tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45980666922682351412024-03-13T23:35:59.421-07:00don-whitehotelA mix of journal, reflections, work in progress, e.g. poems, rants and personal photos.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.comBlogger109125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-34694991914166274182012-10-26T06:35:00.001-07:002012-10-26T06:39:15.313-07:00New Book Out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3YUc-0MmdrR8s2JGeNo8KsUFsuFKs1pXyNDcXK0Z3STrcPhCjSWo7dw2KTu7OWMKNHfqoPA4viM3qo8S_9AET11oskrjzRfPA_NbiIRPuvjsAAwkRsKWItIEBgleyFjjBfNLkf9QdBnuQ/s1600/dstk4994.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" oea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3YUc-0MmdrR8s2JGeNo8KsUFsuFKs1pXyNDcXK0Z3STrcPhCjSWo7dw2KTu7OWMKNHfqoPA4viM3qo8S_9AET11oskrjzRfPA_NbiIRPuvjsAAwkRsKWItIEBgleyFjjBfNLkf9QdBnuQ/s320/dstk4994.jpg" width="142" /></a></div>
I have just published a verse novel called <em>Vintage Ghosts </em>(Francis Boutle publishers, London). It relates the experience of a group of (mostly) old men who regularly look at and write to a website full of vintage images like the one depicted. They yearn for the glamour and innocent eroticism of their youth. It's highly entertaining. At least, it entertained me!donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-7380789400853251292012-07-05T16:32:00.003-07:002012-07-05T16:45:43.550-07:00New Particle Discovered!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwGCYp4J4HglOdvJ7Z8Z0zEkziyyzk2GdaqEKQQ_Y4S2fZTnJhPsL_uDjIQDsWRvgqEOCr73v7pGFJm7nZ5Y4MwEEBcGof1eDVKOXXHBfCd2wNZbkTQcPVkIps0sDcMLXuBady7inTjW9M/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwGCYp4J4HglOdvJ7Z8Z0zEkziyyzk2GdaqEKQQ_Y4S2fZTnJhPsL_uDjIQDsWRvgqEOCr73v7pGFJm7nZ5Y4MwEEBcGof1eDVKOXXHBfCd2wNZbkTQcPVkIps0sDcMLXuBady7inTjW9M/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
Prof. Higgs Boson today announced the amazing discovery of a new particle entirely without mass and with pointless energy, the Tonyblur.<br />
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<br />donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-74715274494883411232012-07-05T09:35:00.001-07:002012-07-05T09:35:41.093-07:00SKYPEWhile I'm useless with new technology, I do find I enjoy skyping with congenial people. If you fancy skyping me, contact me at <a href="mailto:dmthomas@btconnect.com">dmthomas@btconnect.com</a>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-52084298945339484772010-05-27T08:00:00.000-07:002010-05-27T08:00:30.959-07:00don-whitehotel: Flight and Smoke<a href="http://don-whitehotel.blogspot.com/2010/05/flight-and-smoke.html">don-whitehotel: Flight and Smoke</a>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-67266877254077639312010-05-27T07:56:00.000-07:002010-05-27T08:00:03.435-07:00Flight and SmokeFrancis Boutle publishers has just brought out my new verse collection <em>Flight and Smoke</em>, previously available only in a signed/limited edition. Price £7.99. Dirt cheap!<br /><a href="http://www.francisboutle.co.uk/">http://www.francisboutle.co.uk/</a>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-16561544860148895512010-04-22T09:39:00.000-07:002010-04-22T09:41:16.863-07:00First LightI’d whooping cough, so I was told,<br />at six weeks, or more likely six months, old;<br /><br />and I recall as though it were today<br />what must have been a fierce cough racking me<br /><br />although I seem outside my own distress<br />till I can breathe again. Primal, it’s less<br /><br />a memory than something I still feel,<br />as real as now is. There’s a woman’s pale<br /><br />face looking on, upset: I’m sure, my aunt’s;<br />and I am being held, although I can’t<br /><br />feel mother’s arms: I seem to float<br />mid-air. It’s murky, from my sight<br /><br />being still weak, I suppose; but I’m aware<br />of the pale face, and larger paleness where<br /><br />I’ll later know one looks out at a carn.<br />This is where I was for an instant born<br /><br />into myself, a being in the world,<br />and I don’t feel the cough, nor being held,<br /><br />but love I see and feel. Including light.<br />And both seem known to me, and infinite.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-49800153361236148492010-03-23T07:22:00.000-07:002010-03-23T07:34:08.949-07:00from Russia with love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkayu9IhOPNjxkpdUS52yJfBBmH1P3k8ZcX_3kZZLYaBbqS5COf5-DNvNk15I6WV3CaCZTn8Bt7iXAk9vsRUzXj-wKOBvDZovwYxwmut1QZmCaeTjXnj6TeLkXpaDea8Oy0-1aD0G_Tsn/s1600-h/Russia+038.