tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67458177783506244532024-03-19T20:48:45.971+13:00The Flaxen Saxon ChroniclesFlaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.comBlogger907125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-43572719668535619322024-02-28T17:03:00.000+13:002024-02-28T17:03:31.246+13:00HMS Plop Plop<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-E6Y34cJDhCXSQiWtucfUMvxckioHgzDOXgbKV0YyIR801T_9tBojY34fbr2ZjlspCBm2y4322ky6L49cFyC2WopPdsUcOCjEqdQ20ylEYxy75yc69BwbNwG8J_sOxqQY2kotlKf3PUfWIwfz_yGl7eOty2YMX9XQ4J63iw4f1L-1TxYChJ_I4IjlDR4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="345" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-E6Y34cJDhCXSQiWtucfUMvxckioHgzDOXgbKV0YyIR801T_9tBojY34fbr2ZjlspCBm2y4322ky6L49cFyC2WopPdsUcOCjEqdQ20ylEYxy75yc69BwbNwG8J_sOxqQY2kotlKf3PUfWIwfz_yGl7eOty2YMX9XQ4J63iw4f1L-1TxYChJ_I4IjlDR4=w535-h363" width="535" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">HMS Plop Plop Rules the Canal's Undercurrent</span></b></div> <p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">We truly live in wonderous times! Today marks the ceremonial launch of <b>H</b>is <b>M</b>ayoral <b>S</b></span><span style="font-size: x-large;">hip, Plop, Plop.</span></p><p>Today, on the Tipton to Dudley canal, incorporating Netherton North and Smethwick, the Mayor of Tipton, the Honorable Mr. Enoch Vowel, will be inaugurating and presiding over the launch of the formidable, newly commissioned warship <b>HMS Plop, Plop</b>. This mighty ship will propel Tipton into the premier league and thrust sea power beyond the borders of Tipton and associated environs. The imposing Plop Plop measuring 24 x 16 x 10 cubits will no doubt sail the West Mercian canal system as an impressive ambassador and showcase of Tipton's Imperial Power. A true Behemoth of impending doom. Apart from up-to-date technology (has a digital tele), Plop Plop, will be able to deliver a comprehensive and simultaneous broadside equivalent to 34-foot pounds, or 25 Newtons of raw unmitigated power! The enemies of Tipton will shake with tumultuous awe.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Behold the Leviathan of the West Midland canal system! Note well, the thrusting power that is rightly projected beyond Tipton's exalted borders. </span></b></p><p> Affixed to the prow is a figurehead- a proud effigy of Tipton's esteemed mascot and totem animal, '<b>Shagger the Ferret'</b> (go Shagger!).</p><p>For this most auspicious occasion, the Poet Laureate, IPhone Ten Mugumbo, penned a timeless masterpiece to be specifically enunciated with impeccable diction by the Hon. Vowel. Read and weep. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>O Plop Plop, you are beyond compare,</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>A vessel unmatched in dread and wonderment.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>May you navigate the wide canals of the land with veritable aplomb.</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Your mighty frame dominates the waterways like a mighty dominaty</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">(not a real word)</span> thing,</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>And brings forth glory unto majestic Tipton, akimbo!</b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: large;">Update:</span></b></p><p>Today, the Honourable Vowel was ably assisted by the local itinerant, 'Filthy Eric'. After prising Eric from his usual supine and decumbent/recumbent position at the local hostelry, <b>'The Feltching Ferret',</b> he was forcefully prodded (electrically assisted) unto the milling throng. Eric provided local colour and life to the proceedings due to his rubicund visage and writhing indigenous fauna. After muttering 'Arse' several times, Eric consecrated the proceedings by chucking a bottle of 'Brown Ale' at the port side of HMS Plop Plop, followed sequentially by a plate bedecked with a generous porcine portion of 'faggots and peas'. </p><p>Whereupon, after receiving such fare, HMS Plop Plop sank, unceremoniously, to the bottom of the cut without prejudice. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">And there it remains a sentinel bulwark to Tipton's divine glory.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>A submarine of static proclivities, forever watchful, guarding the approaches from foreign powers, should they decide to invade Tipton by canal. </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Later that day, Filthy Eric was found a bobbing, face down, in the canal. His position marks the spot of the last known sighting of the regal Plop Plop. Eric will forever<span style="font-size: large;">*</span> act as a beacon, flopping according to flow and microorganisms, at the very location of HMS Plop Plop. </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">*</span> Nota Bene: <span style="font-size: xx-small;">This represents a figure of speech. No doubt, Filthy Eric's body will, within a few days, experience gaseous bloat (hydrogen sulphide, putrescene & cadaverine</span></b><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">) due to decomposition ably assisted by enteric bacteria. Once the body experiences further decay, the noisome fetid odour/ordure will become a salient feature of the ongoing process. However, it must be noted that Eric's hygiene was none too fastidious during life, hence the appellation, 'Filthy'. Eventually, skin slippage will ensue, together with ligament decay, resulting in the dislocation of skeletal remains. These bony disarticulations will sink and lie atop Plop, Plop, or adjacent therein, dependent upon ebb and flow.</span></b></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-62707162351441390862024-02-20T15:34:00.000+13:002024-02-20T15:34:37.295+13:00God's Grand Plan?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9J8tiHalc6gDVvw96cVKN7LdKLTUQZhLXLTWJ0txv-PEb9nyNk5rPqpnGyRs19eW2jpNscVfvVcKGRiwOdl5RnW_FTBDkGQVzKQc_7LoXQ_6tIp3-pjpMUwT7ttuUuIogjIF0FMsmh8NqoQSW56XsbPhl5GnxbC-Nd6AqIMckevhVkBJHORjKqNtdn00" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="148" height="523" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9J8tiHalc6gDVvw96cVKN7LdKLTUQZhLXLTWJ0txv-PEb9nyNk5rPqpnGyRs19eW2jpNscVfvVcKGRiwOdl5RnW_FTBDkGQVzKQc_7LoXQ_6tIp3-pjpMUwT7ttuUuIogjIF0FMsmh8NqoQSW56XsbPhl5GnxbC-Nd6AqIMckevhVkBJHORjKqNtdn00=w331-h523" width="331" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Good luck with that, say I</span></b></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">As my mother was a Jehovah's Witness, I know their doctrine, dogma and practices reasonably well. Last week, a gaggle (what is the collective noun for JWs: ans, a 'cult') of JWs inevitably turned up at my door, unbidden, eager to save me from the horrors of impending, nay imminent Armageddon (oxymoron?). </span></b></p><p>I remember the incident as if it was last week. The lead Witness took heed that I was clad in my night robe/attire and asked if I was ill (twas 11.00am). I retorted: no, not at all, I'm just a lazy bugger. Anyway, they promulgated their usual spiel, and I countered with my usual rhetoric. After a bit of back and forth, they departed, no doubt content and smug in their encounter with a lost soul/sole- I had forgotten to wear my slippers. Thus, they went hither in search of the ill-educated and gullible in order to fill their quota to the brim. Of course, on the Christian religious spectra, JWs represent the extreme fundamentalist end. They take the bible as literal truth, at least their version, and believe in the historical existence of 'Adam and Eve' and 'Noah's Ark' etc. I can't wait to encounter members of the 'Governing body' all bedecked in shimmering armour, sword in hand, astride a shining white steed. The vision of these fat old men garbed accordingly, laying forth and smiting the unrighteous, will be a sight to behold. For those unfamiliar with JW lore, this is what is going to happen at Armageddon. And Armageddon is coming real soon...</p><p>A day after my JW encounter, I was sauntering, nay promenading, in my town's High St, quietly biding my own business and time, whereupon a leaflet was thrust into my great and manly hand by a rogue 'Street Preacher'- the manic variety, no doubt. Normally, I'm required to bite my tongue in such a circumstance and render a polite and mute nod (is there any other variety?). But Mrs. S was engaged elsewhere, and thus, I was free to air my unpopular views, akimbo, and without fetter/filter. I likened the experience to a caged bird forever trapped, but on this occasion, the owner had left the door to the cage ajar....... Thus, I was free to unfurl my intellectual feathers and left to vent as was my wont (arse). The earnest young fella distributing the religious tract accosted and impinged upon my very soul (I don't have one) and demanded that I first answer an aggressively proffered question. I confess I'm a sucker for such an approach and therefore asked him to relay his profundity without delay. And so, to the question at hand: <i>"What will I say to God when I die and am brought forth unto him?"</i>. I quipped: <i>"Why was he/she/them/it so fond of beetles</i>?". Obviously, my interlocutor was not a close reader of Darwin's work. After I explained the source of my answer, he flashed a smile and stated that his particular brand of Christianity was in full accord with the mechanism of Evolution. Evolution was God's methodology, nay gift for species formation. It was my turn to ask a question.<i> "Why did your Lord God come up with a method so wasteful and cruel?</i> <i>Surely, an omnipotent all-loving deity could have fashioned a mechanism that wasn't reliant on such wanton misery"</i>. Unfortunately, this question remained unanswered. </p><p>Do not be fooled by my flippant tone or demeanour, for there is an important point to be made here. </p><p>Sadly, evolution by natural selection is inherently cruel and profligate. In nature, for every successful organism that survives to reproductive age, there is a host of brethren that lie trodden beneath. You don't have to be a biologist to note that life in the wild, for all species, is a rather precarious business. Disease, predation, competition for resources and the vagaries of climate all take their toll. As for evolutionary success, the only metric that matters relates to how many offspring you beget and their relative 'fitness' to survive in a given environment. Organisms are mere receptacles for the genes they carry. And what matters is how successful those receptacles are at ensuring their contained genes become passed to other like receptacles. How prosaically stated, Flaxen. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">God's mysterious hand in nature, as it unfolds, brings forth an unremitting, relentless horror show of rend and death. Couldn't God, in his majesty, who is able to control everything with a mere wave of his staff (poetic license), put forth a mechanism less sanguine than 'Natural Selection'. Perhaps he designated the task to one of his lesser co-deities. Christians are quick to place blame for the palpable evil in our world on the fallen Evil One. He is known by many names. But today, I will call him El Diabolo. However, before we apportion blame to the Devil, let us not forget that he is God's creature and ultimately under His control. So therefore, the final responsibility for evil, as evident in 'Natural Selection', must rest with God. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span>I must write a piece about the much-maligned entity, sometimes called Satan. </span></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-24018258617650025142024-02-07T09:10:00.001+13:002024-02-07T09:10:56.691+13:00O No, it's Whitiwhangi Day, Again!<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXwuzT_K-_Wk5XsY0ssyLq25YYg1DAOGv-XIsBcGCWYl1dobzlg_ctNTN2DFrm5o9yCx4dhdK4OzD1UoWbU3p_r9N3e9mP_X8pYelDggByThzTCscHQSAvIPcy8gUgToY9eoAA8PQfWmXNmTOwHBhUjRgU3Wbrl27PbsubuW5pSJGBn3ViJkcCNosbR-c" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="270" height="487" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXwuzT_K-_Wk5XsY0ssyLq25YYg1DAOGv-XIsBcGCWYl1dobzlg_ctNTN2DFrm5o9yCx4dhdK4OzD1UoWbU3p_r9N3e9mP_X8pYelDggByThzTCscHQSAvIPcy8gUgToY9eoAA8PQfWmXNmTOwHBhUjRgU3Wbrl27PbsubuW5pSJGBn3ViJkcCNosbR-c=w365-h487" width="365" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Put it away- it's Rude</b></div><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday was Waitangi Day in New Zealand. A day of supposed celebration marking the signing of a historic treaty between the Māori and the British. Every year, Māori representatives plus government officials, including our Prime Minster, gather at a small town 'up north' to commemorate this momentous event of concord between the two nations. Predictably, the event has become a focus for the expression of discontent for a variety of Māori pressure groups. No matter how these 'protests' are packaged, the aim is always the same, regardless of the merit of the scheme/scam promulgated: screw more money or concessions from the government. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, several years ago, I decided to write a rather scurrilous and irreverent post about the whole affair. I have reprised this post previously, but I've decided to parade out my nonsense to those who may not have been around to appreciate my previous scribblings on the topic. So here we go again. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">Although written as a jocular interlude, the original piece does make some salient and serious points. For those who would like to catch my opinion on 'Māori Affairs', you can read it </span>here: Waitangi<a href="http://flaxensaxon.blogspot.co.nz/2015/02/waitangi-day-reprise.html" style="text-align: left;"> Day reprise.</a><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></span></b></p><div class="MsoNormal">Happy Whitiwhangi day! For you, dozy benighted Pomms, Whitiwhangi Day (6<sup>th</sup> February) is New Zealand’s National Day. It celebrates the signing of a solemn treaty between the ‘British Colonial Governor of Her Majesty’s Government’ and the Māori in 1840. As a slight digression, I would like to introduce the less educated amongst you to the noble Māori race. Ethnologists are of the opinion that the first Māori arrived in New Zealand as Asylum Seekers sometime in the Middle Ages. They found a bountiful land colonised by a peaceful and equally noble race called the Morori. Mutual respect was only marred by the fact that the Māori had an irrepressible appetite for human flesh. As it was against their culture and religious custom to eat their own, they decided to eat the indigenous people. In very short order, they had porked their way through this fair people and moved on to eat all the large birds, mammals and frogs. Today, the only indigenous creature left in New Zealand is a highly camouflaged, fast moving and slightly tasteless marsupial, known in the Māori language as ‘DonttastlikeKFC,ehbro.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">To return to our Solemn National Day. It is reputed that the Governor of 1840, Sir Effingham-Peffingham, was suffering from syphilitic ague prior to and up to the signing of the treaty. Some say he deviated from the standard British Colonial Policy of the time. Usually, British Army drill was to send the local chocos off to an early grave and at double time, too. Of course, when faced with the local duskies waving fruit and sharpened sticks, the best response was always to ‘fire a volley’ and finish off the wounded and less fleet of foot with the bayonet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Unfortunately for the Empire, Sir E was suffering from delirium tremens on the day of the signing. For his entertainment, the local Māori Warriors performed their formidable war dance, ‘The Haka.’ The stout warriors, all painted and covered in feathers, reminded the Governor, in his delirium, of the Nelson Rep chorus line. After all, the Governor was notoriously short-sighted and thick.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The treaty was duly signed by the Governor and the Tribal Leaders. Luckily the Māori could not read or write English. The clause they failed to notice (stupid Māori) was the bit about allowing White Folk, known in Māori as Pakeha, to shoot any Māori on sight on Whitiwhangi day, as long as it was before noon. Good man, that Governor.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">As usual, I celebrated ‘Whitiwhangi Eve’ with four bottles of medicinal red wine (as is the custom) and awoke the next morning feeling like a Frenchman’s crotch. After retching up over the dog, I noticed that it was 11.50am. I panicked somewhat as I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to legally shoot someone. So, without further ado and without getting dressed, I reached for my father’s trusty 303 Lee Enfield rifle. The same weapon he had used to shoot unarmed German prisoners at the battle of <st1:place w:st="on">El Alamein</st1:place>. Shortly after this incident, my father’s contribution to the war effort was permanently curtailed due to wounds inflicted during a brisk encounter with the renowned and much-feared <b>SS</b> <b>S</b>eam<b>S</b>tress division. These Valkyries could sow <b>SS</b> runic insignia, in silver thread, on your epaulette in under 20 minutes and double stitch at that; fucking amazing! During the battle, my father received a puncture wound to the arse from a rusty bodkin. The infection rapidly spread to his cock, and as a consequence, he spent 6 months in a Venereal Disease hospital in Blighty. The word around the campfire at the time was that my father had caught the infection after an intoxicated and ill-judged liaison with a wild, desert she-goat. Absolute nonsense. It is well known that you can catch this sort of thing from toilet seats and dirty sewing baskets.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">With shaking hands, I slammed a fresh magazine into the Lee Enfield and rushed out onto the porch. Luckily for me, I saw a Māori in the adjacent field, not 100 paces away. I raised the musket to my shoulder, took careful aim and slowly squeezed the trigger. I was exhilarated to see my quarry spiral to the ground. I rushed inside for my trusty scalping knife and bounded over to the fallen Māori to gather my well-deserved trophy. Imagine my disgust when I realised that I hadn’t shot a Māori after all but had bagged my Dutch neighbour, Mr. Neils Van der Pump. In mitigation, I have to say that his Indonesian wife had been standing close by, and she does look a little bit Māori. I did consider shooting her as well and could hardly miss from two paces. But I suppose I’m a sentimental old fool, and it didn’t seem quite right to shoot her under the circumstances, as her husband had suddenly taken quite poorly. I did offer to apply a tourniquet to the wound on his neck, but neither of them seemed too keen on the idea. So, I left her to administer first aid and retreated back to my bed to sleep off the previous night’s excess. I had hardly fallen asleep when I was rudely awakened by the local plod. Thereafter all is a blur. I remained in custody for several months prior to trial. Poor Mrs. Saxon had to work 20 hours daily to keep the farm afloat. She did contact my flaxen-haired cunt of a son to ask for help. But he was too busy finding ‘spiritual enlightenment’ in a commune in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Perth</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Western Australia</st1:state></st1:place>. Spiritual enlightenment, my arse! From what I can see, he spends his days banging small-breasted Asian ladies, sometimes two at a time (nice work if you can get it) and judging from the photos, some of the ‘ladies’ aren’t real women at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I finally had my day in court. I must admit I raised a spirited defense. However, things looked bleak after the prosecution’s final summing up: <i>“Your Honour, I submit that Mr. Saxon is a demented, chronic alcoholic with a tenuous grasp on reality. It is recorded, your Honour, that after a particularly heavy and prolonged drinking bout, he thought he had turned into a canister of ‘Shake N Vac’ (Alpine Dew) and was found by his wife rolling naked on the carpet shouting: ‘I am fragrant, suck me off with the vacuum. I rest my case, your Honour.” </i>But bugger me if I didn’t have a stroke of luck. Poor Mr. Van der Pump had lost the power of speech after my ill-fated shot had destroyed his larynx. This same lucky bullet had also divided nerves in his spinal cord, and consequently, he was paralysed from the nose down. The upshot, of course, was that he was unable to provide a verbal or written deposition; in other words, he was a piss-poor witness. The case against me rested on the sole testament of his Indonesian wife. This poor cow couldn’t speak a word of English, and her Court-appointed interpreter had just been deported as an illegal alien. The outcome was not in question, and I was promptly and deservedly found innocent of all charges and freed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: medium;"><b>I confess that after this encounter with the law, I am truly a wiser but not a sober man. Although, I have to say I can’t wait for Mr. Van der Pump’s children to grow up so I can shoot them on Whitiwhangi Day, before noon. After all, they do look a little like Māori…….. