking missile in, well, in heat, I suppose.

Of course, the downside of trying to make the news with such religious fervour is that, occasionally, it makes you look like an utter prat:

“Researchers discovered women feel most confident and happy with their love life and body shape shortly before they reach 30. It is also the period in their life when they enjoy the best sex – but the happiness is relatively shortlived. Because by the time they have turned 30 they start worrying about growing old and developing grey hair and wrinkles.”

Yes, that great time just before you hit thirty. When everything is going ever so well for you…

Just ask Janis Joplin…

(Long may he reign indeed…)

So, the king is dead – long live the king, and all of that.

I know the common and probably decent thing, these early moments, is to say how brilliant artist X was, how much he or she was loved and will be missed.

Well, I’m sure millions out there in the World of Blog have already done so – as I’m equally certain that a large number of folks have already shared their joyful and sadistic glee with those who care for that kind of necrophilia.

Me, I never was a fan of his music and I thought his life style disgusting. Like many people on this planet, when reading about this deeply troubled person, I felt a mix of pity and deep irritation.

Yes, he was talented but, like too many other artists, he also ended up being a waste of space and time.

Consider the following story:

“Veteran French cyclist Jeannie Longo, who is hoping to qualify for the Beijing Olympics this summer, won the Trophee des Grimpeurs (Climbers’ Trophy) for the fourth time on Sunday. Longo, who turns 50 years old in October, had already won the event which counts towards the French Cup of womens’ cycling, in 2001, 2004 and 2007. She covered the 62.6km course in 1:40.30 to finish more than three minutes ahead of leading rivals.”

Then look back at the last 25 years or so of Michael Jackson’s life…

He could have used his talents to make more music. He could have used his influence to help promote any number of good causes. He could have done so many worthwhile things or, alternatively, simply have retreated from the public stage and enjoyed his life – but, unfortunately, we already know what he did with his life.

Anyway, enough about this sorry subject.

Because reading about Jackson’s death also reminded me of another news story I had read a few days earlier – so, as an antidote to the reported sad end of a rather sad life, I will end this post with a quote from that older Guardian article:

“He might be almost 90 but Ray Bradbury’s quest to save US public libraries rolls on, with the author appearing last Saturday at an event in California to raise money for a library in trouble. The HP Wright library in Ventura is threatened with closure due to cuts in public funding, unless it raises $280,000 (£171,000) by next March. Bradbury’s event was the first in a year-long series of author appearances designed to help keep the 44-year-old library open. The $25 (£15) ticket offered patrons the chance to hear a talk from the author of Fahrenheit 451, as well as see a screening of The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit, a film based on one of his short stories.

Bradbury said that he had spoken at all of California’s 200-odd libraries. “I have a wheelchair, so they carry me to the car, and they throw me in the car, and throw me in the library, and they sell books and they keep all the money. I talk free, to make money for them so they can continue,” he told the New York Times. “”

Thank you, mister Bradbury, for reminding all of us, especially today, that it is also possible to live a long and creative and gloriously positive life.

(Just what we need: More boring Canterbury Tales…)

I admit that it’s almost petty and certainly silly to get upset about a few thousand pounds of tax payers’ money being wasted, while billions  are being spent to bail out failed and corrupt companies and banks – or the many millions effectively stolen from same tax payers to hand out as bonuses to those incompetent greedheads that got us into this mess in the first place.

Silly, yes, perhaps, but I still find it hard not to curse out loud when reading stupid shite like this:

“One of Britain’s most historic cities, Canterbury, has been told it is sufficiently gay – after a complaint sparked a two-month investigation costing thousands of pounds. A government watchdog decided that Canterbury in Kent does enough to promote homosexual culture, rejecting a complaint by local activists. As part of the investigation, the council had to prove its inclusiveness by giving details of “touring plays and musicals, for example, which would be of interest to the LGBT community”. And it had to show that it had “put forward suggestions for small events that it might help fund, as well as proposals for other events such as exhibitions”. “

I can’t remember who it was who said that the love that did not dare to speak its name these days did not know how to shut the fuck up already but I tend to agree with that assessment.