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451837311397745394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkayu9IhOPNjxkpdUS52yJfBBmH1P3k8ZcX_3kZZLYaBbqS5COf5-DNvNk15I6WV3CaCZTn8Bt7iXAk9vsRUzXj-wKOBvDZovwYxwmut1QZmCaeTjXnj6TeLkXpaDea8Oy0-1aD0G_Tsn/s320/Russia+038.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOsl8Z6jQPEgq9d8YA24BpKhZFqiHn57ZzQtDbHXj1v-BOEn1zOQEzGdvw0UFT6ZmsuroLxv4Ah0wlMTRhNryl9QI0HDyjXTzyRvk065XLio2aCXGYIn9FByGjY5Efe_-taSNsH50AING/s1600-h/Russ.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451836595025028850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOsl8Z6jQPEgq9d8YA24BpKhZFqiHn57ZzQtDbHXj1v-BOEn1zOQEzGdvw0UFT6ZmsuroLxv4Ah0wlMTRhNryl9QI0HDyjXTzyRvk065XLio2aCXGYIn9FByGjY5Efe_-taSNsH50AING/s320/Russ.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>In Russia</em><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><div>I notice that it's a full year since I wrote here. The main cause is Russia. In June, Angela and I took a cruise from Moscow to Petersburg, and it re-invigorated all my love for Russian culture, history and literature. When we came back I plunged into writing a long poem, <em>The Russia Train</em>, and when I'd laid that aside for a few months --since I was too close to it to be able to look at it critically-- I started translating Pushkin's 'Eugene Onegin'. I've finished that now, and I can draw breath. And hopefully write here from time to time.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>I had a wonderful birthday present in January from Angela, a new website. It's at <a href="http://www.dmthomasonline.net/">http://www.dmthomasonline.net/</a>.</div><br /><br /><div></div></div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-31296036290859238712009-04-29T04:21:00.000-07:002009-04-29T04:42:02.629-07:00a wronged lady's response<em>Sonnet LXI: Since There's No Help</em><br /><br />Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part,<br />Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,<br />And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,<br />That thus so cleanly I myself can free.<br />Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,<br />And when we meet at any time again<br />Be it not seen in either of our brows<br />That we one jot of former love retain.<br />Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,<br />When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,<br />When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,<br />And Innocence is closing up his eyes,<br />Now, if thou wouldst, when all have giv'n him over,<br />From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.<br /><br />Michael Drayton (1563 - 1631)<br /><br /><br /><strong>Since there’s no help</strong><br /><br />(<em>after Michael Drayton</em>)<br /><br />‘Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part’?<br />Tosser, don’t think you can fuck with me.<br />You want to show your groupies I've no heart;<br />--that’s if it’s even your poem; it’s not in free<br />verse; you’re dead ignorant about metre. Vows!<br />You can't be true for one day; time and again<br />you’ve emailed <em>her</em>, only pretending to browse<br />for bondage stuff -- I found your password, cuntain,<br />in your diary. So you can save your breath--<br />I have them all. You’re right, we’re done. Your lies<br />and alibis bore me to fucking death…<br />O, piss off! You can’t even look me in the eyes.<br />I’ll forward everyone all your filth to Ava;<br />You can’t just pour me away, like cheap, flat Cava!<br /><br />DMTdonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-62560720952270228442009-04-28T06:01:00.000-07:002009-04-28T06:24:43.789-07:00a fight on two frontsA friend of mine, Anne Morgellyn, is fighting a battle on two fronts, against cancer and against incompetent NHS services. A distinguished writer and academic, she is a single parent with a highly talented daughter, Cara, a student at Christ's Hospital. Reading Anne's blog is a humbling experience, so strong is her fighting spirit and refusal to take her illness and poor NHS response to it lying down; see <a href="http://www.topicofcancer.blogspot.com/">http://www.topicofcancer.blogspot.com</a><br /><br /> I have my own memories of NHS incompetence --in my case my late wife's GP (now retired) at the same surgery in Truro. Anne praises highly the clinicians who have treated her; her complaint is against slothful, untrained receptionists, poor communication and dirty, depressing waiting rooms. If anyone has had similar bad experiences, do get in touch with her via her blog.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-34997332251067461222009-04-09T06:02:00.000-07:002009-04-09T06:06:30.763-07:00I was saying...I was saying I'm forever changing my sonnet 'Through the fens'. This is my latest version...