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br />Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-38442767793122192802024-02-06T11:34:00.005+13:002024-02-07T10:44:14.027+13:00Rantus Maximus<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTBseir1nb05HTvg7KSIOZQ96AH6UeTWC8-c5qAyrc0LCbm2hNx_mbDCcIxeefVFBtQeckgkSYJ7dMrWKMHXf9pvUiqtQDqhnm5vDZh6mKcQn8BuCS1byWlUF1c6TyV1fx7DRnF-R4UDAzq4bmT2weLYD6Vkbwm7OVVLOfDkf3vF-7YSgxzze7FZVJX_U" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="243" data-original-width="365" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTBseir1nb05HTvg7KSIOZQ96AH6UeTWC8-c5qAyrc0LCbm2hNx_mbDCcIxeefVFBtQeckgkSYJ7dMrWKMHXf9pvUiqtQDqhnm5vDZh6mKcQn8BuCS1byWlUF1c6TyV1fx7DRnF-R4UDAzq4bmT2weLYD6Vkbwm7OVVLOfDkf3vF-7YSgxzze7FZVJX_U=w486-h323" width="486" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Not on My Doorstep: No Room in the Inn</span></b> </div></b><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">I've been watching videos showing the unrelenting horror unfolding at the Mexican-US border. I watch as SUVs drop off dozens of migrants at the border fence. Clearly, this section of the fence is unguarded by US officials, allowing the illegals to pass through an obviously prepared hole. </span></b></p><p>Hordes flood over the border every month. Eighty % are young men. The majority of those entering are not oppressed by some evil regime; they are economic migrants seeking a better life. Many find passage to so-called 'Sanctuary Cities' such as New York. They turn up by bus, truck or train. And here they cry sanctuary. New York is obligated, by law, to provide succour to all who arrive. And they arrive in their thousands. But New York is facing a problem. They have run out of space and resources. The hotels/hostels/shelters are full. New York has been forced to operate a 'revolving door' policy. Single men are expelled after one month and families after two. Then they must stand in line with a multitude of others to reapply. These folks are pushed out into the bitter cold that is the New York winter. This is not what they expected. Where is the milk and honey? And weren't the streets supposed to be paved in gold? In an attempt to stem the flow, the mayor has decreed that buses carrying migrants will not be allowed to enter the city. However, this initiative has proved fruitless as migrants simply swap their bus passes for train tickets. </p><p>The video focuses on a young woman from Venezuela. She is 19 and heavily pregnant. She wails about the arduous journey that has nearly caused her to have a miscarriage. Are we to feel sympathy? We have to ask, where is the wisdom? She has willingly and knowingly exposed her unborn child to the rigours of a long, perilous journey. Personally, I have no compassion for her plight.</p><p>The mayor has implored NY citizens to open their own homes to these hapless migrants. Strangely enough, the good mayor has not offered up accommodation in his own palatial residence,<b> 'Gracie Mansion'</b>, which comes as a perk of the job. Apparently, he also owns a further two apartments thereabouts. If anyone has the space for these folk, surely it is he. Most New Yorkers struggle to pay the rent on their modest apartments, but not the mayor. Gracie Mansion is an imposing and majestic home fit for a king or even a mayor. It comes blessed with five bedrooms and 'state' rooms akimbo. Surely, he could cram in at least twenty families, judging by the size of the place. Predictably, the mayor is not opening his doors to the tired and needy but expects his constituents to take in young, restless males who likely speak no English- sounds like a plan/scam.</p><p>It seems poor black neighbourhoods are taking the brunt of New York's utopian left-wing, liberal policies. Tempers are becoming frayed as poor citizens queue up for free meals provided by local charity organisations. They turn up to find the line choked with illegals and, sadly, deserving, tax-paying citizens at the back of the queue receive nowt. Even the liberal latte class are starting to chatter, murmur and organise as they find their schools inundated with kids who don't speak god's own language, English. They are also unhappy to find urine and faeces deposited on their normally pristine doorsteps. And, yea, 'Gypo folk' (Steady Flaxen!) are knocking on doors expecting largesse.</p><p>Of course, the problem is being mirrored across cities throughout the land. Inexplicably, it's a particularly imposing problem in Democrat-held burgs. I admit I'm not a great fan of the <b>'Orange One'.</b> He comes across as an egotistic, uninformed moron. That said, I do believe his border wall initiative was a sound solution. It would not come cheap, but how much local and federal dollars are being spent and will continue to be spent dealing with this ongoing crisis? In the end, the money comes from the tax base. New York City is not a cheap place to live. Rents are ridiculously high, and they continue to rise. Unless you belong to the financial elite, you are truly 'Donald Ducked' (Tipton rhyming slang). It is estimated that you need to earn in the region of $75,000 to $100,000 per year in order to live comfortably in this wondrous city. How ordinary folk earning a minimum wage of $15/hour, which equates to $31,200 per year, get by is beyond comprehension. This assumes that you are employed 40 hours a week, 52 weeks a year. However, a host of workers in this pay bracket are employed less than 40 hours. A smart move by employers to ensure that workers do not hit 35 hours a week as part-time workers are denied access to mandatory benefits. I'm not going to descend into this particularly slippery rabbit hole concerning minimum wage, etc. Perhaps another time when I've made an effort to educate myself on the myriad of issues involved (maybe not). At this stage, I'm going to plead ignorance. That said, you don't have to be a financial whizz to note that folks on low income are more likely to bugger off to pastures new, leaving those who won't or can't leave to bear the city's tax burden. And don't expect the super-rich to pay their fair share of tax obligation. There is a wealth (pun intended) of loopholes that ensure millionaires/billionaire do not endure their rightful liability- good luck to them, say I. Again, I do not have to be smart to note that the influx of illegals will have revenue issues for the city, and taxes will inevitably increase. Thus, the already financially beleaguered citizens will have to dig deep into their overextended pockets. You can only shear the sheep so much. Overdo it, and they start to bleed. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>This is not just a US issue. The West as a whole is undergoing the same infiltration due to waves of migrants crashing and concussing upon their respective shores. There seems no end to it. What we are seeing is the culmination of the West's liberal, progressive policies that began to be implemented following the end of the Second World War. These so-called progressive policies have been exploited and abused. As stated previously, the majority of migrants flocking to the West are young, unskilled men seeking a utopia that does not exist. We are seeing a degree of pushback, especially in Europe. The Danes and the Poles have lost patience. The Danes, in particular, are waking up to the fact that thousands of Muslims are unwilling to assimilate, thus storing up societal issues for a problematic future! </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Too late, I hear you shout, too fucking late. </b> </span> </p><p><br /></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-53155216750338376212024-01-31T21:40:00.000+13:002024-01-31T21:40:38.109+13:00Galaphobia (Definitely Not Galeophobia) <p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpMiuS6zDVLS3kfexMlyyimMLDqQtAPu9haq6I3u1386qK3Hs3k4gldlkqRKOmAsDrOFdUPUzKN_59F7JCOIacMZcUGtc9nXVqX4LYDCXS8bZ6K1hEdyy1snBJmSsfF7LeCW67-mo71WX8qB-rvwNuZagotKICdUVjKkgVPEH9qZFJ1X06tyIAATMqSYo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="300" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpMiuS6zDVLS3kfexMlyyimMLDqQtAPu9haq6I3u1386qK3Hs3k4gldlkqRKOmAsDrOFdUPUzKN_59F7JCOIacMZcUGtc9nXVqX4LYDCXS8bZ6K1hEdyy1snBJmSsfF7LeCW67-mo71WX8qB-rvwNuZagotKICdUVjKkgVPEH9qZFJ1X06tyIAATMqSYo=w444-h346" width="444" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Shit! Wrong Phobia </span></b></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Phobias are common. In the US alone, 13% of the population can be identified as exhibiting an irrational fear of specific objects or situations. The most common phobias include fear of heights (Acrophobia), fear of spiders (Arachnophobia), fear of enclosed spaces (Claustrophobia), and thus the list goes on. But today's post will not concern the mundane. </span></b></p><p>In a past post, I dealt with the irrational fear of clowns, also known as Coulrophobia. My personal fear is being enclosed within small spaces. This is fairly commonplace, and I will comment no further. Today, I'm going to focus on a less commonly known phobia of which I have personal experience.</p><p>I'll start off with a strange phobia that impacted my own life many years ago. Way back when I was but a callow/shallow youth about 19 years of age, I had a girlfriend who will remain nameless. She was a willowy brunette with flashing green eyes. Now I wouldn't describe her as beautiful. To be honest, in a certain light, she was decidedly homely, and yet she exuded a charm and charisma that I found irresistible (mayhap she was Cleopatra in a past incarnation). She was endowed with a wonderfully quirky personality and exhibited a single bizarre oddity. My girlfriend had an aversion to milk. Interestingly enough, this particular phobia has a name but is extremely rare and goes by the name of, Galaphobia. Her phobia only extended to the liquid manifestation of the product. By the gods, why couldn't I fall in love with a girl with an irrational aversion to spiders! Derivatives such as cheese and butter held no fears for her. However, the sight of milk, for instance, in a bowl would induce sheer terror, and she would run out of the kitchen shaking in fear. Of course, many folk thought the behaviour an affectation to be ascribed and due (unnecessary tautology) to the 'folly of youth'. But those who knew her intimately knew this not to be the case. The fear and terror were no doubt genuine and very real to her. As her boyfriend, I was interested in helping her cope with this condition and uncover the root cause. However, she could not attribute the fear to any particular incident in her early life. No medical help was sought as she was deeply ashamed of her affliction. As you can imagine, the condition was a difficult one to manage due to the universality of this opaque, nutrient-rich and life-giving elixir (steady Flax, you are starting to wax lyrical). For a time, we shared a single-roomed flat. A dingy affair (the flat was fine), but we made it our humble abode. Of course, milk was not an intrinsic element of our minuscule fridge, and during our time together, I drank my coffee black. Nonetheless, she had a particular fondness for cheese in all its guises and varieties. </p><p>Although young, we often discussed what the future held for us and whether our love would blossom into long-term commitment. To be frank, we were too young to be considering impending nuptials. During our conversations, it appeared my lover was contemplating the burden of having children in the distant future. At the time, she was 18. This struck me as problematic as, during the process, she would have to cope with the anatomical reality of mammary glands overflowing with natural milky goodness. Considering her extreme reaction to the substance, it seemed to me that having children might not be a great plan. Anyway, our love proved tenuous, and she left me for another. I often wonder what happened to her and whether she managed to overcome her fear and achieve the wondrous and exalted state of motherhood.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Of interest, do any of my diminishing readership have a rare and interesting phobia that they would like to share with the rest of the folk who still frequent this blog? </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p><br /></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-62151558433833905142024-01-26T23:39:00.000+13:002024-01-26T23:39:55.918+13:00Octavian and the Wise Corvidae <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6B-VRjihW612Xa9Dif3ziMbdF6Ke4xVo9OYqLzbTkOCNwSrjDWzXCV1mMdkamNm1OtDyx_9PhP-SQf9uwq0wOQEHE2ktp_B7aNCVoy8sRN-30mbGXFMIhN72FlAhJG48LvHXkIlI8jeIbMw2Ln7Cvp_9uG3uJR6fYg-FzJ7IRTdJeaKq5Wav15UUGZ8c" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="375" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6B-VRjihW612Xa9Dif3ziMbdF6Ke4xVo9OYqLzbTkOCNwSrjDWzXCV1mMdkamNm1OtDyx_9PhP-SQf9uwq0wOQEHE2ktp_B7aNCVoy8sRN-30mbGXFMIhN72FlAhJG48LvHXkIlI8jeIbMw2Ln7Cvp_9uG3uJR6fYg-FzJ7IRTdJeaKq5Wav15UUGZ8c=w599-h375" width="599" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> 'Quoth the Raven Nevermore'</span></b></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Continuing with the theme of ancient history I would like to relate an anecdote concerning Caesars' successor. Of course, I'm referring to the enigmatic Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, more commonly known to history as Augustus. After Caesar developed a bout of terminal exsanguination in the Senate, and after following a series of adventures, wars and trouble with Marcus Antonius and an exotic foreign bint, culminating in the battle of Actium (31 BC), Octavian took control of the free world. Context: Octavian, Caesar's great-nephew, was nominated as the late Dictator's heir in his will. After learning of his great uncle's demise, he swiftly returned from Apollonia (in present-day Albania) to Rome to exploit his good fortune. And the rest, of course, is history........</b></span></p><p>The following story is a mere interlude in this man's life and character. There is no doubt I will return, at a later date, to look, in more depth, into the life of this most fascinating and influential character. But today, I will relate a simple yarn. Take it as you will.</p><p>Not long after the battle of Actium, Octavian was being borne by litter through the cluttered streets of Rome when he was approached by a man holding a Raven. Now, Ravens belong to the Corvidae family and are noted for their exceeding intelligence. Anyway, this diligent and wise owner had trained the bird to recite: <i><b>"Hail Caesar, the victorious commander"</b></i>. Octavian was so taken and charmed by the avian utterance that he gave the owner a sum of 20,000 sesterces for the bird: a considerable sum. However, it seems that the owner of the garrulous bird had a partner, and apparently, he owned a Raven that, on cue, would utter:<b> <i>"Hail Anthony, the victorious commander"</i></b>. Unfortunately, for the second fellow, the bird trainer with the gelt refused to share his good fortune, whereupon the injured party let it be known that he owned a Raven whose utterance favoured Mark Anthony (no, not the singer). Octavian, instead of being angered by this deception, and instead of punishing the men, simply ordered the first man to share his good fortune with his erstwhile friend.</p><p>What does this story tell us concerning the emerging August? Could it show his remarkable restraint and generosity even after being fooled by clever rascals? Further, does it also illustrate Octavian's well-turned sense of humour?<span> Well, when the 'purse' of the Empire is also your own private money, his magnanimity appears less impressive- mere pocket change, after all, for a man who owns a third of the known world. As for his sense of humour, it is well-attested. From other ancient sources, the first Emperor was a man of ready wit and no doubt imbued with a sophisticated art for repartee and badinage. </span> </p><p>The story has some of the hallmarks of fiction. A story too good to be true, perhaps? The story, as related, is derived from the works of an early 5th AD-century Roman named Macrobius in a tome called 'Saturnalia'. The work is presented in seven volumes, and our story appears in the second volume in a section concerned with Augustus' bon mots. Unfortunately, I have been unable to track down Macrobius' sources for this fascinating tale. Certainly, the two great writers of antiquity and of this period, Suetonius (born circa 69 AD) and Plutarch (born circa 46 AD), do not appear as citations. Therefore, it is difficult for me to comment as to regard the veracity of the story. Possibly one of my diligent readers, well versed in ancient history, will be able to throw some light on this most perplexing conundrum. Until then, I shall comment no more. </p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-58254782933917365382024-01-16T22:31:00.000+13:002024-01-16T22:31:25.485+13:00Caesar and the Pirates (Jim Lad)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfGa7xhUp_2Nj9Ex_QOUdw31sAZSmZOyqaSPJ44y5coyPTmgdMcId_RxfIbQylzWmGqnu5FMOO8LGJgIhSmw6hv2aMkoRS7MDACSjHCvp1BMx4lddPtiWHJna8HCY4x0ICm365czPN8UOP3iHd7Qq_2vvIi6zZPlBdKCfwyfUXInQIGoYjkCmU75DkJdc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="269" height="499" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfGa7xhUp_2Nj9Ex_QOUdw31sAZSmZOyqaSPJ44y5coyPTmgdMcId_RxfIbQylzWmGqnu5FMOO8LGJgIhSmw6hv2aMkoRS7MDACSjHCvp1BMx4lddPtiWHJna8HCY4x0ICm365czPN8UOP3iHd7Qq_2vvIi6zZPlBdKCfwyfUXInQIGoYjkCmU75DkJdc=w345-h499" width="345" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">'In this Caesar, I See Many a Marius'</span></b></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b>O Julius Caesar:</b></span><b> how can anyone give justice to this man in mere words. Also, as you may know, he was not just a man but a god. Tis plainly and clearly attested in Suetonius, read and weep:</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">deification of Caesar</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> as recounted by Suetonius: </span></b></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><em style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><b>“He died in the fifty-sixth year of his age, and was numbered among the gods, not only by a formal decree, but also in the conviction of the common people. For at the first of the games, which his heir Augustus gave in honour of his apotheosis, a comet shone for seven successive days, rising about the eleventh hour, and was believed to be the soul of Caesar, who had been taken to heaven; and this is why a star is set upon the crown of his head in his statue.”</b></em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Seems legit, and a poor boy from Tipton will not argue otherwise. After all, every man (patricians, only need to apply) in ancient Greece and Rome could become divine as willed by the reigning senate. Unless you were Caligula. He did not bother to consult the </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">counsels, Incitatus excepted. I'm veering off track.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Today's offering concerns an incident in young Caesar's (Gaius Julius Caesar) life</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"> when he was captured by Cilician pirates. The Aegean and Mediterranean seas were rife with pirates unfettered during this time. Indeed, the problem was an aged one, and Homer alludes to their presence in the Iliad. Rome seemed reluctant to use its vast resources to check these freebooters, perhaps because the pirates provided a host of cheap slaves destined for the Roman market. By 67 BC, the problem of piracy however, had become a nuisance of epic proportions. Not only were the pirates attacking vessels on the high seas but they had grown so numerous, wealthy and bold that they had the temerity to besiege and occupy a number of coastal cities. Thus, the Senate decreed that the power of piracy should be broken once and for all. The man of the moment was Pompeius Magnus (Pompey the Great), and he was granted unprecedented powers to deal with the problem. With his large fleet, Pompey swept the pirates from the seas within three months. It is said that 10,000 pirates were slain and 20,000 captured. True to his name, he magnanimously spared these men and settled them amongst towns along the Asian coast.