I’m not saying all is cool in the world, when it comes to the casual acceptance of the obvious fact that there are more ways to love your neighbour than within a traditional heterosexual marriage. That day will probably have to wait till a future Pope, chief Rabbi or Mullah will introduce his or her gay partner to a world that will treat this bit of news with the same, rather bored consideration that it bestows on the daily weather forecast.

So, yes, there’s still discrimination against gays. We know that. It’s part of human nature to discriminate against groups and individuals. We are a tribal lot and tribes tend to define themselves partly by what they are not – and by what they won’t tolerate. In effect, this means that there has always been a tendency to discriminate against people, on the basis of religion, skin colour, sexuality, class, age, income, diet, hair colour, length, weight and what have you…

… and if we wouldn’t have any of those markers left, we would discriminate against people on the basis of their eye colour.

Anyway, back to this latest Canterbury tale. So, I would suggest that these stupid activists get a life, or, at the very least, a less self-obsessed life style. There are far more serious issues to consider than the way city councils do or don’t do enough to promote ‘homosexual culture’ – whatever the fuck that is, precisely. It reeks of the kind of ghettoish nonsense we should all try to get away from but that’s a topic for another day.

No, when various schools throughout England have stopped teaching about the Holocaust, in order not to offend Muslims, where the law mostly turns a blind eye to forced marriages and where the rise in attacks on gay men remain underreported for those same, politically correct reasons, we have much bigger issues than a city council’s readiness to spread flyers for the next ‘Romeo and Julius’ production.

In fact, demanding these lengthy investigations, to find out whether a city council X or Y does enough to promote homosexual culture, is just the kind of hysterical crap that will annoy the majority of right-thinking and mostly tolerant people and energise all those who push various anti-gay agendas. As I said, there are far more serious issues that do need our attention and this kind of nonsense can only distract from those.

In other words, these idiots only manage to harm the LGBT community they say they represent.

(Yup, but you’re still not supposed to eat them…)

Now, here’s another weird one for you:

“Horse owners will have to sign a pledge not to eat their animals under new EU legislation, it has been reported. The rule, aimed at continental Europe, where two million horses are reportedly eaten every year, will still have to be signed in Britain.”

Nice, isn’t it, how the Brussels bureaucratic machine cares about horses?

Okay, maybe not quite:

“The Horse Identification Regulations, which will come into force at the beginning of next month, is partly to stop vets’ drugs from entering human diets. Anyone who refuses to sign up to the regulations could face prison or an unlimited fine.”

Enter the usual suspects, crying foul over this proposed bill.

No, not the odd ‘Brew up a buffet of horse’ whisperer, or the Guild of Black Beauty Butchers. It’s the British, of course:

“Kate Gillanders, of Kindross, Pertshire, told The Sun “We don’t see our horses as cattle. The thought of them being eaten is utterly repulsive. Brussels is poking its nose in where it should not be. The EU knows nothing about me and cares even less. This nonsense is somebody else’s obsession.”"

Quite.

Greater love has no woman for a horse than to protest against laws that protect them…

Anyway, I can’t say I’m in favour of this law myself – but then I’m not a vegetarian. Still, even if I were, what’s the sense of claiming it’s ‘utterly repulsive’ to eat a horse and perfectly okay to eat cows, pigs and chickens?

Now, I’m all for treating our food with due consideration. I don’t eat canned vegetables and I won’t buy meat that comes from animal concentration camps. That’s not because I think carrots or chickens necessarily got rights but I do think they deserve to be treated with some measure of respect.

However, I’m not sure it’s anything but the crassest form of sentimentality to judge some animals to be fit for consumption, while being repulsed by the idea of eating others…

… and that’s not even going into this whole horse riding industry, run by these horse lovers.

Now, me, if I had the choice of being a sheep, or a cow, who could live a peaceful life in a nice bit of meadow, before being eaten by whoever had kept me warm during those dreary English winters…

… or being a horse, who would have to jump over fences, carry stroppy kids around in ever more boring circles, be used as a sports utility in polo games and perform as a 1500 pounds sex toy for erotically confused teenage girls and not to be eaten at the end of such a foul existence…

… well, then I think I would rather star in a Cow & Chicken cartoon, even if it ended with a shot of some hungry bastard holding a fork and knife and slobber-stuttering, “That’s all, folks…!”