<br /><br /> <em>Through the Fens</em><br /><br /> Hot summer, a slow train through Cambridgeshire.<br /> After one halt, a country woman sat<br /> in my double-seat. Merged almost into her,<br /> I saw, etched by her tautened dress on fat,<br /> motherly fen-wife thighs, corset suspenders,<br /> a resurrection, their chunky contours plain,<br /> immense and unashamed. The lesser splendour,<br /> Ely cathedral, slid past the dusty pane.<br /> <br /> She drowsed, we swayed; the flatlands drifted by;<br /> I ached to touch, as pilgrims drew the power<br /> of healing relics -- faint with desire<br /> to let a sideways lurch propel my hand<br /> to rest --‘I’m sorry!’ -- a moment on her thigh;<br /> and she’d be moved by it, and understand.<br /><br /><br /><em>Feel free to tell me which you prefer. Assuming you like either!<br /><br /> </em>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-60147281998424364082009-04-08T10:06:00.001-07:002009-04-08T10:12:38.267-07:00hideous bug<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuLAoTxNp2fhu8EYknXfZYuOPj-iG96bUBJSbThy64iiB5yFLSi5g77eN0vP3dFmeaFfufyKkUTNlB7CL09XlyVNqwaMYkpXDZR8sVXoOYAgeBYaRkM2iX7u2zcu0cwsVU1n9Uwd0M5pS/s1600-h/cold09_008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322369130822989554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuLAoTxNp2fhu8EYknXfZYuOPj-iG96bUBJSbThy64iiB5yFLSi5g77eN0vP3dFmeaFfufyKkUTNlB7CL09XlyVNqwaMYkpXDZR8sVXoOYAgeBYaRkM2iX7u2zcu0cwsVU1n9Uwd0M5pS/s200/cold09_008.jpg" border="0" /></a> Came back from the warmth of Madeira to be struck by a hideous bug, probably caught on the plane, which left me shivering for the rest of the day, despite copious blankets, fur hat, etc.. Only just recovering, four weeks later. Of course Angela took the charming photo.<br /><div></div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-37843898699073971632009-04-08T09:34:00.000-07:002009-04-08T09:52:23.707-07:00through the fens<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CD1elQdiYo-YYDYCDTC-elRYKSkVcbWhRaz8I0ENWCrg4_wTAxzQ4mvO3EvSYNEkPwOqCkclimIs5uhTE0hdTm8WWfjFRFOmxdotlN-wjOayW21Fmf-renvf4DE20SsS0072ORcAR_Zh/s1600-h/IMG_8746.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322364077312926722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CD1elQdiYo-YYDYCDTC-elRYKSkVcbWhRaz8I0ENWCrg4_wTAxzQ4mvO3EvSYNEkPwOqCkclimIs5uhTE0hdTm8WWfjFRFOmxdotlN-wjOayW21Fmf-renvf4DE20SsS0072ORcAR_Zh/s200/IMG_8746.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>the 'lesser splendour'</em><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div>A sleepy, stopping train through Cambridgeshire.<br />After one halt, a country woman sat<br />in my double-seat. Merged almost into her,<br />I saw, etched by her tautened dress on fat,<br />motherly fen-wife thighs, corset suspenders,<br />a resurrection, their chunky contours plain,<br />immense and unashamed. The lesser splendour,<br />Ely cathedral, slid past the dusty pane.<br /><br />She drowsed; we swayed. I felt faint with desire<br />for that archaic vision: not from lust,<br />but as awed souls stroked relics for their power<br />of healing magic. If I should just<br />allow a sideways lurch to lay my hand<br />as if by chance there, she will understand.<br /><br />-----------------------<br />An experience I had while travelling to Norfolk for a festival, sometime in the 1980's. Corsets were, of course, by then almost as archaic as farthingales. I guess the woman was about fifty, so by no means an old granny who'd never given up on her corset-wearing.<br /><br />By the way --no, I didn't. Wanted to, by God. Was she aware of my fascination? I've no idea.<br />I chose the sonnet form to concentrate it. Difficult to write; have been changing it constantly. Tried to get in St.Etheldreda, the founding abbess at Ely. When her body was disinterred her hand was found to be uncorrupted, so was worshipped as a relic. Decided she was irrelevant.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-52286464259835522992009-02-28T04:25:00.000-08:002009-02-28T05:05:45.925-08:00low, dishonest decade<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sS8Rj3dRMLI3zm4Xr5qAGPBxlM6SE85Y4mgTHe9iWIfsT4qK9LGwHZZysM7ssYrrFI3D1BDuNVImISbIK4yfjJr-3qnFps8uZPLcK3zlHHru2nfgC47yFBtDcXDM4BxDpOALki4lVaIQ/s1600-h/margaret-thatcher_-2981.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307830916122718162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 144px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sS8Rj3dRMLI3zm4Xr5qAGPBxlM6SE85Y4mgTHe9iWIfsT4qK9LGwHZZysM7ssYrrFI3D1BDuNVImISbIK4yfjJr-3qnFps8uZPLcK3zlHHru2nfgC47yFBtDcXDM4BxDpOALki4lVaIQ/s200/margaret-thatcher_-2981.