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Back to the story in hand</b></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">In 75 BC, Caesar decided to further his rhetorical education by travelling to Rhodes. During the Sea journey, his vessel was seized by pirates. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 15px;">At the time of Caesars' capture in 75 BC the pirate problem was rampant, as usual. Generally, the pirates seized the vessels' goods and enslaved all on board. However, Caesar, as a Patrician, proved to be an exception. In such cases, a hefty ransom would be demanded. Once the ransom was received, the wealthy captive would be released. The pirates initially asked for 20 talents, not an inconsiderable sum. On hearing this, Caesar laughed and haughtily stated that a man of his station was worth 50 talents. The pirates readily/greedily agreed. Members of Caesar's entourage set off to various places in Asia to raise the money. Caesar was left with a friend and two attendants who joined him in captivity in the pirate's lair. During his stay, Caesar acted as if he was in the ascendant. The pirates were asked to be quiet when Caesar wanted to rest. He would regale his captives with his own Elegiac and lambic poetry, and when their praise was scant, he would berate them and call them illiterate barbarians. Indeed, 'Pirate School' hardly taught such dainty fancies and was firmly concerned with such topics as epaulette cleaning and maintenance following all day parrot presence, how to screw on your wooden leg and how to vocalise, arrrrrrrr(se). </span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Caesars' demeanour was generally imperious (how appropriate) and overbearing. He would join in the piratical games and would jokingly threaten the pirates with crucifixion when released. After 38 days, the money was raised, and true to their piratical code of honour, Caesar and his companions were released. Caesar quickly raised a fleet, at Miletus and left for the pirate den. He captured most of them and all their spoils, including his ransom. He imprisoned the pirates at Pergamon and hurried off to see the governor of Asia, Marcus Junius, in order to seek permission to punish the pirates. However, crafty old Junius stated that he needed more time to review the case. Caesar was not a patient man, and after several rebuttals, he decided to act with celerity, a characteristic that would come to define him in his later years. He hurried back to Pergamon, and as promised, he ordered the pirates to be crucified. Apparently, Caesar had a sentimental streak as each pirate had his throat cut prior to crucifixion- thus, they were spared the prolonged agonies of the cross. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">The above is an interpretation of the episode as related by Plutarch in his work, 'Lives'.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">I'd like to finish off by saying a little about what the episode tells us about the man himself. Caesar is a difficult subject for many reasons, and I will quickly mention one of the problems here; there are others. Also, I will not be embarking on any form of deep character analysis, whatever that might mean. I will be writing about Caesar again- he is such a fascinating character; how can I resist. A character that changed the course of Western civilisation and, indeed, still influences our lives to this day.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Caesar wrote voluminously, and through quirks of history, we are privileged to possess many of his works. Apparently, Caesar chose to write a simple, lucid and compact style of Latin. His works are unadorned by literary pretense and affectation.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">A problem we have when addressing Plutarch's' narrative of the 'Piratical Episode' is that it is based on Caesar's own account. Few of us like to put forth our 'missteps' or mistakes, especially in writing. In the account of the episode, we view Caesar as the ideal conception, or at least to Roman sensibilities, of a man in the mold of the 'Perfect Roman Man', at least of a certain type. It is an idealisation that is impossible to fulfil in reality, but regardless, here is Caesar in all his perfect majesty: a man of wit, humour, full of aristocratic verve/reserve and disdain. Where can we find such a man today? The answer is that he does not exist and, in fact, never has. Nevertheless, there are certain speculative conclusions that can be suggested.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">There is no doubt that we are dealing with a highly intelligent and educated man of his time. I've already mentioned Caesar's ability for rapid decisions and action. His celebrated 'celerity' bordered on rashness, as evidenced in future events. By the way, he shared this trait with his hero, 'Alexander the Great'. A man he certainly identified with and emulated. In this instance, he went against the governor of Asia. Caesar, at this time, could not afford to accrue enemies. He already had enough in Rome. It shows a breathtaking degree of arrogance and an overweening confidence in his own ability. And finally, it hints at things to come and points to the insane degree of ambition that drove this remarkable and 'Great Man'. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Old Shakespeare had a way with words:</span></span></p><h3 style="background-color: white; border: 0px rgb(225, 225, 225); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans condensed", HelveticaNeue, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica-Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 22px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variant-position: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: 1.1em; margin: 1.5em 0px 8px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="text-align: center;">"Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world</div><div style="text-align: center;">Like a Colossus; and we petty men</div><div style="text-align: center;">Walk under his huge legs, and peep about</div><div style="text-align: center;">To find ourselves dishonourable graves."</div></h3><p><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"></span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px rgb(225, 225, 225); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans", HelveticaNeue, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica-Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-feature-settings: inherit; font-kerning: inherit; font-optical-sizing: inherit; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant-alternates: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: inherit; font-variant-numeric: inherit; font-variant-position: inherit; font-variation-settings: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0.85em 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><b>Cassius (Act 1, Scene 2)</b></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-90821681793746025222024-01-04T15:21:00.000+13:002024-01-04T15:21:14.849+13:00A Small Interlude<p style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Belated Happy New Year to all who enter </span></b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>here.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: large;">You know who you </b><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>are.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><b> </b><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXH2bu7APneH57X_hd1ili4tuVgMpXJrJmTKSaBT4deii8qOPI9ywLmV_Kv8XLlU2-63J8IbHmVEOQMrSDDQ1xhGnYEEO8iE9VSvipaL0kK5ep4rZ3HUhovDJy2_3gceKKZ6hd6-CPBLXzj9uav89OZBk22yYqApGXOXF1bv2GTBl9JJdmI0PmBc7L3IY/s275/Fantail.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="275" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXH2bu7APneH57X_hd1ili4tuVgMpXJrJmTKSaBT4deii8qOPI9ywLmV_Kv8XLlU2-63J8IbHmVEOQMrSDDQ1xhGnYEEO8iE9VSvipaL0kK5ep4rZ3HUhovDJy2_3gceKKZ6hd6-CPBLXzj9uav89OZBk22yYqApGXOXF1bv2GTBl9JJdmI0PmBc7L3IY/w441-h404/Fantail.jpeg" width="441" /></a></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My Hero</div><br /><br /></b></div></div><b><b><span style="font-size: large;">I started this post about three months ago, but for a reason that remains inexplicable, I left it hanging, orphaned in temporal limbo. Today, I became reacquainted with my past musings and, on a whim, decided to complete this post. </span></b></b></div><p></p><p>Today, I was out and about in town enjoying a su<span>nny New Zealand</span> spring day. Indeed, the temperature is predicted to hit 19 deg. The forthcoming summer is expected to be dry and hot. Generally, the winters in this part of New Zealand are wet, very wet. Thus, the land gets a good soaking that is conducive for the growing of stuff and especially for grape trees (don't ask). Martinborough, which resides in the Wairarapa district, is renowned, due to a fortuitous combination of factors, for the production of a range of fine wines. I'm starting to regress.</p><p>As said, I was out and about, but I was not alone; on this occasion, I was supported and abetted on this excursion by the lovely Mrs. Saxon. Normally I eschew the pleasure of shopping with 'da missus' for reasons that many married men will find only too familiar. Mrs. Saxon's style of shopping is distinctive and eminently frustrating; thus, she picks stuff up and regards it with a penetrating beam of diligence before putting it down. And so, the cycle repeats interminably. A shopping 'outing', which would normally last an hour, for normal folk, lasts all day. Please feel my pain. However, on this particular day, I had a get-out clause. Later in the day, I was scheduled to take my mother for a medical appointment at the nearby hospital. Thus, my time of intensive shopping was severely restricted- mayhap there is a god after all, and he is male.</p><p>Being of a magnanimous nature and feeling benevolent at the prospect of a severely curtailed shopping extravaganza, I decided that I would take my wife for cake and coffee. As I approached the establishment of 'Comestible Heaven/Haven', I espied a severe injunction upon said establishment's wall, inscribed in thick felt tip pen. It stated boldly: <b>'DO NOT FEED THE FEATHERED BRETHREN'. </b> And whilst I pondered the unusual prose, a small fantail alighted upon my broad, manly shoulders; thereafter, the cheeky critter (for it is none other) flitted and sat defiantly just within the café environs. The fantail regarded the Flaxen-haired one with baleful yellow eyes and cocked his/her head to the side before delivering a goodly shit. On expending his/her/them wad, the bird got to the business of garnering lost crumbs and crusts. It wasn't long before the staff noticed the freeloader and began the tiring and fruitless task of removing da bird. To be honest, from my perspective, they were on the losing side. Every attempt to shoo the bird from the establishment was met with utter disdain from our feathered friend as it hopped from floor to rafter and back again. The usurper was not inconvenienced at all and continued to feed throughout. Of course, the gaping open door the staff hoped the bird would bugger off through merely acted as a 'Beacon/ Bacon of Hope' (there was a piece of bacon on the floor). What a great example of animal adaptation, and I could not resist rewarding the cheeky interloper with a chunk of cake, much to the chagrin of the wait staff. </p><p><b>The Moral of the Story:</b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Leave unto the fantails what belongs to the fantails. And do not shop with Mrs. Saxon.</b></p><p> </p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-72621575615736703102023-12-29T10:02:00.000+13:002023-12-29T10:02:28.022+13:00Bloody Christmas<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6zsZeLrZwrrIb2pu1C_KFh5GH5lHzi_UhbJ8Lg8ZlffK-pG-IUYcil5tYhKPR0zYdje5A2bh3TTZ5A6KRq5AjpHvjcn-DT63drOGFZAH_GBfdM7vHkKuNijJfG11QLg9enckWH-Pqvjik_HllfvLcGZiz9mcQoW3iYBd-87SXPUjZKFlxt9e1p1mhmu0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="371" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6zsZeLrZwrrIb2pu1C_KFh5GH5lHzi_UhbJ8Lg8ZlffK-pG-IUYcil5tYhKPR0zYdje5A2bh3TTZ5A6KRq5AjpHvjcn-DT63drOGFZAH_GBfdM7vHkKuNijJfG11QLg9enckWH-Pqvjik_HllfvLcGZiz9mcQoW3iYBd-87SXPUjZKFlxt9e1p1mhmu0=w492-h311" width="492" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Christmas is finally over, to everyone's great relief and surprise. The celebration, which began in mid-October, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">finally petered out on the 27th of December. The consolation is hauntingly palpable. Could it be that in all this insane consumerism, we are tragically losing the true meaning of Christmas? Mayhap in all the jingle, tinsel and cheap aftershave</span>, we are missing the quintessence and true message of this ancient fest.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Are our livers and waistlines so swollen that we can no longer see the garish socks, worn with gaiety and wanton abandon? Socks so festooned with comic images of Santa that it befuddles our dazed senses and prevents sound judgment. I suspect, as a society, we have lost our way and no longer see 'Christmas'. It has become festooned with cheap flashing lights, gaudy rose-tinted images of sleighs, and cheap aftershave. We no longer connect with the true spirit of Christmas. Everything is viewed through beer-frothed goggles. Could it be that we need to recapture/recapitulate and reinvent the Christmas of yesteryear? Are we so jaded and lost, as a society, that we can no longer restore the sublime Christmases of our youth? However, I am hopeful and imbued with cheap liquor and aftershave. I see a future which is wondrous, meaningful and replete with all manner of things which connect and re-establish the </span>heartwarming, blood-curdling, bone-numbing Christmases we all<span style="font-family: inherit;"> once knew. This is not the fevered dream or fancy of a madman</span> but the musings of a man with a certificate that verifies and endorses his heart-felt<span style="font-family: inherit;"> sanity. This writ is wrote by a MD and psychiatrist of note and notoriety. His musings deserve serious deliberation and contemplation. If you are in the frame of mind to dispute, then be availed of just cause, or keep your silence, unbidden. I digress.</span></span></span></div><p></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-NZ"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, it is not inconceivable that I'm espousing complete and utter fanny batter and bollocks, as usual. Arse.<span style="font-size: x-small;">Arse</span>. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Arse</span>. <span style="font-size: large;">Arse</span>......</span></span></div>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-88086336614909199742023-12-28T11:12:00.000+13:002023-12-28T11:12:51.335+13:00Providence<p style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghtLlw5fYjfkh_00ZyvOOEIpPZK0hsNzxj5PdrZJApCVAxjd5p67wdnOXqKjMyy3l73o9qnc5--aSIRKB_YViHYmMlpXH0OH71R6C0LrfCW1SSv13zVRH0TR1o1Z_J9oPBXND5_VExNb8HO6L29maZ00kdqofuvNrgcWFZ11s-XBr2QpeG8LTBcqK6gHU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="349" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghtLlw5fYjfkh_00ZyvOOEIpPZK0hsNzxj5PdrZJApCVAxjd5p67wdnOXqKjMyy3l73o9qnc5--aSIRKB_YViHYmMlpXH0OH71R6C0LrfCW1SSv13zVRH0TR1o1Z_J9oPBXND5_VExNb8HO6L29maZ00kdqofuvNrgcWFZ11s-XBr2QpeG8LTBcqK6gHU=w511-h343" width="511" /></a></b></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b><b><span style="font-size: medium;">All Seeing Eye?</span></b></b></p><b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Most of this post was written whilst on holiday in the Philippines but completed and edited today, 26th December 2023. Therefore, please excuse the scattered anachronisms.</span></b></div></b><p></p><p>Is there such a thing, item, form (the Platonic idealisation), incorporeal or otherwise, as Providence? A man of a sensible, rational nature would gladly and clearly proffer the negative. And yet, gentle reader consider my plight and judge accordingly.</p><p>As I write, I'm ensconced in a garret in the centre of Manilla in the Philippines. The air conditioner raves hot, and yet I'm cool; no contradiction at all.</p><p>I'm a man of moderate short sight, in the right eye. My left eye is beyond prescription and stares with a befuddled and fixed disparity- thus is my visual/usual lot. It bothers me not at all, and my eye, whilst of no practical use, serves as a bejewelled blue ornament of exquisite beauty. Like a beautiful woman of no intellect, it looks divine but is bereft of any practical purpose. And so, I digress.</p><p>Yesterday, I awoke, as is my usual custom, at 8.00am. Normally, my orbs burst asunder and contemplate the world anew. However, on this occasion, both eyelids resisted their true nature and remained fixed, leaden and encrusted. After a little gentle persuasion with warm water, I managed to rend the lids asunder from their pus-laden habitus and thus became acquainted with the issue at hand. For reasons unknown and unforeseen, it appears that I had become the unfortunate recipient, nay victim, of a bilateral bacterial eye infection, mundanely renowned throughout the land as conjunctivitis. Nothing particularly remarkable about this ocular finding, you might say. Tis commonplace and even banal. But here comes the rub. I normally wear a contact lens in my right eye to correct for myopia. As previously mentioned, my left eye remains unsullied by optical intervention. Regardless, a man afflicted with this unfortunate bacterial condition should take wise counsel and not place a contact lens upon an infected eye. At this time, I did not own a pair of prescription glasses and relied on contact lenses as the sole means to correct my vision.</p><p>The day prior to my eye disease, I chanced upon an optician proffering/offering a very good deal concerning wearable eyewear (there is no other), and on a whim, I decided to purchase a pair of glasses. Not only were the glasses relatively cheap, but the whole process, from frame selection through to eye test and manufacture, was within 24 hours. On the day of my infection, I was scheduled to pick up my new eyewear. If I hadn't made the purchase, and due to my subsequent infection, for the next several weeks, I would not have been able to wear contact lenses. Consequently, I would have been doomed to roam the land reviewing the world through a myopic miasma. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Now Consider This</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>At the time of purchasing the glasses, I had no idea I would go on to develop an eye infection. The last time I purchased eyewear was over 35 years ago, and these glasses have long become dissimilated unto the cosmos due to the inevitable march/quest of increasing entropy. </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The convergence of the two events, from a statistical perspective, borders on the miraculous.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Could it be that there are other entities or phenomena at work here? Mayhap a guardian Angel sits upon my shoulder, guiding my every move and whim. Or perhaps I should lay off the gin.</span></b></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-10334954478413160512023-12-15T22:13:00.000+13:002023-12-15T22:13:14.243+13:00Commentaries Part I<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6A_mNFUR59jPUqW_9TQY7vnRLlw-l_cHlACxwNUwWtpyAwMzd8I7NuU8EnHjDvnrO-mJr8VdmElCMvW9yiS976qjkbLcr4EESYwYv_D3Lrw1opv1zMKKnkBwEXpe96JdqEpJSbFB4iqG5MIH4F3Ojtj36YA_LfEpGeUrC4UJPmWEIpwj9E96cdyAkqyM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="261" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6A_mNFUR59jPUqW_9TQY7vnRLlw-l_cHlACxwNUwWtpyAwMzd8I7NuU8EnHjDvnrO-mJr8VdmElCMvW9yiS976qjkbLcr4EESYwYv_D3Lrw1opv1zMKKnkBwEXpe96JdqEpJSbFB4iqG5MIH4F3Ojtj36YA_LfEpGeUrC4UJPmWEIpwj9E96cdyAkqyM=w397-h356" width="397" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> <b><span>All the Philippines is divided into many parts</span></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">We have just returned from a 3-week trip to the Philippines, so take this into consideration whilst reading the following. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>And so, this is the start of my commentaries concerning my sojourn in the Philippines. This trip was arranged by my son and his fiancé in celebration of their wedding. It has been decided by powers outside my scope that limited family and friends would come forth to take part in this most wonderful turn of events. Ultimately, my wife and I will spend a total of three weeks in this fascinating country with its many facets, contrasts and contradictions.</b></p><p>We arrived, from New Zealand, after a brief stopover in Australia, finally alighting at Ninoy Aquino Airport Manila on the 24th of November. The journey, as expected, was horrific, but bearable. Surprisingly, the exit from the terminal was swift and without overt bureaucratic and security intervention. The taxi ride from the airport to the hotel was unpleasant as the traffic was unceasingly grim and hectic. Eventually, we arrived at our modest accommodation, exhausted, but grateful for a hot shower and an early night.</p><p>Manila is a large city comprising 15 million 'souls'. We are based in the heart of the city, in a predictably wealthy central hub, aptly named<b> Bonifacio Global City (BGC)</b>. </p><p>First impressions: Manila, at least, has a thriving middle class, and the centre is dripping with wealth. But that should be of no surprise, and it appears no different from most modern cities that claim to be part of the civilised world. Our stay was but for two nights before being whisked off to the lavish wedding venue. During that time, we were able to savour the local cuisine, which to my palate, was uninspiring- but what do you expect from an uncultured 'boy' from the black country. </p><p>I confess I was particularly surprised by the extent and visibility of security- at least within BGC. Every shop within the many malls was staffed by security guards, a good proportion sporting holstered pistols. It was a most perplexing conundrum considering how safe the environment felt (oxymoron). Banks warranted special treatment with guards equipped with sawn-off shotguns. Intriguingly, I saw no visible evidence of the police force- maybe I should give them a phone- or maybe not. </p><p>More to come. </p><div><br /></div>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-72260598672049525662023-11-22T19:42:00.000+13:002023-11-22T19:42:24.036+13:00Flaxen's Spontaneous Doggerel Moment<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And so, I leave upon the morrow for the Philippines for a three-week sojourn. My son has decided in his wisdom to marry his longtime girlfriend at the tender age of 35. And has chosen this tropical land for his nuptials. I have been commanded to attend and will dutifully comply. My speech may not please the bride.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I will post, as is my wont, whilst away, unless internet access is shit. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> Whilst in my shed, today, I had the compelling urge to compose the following doggerel. May the gods forgive me.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">I met a woman whose arse was green, </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">She begged earnestly if I would plant a seed.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Her choice of pasture was barren, I decreed,</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">No doubt a better venue would suit her need.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">A better farrow lay close, indeed,</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">My choice of allotment, little did she heed,</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">And she shouted, <i>"plough my lot, fertility is not my need."</i></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Gazing upon the green and verdant bush,</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The choice of venue was undeniably lush.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">But only a fool would plough that tush,</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">And wisely, I declined the deed,</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">And went about my day, without disease.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Or leaves, beetles and perhaps aphids etc. </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-49220942025093962962023-11-12T22:47:00.000+13:002023-11-12T22:47:48.820+13:00Nip<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsnO0YWvhxy155HgIkm_gFp7xHwHb3PnnfGaeE17W3ds75IS8ZaR1CmcXtD0G2h_GMaCN-Kia8VgCQxrxicKpier4AQNnP7gswgMDSzI-psbgVZpkdymWi6wWvPzE_8OfnmTwDFM4oY_YbtPvyObreUojJBEaCMcDbM_4VQPhcJxnn-IyBjb3WimDMg44" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsnO0YWvhxy155HgIkm_gFp7xHwHb3PnnfGaeE17W3ds75IS8ZaR1CmcXtD0G2h_GMaCN-Kia8VgCQxrxicKpier4AQNnP7gswgMDSzI-psbgVZpkdymWi6wWvPzE_8OfnmTwDFM4oY_YbtPvyObreUojJBEaCMcDbM_4VQPhcJxnn-IyBjb3WimDMg44=w521-h391" width="521" /></a></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Dramatic Reconstruction of the Climatic Event Sans Reptile</span></b></div></b><p></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">Unnerving news from the quaintly unattractive town of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Tipton</st1:city></st1:place>. Today, it can be revealed that Tipton has been sequestering a dangerous enemy within its truculent appendage. An evil, malingering Japanese sniper has been nestling in the town's capacious bosom and suckling at its expansive teat. It is conjectured that Private Honda Suzuki entered Tipton sometime in 1944 in a midget submarine, which is just as well as he was very small. After navigating the waterways of the West Midlands, he alighted in Tipton's sewer system via the Dudley to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Birmingham</st1:place></st1:city> canal. Once insinuated in the fetid underground tunnels, he quickly gravitated/navigated to the noisome manhole leading directly to Tipton's main thoroughfare. Upon arriving, he set up his sniper position with verve and aplomb and not without a modicum of panache.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">His mission was simply defined: To lie in wait, and when the opportunity presented, he would lift the man-hole with his cunningly inscrutable, sloping forehead. Thereupon, he would rest his buck teeth on the metal lip of the hole, thus gaining purchase, traction and stability. Henceforth, he would place his thick, pebbled glasses atop his retrousse, button nose. Due to his diminutive stature, it was necessary for him to perch precariously on a hat box which, when not in use, was secreted within a fold up his small but perfectly formed arse (Arse)- on the second shelf next to the udon noodles. Suitably imbued, he would reach for his Arisaka sniper rifle and take pot shots, not to be confused with pot noodles, at the passing citizenry. Luckily for the Tiponites, Kendo Origami, like all Japanese snipers, was a very poor shot and consequently, no one became discombobulated or inconvenienced. During his 70 years of occupation within the stygian septic conduit, Yamaha Katana managed to remain undetected by the indigenous folk who never took heed that below their feet lurked a loyal soldier of his Imperial Majesty and odious Chief Nip, Hirohito.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">The sniper subsisted on a diet comprising/composing entirely of chicken 'fried' nuggets (sans chicken), which alighted in the sewer after cascading from a cunningly fashioned hole in Mr Khan's deep fat fryer. As you will recall, Mr. Khan, of 'Mr. Khan's Halal Greasy Food Emporium' had a takeaway poised lasciviously above Tipton's main drain. Apparently, the arrangement was symbiotic and, hence, reciprocal.</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bU8zEO-jUhA/VYE4HfravNI/AAAAAAAABy0/KjMhAF-nrn4/s1600/glasses.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bU8zEO-jUhA/VYE4HfravNI/AAAAAAAABy0/KjMhAF-nrn4/s400/glasses.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing to see here<br /></span><br /></b></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span><span style="color: #222222;">However, unbeknownst to our intrepid sniper, there lurked a deadly nemesis. For many years past, Tipton residents </span><span style="color: #222222;">had been flushing down their toilet's exotic critters, including alligators. One fateful day, Mitsubishi Sushi came face to face with a </span>4-foot<span style="color: #222222;"> alligator. After a brief struggle, our intrepid Lilliputian Nipper was devoured whole. All that remained of Nissan Geisha was his pebble-lensed glasses neatly folded in their resplendent spectacle case.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222;">Those who witnessed the event, including Mr Erstwhile Nintendo, expressed their opinion accordingly:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-style: italic;">" The final result is reminiscent of a Geisha's work at its finest. Geisha would often distract their clients with subtle </span><i>origamic</i><span style="color: #222222; font-style: italic;"> (not a real word) work of exquisite form, in order to delay the inevitable and unrequited, finality."</span><span style="color: #222222;"><i> </i>Wise words Mr. Nintendo.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Later that day, the alligator was hanged by </span>neck<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> until life was relinquished for harbouring a war criminal. There are some who thought there was a Nip in the air, but as it was June, it was considered, unlikely. Arse. </span></b></div></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vHqRVqjHYHY/VYE5G0LaSZI/AAAAAAAABzA/SasRoKYf1UI/s1600/aligator.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vHqRVqjHYHY/VYE5G0LaSZI/AAAAAAAABzA/SasRoKYf1UI/s400/aligator.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Depiction of the intrepid event, in bronze</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><br /></div>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-55028122567408714602023-11-08T17:14:00.000+13:002023-11-08T17:14:33.456+13:00Meet Bob<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyUZA871qC6585g0q69FIIRJiuO7LS7jI7XAMU1ETDM8ql3cifHBY1Dkle0ikKViWTzqcMMxGF-8YYU5lAXEnhhvatknHOjQt4VUMX-YJNU8x2fhN_cmZMtneBpu7P1TXFdbP-zqXY7WwTHxRUCZmsHBt7FwjgF_nWUpKSSyTZfNXEG2ifNeAtjVyo1_c" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="417" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyUZA871qC6585g0q69FIIRJiuO7LS7jI7XAMU1ETDM8ql3cifHBY1Dkle0ikKViWTzqcMMxGF-8YYU5lAXEnhhvatknHOjQt4VUMX-YJNU8x2fhN_cmZMtneBpu7P1TXFdbP-zqXY7WwTHxRUCZmsHBt7FwjgF_nWUpKSSyTZfNXEG2ifNeAtjVyo1_c=w563-h322" width="563" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Battle of Agincourt as Portrayed in Bister</span></b></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Summer is but a month away in the southern hemisphere unless you are a Flat Earther. Frankly, I'm not really sure what these folk believe as they do seem to have diverse independent theories and opinions on the subject. There is a lady hereabouts in Nuzzieland, not far from the ice wall, who has the strident belief that humans are capable of photosynthesis- I blame the edumication system! Anyway, I'm straying away from the topic at hand.</span></b></p><p>Every year in my part of the world, at the height of summer, there is held a fayre of mind-boggling proportions. The town where it is held becomes swamped by numerous stores, various. Folk from all over this fair land flock to the town to set up stalls and sell their wares. Up to 500 stalls grace the land, selling food, crafts, clothes, and a host of sundry items. Up to 25,000 people gather to attend and spend. My son and I come along and set up our goods for review and sale. Together, we run a small internet-driven company selling traditional bows and assorted archery-themed accessories, and this is the only annual event we attend to showcase our goods. This year, we are adding an item that is not for sale. Its presence is there to attract attention and comment. In this way, we can engage potential customers and regale them with historical nick-nacks concerning archery and war. Thus, titillating their innate curiosity and thirst for knowledge. And who knows, we may increase sales in this very difficult commercial environment.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Let me introduce: Bob </span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8lmf8okdm3T-TktNfqipYD1PaMxJx_mE6R3Nnqag5_Ajc2z3VssR4uI6c_oPYq1IbuxOH6-iOTO4qHRRUKK-3guIA5e58bFWnJEFbvyFPFhF3RxUsJ4yCc3oIjgZeHHTA6GuJOUU1LxjAePF_Mud3rCPbKS2d6Pgg_PlEMlVsXzI3Gh64nCNlK-OseM/s3056/Bob.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3056" data-original-width="3056" height="455" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8lmf8okdm3T-TktNfqipYD1PaMxJx_mE6R3Nnqag5_Ajc2z3VssR4uI6c_oPYq1IbuxOH6-iOTO4qHRRUKK-3guIA5e58bFWnJEFbvyFPFhF3RxUsJ4yCc3oIjgZeHHTA6GuJOUU1LxjAePF_Mud3rCPbKS2d6Pgg_PlEMlVsXzI3Gh64nCNlK-OseM/w455-h455/Bob.heic" width="455" /></a></div><br /><p>As you can see, he is not well, and it might have something to do with the iron arrowhead sticking out of his cranium. Of course, this is not a real skeletal bonce. Tis amazing what you can buy on the internet these days. This skull has been cunningly crafted from resin, probably using a 3D printer. Actually, I'm impressed with the anatomical accuracy. It just requires a modicum of applied patina to represent and accentuate the fiction I would like to portray. The skull will have pride of place in the centre of the stall, and next to the artefact, there will be a piece of A4 paper describing the item's provenance according to my bewildering and, at times, bizarre imagination. Here goes.......</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Behold Bob, and Weep!</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Bob, or more likely, Robeirre, was a French combatant at the battle of Agincourt in 1415, on St Crispin's Day. On this day, a seminal battle was fought between the English and French, a critical battle in the ongoing 100-year war between these nations. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">At the battle of Agincourt, the flower of the French nobility, displayed in armoured array, was cut to pieces by the unrelenting and accurate archery devastatingly delivered by the English and Welsh longbowmen.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Bob was likely part of the 'men at arms' that comprised the majority of the French host of 20,000 men.</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>As an aside, the French armour available to the knights of this period was a majestic feat of engineering. Due to previous escapades involving the English longbowmen, the armour had evolved. Steel plates were face-hardened and cunningly fashioned to deflect arrows. The 'Great Helm' of earlier times had been transformed into the popular depiction of the 'Knight's Helm'. An elongated visor articulated with a sloped conical 'bowl' gave maximal protection, although it did come with the hindrance of restricted vision and hearing. Many a French eschewed the protection it afforded by raising the visor to the delight of the English bowmen. </i></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Clearly, Bob was not of the knightly class. If he had been so, his well-crafted helm would have been more than adequate to deflect the missile that ended his life. More likely, he would have sported an iron sale that would have provided scant protection from a plummeting English arrow as graphically portrayed here. Perhaps the arrow was not fatal in itself, as it barely pierced his skull. Indeed, it is likely that the wound merely induced an insensible state, and poor Bob was rendered helpless to the follow-up coup de grace delivered by axe, sword, halberd or mace (perhaps all four at once- we will never know). </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Bob's skull was unearthed during an archaeological dig at the site of the battle conducted and presided over by Prof. Horatio Van der Pump in the mid-1970s. All that remained of Bob's skeletal form was has his skull and, of course, the head of the offending arrow.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Our business, Saxon Archery, purchased 'Bob' in an auction of artefacts conducted last year. We received the skull in its present state. It is to be noted that the skull has been patiently/patently cleaned of attached detritus, and the insults of the ages have been removed with due care, leaving behind a delicate and subtle patina with sepia hues.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>It is to be noted that the small size of the skull indicates that the owner was rather young in age and no more than 18 years old.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span>I think that will do, otherwise, passing folk will determine that my composition is too much to read and will swiftly browse elsewhere. Have any of my imaginative readers any additional suggestions to render my ploy more effective in reeling in potential customers/suckers? </span></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-12932995248220354752023-10-31T21:21:00.001+13:002023-10-31T21:26:12.635+13:00Scam or not a Scam<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhObEVJ8bcx7Ho2n57cys_Tt5YCqlIUQcFFqj7WCZcVuNT7yiRnIqFdqpj6L-ttsRaxg6BaRoxMN3IXkgtGXQ024PRyjF25jx1a5BA-S932KBvmYUaYgAjNAvA4uFGBHuEMvbfC2EKWd6ARc6OZbf-glH8G-wQ58FLg_rSTxfJ-4_hqVMiu5Ulnk7UwgIE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="727" data-original-width="1200" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhObEVJ8bcx7Ho2n57cys_Tt5YCqlIUQcFFqj7WCZcVuNT7yiRnIqFdqpj6L-ttsRaxg6BaRoxMN3IXkgtGXQ024PRyjF25jx1a5BA-S932KBvmYUaYgAjNAvA4uFGBHuEMvbfC2EKWd6ARc6OZbf-glH8G-wQ58FLg_rSTxfJ-4_hqVMiu5Ulnk7UwgIE=w557-h337" width="557" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">And, don't take pills from strange men</span></b></div><br /><p></p><p>I recently purchased a pistol crossbow online from a major New Zealand company. I received the usual courtesy email and was assigned an order number. The next day, I received a second email purporting to be from the company asking for a copy of my photo ID. On a second look, I noticed that my name in the second email had used my middle name as my surname, and the order number did not match the original. All this raised my 'spider senses', and I honestly thought I was dealing with a scam. I decided to phone the company's nearest store, which happened to be in Wellington. I voiced my concern to the disembodied voice. They said they would pass it on to their 'Software Team', and he would call back after I forwarded the second email to them. I waited for 24 hours, and after no response, I sent a reminder email. I received an email that the 'team' was diligently probing my issue (please note: this did not relate to any 'issue' emanating from any orifice of mine). I politely waited a further 24 hours and thereafter decided to phone a different store based in Auckland. I connected with a delightful young man, who, during the conversation, checked the order numbers I had received. It turns out that it was all legit, and indeed, it is company policy to ask for ID as proof of age when dealing with items such as crossbows. I have bought a crossbow previously online, admittedly from a different company, and this was the first time I had been asked to send a photo ID.</p><p>I'm not a naturally trusting soul, and in addition to the telephone checks, I also passed the URLs through a verification tool available online. These tools are free and easy to use. As with all things, it is wise to exercise due diligence when we navigate this difficult path called life. </p><p>I was asked for feedback concerning my purchase experience. It was acknowledged that there was room for improvement, and my apposite comments will be passed on to the 'men in suits' or, more likely, placed in the filing receptacle labelled bin. </p><p>Anyway, I have decided to share my email exchange for edification and training purposes. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. </p><p><br /></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222;"><b>Random Gun Shop</b></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: small;">Ref: 123XYZ </span></p><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hi Flaxen Horatio,</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15.6px;">Thank you for your purchase!