(Tear down the wall…?)

“Turn down that damn music: You’re killing me here!!!”

Lines that must be familiar to anyone who ever listened to music in his or her room, with parents screaming, praying and begging for quiet, on the outside.

A nice image, really. With kids playing the role of Joshua blowing his trumpet and the parents as the ancient city of Jericho.

In the eternal fight between the generations, walls are raised again and again – and, as often as not, they come tumbling down again like Wile E Coyote in an Isaac Newton panto.

Now though, scientists have discovered that music can be much more than a weapon of crass destruction in the generation war:

“Music may be used to treat heart attack and stroke victims after Italian scientists found it can affect blood pressure. Researchers found that music with faster tempos increased blood pressure and heart rate, whereas slower music reduced them. The same affect was also achieved by slowly changing the volume of the music. By combining slow and fast music it was possible to control the cardiovascular system and eventually help its rehabilitation.”

Which is all quite nice, of course but for one small detail.

Everyone who’s ever been put on hold and had some Mantovani vomited into his or her ear knows all about the link between apoplexy and certain types of noises.

So, though I wish these researchers and future operation theatre Djs all the best with this musical surgery, I can’t help but feel a bit miffed that I will be forced to carry yet another set of instructions with me.

Apart from that little card that says I am an organ donor who doesn’t want to be operated on when the brain no longer functions, I will now have to add a little list of bands that will probably carry me over the edge if played during surgery.

It would be quite a long list too.

Proudly headed, of course, by ABBA and finishing with ZOEgirl…

Today, I really don’t know – but still,

with much thanks to Times columnist Dominic Lawson, we say that

Censorship, to give its proper name – can make even the most innocent excision appear suggestive of infamy and depredation. For example, the nuns in charge of the Belgian Ursuline convent where my wife was educated used to “redact” both incoming and outgoing letters in an attempt to control the thoughts of their unfortunate pupils.

The girls responded by composing the following redacted version of lyrics from the then popular musical My Fair Lady: “I could have XXXXXXX ed all night! / I could have XXXXXXXed all night! / And still have begged for more. / I could have spread my XXXXXX / And done a thousand things I’ve never done before.”

Perfect, or else. Sort of…

(Missouri welcomes Nazi  drivers…?)

Now, this is quite funny.

Though it does show the perils of inviting the private sector to take over so much of what used to be the government’s job.

We already have fast food and soft drink titans sponsoring schools and using these places as juvenile feeding & training pens.

Get them young, as the Jesuits say, and hook them for (a short and very fat) life.

Funny though, if you think of it. When schools even mention the possibility of teaching kids about the perils of STDs or the problematic future teen mothers face, howls of protests ring from sea to shining sea but when Coca Cola and McDonald’s are allowed to push their poison on the young in a way most of our street dealers can only dream about, you don’t hear all that much about the corruption of our youth.

Anyway, I’m digressing. As I started with saying, the following news story is rather amusing:

“When a neo-Nazi group called the National Socialist Movement volunteered last year to clean a Missouri highway, and get official recognition for it in the form of an Adopt-a-Highway sign, state officials felt powerless to refuse. So they took a rather clever tack. Officials are renaming the stretch of highway near Springfield that the organization cleans after Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who fled Nazi Germany and became a prominent Jewish theologian and civil rights advocate in the United States.

The renaming, which would take effect this summer, was approved by the legislature as part of a large transportation bill. The governor has not yet signed the bill but supports the concept of renaming the road, an aide said. The measure is not popular, though, with some members of the National Socialist Movement, who clean a half-mile stretch four times a year.”

You don’t say.

Me, I’d have thought any group of Nazis would love to stomp their boots on the face of a Jewish road. Though I suppose it would require a bit more effort to vandalise concrete than it was to smash all those windows, back in 1938.

So, I don’t suppose we will soon see a follow-up of the Kristallnacht, in the form of a Concrete Night.