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Our last PM with principles and a sense of honour<br /></em><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Auden called the 1930s a 'low dishonest decade'. It could equally apply to 2000-2010. I find it astonishing that countries in the West have even <em>discussed</em> the use of torture, let alone enacted it and/or condoned it. Torture used to be a characteristic of barbarous regimes, like Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union --one of their distinguishing features. Now we've joined the barbarians.</div><br /><div>Then, Iraq... the 'sexing up' of reasons to invade, and the criminal indifference to what might happen after. Troops ordered not to interfere as louts and criminals looted the great Baghdad Museum! </div><br /><div>The out-of-control greed of the bankers, wrecking our economy, and the politicians like Blair and Brown who encouraged them...</div><br /><div>A Home Secretary, holder of one of the four great offices of state, claiming more than £20,000 per year in 'expenses' for her 'main home' --a room in her sister's house! Because it's 'within the rules'!!</div><br /><div>The Big Brother scrutiny of us all... The abolition of rights enshrined in Magna Carta...</div><br /><div>The 'Human Rights' gravy-train for lawyers, by which deadly enemies of Britain are kept here, paid for by British taxpayers.</div><br /><br />The bland ignoring of white working-class people and what they believe and want.<br /><br /><br />The dumbing-down of culture, the insidious erosion of standards in education, the vulgarity of most TV programs.<br /><br /><br />It's all frightful and frightening.<br /><br /><br />I've been watching a couple of programs about Margaret Thatcher. She was our last honorable, and great, prime minister, brought down by pygmies. She had strong principles of liberty and patriotism, and was above all decent.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-61745764239369418062009-02-23T04:09:00.000-08:002009-02-23T04:13:41.074-08:00Images<em></em><br /><em>1907 </em><br /><br />Lenin, in London for a Congress,<br />every morning dressed quickly<br />in his Kensington Square lodgings<br />pulled on his flat cap and hurried out<br />with one thought<br />in his icecold brain, one sight<br />in his piercing Tartar eyes:<br />the stall outside<br />King’s Cross Station selling<br />his favourite fish-and-chips.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em>1949<br /></em><br />On the Kolyma River,<br />reported the Soviet journal <em>Nature</em>,<br />a ‘working party’<br />discovered a frozen stream<br />in the permafrost, containing<br />a perfectly preserved prehistoric<br />salamander. They hacked out the<br />30,000 year old fish from the ice<br />and devoured it straightaway<br />‘with relish’.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-24187110448629459552009-02-15T06:45:00.000-08:002009-02-15T15:26:09.230-08:00Lord Eastbourne<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk3capVdKb_roGB_T5zK8ePVYxHVObPt6IZbez_F8qJTEnjejK75uMbUNn2al5UwjV8TorZR6ZKrG1m2kBP-f_CmQUOWleRGoFOShwRw_jt_EMVn0Ky5go8eyXV55p2mqwdevYYm7GwKsg/s1600-h/stafford_cripps.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303069282823719122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk3capVdKb_roGB_T5zK8ePVYxHVObPt6IZbez_F8qJTEnjejK75uMbUNn2al5UwjV8TorZR6ZKrG1m2kBP-f_CmQUOWleRGoFOShwRw_jt_EMVn0Ky5go8eyXV55p2mqwdevYYm7GwKsg/s200/stafford_cripps.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWSGpBz6rbIdDfHehnbn-AMpQX2BkpAXFblox_1-CZB0vDMdDzXnTfdkMGT-XiyydKoxyESMoGxA59BSN5MyKbTN3APSkzeKbjAldX0m7CmK8hJGwstOQOOYwq1v8ULS1UfntwKRYbFS0/s1600-h/dad_at_13.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303038175340098722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 230px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWSGpBz6rbIdDfHehnbn-AMpQX2BkpAXFblox_1-CZB0vDMdDzXnTfdkMGT-XiyydKoxyESMoGxA59BSN5MyKbTN3APSkzeKbjAldX0m7CmK8hJGwstOQOOYwq1v8ULS1UfntwKRYbFS0/s320/dad_at_13.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>New Labour Life Peer Lord Eastbourne, with baby Maisie.</em></div><div><em>Above: PM Gordon Brown</em></div><div><em>(Shurly shome mistake? --ed.)