<br /><br />Due to the nature of your purchase, we are required by law to see proof you are over 18 years old.<br /><br />Two ways you can provide the required information:<ul><li style="margin-left: 15px;">Reply to this email with an attached copy of your photo ID</li><li style="margin-left: 15px;">Email <a href="mailto:websales@guncity.com" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">sales@bouncybouncy.com</a> with an attached copy of your photo ID</li></ul><b>Note:</b> You may be asked for ID by the courier driver on delivery</div><div class="aju" style="align-items: center; background-color: white; color: #222222; cursor: pointer; display: flex; float: none; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; height: 80px; min-width: 40px; padding: 0px 16px;"><div class="aCi" style="position: relative;"><img aria-hidden="true" class="ajn" data-hovercard-id="fancymcclean@gmail.com" data-name="Fancy McClean" id=":nn_17-e" jid="fancymcclean@gmail.com" name=":nn" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/a/ACg8ocL2WhImnimkDDYXshjynlytSPsN2TJT1APCUchcgxO4=s40-p-mo" style="background-color: #a4c2f4; border-radius: 50%; display: block; height: 40px; width: 40px;" /></div></div><div class="gs" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 20px; width: 1004px;"><div class="gE iv gt" style="cursor: pointer; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; padding: 20px 0px 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" class="cf gJ" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-collapse: collapse; display: block; margin-top: 0px; width: auto;"><tbody style="display: block;"><tr class="acZ xD" style="display: flex; height: auto;"><td colspan="3" style="margin: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" class="cf adz" style="border-collapse: collapse; table-layout: fixed; text-wrap: nowrap; width: 1004px;"><tbody><tr><td class="ady" style="align-items: center; display: flex; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; text-overflow: ellipsis;"><div class="iw ajw" style="display: inline-block; max-width: 92%; overflow: hidden;"><span class="hb" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: auto; color: #5e5e5e; font-size: 0.75rem; line-height: 20px; vertical-align: top;" translate="no">to </span><span class="hb" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: auto; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; vertical-align: top;" translate="no"><span style="color: #222222;">'The Team'</span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div id=":sz" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="qQVYZb"></div><div class="utdU2e"></div><div class="lQs8Hd" jsaction="SN3rtf:rcuQ6b" jscontroller="i3Ohde"></div><div class="btm"></div></div><div><div class="aHl" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; margin-left: -38px;"></div><div id=":te" style="color: #222222; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;" tabindex="-1"></div><div class="ii gt adO" id=":t1" jslog="20277; u014N:xr6bB; 1:WyIjdGhyZWFkLWY6MTc4MDU3NTM5NzcyNDU4ODYyNiIsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsW11d; 4:WyIjbXNnLWE6cjM3MzAwMDU1NTUzODI0OTg0MjAiLG51bGwsW10sbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsW10sW10sW10sbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxbXV0." style="direction: ltr; margin: 8px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="a3s aiL" id=":t0" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: 1.5; overflow: hidden;"><div dir="ltr"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: x-small;">Hi,</span><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As requested, and required, please find attached a copy of my photo ID. As you will note, I possess a rare </div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">handsomeness rarely discerned or appreciated. The request for a photo ID raised concerns; initially,</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I thought I was dealing with a Scam Email. My concerns are as follows: I've purchased crossbows online before</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">and have never been asked to provide a photo ID. My full name is Flaxen Horatio Saxon; however, in the second </div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">email, I was referred to as 'Flaxen Horatio'. In addition, the order number (W2978) differed from the original order</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">number (28576). Perhaps you could clarify in your purchase confirmation email that a photo ID would be required</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">and that you operate with a dual order number system- just a thought from a concerned customer. I have to say</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">that your employee, Alfred, was extremely helpful and provided impeccable assistance during our phone conversation.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Alfred was polite and professional while dealing with my bizarre and niche sense of humour; he should be highly </div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">commended. Mayhap a promotion is imminent. He seems the sort of man that I would like to introduce</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">to my beautiful daughter. If only I could remove her from the clutches of the idiot she is associating with now.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">By the way, she is an English, blue-eyed blonde. A wonderful exposition of the 'English Rose'. Anyway,</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">on receipt of my ID, I would be eternally grateful if you could expedite my order forthwith; please excuse </div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">the redundant tautology.</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Cheers,</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Flaxen Saxon</div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></div><div style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><div class="gE iv gt" style="cursor: auto; font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 0.875rem; padding: 20px 0px 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" class="cf gJ" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-collapse: collapse; display: block; font-size: 0.875rem; margin-top: 0px; width: auto;"><tbody style="display: block;"><tr class="acZ" style="display: flex; height: auto;"><td class="gF gK" style="display: block; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; max-height: 20px; padding: 0px; text-wrap: nowrap; vertical-align: top; width: 698.588px;"><table cellpadding="0" class="cf ix" style="border-collapse: collapse; table-layout: fixed; width: 698.588px;"><tbody><tr><td class="c2" style="display: flex; margin: 0px;"><h3 class="iw" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: auto; color: #5f6368; font-size: 0.75rem; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin: inherit; max-width: calc(100% - 8px); overflow: hidden; text-overflow: ellipsis; text-wrap: nowrap;"><span class="qu" role="gridcell" style="outline: none;" tabindex="-1" translate="no"><span class="gD" data-hovercard-id="websales@guncity.com" data-hovercard-owner-id="98" email="websales@guncity.com" name="Web Sales at Gun City" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; color: #1f1f1f; display: inline; font-size: 0.875rem; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; vertical-align: top;"><span style="position: relative; vertical-align: top;">Web Sales at Gun Shop Akimbo</span></span><span class="cfXrwd"></span></span></h3></td></tr></tbody></table></td><td class="gH bAk" style="align-items: center; color: #222222; display: block; margin: 0px; max-height: 20px; text-align: right; text-wrap: nowrap; vertical-align: top;"><div class="gK" style="align-items: center; display: flex; padding: 0px;"><span alt="Oct 25, 2023, 4:55 PM" class="g3" id=":1dg" role="gridcell" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: auto; color: #5e5e5e; display: block; font-size: 0.75rem; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; vertical-align: top;" tabindex="-1" title="Oct 25, 2023, 4:55 PM">Wed, Oct 25, 4:55 PM (5 days ago)</span><div aria-checked="false" aria-label="Not starred" class="zd bi4" data-tooltip="Not starred" jslog="20511; u014N:cOuCgd,Kr2w4b; 1:WyIjdGhyZWFkLWY6MTc4MDU3NTM5NzcyNDU4ODYyNiIsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsW11d; 4:WyIjbXNnLWY6MTc4MDY5ODIwNDg4NTQxNjk4MCIsbnVsbCxbXSxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxbXSxbXSxbXSxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLFtdXQ.." role="checkbox" style="cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; height: 20px; margin-left: 20px; outline: 0px; user-select: none;" tabindex="0"><span class="T-KT" style="align-items: center; border: none; display: inline-flex; height: 20px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center; top: 0px; transition: opacity 0.15s cubic-bezier(0.4, 0, 0.2, 1) 0s; width: 20px; z-index: 0;"></span></div></div></td><td class="gH" style="align-items: center; color: #222222; display: flex; margin: 0px; text-align: right; text-wrap: nowrap; vertical-align: top;"></td><td class="gH acX bAm" rowspan="2" style="align-items: center; color: #222222; display: block; margin: 0px; max-height: 20px; text-align: right; text-wrap: nowrap; vertical-align: top;"><div aria-label="Reply" class="T-I J-J5-Ji T-I-Js-IF aaq T-I-ax7 L3" data-tooltip="Reply" jslog="21576; u014N:cOuCgd,Kr2w4b; 1:WyIjdGhyZWFkLWY6MTc4MDU3NTM5NzcyNDU4ODYyNiIsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsW11d; 4:WyIjbXNnLWY6MTc4MDY5ODIwNDg4NTQxNjk4MCIsbnVsbCxbXSxudWxsLDcsNixudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxbXSxbXSxbXSxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLFtdXQ.." role="button" style="-webkit-user-drag: none; align-items: center; background: transparent; border-radius: 2px 0px 0px 2px; border: none; box-shadow: none; color: #444444; cursor: pointer; display: inline-flex; font-size: 0.875rem; height: 20px; justify-content: center; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 20px; min-width: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center; user-select: none; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><img alt="" class="hB T-I-J3" role="button" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/images/cleardot.gif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: 50% 50%; 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background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: 50% 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 20px; background: url("//ssl.gstatic.com/ui/v1/icons/mail/gm3/1x/more_vert_baseline_nv700_20dp.png") center center / 20px no-repeat; display: inline-block; height: 20px; margin: 0px; opacity: 1; padding: 0px; transition: opacity 0.15s cubic-bezier(0.4, 0, 0.2, 1) 0s; vertical-align: middle; width: 20px;" /></div></td></tr><tr class="acZ xD" style="display: flex; height: auto;"><td colspan="3" style="margin: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" class="cf adz" style="border-collapse: collapse; table-layout: fixed; text-wrap: nowrap; width: 1004px;"><tbody><tr><td class="ady" style="align-items: center; display: flex; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; overflow: visible; text-overflow: ellipsis;"><div class="iw ajw" style="display: inline-block; max-width: 92%; overflow: hidden;"><span class="hb" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: auto; color: #5e5e5e; font-size: 0.75rem; line-height: 20px; vertical-align: top;" translate="no">to <span class="g2" data-hovercard-id="fancymcclean@gmail.com" email="fancymcclean@gmail.com" name="me" style="vertical-align: top;">me</span></span></div><div aria-haspopup="true" aria-label="Show details" class="ajy" data-tooltip="Show details" id=":1dq" role="button" style="align-items: center; border: none; display: inline-flex; justify-content: center; margin-left: 4px; outline: none; position: relative; vertical-align: top; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><img alt="" class="ajz" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/images/cleardot.gif" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: 50% 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: 20px; background: url("https://www.gstatic.com/images/icons/material/system_gm/1x/arrow_drop_down_black_20dp.png") center center / 20px no-repeat; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: flex; height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 0px auto; opacity: 0.71; padding: 0px; position: relative; right: 0px; top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; width: 20px;" /></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div id=":1dc" style="font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><div class="qQVYZb"></div><div class="utdU2e"></div><div class="lQs8Hd" jsaction="SN3rtf:rcuQ6b" jscontroller="i3Ohde"></div><div class="btm"></div></div><div style="font-family: "Google Sans", Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><div class="aHl" style="margin-left: -38px;"></div><div id=":1dp" tabindex="-1"></div><div class="ii gt adO" id=":1de" jslog="20277; u014N:xr6bB; 1:WyIjdGhyZWFkLWY6MTc4MDU3NTM5NzcyNDU4ODYyNiIsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsW11d; 4:WyIjbXNnLWY6MTc4MDY5ODIwNDg4NTQxNjk4MCIsbnVsbCxbXSxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxbXSxbXSxbXSxudWxsLG51bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLFtdXQ.." style="direction: ltr; font-size: 0.875rem; margin: 8px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="a3s aiL msg-3278078491390344346" id=":1dd" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: small; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: 1.5; overflow: hidden;"><div class="adM"></div><div lang="EN-NZ" link="blue" style="overflow-wrap: break-word;" vlink="purple"><div class="adM"></div><div class="m_-3278078491390344346WordSection1"><div class="adM"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;">Hi Flaxen, thank you for your feedback, thoughts, and, I must say, a wonderfully written text!<u></u><u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><br />I will pass this on to the team and get this posted (and definitely will let Alfred know! <span face=""Segoe UI Emoji", sans-serif"><img alt="😉" aria-label="😉" class="an1" data-emoji="😉" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/15.0/1f609/72.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" /></span><br /><br />Have a great evening.<u></u><u></u></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><u></u> <u></u></p><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 305px;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 0cm 0cm 0cm 7.5pt;" valign="top"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Kind regards,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> <br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Telescope Mugumbp<br /><b>Website Manager</b></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The moral of</b><b> the story: Don't eat soup with chopsticks </b> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span> </p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-84142022687384493242023-10-20T22:10:00.002+13:002023-10-21T00:33:06.102+13:00Swing to the Right<p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkiJj7sEVwl_6QkNj1hkvDJESM_c005M-aoswwEk78-vP-f24gVvxFpl7gK1pC9w52_LFb7_VSOyK0y7b8qnSh-BTEcjgjYt0ixkDnl-qQZMymEc4MZhsHevwiwbkHTuBQF5l-t7WDl78gjR_CYq9CyfwvGnRvv--_k6_INZni4xTKNhu8-1XLbb2PqKU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="235" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkiJj7sEVwl_6QkNj1hkvDJESM_c005M-aoswwEk78-vP-f24gVvxFpl7gK1pC9w52_LFb7_VSOyK0y7b8qnSh-BTEcjgjYt0ixkDnl-qQZMymEc4MZhsHevwiwbkHTuBQF5l-t7WDl78gjR_CYq9CyfwvGnRvv--_k6_INZni4xTKNhu8-1XLbb2PqKU=w359-h361" width="359" /></a></span></b></div><b><span><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span><span style="font-size: medium;">Vote Sausage!</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></b></div></span></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">And so, the folk of New Zealand have exercised their franchise in droves/dribbles, and the incumbent Labour Party has been ousted from its Prole position and no longer determines the fate of the Kiwi proletariat. <span> After 6 years of a lean to the left, the stage is set for a lurch to the right. National has taken its rightful place in the governmental position as deemed Right, unto God. And thus, the majority party will lead this proud nation to victory or oblivion according to the fickle fates that really dictate our pitiful existence ......</span></span></b></p><p><span><b>Labour's shameful tactics to seduce, nay entice, the young have been exposed for the pitiful pandering that they are. Giving away lots of free stuff to the young in exchange for their vote has seriously backfired. In the main, this is due to extreme apathy engrained within the very soul of the nation's youth, together with a deep-abiding inability to do anything but look inanely at a phone screen. Of course, National has been accused of using similar tactics to attract the Boomer vote. With an ageing population, all parties should take note: to ignore the grey folk is a route taken at their peril. The landslide for the Nats is a consequence of the Boomers getting on their mobility scooters and going full pelt/tilt unto the 'Voting Showers' (surely some mistake). </b></span></p><p><span>So how did National pull off this lurid, fetid feat? First, they made sure their policies were available in large font. Second, they made great use of repetition. Addled brains struggle with mono-concepts- reiteration is the way to success! Labour tried to lure and seduce the young with free dental care. To be honest, that is quite a lure considering the cost of modern dentistry these days. But that was not enough to get them off their fat arses (Arse) and shuffle off to vote. National connected to the Boomer crowd by offering free automatic prostate drainage/massage devices together with a lifetime supply of chilblain unguent and ear trumpets. Hurrah, for hearing devices- who said dat?</span></p><p><span>Take Note: No one bothers to pander to the Middle Class - they no longer exist.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Personally, I eschew all mainstream parties and always vote for the National Bolshevists. The only party that guarantees the annexation of the Sudetenland and the reintroduction of bromine in the tap water. Furthermore, if elected, it will be mandatory for all males to undergo phrenology evaluation using calibrated calipers (tautology, mayhap?). For those who care, the results of my evaluation: apparently, I'm class: A021C8. Makes you think dun it?</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cYBugb7h5AQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="cYBugb7h5AQ"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><b><br /></b></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></p><p><span> </span></p><p><span> </span></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-50173186636738389252023-10-16T22:12:00.000+13:002023-10-16T22:12:02.350+13:00Pan's People<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUcI-nYuTGgoTV2rfTxGZd3tAn676rMAUHMr-eukK7uqw6reKmCjZ9edXH0X_mR5ikTtMa6pcPs6TLxOlyh0jdgZsc8WSM2YgLrFOlycJdm8en80GNzhQmnhqsxVOQ23f-b8l898ESQIycoIVCu-hVC9fnNZhD6OrVBWUPA8rxS7DwOsnCylGxOTUq44w" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="382" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUcI-nYuTGgoTV2rfTxGZd3tAn676rMAUHMr-eukK7uqw6reKmCjZ9edXH0X_mR5ikTtMa6pcPs6TLxOlyh0jdgZsc8WSM2YgLrFOlycJdm8en80GNzhQmnhqsxVOQ23f-b8l898ESQIycoIVCu-hVC9fnNZhD6OrVBWUPA8rxS7DwOsnCylGxOTUq44w=w583-h365" width="583" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Hello Mom and Dad?</span></b></div><p></p><p>The title will only mean something to British folk of a certain age, and mostly men. Moving on. Actually, and on a serious note, I want to discuss the hypothesis of<b> Panspermia.