</em> </div><br /><p><em></em></p><br /><p></p><div>PM Gordon Brown announced today that he has awarded a Life Peerage to teenage miracle dad Alfie Patten, who conceived child at 12. Gordon said, 'Alfie will perfectly represent the many millions enjoying our magnificent benefits culture. His parents, with 15 children between them, receive £30,000 annually from the State, without working, and now young Alfie will carry on their tradition. It may well be that their family will chalk up almost a century of state benefits --what a tribute to our Labour government! Who better than Alfie to be our "benefits spokesperson" in the Lords? In the present recession, which is of global origin, and which the UK is better placed than any other country to come out of quickly, Alfie will speak for the one thriving, but still undervalued and often inarticulate, part of our society, the yobs, chavs, hoodies, drifters, and feckless teenage mums. I am sure he will argue their case for more funds with passion.'</div><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><div>Asked whether Alfie's ignorance of what 'financially' means might be a drawback, Gorden responded, 'Quite the reverse! I and several hundred bankers thought we knew what finance meant, but we didn't. Alfie <em>knows</em> that he doesn't know. That's a huge plus. I'm appointing him as my personal financial adviser.' He added that Alfie, thanks to his state and tabloid income, would be immune to the temptation of taking bribes. </div><div><br /></div><br /><div>Alfie wished to be known as 'Lord Patten', but was unable to since there is already a Lord Patten, the fat, smug former Conservative wet. He will therefore take the name of his home town, Eastbourne. His elevation is seen as the first move by the PM to strengthen his front-bench team. </div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-56923910426801597862009-02-07T04:58:00.000-08:002009-02-07T05:14:48.996-08:00prayer gets re-instated!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAWUY55Khsp63E8AbNfCZppHzCjxwXz-yH5Sv3VxwfAqYNqI1QJo9bVGJwWwU82xYGQ1waZu2H1R3cE-d5jUoXVccxXIUxYZecfuKtYtoVc1XHi8YMoNzYsuc_q-KIttbYJvYNdPBKNKo/s1600-h/HazelBlears_006.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300041555329076722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAWUY55Khsp63E8AbNfCZppHzCjxwXz-yH5Sv3VxwfAqYNqI1QJo9bVGJwWwU82xYGQ1waZu2H1R3cE-d5jUoXVccxXIUxYZecfuKtYtoVc1XHi8YMoNzYsuc_q-KIttbYJvYNdPBKNKo/s200/HazelBlears_006.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Chirpy, intellectually gifted Hazel Smears, tipped as next PM</em><br /><br /><div></div><div>A follow up to the sad tale of the poor woman suspended without pay for offering to say a prayer for her sick patient (Feb 2 blog). She's won her appeal! (That shows how influential this blog is.)<br /><br />It turns out the patient didn't even complain! But the nurse was still adjudged to have failed to observe 'equality and diversity'! O England my England.<br /><br />Still, Hazel Smears is apparently tightening up the rules so that nurses etc. don't go around offering to pray for sick people.</div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-79705091766081776032009-02-05T09:38:00.000-08:002009-02-05T09:46:48.711-08:00bereftI'm feeling bereft today. I've finished the novel I desperately wanted to finish. Day by day, for months, even hour by hour, I've had the enjoyment, as well as frustration, of musing about it in my mind, thinking, no, that scene isn't quite right. Then, at least for now, you can think of nothing else you want to add or change, and you email it to your agent. Then you are bereaved --or at least bereft. What is there now to think about? Of course, the agent will suggest changes probably, and you can muse again; but for now --zilch. And I miss my characters; I liked them. They're like well-loved guests who have vanished.<br /><br />But you're still too full of their presence even to think about creating some new ones.<br /><br />And even the cricket, whenever I've watched it, is dull.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-3400402800032083772009-02-05T09:30:00.000-08:002009-02-05T09:34:14.194-08:00snowy house<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9X9okPu1l0CXOwVQgkcPb6c-zHIldtdn4pvnp3bCsNfN0XrBu6DyUs_yvdsK1oyzfgQe-lobG8-2DNtCGsY_zHJ-UZdk9SKlO5JUpj5YLWYDCRdZdRfrNOf6I5Jj3GKcq68kRitg3pbxj/s1600-h/Coach+House+09+008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299367895975542018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9X9okPu1l0CXOwVQgkcPb6c-zHIldtdn4pvnp3bCsNfN0XrBu6DyUs_yvdsK1oyzfgQe-lobG8-2DNtCGsY_zHJ-UZdk9SKlO5JUpj5YLWYDCRdZdRfrNOf6I5Jj3GKcq68kRitg3pbxj/s400/Coach+House+09+008.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Snow in Cornwall is quite rare, except on the moors. The snow this week provided us with a very evocative image of the Coach House.</div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-25568886258999245452009-02-03T06:02:00.000-08:002009-02-03T06:21:05.898-08:00Nurse suspended for offering a prayer!Caroline Petrie, a dedicated nurse, aged 45, has been suspended for several weeks <em>without pay</em> for asking a very sick old lady if she would like her to pray for her. The patient said 'No, thank you', and Ms Petrie said 'Okay'. But the old lady complained, and North Somerset Primary Care Trust suspended the nurse 'pending an investigation'.<br />Even corrupt police officers etc. are suspended on full pay prior to trial or investigation.<br />If I were very ill and a nurse asked me if I'd like her to pray for me, I wouldn't think that an unacceptable question. Miss Petrie is a Christian; I'd happily accept prayers from her, or indeed from a Muslim, Zoroastrian, or shaman. Couldn't do any harm!<br />How times have changed. This sounds like a combination of political correctness and fashionable militant atheism.<br />Poor Miss Petrie. I hope she's learned her lesson that it's a mistake to bring your religious faith into ministering to the sick. Don't bother with Christian love and compassion.<br />('Western Morning News', Feb 2nd.)<br /><br />The story reminded me of an anecdote told, in my youth, by a local Methodist minister. He visited a dying farmer, and after a few minutes he said, 'Shall we say a prayer together?' The dying man said, ''Ess, if thee'st a mind to.' The minister closed his eyes and began to say a prayer, but was disconcerted to hear a strange sucking noise. ' I opened my eyes, and there was maister sucking an orange'.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-20489168169082764242009-01-24T04:37:00.000-08:002009-01-24T05:02:28.893-08:00hello, world<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yMsjXhz1Qq_YdlQ3n2958k7nWrhmOCVU4Bj1cihgGCoYaRfhvd0NRPu8sCFSEiVXnNrHzdEe2HMtPQZ8uhMBjAznxRRPUYqe9T22peVw_bplctqYq22xaRlTgeBNQPr4NIfqna5fLp6p/s1600-h/_45405127_006756048-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294842826417212370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 226px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yMsjXhz1Qq_YdlQ3n2958k7nWrhmOCVU4Bj1cihgGCoYaRfhvd0NRPu8sCFSEiVXnNrHzdEe2HMtPQZ8uhMBjAznxRRPUYqe9T22peVw_bplctqYq22xaRlTgeBNQPr4NIfqna5fLp6p/s320/_45405127_006756048-1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Famous musicians asleep as they perform at Inauguration </em><br /><em><br /></em><div></div><div></div><div>Have been writing a novel, so neglecting the world as well as this blog. Now I rub my blurry eyes and catch up on some of the things that appear to have been happening.<br /><br />Someone called O'Bama has been sworn in as President of the USA, I believe. There was a splendidly politically correct quartet playing a classical piece at the inauguration. Well, they weren't actually playing, they were miming; their performance had been pre-recorded. Fear of broken strings in the cold. Well, okay; but I still think it was an odd thing to do, given Obama's stress on honesty and integrity. Robert Frost didn't pre-record his poem at JFK's Inauguration, even though he was old and his voice shaky. </div><div> </div><div>Cellist Yo-yo-Ma says, 'We were actually asleep throughout! Believe it or not, that makes it easier to fake a performance. I had a lovely sex dream. Obama's a great lover.'<br /><br />Still, the swearing-in was a great piece of vaudeville. As was Dr Strangelove in his wheelchair.<br /><br />Also, the news that we, the taxpayers, are going to give £12,000 to every family who lost someone in the Irish Troubles --including the families of terrorists. Could be, Obama will think this an excellent idea, and start paying out to the families of the 9/11 terrorists. It's barmy. It's an insult to the innocent dead.</div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-43856645799063586122008-12-14T07:49:00.000-08:002008-12-14T08:11:08.869-08:00Ireland to vote again and again!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYjDHH-KOx_FovkBaG-6AdOKteb6G7NRClvdOFqLNJdJDvCHOXfH0yJRseLGA9lCEfJtDRHgl-vsFTHcOjpfc8RcznAwWpLW15QvbfJ7HQiI3Y5TgK1k8dEg_WhIGLUG6wjgXL6ha_Yim/s1600-h/image.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279674840412301266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 162px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYjDHH-KOx_FovkBaG-6AdOKteb6G7NRClvdOFqLNJdJDvCHOXfH0yJRseLGA9lCEfJtDRHgl-vsFTHcOjpfc8RcznAwWpLW15QvbfJ7HQiI3Y5TgK1k8dEg_WhIGLUG6wjgXL6ha_Yim/s200/image.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjnGs7eUZ3R9Z6y4SfMQSpikWbY9_v6CFcL-DOVNJlfo0FslVEBFSG0EYgRFzvlT23HNmOn1U9kK1rzlmAWsJQGryp3M5ZHGy6Zn1f9znMRFC3zxS25mS9r3InoTvq4adoAcL_DIeHpt0/s1600-h/hitler460.