</b> This hypothesis concerns the origin of life on Earth and proposes that perhaps our planet was 'seeded' by life from elsewhere in the universe. In its simplest form, imagine a wandering piece of rock out in the void of space. Imagine that the lump contains some form of simple life or proto-life. Somehow these life forms survive and remain viable in the inimical conditions of deep space- is it that farfetched? We know, for instance, that many species of bacteria are able to form spores. Bacterial spores are extremely hardy and able to survive in the harshest of terrestrial environments awaiting reanimation thousands of years hence- or even longer. Experiments on the International Space Station have demonstrated that Tardigrades, a segmented micro-animal, can survive the cold and intense radiation of space, without a space suit.</p><p>I have never liked the Panspermia hypothesis due to the 'Cop-out Factor'. Panspermia avoids the difficult problem of how life actually came about from inanimate matter. Life just occurs elsewhere and then arrives on our planet to take hold and prosper. But maybe I have been a little hasty in my disdain for the hypothesis, and maybe it deserves a little more personal respect now I have thought about the problem more deeply. </p><p>At least the hypothesis tackles the most difficult problem there is in modern biology: How did life occur on Earth in such a short time frame? The latest fossil evidence suggests that some form of life existed within just a few hundred million years after the earth cooled down sufficiently to support life. It is known that the Earth coalesced 4.5 billion years ago and that by 4.3 billion years, the planet had cooled to a condition where life could form and evolve. The oldest known fossils have been found in Australian rocks just 600 million years later. Life would have existed before then, perhaps many millions of years prior. And this is troublesome. How could life occur in just a short geological time span considering the complexity of the problem? Let us not underestimate the issue of complexity involved. For proto-life to occur, we require two complex chemical systems to form and interact in complex ways. I have discussed this elsewhere in more detail; go seek. I will not reiterate here. The fact that these highly complex processes could and did happen within the time frame available is nearly miraculous. And as my regular readership will have gathered, I have no truck with miracles. There has to be a rational explanation. </p><p>There are several variants of the Panspermia hypothesis. The variant that intrigues me the most promotes the possibility that life began to coalesce early in the universe at large. The age of the universe has been estimated, using extrapolation, to be in the order of 13.8 billion years. However, recent evidence from the James Webb telescope suggests that the universe may be much older. Let us wait and see what follows. The data is raw and recent and therefore requires further examination and analysis. Regardless, it is important to acknowledge that the universe is a lot older than the Earth. Immediately after the 'Big Bang', the universe was extremely hot and raw. However, just a billion years later, the cosmos reached a balmy/barmy -253.15 C. It is reasonable to surmise that during the interlude between the Big Bang and 1 billion years, there would be a time when temperatures on random pieces of matter would be conducive to the development of life. A solvent would also be required to sustain the reactions. We immediately think of water, but there are other solvents that could serve the process, at least initially. Methane liquifies at a much lower temperature than water (-182 to -161C), thus providing a suitable sustaining environment in a frigid uncaring universe. There are other possible candidates, such as ethane. I'm perhaps erring on the flippant side, but the concept is solid, unlike the solvent. The point to be made, is that there would be innumerable 'domains' (mayhap infinite?) available for this illimitable cosmic experiment. The time available for this to occur is open to speculation, but at least 12 billion years would be accessible. This highly speculative model allows a vast theatre of time and space for the formation of life to occur. Under such conditions, life could come forth from multiple points, over multiple eons. </p><p>Imagine a simple, basic life form transformed into a hardy spore buried deep within the rocky envelope of an asteroid. It wanders the cosmos for an indeterminable time until it meets the gravitational field of our home. It roars through the primitive atmosphere to arrive blackened and seared and finally quenched within a vast ocean. There the spore awakens and develops anew in a foreign environment/experiment. It would take but one 'seed' to set the process of reproduction and natural selection to progress. The rest is just the history of life on Earth.</p><p>The advantage of this particular flavour of Panspermia is that the factor of time and space is not limited to a small sphere of rock containing dihydrogen oxide put together a mere 4.5 billion years ago. The whole universe becomes the infinite, moist, progenitor vat enshrined within the web of spacetime.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Anyway, back to the title. Pans People: the wet dream of British adolescents circa 1971. Take it away, girls. There is no doubt that the choreography was shit, but we didn't care, probably because we had too much testosterone coursing through our veins and didn't know the meaning of choreography. Arse. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Enjoy.</span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5dmfAG4tSIs" width="320" youtube-src-id="5dmfAG4tSIs"></iframe></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-34816318750089907902023-09-30T22:12:00.000+13:002023-09-30T22:12:43.466+13:00Scaphism or Death by Boats<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTIU8VEZBdOaH2ViNyRt9J0sRimbB5hncPCIBtPekHrDwPhia9K59Oqea_8-_lZ8XhBy-ZCoEYLsLRxLRwgv7y63FPGlxvZgL7YmUA8BVYvJRfaxeD_h3hQsz0iNXmCmUyLERlCo07UoSVOGskHCqEkN8NPpNKu1QQ1AICI4T9MRa2rkGc1TvR_xSiKP4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="132" data-original-width="254" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTIU8VEZBdOaH2ViNyRt9J0sRimbB5hncPCIBtPekHrDwPhia9K59Oqea_8-_lZ8XhBy-ZCoEYLsLRxLRwgv7y63FPGlxvZgL7YmUA8BVYvJRfaxeD_h3hQsz0iNXmCmUyLERlCo07UoSVOGskHCqEkN8NPpNKu1QQ1AICI4T9MRa2rkGc1TvR_xSiKP4=w494-h256" width="494" /></a></div><b style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Scaphism- Greek for boat</span></b></div></b><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The ancients were very adept at concocting particularly unwholesome means of dispatch for their malcontents and criminals. Crucifixion, a form of torture associated with the Romans, was actually devised elsewhere. Centuries before the Roman Empire, the Persians and Carthaginians were perfecting this method of extreme torture. Indeed, crucifixion was a very efficient way of extracting pain for an extended period of time. First off, the nails were not placed through the hand but through the wrists next to the radial nerve. During the act, the crucified individual had to continually raise his body, placing pressure on the wrists and nerves, causing searing pain. Levitation/elevation was a necessary recourse in order to relieve the constraining pressure upon the chest due to the slumped posture hinting at asphyxiation. However, once the body was raised and the victim caught a breath, the pain due to the nail impingement upon the radial nerve would cause collapse. Thereafter, the dreadful cycle would continue anew. Merciful death would intervene once the prisoner became exhausted, as suffocation would ensue. For a fit young man, the agony could last several days. The Carthaginians were well-versed and adept at this form of torture and would often crucify their own generals if they lost a battle.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Terrible as crucifixion was, there existed a form of punishment allegedly practiced by the ancient Persians that made crucifixion seem like a bad day in Tipton.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I suspect you had to be a very naughty boy indeed to suffer the horror that is scaphism. First, you would be secured to a small boat. The prisoner was then force-fed milk and honey, and then honey would be lathered liberally upon the wretches' naked body. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">A second boat would be secured over the first with openings allowing for the exposure of the head, feet, and arms. The boat would then be pushed out into a lake to bake under the hot Iranian sun. The diet of milk and honey would quickly induce diarrhoea, and the prisoner would be left to wallow in their own filth. The local flies and other insects would be attracted to the floating morass and feast upon the sweet/sweat fetid goodness, and thereafter lay eggs akimbo, possibly with aplomb. Soon maggots would issue forth to feast upon the prisoner's marinated flesh. It is impossible to imagine a worse horror than being slowly eaten alive by a host of god's goodly creatures. </span></p><p>What follows is an account of scaphism as performed on a gentleman named Mithridates for the slaying of the king's (Artaxerxes II) brother Cyrus the Younger (c400 BC).</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em; text-align: center;"><b><span face="sans-serif">'[</span><span style="font-family: times;">The king] decreed that Mithridates should be put to death in boats; which execution is after the following manner: Taking two boats framed exactly to fit and answer each other, they lie down in one of them the malefactor that suffers, upon his back; then, covering it with the other, and so setting them together that the head, hands, and feet of him are left outside, and the rest of his body lies shut up within, they offer him food, and if he refuse to eat it, they force him to do it by pricking his eyes; then, after he has eaten, they drench him with a mixture of milk and honey, pouring it not only into his mouth, but all over his face. They then keep his face continually turned towards the sun; and it becomes completely covered up and hidden by the multitude of flies that settle on it. And as within the boats he does what those that eat and drink must needs do, creeping things and vermin spring out of the corruption and rottenness of the excrement, and these entering into the bowels of him, his body is consumed. When the man is manifestly dead, the uppermost boat being taken off, they find his flesh devoured, and swarms of such noisome creatures preying upon and, as it were, growing to his inwards. In this way Mithridates, after suffering for seventeen days, at last expired.'</span></b></p><div class="templatequotecite" style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.5em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-left: 1.6em; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times;">— <cite style="font-style: inherit;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plutarch" style="background: none; color: #3366cc; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Plutarch">Plutarch</a>, <i>Life of Artaxerxes</i><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-plutarch_2-0" style="font-size: 11.2px; line-height: 1; text-wrap: nowrap; unicode-bidi: isolate;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scaphism#cite_note-plutarch-2" style="background: none; color: #3366cc; overflow-wrap: break-word;">[</a></sup></cite></span></b></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just a point of interest before continuing with the theme: Plutarch was clearly a conventionally educated man of his time and no doubt Aristotelian in his thinking. This should be of no surprise. Aristotle had a profound and baleful influence on intellectual thought for nearly 2,000 years. Few would criticise this great man until the coming of the 'Scientific Enlightenment'. Interestingly, almost all that he taught was in error, except for his work on the syllogism. Thus, Aristotle informed those who could read, at least, that flies did not beget flies. Flies spontane</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ously became manifest from corruption. Surely Aristotle was not an experimental scientist. Tis such a shame that a man of such a great and manifest intellect should have neglected the enormous power of simple induction.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Did the barbarous Persians actually perform this horrendous form of execution, or was it the conjuring of an overactive imagination of the Greek biographer? Sadly, we will never know for sure, as Plutarch's account is the only independent source we have for the practice. Plutarch was writing 450 years after the reign of Artaxerxes, and it is likely that he was relying on a now lost source called 'Persika' written by another Greek, aptly named, Ktesias, in the 5th century BC. Ktesias was not a credible historian. In fact, from his writings, it can be discerned that Ktesias was as mad as a 'bucket of frogs in vinegar'. He had the misfortune of being endowed with the art of 'over elaboration'. Thus, apparently, from the same pen, we hear of lands where folk have dog's heads. Others have the sad affliction of being bereft of bonce and eyes that are strategically positioned upon the torso.......</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>Serious historians are the happiest when they have access to multiple independent sources describing a supposed historical event. That said, just because someone has the gift of writing absolute bollocks doesn't mean that they always write absolute bollocks. Sometimes, perhaps, true verity drips from their pen like a drippy thing. Nuff said.</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3xgXNjQRSQPKtA5k7jXV1IIjoLPefOJ5SKEvDeP_f_K-h1zzvYaX5_szjelJZSI-Pnkd2X3n4IN3wV7vN0-l1P3AubaKPrcVDiT4-kXpobuOinepfw8DNuvj4j3ws-K1gE3E8uXpGv1G0KgkiPjoSU8inf2ioduLBTn9bx-rba1609oCimeRmgAUeCgM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="602" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3xgXNjQRSQPKtA5k7jXV1IIjoLPefOJ5SKEvDeP_f_K-h1zzvYaX5_szjelJZSI-Pnkd2X3n4IN3wV7vN0-l1P3AubaKPrcVDiT4-kXpobuOinepfw8DNuvj4j3ws-K1gE3E8uXpGv1G0KgkiPjoSU8inf2ioduLBTn9bx-rba1609oCimeRmgAUeCgM=w358-h392" width="358" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: inherit;">A Denizen of Tipton No Less</b></div></b></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-52102236452860295332023-09-28T21:35:00.000+13:002023-09-28T21:35:57.975+13:00Quid Est Veritas? <p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Enough of the esoteric bollocks of philosophical thought, science, mathematics, and total unadulterated/unmitigated ferret's plop. Let us return to history and ponder one of history's most enigmatic characters.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>"P<span style="font-size: medium;">ontius Pilate is not the governor of Judea he is a very naughty boy"</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Beware, what follows is a bit 'rambly' (not a real word)</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Jesus' Trial</span></b></p><p>Poor Pilate was just a humble administrator of Rome enduring his job in a far-flung portion of the Empire. He had the unenviable task of ruling the intractable and fractious Jewish population. One day, during his tenure, the High Priest and his minions brought forth a poor, itinerant/illiterate Rabbi from Galilee. They said he had caused a minor disturbance in the temple courtyard and for his naughtiness, he was deserved of death. Pontius was a fair man and after interrogating the prisoner he could find no fault that would warrant a sentence of death. And so, he sent the man to be questioned by the nominal/puppet Jewish ruler of Galilee, Agrippa. Again, no infraction of the law could be found that decreed the death penalty. Thus, he was returned to Pilate unmolested. And Pilate cried out: "<i>I find no fault in this man"</i>. But the priests did mutter darkly of insurrection if he was released and hinted that great Tiberius Caesar himself would be displeased. Pilate got the message and although deep down he was a good man he had the prisoner before him flogged and beaten. For Pilate was a weak, vacillating man and wanted to appease the roiling mob (ecce homo). The piteous sight of a man so handled by his soldiery shocked Pilate but the Priests were implacable in their hate and the mob became frenzied and screamed:<i> ''Nail him to a piece of wood"</i>. Poor Pilate could do no more and did as the Jews demanded. </p><p>Basically, the above narrative is one we glean from the New Testament. Is that how the scene went down? First off, the gospels are not historical narratives in any modern sense. The motives of the various gospel writers were essentially theological. Primarily this diverse set of books is a testament to faith and any 'factual history' embodied/embedded is happenchance. We know this because the gospel narratives are disparate and contradictory and also, how could the apostles have known the proceedings emanating from Pilate's chambers or Agrippa's palace? It is not as if they were allowed to enter these hallowed enclaves and take dictation. Furthermore, the gospel accounts are not firsthand. The earliest gospel, Mark, was composed about 40 years after Jesus' death. John's Gospel, the last to be written, was put to word as late as 90-100 AD. Initially, the gospels were part of oral tradition passed on to believers throughout the vast Roman Empire. The apostles were illiterate peasants and could not have composed the narrative in the elegant Greek we find in the gospels. The gospel writers were not of the poorest strata of the Empire. They were well-educated and likely native Greek speakers and ignorant of the Aramaic language spoken by Jesus and his band of brothers.</p><p>Let us return to Pilate and his jesting remark:<i> <b>"What is truth?"</b></i> Luckily, we have other contemporaries who wrote about this period and the man. We have a brief mention in the works of Tacitus and a more extensive narrative by two Jewish writers, Philo of Alexandria and most notably, Josephus. Josephus was a very interesting character indeed. I'll come back to him in a thrice, but first a little about Pontius Pilate, after all, he is the main/man character of the plot.</p><p>Pilate was of Equestrian rank (knight) and at the time of his appointment, by Tiberius, as Prefect of Judea in 26 AD, he was already a seasoned administrator and military man. His position was a junior one and he was subservient to the governor of Syria. He ruled in Judea for 10 years, however, due to mounting complaints from the populace, he was recalled to Rome by Tiberius, for investigation. During his 10-year tenure, he proved to be insensitive to Jewish religious sensibilities resulting in unrest, rioting, and on at least one occasion a substantial loss of life. However, the Jewish population, and specifically the Jewish leaders (High Priest and Sanhedrin), had an ace up their sleeve. They were not totally helpless when confronted by a harsh ruler. They had the right to appeal to Tiberius himself. Ultimately, the threat of redress was a means to prevent extreme depredation by a particularly rapacious governor. </p><p>Josephus relates several stories concerning Pilates' insensitive and vicious nature. It seems that Pilate was not particularly receptive to Jewish religious norms. In fact, he deliberately and knowingly provoked the Jews, directly challenging their strict and exquisite obeyance to the rigid laws of the one true god, Yahweh. </p><p>Tiberius died during Pilate's journey home and before he reached Rome the lovable rogue, Caligula had ascended the 'throne'. This is where Pilate disappears from the annals of history, although this did not stop Christians of later centuries from concocting fictitious accounts of his life after returning to Rome. I think it is probable that Caligula treated Pilate with leniency. During the early stages of his reign, the new Imperator was magnanimous and forgiving, bestowing benevolence with abundance and rampant abandon; this would change during the latter half of his divine rule- not the rampant abandon bit, though. </p><p>Josephus was an aristocratic Jew who took part (a general, no less) in the ill-advised and doomed Jewish rebellion against Roman rule (66-70AD). Initially, the revolt achieved great success, and Romans throughout Judea were slaughtered. At that time, very few Roman troops were garrisoned in Judea, probably no more than 3,000, and in the event of serious trouble, the Romans relied on the two legions stationed in nearby Syria. I don't really want to go into detail concerning the 'Jewish War' although I will say this: the Roman response was swift and brutal. The war ended after the successful siege of Jerusalem, although the stronghold of Masada continued to hold out, for a little while afterward. During the war, Josephus was captured and was destined for a painful end. However, luckily fate intervened and he managed to ingratiate himself with the Roman general, Vespasian, soon to be Emperor. </p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">We also have the account of Pilate by the Jewish philosopher, Philo of Alexandria. His description of Pilate is illuminating: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">"A man of inflexible, stubborn, and cruel disposition"</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. This brief summation of Pilate's character seems very much at odds with the man described in the bible </span>So,<span style="font-family: inherit;"> what are we to make of these discordant accounts? The gospel accounts containing the Pilate 'scenes' were composed after the Jewish </span>revolt, perhaps with the exception of Mark<span style="font-family: inherit;">. The gospel writers had an agenda. They were keen not to include material that in any way could be construed as 'Anti-Roman'. For obvious reasons, Jewish-Roman relationships following the war were a tad strained. Therefore, Christians were </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">keen to distance themselves from Jews in general and to foster an air of acceptance of just Roman rule. From what we can discern from Pilate's character it is likely that he gave scant regard to saving Jesus' life and signed the death warrant without a second thought. In other words, the gospel accounts are fictitious screes of propaganda wantonly placing the blame for Jesus' death strictly on the Jews. A narrative that would have severe consequences for the diaspora culminating in the horror perpetuated by the Nazi regime in the 20th century. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Pilates' position was unenviable and precarious. His remit from Tiberius was to maintain order and to ensure the efficient collection of tax revenue. Unlike most Roman provinces, Judea remained volatile after subjugation. A fine and delicate hand was required: don't upset the locals whilst maintaining the majesty and prestige of Rome and the Emperor- and don't forget the taxes. In addition, it was in Pilates' vested interest to maintain a viable working partnership with the high priest and the Sanhedrin. Ultimately Jews and Romans were fundamentally and mutually incomprehensible. Their cultures were so inherently divergent and incompatible that large-scale conflict was inevitable. Thus, Pilates' prefecture was doomed before he set foot in Judea. </span></p><div class="group w-full text-token-text-primary border-b border-black/10 dark:border-gray-900/50 dark:bg-gray-800" data-testid="conversation-turn-6" style="--avatar-color: #19c37d; --tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1); border-image: initial; border-style: solid; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--text-primary); font-family: Söhne, ui-sans-serif, system-ui, -apple-system, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Noto Sans", sans-serif, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, "Apple Color Emoji", "Segoe UI Emoji", "Segoe UI Symbol", "Noto Color Emoji"; font-size: 14px; width: 1213.6px;"><div class="p-4 justify-center text-base md:gap-6 md:py-6 lg:px-0 m-auto" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 1rem; gap: 1.5rem; justify-content: center; line-height: 1.5rem; margin: auto; padding: 1.5rem 0px;"><div class="flex flex-1 gap-4 text-base mx-auto md:gap-6 md:max-w-2xl lg:max-w-[38rem] xl:max-w-3xl }" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex: 1 1 0%; font-size: 1rem; gap: 1.5rem; line-height: 1.5rem; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 48rem;"><div class="relative flex w-[calc(100%-50px)] flex-col gap-1 md:gap-3 lg:w-[calc(100%-115px)]" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex-direction: column; gap: 0.75rem; position: relative; width: calc(100% - 115px);"><div class="flex flex-grow flex-col gap-3 max-w-full" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex-grow: 1; gap: 0.75rem; max-width: 100%;"><div class="min-h-[20px] flex flex-col items-start gap-3 overflow-x-auto whitespace-pre-wrap break-words" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; align-items: flex-start; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; display: flex; flex-direction: column; gap: 0.75rem; min-height: 20px; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow-x: auto; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="empty:hidden" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgba(69,89,164,.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 transparent; --tw-shadow: 0 0 transparent; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; border: 0px solid rgb(217, 217, 227); box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-72062670190303516302023-09-21T21:24:00.004+12:002023-09-22T19:27:16.935+12:00Death but not as we know it? <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDnlyLhisJk9v2bM33ZmloacQWefxC_SjaCtg0PiuwjLy-gs0sAPVRjEenwwnhDx76_-aBASXs44NmjuJlbOLpD28osYhXQAvoQ-J4HA5bAABzv7IghsUTNhyiX_mReR9LVuoECd6DHpEiiMA8OeKYGAU0FqDSHK5NwBuAKYSnYB1zZrhViyjMfXxSC6g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="474" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDnlyLhisJk9v2bM33ZmloacQWefxC_SjaCtg0PiuwjLy-gs0sAPVRjEenwwnhDx76_-aBASXs44NmjuJlbOLpD28osYhXQAvoQ-J4HA5bAABzv7IghsUTNhyiX_mReR9LVuoECd6DHpEiiMA8OeKYGAU0FqDSHK5NwBuAKYSnYB1zZrhViyjMfXxSC6g=w533-h303" width="533" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Into the Light? </b></div></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Just a little commentary concerning </span><b style="text-align: left;">'Near Death Experiences (NDEs).'</b><span style="text-align: left;"> This is a fascinating and controversial topic for consideration. For those not familiar with the phenomenon, here is an outline: This phenomenon relates to the situation where a patient experiences cardiac death but is consequently resuscitated. The patient upon regaining their senses is able to render a vivid recollection of experiences occurring during the unconscious interval. At this stage, it is necessary to qualify or redefine/redeem what has been stated in the previous sentences. Thus, the patient is obviously not dead. These cases describe an event where the patient's heart has stopped beating however, generally through medical intervention, the heart is reactivated, and the patient is saved from certain and ultimate brain death. Clinical death is said to occur when the brain dies, this occurs about eight minutes post cardiac arrest and is a consequence of oxygen deprivation. Once this occurs there has been no documented revival, regardless of what you may read in the Bible. NDEs, when they occur, generally have a vivid, profound quality about them and there appears a remarkable degree of consistency in certain aspects of the experience that transcends culture and religious affiliation. Thus, a common feature involves a bright white light, often associated with a tunnel. In addition, those afflicted oft describe the appearance of a significant religious character relevant to their religious background. Thus, a Christian may encounter Jesus, while a Hindu may have a predilection for Shiva. They may also experience the manifestation of deceased loved ones and/or a reiteration of their life in vivid but truncated form. Sometimes, patients describe an out-of-body experience. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">All this is compelling stuff and for some patient's life-changing. Committed atheists have turned to Christianity after an encounter with the living Christ and so on. So, what is actually going on? Are dying patients actually peeking behind the veil separating life and death? Are they actually obtaining a glimpse of the afterlife, or is something else going on?</span></div><p>First off, I must state the obvious. In all these instances we are dealing with a brain deprived of oxygen. And before we start looking for supernatural explanations for this phenomenon, it is well worth seeking a naturalistic explanation, devoid of hocus pocus and wand waving. As in all cases where the solution is not obvious, let us apply the rule of parsimony (Occam's razor), and let us not posit beyond what is necessary. Tis often the case that the simplest solution is the most plausible without a need for a gaudy display and descent into silliness. An abundance, nay a plethora of explanations, is not the rational man's friend. So, having stated the problem, let us delve into this most perplexing conundrum without descending into irrational bollocks.</p><p><span><b><span style="font-size: medium;">A Bit of Science </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">(with emphasis on the bit)</span></b></span></p><p>It is important to note that personal testament is essentially poor evidence and is certainly non-scientific. Anecdotal reports are not verifiable data and therefore should be dealt with scant regard. A study into the phenomenon of NDEs consisting of 197 cardiac arrest patients found that only 9% of patients had an experience that could be classified as an NDE. Interestingly, Dr. Olaf Blanke of the University Hospital of Geneva (remember him?) was able to reproduce the classical NDE experience in experimental subjects by inserting probes into their cortex. In addition, it has been noted that fighter pilots whilst undergoing training in G force-inducing centrifuges, may on occasion be subject to an NDE- this is due to hypoxia impinging upon the brain under these extreme conditions. </p><p>So, in conclusion, currently, we have no evidence that withstands scientific scrutiny of NDEs somehow providing a preview of the 'afterlife'. Proponents who are convinced that NDEs are a foreboding, furtive glance unto the infinite will continue believing so. However, we have no data, to date, that is supportive of their conclusion. Some folk will believe regardless, because they want to even in the absence of supportive data. From my perspective, I find no evidence to support any form of life's continuance once we are pronounced brain dead. Therefore, take pleasure in our brief sojourn on this bittersweet journey that is 'life'. Enjoy, quaff deep, read well, and make love. Converse with the wise and eschew the fool. All else is but commentary, clutter, and noise. Arse.</p><p> .</p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-1827826993598773972023-09-07T21:25:00.000+12:002023-09-07T21:25:11.814+12:00O Shit There's Two Of Them!<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBiQarAlQ9seYedo735tMluXERAX3rE2G81fL0ZniOYV8a4-KlQTy8dkiHfD8iB9UZuyngiILgVlTNXz7jYS7P_9yrg8488y10IKvdSWd2cjA-FHAQgLGt_ZEehadmOJKdtBwQI_-EK52DW1pVe3y2aluh7ObKKJTQ-xmtIr3ASb7jtYs9aHxfl0PpovU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1500" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBiQarAlQ9seYedo735tMluXERAX3rE2G81fL0ZniOYV8a4-KlQTy8dkiHfD8iB9UZuyngiILgVlTNXz7jYS7P_9yrg8488y10IKvdSWd2cjA-FHAQgLGt_ZEehadmOJKdtBwQI_-EK52DW1pVe3y2aluh7ObKKJTQ-xmtIr3ASb7jtYs9aHxfl0PpovU=w560-h420" width="560" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Sadly, They Both Escaped from Toyland</span></b></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Time for a bit of titillation for the senses and time off from my usual bollocks. First off, I must apologise to my non-UK readers, as this post will make no sense at all. Anyway, I was browsing the omniscient/omnipresent app, YouTube when I espied a video that captivated my interest. I'm sure my readers are well aware of this video platform. Like most stuff on the netty, the content of YouTube is not worth a view. That said there are nuggets of gold if you are prepared to dig. The video to which I'm referring is not a golden feast/fest for the optic organs. Nevertheless, it did capture my jaded attention.</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;">The subject of the video concerned the life of two British 'comedians', Mike and Bernie Winters. The brothers were born in 1926 and 1930 respectively to working-class Jewish parents, in London. From an early age, they became interested in the 'Performing Arse' (surely sum mistake?). Sadly, they decided to form a comedy duo and during the 1950s they managed to obtain exposure on the new-fangled tele thingy. Alas, they became a feature on the tele throughout the 1960s and well up into the 70s. At that stage, the brothers had a falling out, and the less 'funny' one of the pair fucked off to the US leaving behind the goofy one. Said goofy one then managed to 'star' in a tele show costarring with a large dog. This televisual debacle lasted but two years.</p><p><span><span>The video droned on for eight minutes and was narrated by a gentleman with a mid-Western American accent. The video praised the duo for their long and </span></span>(un?) funny career and interspersed within the video there were relevant photos and video clips. The narrator gushed about how the pair was iconic and beloved by the British audience. This is not how I remember the double act - they were even less funny than others of their ilk. Remember, 'Little and Large' and 'Cannon and Ball'? </p><p><span><span>Unfortunately, I grew up in an age when these two unfunny prats minced upon the screen and after viewing this misleading video, I felt an urgent need to comment. Here goes: <b>'Absolutely awful. Useless pair of old hacks. Hackneyed unfunny routines. How they managed to become mainstream is an enigma wrapped in a puzzle. A drain on legitimate humor everywhere'. </b></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I decided to check other comments placed on this very video. Here are a few snippets:</span></p><p><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>'There was a joke doing the rounds, years ago.... Which were the two worst winters of the past 50 years?' Ans....Mike and Bernie....they were about as funny as toothache.'</b></span></p><p><b><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; white-space-collapse: preserve;">'You cannot have the word comedy associated with these two. Out of 10 for comedy, they would be the only duo to get a minus score. They were awful.'</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></b></p><p><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>'I remember Mike & Bernie Winters. The lobotomy didn't help erase the memories.'</b></span></p><p><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>'I never understood how they got on TV there was nothing funny going on - ever.'</b></span></p><p><b><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #0f0f0f; white-space-collapse: preserve;">'As funny as cholera!'</span> </b></p><p><span>And</span> so, it goes on in a similar vein. As said it was inexplicable to why they were such a success. And then it came to me in a flash. They were good mates of Lew Grade. Nuff said..........</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">After this touch of whimsy, I promise to put forth material with a little more substance and dare I say it, gravitas. Watch this space (cadet?). </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Arse</span><span style="font-size: medium;">.</span></b></p><p> </p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-11577580376465205602023-08-30T15:53:00.001+12:002023-08-30T19:40:19.060+12:00Lacey Doolittle Does a Bit of Investigating<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjX2BuY-vLhs6jiJLuhYJm97Ij3ABSq64XJP9V_DCs3GjMXtre-FCJf_8VrHKMAiUVsCtNY4fD6CKvxxvTYz4rzgSrTK-GnQGzJGgsiA6jo8MwrxzPHPszasavZFCBoysn7erywdw-xw5ggFYwQ8h-phJI9bGXtszjyrGMCXsXZopESvse5PvihZcRx_f0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="306" data-original-width="204" height="521" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjX2BuY-vLhs6jiJLuhYJm97Ij3ABSq64XJP9V_DCs3GjMXtre-FCJf_8VrHKMAiUVsCtNY4fD6CKvxxvTYz4rzgSrTK-GnQGzJGgsiA6jo8MwrxzPHPszasavZFCBoysn7erywdw-xw5ggFYwQ8h-phJI9bGXtszjyrGMCXsXZopESvse5PvihZcRx_f0=w348-h521" width="348" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: medium;">"Something should be done"</span></b></i></div><p></p><p>There is a series on UK tele where a rather pretty redhead lass does a bit of investigating about a variety of gnarly topics. Our flame-headed temptress, er I mean journalist, lopes across the world looking for stories of injustice that cast a dim shimmering light upon society and human nature. First off, I confess I don't watch the 'show'. Little Racey wears way too much clothing to entice a sad old fart with a mild 'Red Head' complex. However, Mrs. Flaxen is an avid fan. On occasion she regales me with the latest topic under scrutiny while I try to look interested and, at the same time, make a valiant attempt to shuffle orf to my beloved barn containing a well-stocked beer fridge. Anyway, one conversation struck a chord with my penchant for the moribund state of humanity, and in this instance, I actually listened to Mrs. Saxon's generally inane babblings. Apparently, Pasty had crossed to the US to 'investigate' a particularly unpleasant circumstance of innocent folk getting caught up in the crossfire between rival gangs. I forget the name of the city under investigation; however, you can tick off from the following list according to your personal want: Detroit; Chicago; Philidelphia; Oakland; Los Angeles; etc., etc..... The problem: Gang members going about their usual nefarious activities often bump into rival gang members. Instead of exchanging friendly 'how de dos' they instead shoot at each other with no regard for accuracy. So bad is the marksmanship that they have a tendency to shoot casual passerby folk going about their own ignoble business. </p><p>Vapid, then goes on to interview families affected by this gang-fueled phenomenon as well as community leaders, various. The upshot: Everyone interviewed agrees that something needs to be done. Intrepid Tracey looks at the camera and says: <i><b>"Something needs to be done to stop these senseless shootings''</b></i>. Then the director shouts that's a rap and the whole production team, including Dacey, bugger off to an out-of-suburb '<b>Arsefucks' </b>for large frapparunis all around.</p><p>On pertinent reflection, it seems to me that there are a number of simple solutions to this mindless violence. Here are Flaxen Saxon's well-considered solutions to this most profound problem.</p><p><b>Number 1.</b></p><p>At the heart of the problem lies the woeful lack of shooting acumen of the protagonists involved. The lack of marksmanship cannot be ascribed to congenital defects. The gangsters are invariably 'swart folk' and it is well known, at least for those that can see, that our brown/black brethren are endowed with impeccable vision. In contrast, Japanese snipers are inherently myopic. Even with thick pebble glasses Japanese snipers are painfully inadequate for the task at hand. After stating these indelible facts, the solution is obviously manifest. I humbly suggest that the various protagonists receive training in the gentle art of marksmanship officially sanctioned and paid for by the requisite local government agency. Within short order, hordes of violent coloured folk will have attained full proficiency in the use of small arms. From now on, and henceforth, during an exchange of gunplay, the greater accuracy afforded by the aforementioned impeccable, nay dedicated, training will pay dividends, and the gangster-to-innocent bystander 'kill' quotient will fall to socially acceptable levels. Arse bucket, akimbo!</p><p><b>Number 2.</b></p><p>In this scenario, 'salted' ammunition will be willfully and with forethought leaked upon the black market. This ammunition will look like normal handgun ammunition, and in appearance be indistinguishable. However, on discharge, the bullets will explode thus denying the shooter of several of his digits. It is hoped, that over time, said 'shooters' will desist from their villainous activities. </p><p><b>Number 3.</b></p><p>Admittedly, this proposed solution is highly controversial. I envisage that the municipal authorities reverse the policy of defunding law enforcement and increase spending to secure a surfeit of officers. Thus endowed, the local police department will have sufficient staff and powers to enforce law and order. Local miscreants, if found engaging in antisocial behaviour will be shot, out of hand and the survivors will be swept from the streets and incarcerated for a goodly time.