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279674623307785378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 209px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjnGs7eUZ3R9Z6y4SfMQSpikWbY9_v6CFcL-DOVNJlfo0FslVEBFSG0EYgRFzvlT23HNmOn1U9kK1rzlmAWsJQGryp3M5ZHGy6Zn1f9znMRFC3zxS25mS9r3InoTvq4adoAcL_DIeHpt0/s320/hitler460.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Above, T-shirt Brian Coward. Below, Jose Manuel Barbarossa </em></div><div><em></em><br /><div></div><div></div><div>Irish T-shirt Brian Coward announced that Ireland will vote again on ratification of the Lisbon Treaty. As predicted exclusively in these columns after the No vote.</div><div></div><br /><div>EU President Jose Manuel Barbarossa said, 'If they want to vote again, who are we to prevent them? If they have to hold 99 referenda before they get the right democratic verdict of Yes, that's okay! This is a great day for democracy and for the EU. Those two indomitable advocates of a united Europe, Napoleon and Hitler, would be proud.' </div></div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-80255384590386361162008-12-13T05:06:00.000-08:002008-12-14T08:13:25.928-08:00R.I.P. Bettie Page<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9VgQd7hYo-Jpc4KYa-xclMjrQRgKvHBKQS2deeEPD0i2WJgSndqxwFPMN9LmddafrxDxGPGCR2NAZqQMDve2oaFlgtvQWEQwTD8exJ12oExwzXI5ZGKmVbOO3XOGEXROHmKnB17l9_oK/s1600-h/photo48.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279262215753054946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 247px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9VgQd7hYo-Jpc4KYa-xclMjrQRgKvHBKQS2deeEPD0i2WJgSndqxwFPMN9LmddafrxDxGPGCR2NAZqQMDve2oaFlgtvQWEQwTD8exJ12oExwzXI5ZGKmVbOO3XOGEXROHmKnB17l9_oK/s320/photo48.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1mX7i8ZHKySIfcphk-GXD8RJsbw_BwVOBcqx1EpyHRjijwwurPTcuC7IXlvNfvFQYLGjoPCprfXz2nMlsY5F-FowvRkhs0Nc8yPvMoRH9x7_w_WlkUul5FuRGrJvQwoTDp50VsjlXkdVT/s1600-h/photo51.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279261966443215570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 257px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1mX7i8ZHKySIfcphk-GXD8RJsbw_BwVOBcqx1EpyHRjijwwurPTcuC7IXlvNfvFQYLGjoPCprfXz2nMlsY5F-FowvRkhs0Nc8yPvMoRH9x7_w_WlkUul5FuRGrJvQwoTDp50VsjlXkdVT/s320/photo51.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>The pin-up queen of the 1950s, Bettie Page, has died, aged 85. Her secret was that she looked innocent and wholesome even when naked or in lingerie. Or even in bondage pictures. And that's because she <em>was</em> innocent, fresh and wholesome. Her face has a perennial sweetness, and her legs were sensational.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>How sad that we've become so jaded that only hardcore porn will serve. Give me Bettie any day, though, to be honest, she was a little too thin for my taste.</div></div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-91502406110721970102008-12-05T17:04:00.000-08:002008-12-05T17:31:47.692-08:00Thora still outstanding<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8JosPiQFKb1cbwHCaXFBAtVDxrRWsjRENjetk6Fsn3yE7I3CfmGi9UvG9IDHy5D_O8xYJjH9TrKCK6IJWdCACAt7wP4Lxrn1mbTgqgMVLQmmdVEXltMPQ7yjWARm5qaRgBeGxZkhLFbL/s1600-h/_38963701_6_thora_heads_bbc.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276480167526541554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 163px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK8JosPiQFKb1cbwHCaXFBAtVDxrRWsjRENjetk6Fsn3yE7I3CfmGi9UvG9IDHy5D_O8xYJjH9TrKCK6IJWdCACAt7wP4Lxrn1mbTgqgMVLQmmdVEXltMPQ7yjWARm5qaRgBeGxZkhLFbL/s200/_38963701_6_thora_heads_bbc.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The Hall for Cornwall theatre, in Truro, is currently staging the world premiere of Samuel Becket's first play (written when he was twelve), <em>Tape's Last Crap</em>. The plot shows a severely constipated Irishman, Tape, played in this production by Peter O'Toole, trying to defecate while gazing at the corpse of his mother (played by Thora Hird). Hird's performance is outstanding, and reviews have been ecstatic, e.g. 'Thora still outshines all other females on the British stage' (<em>The Guardian)'</em>; 'A rivetting depiction of the dead mother, from start to finish' (<em>Daily Mail</em>); 'Hird, already a consummate actress at her death, is still adding brilliant refinements to her craft' (<em>Financial Times</em>), and 'I have rarely seen a better portrayal of a corpse than Thora Hird's' (<em>Daily Telegraph</em>). O'Toole also has been highly praised. The production ends on Feb 15, 2009. </div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-34927832698078303802008-11-30T04:03:00.000-08:002008-11-30T04:21:12.271-08:00sick as a dogThere is at least one emotional constant in my life: the ability to feel 'over the moon' or 'sick as a dog' depending on the result of a rugby match. At eleven, just after the war, I started watching 'the Reds' --Redruth-- our local team. I quickly became as passionate about it as my father, who would sometimes run up the touchline in his effort to will the Reds to score a try. When we emigrated to Australia, I followed Carlton, the Blues, playing Aussie Rules, with the same passion. Returning to England, I resumed my first loyalty. When I lived away, in Hereford, the passion faded somewhat, though I was still glad when I read that the Reds had won. <br /><br />Now I live in middle-class Truro, but still go to every home game at Redruth. I sit more or less in the same place in the stand as I did with my dad, 63 years ago. We've been doing exceptionally well this season, winning all eleven games in a row. Yesterday, against Cambridge, we were leading for almost the whole game, then in the last three minutes the Cambridge fly-half struck an enormous, inhuman, brutal drop goal, from all of 60 yards (I refuse ever to say 'metres'), taking them a point in the lead. Back came Redruth, amazingly, with a run by our speedy fullback the whole length of the field; he almost scored, but instead the ref gave us a penalty, in a comfortable position. The kick would have taken us into the lead again - but it failed. The whistle blew for the end of the game. I felt 'sick as a dog' and still do, a day later. <br /><br />Yet it's 'only a game'! I know that. But as an old manager of Liverpool FC once said, 'Football isn't life or death, it's more important than that.' I can feel enormous hatred for visiting supporters. Even if there are only a few of them, as yesterday, there's invariably one man who has the loudest, most booming, most irritating voice in Christendom, able to outshout the massed home supporters. Yesterday he sat two or three seats in front. A fat neck, shaven head. I loathed him.donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4598066692268235141.post-5943636529962406432008-11-27T09:49:00.000-08:002008-11-27T09:56:09.755-08:00Tamsin<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFU4jJS1Siz0s7uUrhO8Qb8Bbf1szXizMelW9h1Nrh_OXjfTTsTkdBMsQyeEj-xREyBfcy9mHf985NV5uvp2WtdiNwA42FcU1Kje-QSCOgNmggunfC1-N_p6Oxp0IzE6jFvEyWWn6iVotp/s1600-h/The%2520Scamp.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273397354600481714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFU4jJS1Siz0s7uUrhO8Qb8Bbf1szXizMelW9h1Nrh_OXjfTTsTkdBMsQyeEj-xREyBfcy9mHf985NV5uvp2WtdiNwA42FcU1Kje-QSCOgNmggunfC1-N_p6Oxp0IzE6jFvEyWWn6iVotp/s200/The%2520Scamp.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Ross, with Tamsin</em><br /><div> </div><div> </div><div>Our Cairn terrier, Tamsin, had to be put down a few weeks ago. She was almost eighteen. The home has lost a dear presence. Here's a poem I wrote about her a year or two ago...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>After Christopher Smart<br /></em><br />For I will consider my dog Tamsin,<br />For she appearath round the corner of the house<br />When we are drinking wine outside, then stops,<br />Forgetting why she appeareth there;<br />For she is 108 years old in human terms,<br />For she is almost blind and almost deaf,<br />Yet suddenly she trotteth down the garden,<br />For then her tail wags upon prink, in joy of living,<br />So that I have started to call her Baron von Trott;<br />For then she will slow up and plod around the house<br />Four or five times, defending it from marauders,<br />For she is small in size but mighty in spirit,<br />For when she stumbleth over a root, or her back legs<br />Won’t work, she still goeth bravely forward;<br />For when we put some tasty fish in her dish,<br />She will slowly stir from her basket<br />And plod to her dish; but then she pauseth<br />For a long time, saying her prayers to the Lord,<br />Calling down blessing on the food,<br />Before suddenly stooping her head and<br />Snatching the fish hungrily.<br />For she kicketh out her legs in her dreams,<br />For she loveth to run on a beach,<br />And dreams of it later, many times,<br />Though she feareth the water.<br />For she is a happy little dog,<br />And teacheth how to grow old gracefully;<br />For she is the handmaid of the Lord,<br />And hath been loved by a Master and three Mistresses. </div><br /><div>For she knoweth no other life but with us.</div>donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07793833254567515586noreply@blogger.com0