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">What do my readers think? </span></b><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-90215449816554663632023-08-18T23:44:00.000+12:002023-08-18T23:44:39.493+12:00Mathematical Infalibility<p style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoi3eQlSxG0vBc9dz_Io-Qnbn8BISMAguNPFgPW3Y1JIGeaEbAYk4vmfFZRJgdl_BDLhgmOHLkuIqUXdT6D7usgQds77Xmq-Pomaga3zRFSr0GobahP6f3zbp5KEr9Jwciaekzt8BG0JX5RDfoyG4lYXDbhwbUDAS6VDOu__jdvubc5bXaJxhYyYRXQOQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="244" data-original-width="326" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgoi3eQlSxG0vBc9dz_Io-Qnbn8BISMAguNPFgPW3Y1JIGeaEbAYk4vmfFZRJgdl_BDLhgmOHLkuIqUXdT6D7usgQds77Xmq-Pomaga3zRFSr0GobahP6f3zbp5KEr9Jwciaekzt8BG0JX5RDfoyG4lYXDbhwbUDAS6VDOu__jdvubc5bXaJxhYyYRXQOQ=w497-h372" width="497" /></a></b></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">What a Naughty Boy</span></b></div></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Is there anything more beautiful than a well-crafted mathematical proof? If you answer yes to this question, you are indeed a very sad and troubled soul. </span></b></p><p>On occasion, I have posted with regard to mathematical topics and concepts. My own level of comprehension of the subject is limited, although I do have an honest interest. My peak of mathematical knowledge occurred during my first year of University when I undertook and passed a foundation course in calculus. Recently, I was reorganising my study and came across my old notes on the course. A wave of nostalgia overcame me, and I decided to flick through the pages full of calculus notation. I confess none of what I had written was intelligible to me. I had understood the mathematics at the time, but after the passage of 45 years, the symbols and the concepts were complete gibberish. I digress..... </p><p>At the beginning of the 20th century, two eminent intellectuals came together to formulate a logical footing for mathematics: Bertrand Russell (for it was he) was primarily a logician, while his associate, Alfred North Whitehead, was an established academic and mathematician.</p><p>There was a time, sometime in the 19th century when haughty mathematicians proposed that mathematics was applicable to all human endeavour. But not only to endeavour but also to the inner workings of the human psyche- a bold thesis indeed. It was honestly conceived that mathematical theory had a role in the understanding of music (beyond harmony), theology, philosophy, ethics, and, god forbid, meteorology. Now we know better, apart from meteorology. </p><p>After 4,500 years of development, mathematics evolved into a myriad of systems. Here are just a few, in no particular order: arithmetic; geometry; calculus; set theory; non-Euclidean geometry and algebra. These represent the most important branches of mathematics, but there are many others. Indeed, today, founding a new mathematical system remains the province of math. PhD students. These systems, once acknowledged by doctoral review professors, are promptly forgotten. It needs to be admitted that most of what we call mathematics has no discernible practical value but nevertheless remains an intellectual monument formulated by very clever people and only understood by a very select group of very clever people. </p><p>Our Heroes (c1900) were perplexed that the 'so-called edifice' of mathematics was but a ramshackle affair built up over centuries upon shifting sands. Each 'advance' had been erected upon systems where the premises were taken as unequivocally true. For how long could this continue before it was discovered that a core tenet of a pivotal system was found to be false. In such a scenario, the whole of mathematics subsequent to the error would come tumbling down. At a stroke, the life's work of sages, current and past, would lie crushed to gather dust and scorn of the ages.</p><p>My reader may look askance at the previous paragraph and gape with wonder: surely we have learned that of all the sciences, mathematics is the only subject, along with logical deduction, that provides the means for the generation of true and absolute knowledge. Certainly, this is the case if all the premises in the line of mathematical deduction remain solid and true, that said, if an error is introduced into the chain of reasoning, then what follows is mere ferret shit on a stick. They decided that the best approach was to utilise the principles embodied in formal logic. From a given set of sparse logical axioms that are irrefutable, it should be possible to establish all mathematics on sound principles. If the preceding premises are true, and by maintaining logical rigour, what follows should also be true and irrefutable. A noble course/cause, no doubt. </p><p>It was with this problem in mind that Russell and the other fella decided to undertake the daunting intellectual process of providing a firm base from which to build all of mathematics. Twas a bold endeavour, nay adventure. They were about to embark on an intellectual journey full of hardship and drama, both personal and intellectual. Initially, it was thought that the project would take a year; however, the task would take a decade to attain fruition. And even then, they had doubts about whether the work was actually complete. What followed became the <b>'Principia Mathematica' </b>eventually published in three volumes (1910, 1912 and 1913). I direct my readers to look up said tomes and inwardly digest. And therein lies the problem. Even folk well-versed in logical nomenclature will struggle to follow the reasoning of these two great men. When it came to publishing this seminal work, Russell <i>et al.</i> quickly found out that no publisher was forthcoming. In fairness, the books were never going to be best sellers. Thus, Russell and Whitehead had no recourse but to self-publish. It has been hypothesised that at the time of release, only six individuals read the three volumes from beginning to end; it was never going to be an easy read. So now, after such immense intellectual attainment, the authors could bathe in the self-satisfaction that can only come from pure cerebral achievement- and there was also the adulation from fellow savants. Let's not forget that within the sacrosanct pages of the first volume of Principia, it had been proved absolutely, nay conclusively, that 1 + 1 = 2; it only took 362 pages. And then, along came the German mathematician Kurt Godel.</p><p>In 1930, Godel published his <b>'Incompleteness Theorem'</b>. In essence, Godel completely undermined the logical reasoning used by Russell and North Whitehead, and Russell was plunged into a deep depression. It seemed his years of concentrated work had been in vain. Godel's theorem is highly technical, complex and specialised and completely outside my understanding. However, in layman's terms, it appears that there can be no axiomatic form of arithmetic that achieves both consistency and completeness. Even the so-far infallible logic inherent in the axiomatic-deductive method proved to be flawed. Did 1 + 1 really = 2? The genius, Ludwig Wittgenstein, suggested a return to commonsense reality. But most mathematicians thought that this was going too far.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">O, the calamity/humanity! Mathematics has never really recovered from this 'basic truth' - go ask the man in the street. </span></b></p><p> </p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-48989764717151387042023-08-04T11:22:00.001+12:002023-08-04T19:48:01.225+12:00The Wisdom of the Ages/Sages....<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGLxaqN5z1MtBqixu9H12ZFUNNlT0UUMR-indOn9jYCDO5au-zZ6S9_tb7XJWWH3fHHL1DphQYVR6Zen1Jpcp1Q3kKOW7TelifpG6EHC57rEyo1W800AAppHyqJxQPGPSG5r0FyNqZ-5CnRlI4wsk_oW02ZtG3HLTtoU0gxPH4T3Ne2qtLiF3b0NbQH30" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="388" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGLxaqN5z1MtBqixu9H12ZFUNNlT0UUMR-indOn9jYCDO5au-zZ6S9_tb7XJWWH3fHHL1DphQYVR6Zen1Jpcp1Q3kKOW7TelifpG6EHC57rEyo1W800AAppHyqJxQPGPSG5r0FyNqZ-5CnRlI4wsk_oW02ZtG3HLTtoU0gxPH4T3Ne2qtLiF3b0NbQH30=w503-h303" width="503" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Whilst contemplating my life over a pint of <b>'Ol HMS Plop Plop, the Third'</b>, a fine ale brewed locally in the trendy micro-brewing district of the Royal Municipal town of Tipton, I espied the approach of a young man intent on gaining my attention. He hovered tentatively within my orbit and asked if he could buy me a drink. I regarded my innocuous assailant with a steely blue eye. The other eye wandered upon the well-appointed frame of the hostelry's serving wench with frank approval- I digress. I scanned the expansive/expensive drink menu and finely decided to sample a pint of<b> 'Ol Fanny Fart, Legs Akimbo'</b>. Allegedly, a brew of boundless fruity proportions. My newly acquainted imbibing associate ambled off to the walnut-appointed bar to obtain our beverages, thus, providing a natural hiatus to the unfolding proceedings.</p><p>On return, my guest, after taking a halting drink of his ale- <b>'Ol Knee Wobbler, Wokey Pokey',</b> ejaculated accordingly: <i>"O wise Flaxen, a man of renown throughout the black country, a man gifted with rare prescience and sagacity. I seek to tap the wisdom that courses through your veins, like a ferret in a drain pipe, and wallow and absorb/adsorb your perspicacity. Tell me, wise one, what are the fundamental secrets to living the best life. Flaxen, I beseech you'' </i>My visage became misty as I entered an ethanol-fueled reverie........ What follows is a phantasm of a mind, a figment of a scarcely and rarely divined consciousness.</p><p>The Rules of Life as Related by the Flaxen-Haired One. Please note: what follows is in no particular order of importance and is from the perspective of a heterosexual male.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Be born between 1955 and 1961 </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Be white and aesthetically pleasing to the beholder </span></b><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Born in a Western country </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A recipient of inherited wealth </span></b><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Be tall </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Be kind to animals<i> </i></span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Treat folk with courtesy and respect unless they show you otherwise </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Be smart </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Own a ferret and name it Shagger <i> </i> </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Everything is fleeting </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Fret not about those things you can't change </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Enjoy all the fruits that the senses demand </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Obtain an education according to your want</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Escew religion in all its guises</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Have no more friends than fingers on your left hand after a chainsaw accident</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Have no truck with politics and politicians </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Associate not with fools (see above)</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Be content; happiness is fleeting</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Try everything once except incest and country dancing</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Imbibe deeply but never appear drunk</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Induction is supreme</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Use sanity sparingly</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Do not posit above what is necessary</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Without evidence, you have nothing </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Morality is subjective except for the 'Golden Rule.'</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Strength through pain</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Marry wise, if not at all</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Enjoy solitude </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Be bereft of neighbours</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Love mathematics</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Pyrophillia is not arson</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Thirst for knowledge</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Take heed of smart folk</span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">From wealth comes leisure for contemplation. </span></b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Do not add sugar to homemade pickles</span></b></p><p><i>"The above is mere commentary. Go forth and live a life worthwhile."</i> My guest recoiled and said: <i>"Sir, this is undoubtedly stern counsel and sound advice as far as it goes. But where is a consideration of the inner psyche, the very soul of man. How am I to find inner peace". </i>I drank deeply of my ale and responded thusly:<i> "Attend to what I have said, and what you seek will follow. I have no more to say". </i></p>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745817778350624453.post-62583380722080774592023-07-25T23:00:00.000+12:002023-07-25T23:00:16.211+12:00"Someday my fat gendered THEM will come"<p><br /></p><p>Most Hollywood productions seem to have gone woke these days with inevitable consequences. We see the debacle that is the latest addition to the Indiana Jones franchise (Dial of Destiny). Typical woke agenda peddled with a pedestrian, addled, befuddled, aged, incompetent Prof Jones being outsmarted by a sassy, smart, strong independent woman. With total production costs reckoned at a smooth $400 million and total box office returns predicted, as of date, to be around $310 million, the film is unlikely to turn a profit. But it gets much worse from a financial standpoint. For the film to enter the true 'profit zone', the production company, Lucas Films, needs to turn in box office receipts in excess of $600 million. This is due to all the subsidiary costs of filmmaking, such as marketing and advertising, etc. </p><p>While I'm mid-rant, why not throw in a couple other cinematic disasters. Disney appears to revel in altering classic, timeless stories for the sake of inclusivity and the promulgation of diversity. Thus it has been revealed that the redoing of the Disney masterpiece, '<b>Snow White and the Seven Dwarves'</b> from 1937, is to feature a brown-visaged Hispanic actress (Hola!) and a coterie of associated mystical forest denizens (wot no Dwarves?). In fact, the new title of the extravaganza is just '<b>Snow White'</b>, and although the production is still a year away, a leaked photo illustrates the characters involved in the screenplay. To be fair, there does appear to be one dwarf lurking among the forest critters. The other companions fulfil the gamut expected from the 'Diversity Checklist'. As they say, a picture paints a thousand words: see below. I would like to suggest an alternative title for this extravaganza:<b> 'Off White and the Seven Gypos'</b>. Apparently, the producers are running free and wild with this classic 19th-century German tale, and our intrepid/tepid heroine will not be saved by a handsome prince this time.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5TiyLp_0ktP4AJVeXUupIcy__tnOnoHuFv3n8kdANWoP94N445Bo46hlKK-CGuvORrLABnSSxEDuw8hqALkS4GUN7mKWtZLcti8N0OLAFn72ppeWy9kr4JwL0g_j9-BKv9UwmJGU22mnjMygNnVt1iglycje-DeaKXtcjDLrJ2aJpOrLCDgBErGeC2qU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="227" data-original-width="430" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5TiyLp_0ktP4AJVeXUupIcy__tnOnoHuFv3n8kdANWoP94N445Bo46hlKK-CGuvORrLABnSSxEDuw8hqALkS4GUN7mKWtZLcti8N0OLAFn72ppeWy9kr4JwL0g_j9-BKv9UwmJGU22mnjMygNnVt1iglycje-DeaKXtcjDLrJ2aJpOrLCDgBErGeC2qU=w570-h301" width="570" /></a></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Shit on a fucking Stick </span></b></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>"Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's off to a Safe Place We Go"</b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>And to conclude. <b>The 'Little Mermaid' </b>film of 2023 is shite, but it does have the saving grace of sporting a black Ariel. Here is my rendition of a mermaid-themed story, as related by a renowned West Midland journalist with a silly name.<div><br /></div><div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;">Breaking news from the beautiful and majestic spa town of Tipton West, incorporating North Dudley and the environs thereabout. This reporter can conclusively report a confirmed sighting of the legendary aquatic mammal, ‘The Mermaid', frolicking in the Tipton canal at closing time. Mr Eli Mugumbo (who else?) relates the story with habitual poise: <i>I had just left the ‘Felching Ferret’ hostelry after a particularly heavy session of imbibing alcoholic beverages. On this particular occasion, I had consumed 15 pints of Tipton Best bitter, 12 malt whiskies, sweet sherry and a magnum of baby sham. As I lurched down the towpath of the Tipton canal, wending my way home precariously after imbibing large amounts of alcoholic beverages which comprised………I digress. Although the light was poor and my vision befouled and bespeckled, I discerned out of the corner of my good eye a splishing and a splashing emanating from the said canal. On further inspection, I distinctly saw a mermaid reclining on a partly submerged fiat uno. It had the lower body of a fish and the upper body of a ferret </i>(surely some mistake)<i>. As I approached, it transfixed my visage with steely blue eyes and rasped. “Fancy a good time, sailor?” Although taken aback, I recovered my composure and retorted with fortitude born of extreme inebriation: “Yer my bessie mate, I love ya, can ya lend me 20 quid for a case of Special Brew Extra, burrrrrrrrp". </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i> Afterwards, as if in a dream, I distinctly remember being assailed by a large dorsal flipper which robbed me of my sensibility, and I fell arse (arse) akimbo into the broiling morass. I wrestled with the watery fiend fighting for my life. Luckily at that very moment, I emitted a vast fart, and the bubbles engendered propelled me forthwith upon the very towpath I had recently vacated, nay relinquished.</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="font-size: medium; mso-spacerun: yes;"><b><i> </i>Although later, the rubicund and abashed Mr Mugumbo stated that he may have tripped over a dead itinerant, and the flipping flipper may have been a figment of his frenzied imagination. After all, at the time, he was as pissed as a Rhino's arse (Arssssssssse. arse).</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIaOpN9QhSgbTixnIVdfQQurDvrTZOyR6XSX5d_B9eJTjaGsrvctxivCVbWC95al4tDRyqymg0GlxkljQZjYIPQuHB9l0uUYgQeORE0QB4uXZrJ00-skqMgcwu5pBelLJTKR3wO0fS5xW0cF0XqjGpm3YmZbUQ0C5TAbOWQFJEbcHAilS-Pa4rVbE0pxY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="331" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIaOpN9QhSgbTixnIVdfQQurDvrTZOyR6XSX5d_B9eJTjaGsrvctxivCVbWC95al4tDRyqymg0GlxkljQZjYIPQuHB9l0uUYgQeORE0QB4uXZrJ00-skqMgcwu5pBelLJTKR3wO0fS5xW0cF0XqjGpm3YmZbUQ0C5TAbOWQFJEbcHAilS-Pa4rVbE0pxY=w435-h326" width="435" /></a></div><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Piss Artists Impression of the Watery Tart</span></b><br /><br /></span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: medium; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><b>Afterwards, whilst encapsulated in a brief moment of sobriety, Mr Mugumbo admitted that he might have seen half a bloater cunningly nailed to a rusty perambulator.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU;"><span lang="EN-AU" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; text-align: center;"><span><strong>Are merferrets a product of our atavistic and overwrought imagination? A mere fevered wraith of fancy. Or are there creatures lurking in our canals (dead tramps excepted) unknown to science waiting to be flung flapping into the light of day by brave and intrepid researchers, boldly ferreting (steady Shagger) into the dark, dank, slimy, ordure at the bottom of the recesses of our………. (Arse).</strong> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-align: center;"> </span></span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Flaxen Saxonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03431645401478120921noreply@blogger.com2