Norman and Saxon

Norman and Saxon - Rudyard Kipling.

“My son,” said the Norman Baron, “I am dying, and you will be heir
To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for share
When he conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little handful it is.
But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:–

“The Saxon is not like us Normans. His manners are not so polite.
But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right.
When he stands like an ox in the furrow – with his sullen set eyes on your own,
And grumbles, ‘This isn’t fair dealing,’ my son, leave the Saxon alone.

“You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture your Picardy spears;
But don’t try that game on the Saxon; you’ll have the whole brood round your ears.
From the richest old Thane in the county to the poorest chained serf in the field,
They’ll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise, you will yield.

“But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs and songs.
Don’t trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their wrongs.
Let them know that you know what they’re saying; let them feel that you know what to say.
Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear ‘em out if it takes you all day.

They’ll drink every hour of the daylight and poach every hour of the dark.
It’s the sport not the rabbits they’re after (we’ve plenty of game in the park).
Don’t hang them or cut off their fingers. That’s wasteful as well as unkind,
For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man- at-arms you can find.

“Appear with your wife and the children at their weddings and funerals and feasts.
Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish priests.
Say ‘we,’ ‘us’ and ‘ours’ when you’re talking, instead of ‘you fellows’ and ‘I.’
Don’t ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell ‘em a lie!”

... This isn't fair dealing.

Close Enough.

CLOSE ENOUGH (2009)

He thought about you alot
A constant memory that could not have been forgot
Never came close enough
He played it cool because he didn’t want to look a fool or make a fuss
Keeping his feelings withheld deep inside
Somewhere below the surface, somewhere they could hide

Was it real, did the pair of you almost share a moment back in 2005?
Although he wasn’t feeling confident that he could be the prize
The one you really wanted, maybe that night?
Would it have really been so wrong, as you turned off your light?

Just a quick kiss on the cheek after he walked you home
He never wanted you to go it alone
Did the two of you ever come close, but not close enough?
He always thought of you, that you were out of his league
He didn’t think he was what you need

He recalls the night, you scored that date with another
The guy who turned out to be a joke
As you shared a laugh about it at the bar as you two, later spoke
He told you in not so many words that he always wanted you
But the timing was always wrong, there was nothing you both could do
Although maybe you both should have done
Maybe it would have been a lifetime of love, you both could have won?

Now some years have passed, they seem to go by so fast
And he still wonders if you felt the same?
Or was he just another face, just another name?
Would you have ever have grown close, close enough?
Made it through the storm when the going got tough?
How does it feel, Knowing that he still thinks about you?

Skelly Makaveli (c) 2010

Words, Wide Night.

Words, Wide Night.

Somewhere, on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you

and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.

Carol Ann Duffy.

This Week 70 Years Ago...

The little boats of England,
The little motor boats,
The little penny steamers,
From Lands End to John O'Groats.

The Brighton Belle, the Margate Queen,
The Vigilant, The Lark,
The Saucy Jane, The Gracie Fields,
(Even a Noarh's Arc).

Picked up their country's message
That it's back was to the Wall.
There is danger, there is danger,
Will you answer to the call?

Francis Drake, and Collinwood,
And Nelson of the Nile
Were on their quarterdecks again,
-You should have seen them smile.

When all the little boats pushed out
From Dover to Dunkirk,
To heed their country's message,
That was their job of work.

(Sara Carsley.)

Dunkirk, 1940.

Robin Hood And Alan-a-dale.

Come listen to me, you gallants so free,
All you that love laughter to hear,
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw
That lived in Nottinghamshire.

As Robin Hood in the forest stood,
Under the greenwood tree,
He saw a young man in scarlet red
Singing a roundelay.

As Robin Hood next morning stood,
Among the leaves so gay,
There he saw the same young man
Come drooping along the way.

The scarlet he wore the day before -
He'd cast it clean away,
At every step he sighed 'Alas!
How wretched I am today!'

Then stepped out brave Little John
And Much the miller's son;
Which made the young man bend his bow,
When he saw them come.

'Stand off, stand off,' the young man said.
'What do you want with me?'
'You must come before our master now,
Under the greenwood tree.'

When he came before their master,
Robin asked him courteously,
'O, have you any money to spare
For my merry men and me?'

'I have no money,' the young man said,
'But five shillings and a ring.
And that I have kept for seven long years,
To have at my wedding.

'Yesterday I should have married a girl,
But she's been taken away
And chosen to be an old knight's delight,
And my poor heart is slain!'

'What is your name?' said Robin Hood.
'My name is Alan-a-dale.'
'How much will you pay if I bring her back
And give her to you without fail?'

'I have no money.' the young man said,
'And that is the truth I tell.
But I will swear to be your man
And ever to serve you well.'

'How many miles to your true-love?
And tell me no lies, I say.'
'By the faith of my body,' the young man said,
'She lives five miles away.'

Then Robin hastened over the fields,
He didn't linger or wait,
Till he came to the church where the wedding was
And rushed in through the gate.

'What's this? What's this?' the bishop said.
'Now tell the truth to me.'
'I'm a bold harper,' said Robin Hood,
'The best in the north country.'

'O welcome, O welcome,' the bishop said.
'That music pleases me.'
'You'll have no music,' said Robin Hood,
'Till the bride and bridegroom I see.'

Just the a wealthy knight came in,
Who was both grave and old,
And after him a dainty lass,
Who shone like glittering gold.

'This is no fit match,' said Robin,
'That you are making here;
And now that we have come to the church,
The bride shall choose her own dear.'

Then Robin put his horn to his mouth
And blew blasts two or three;
And four-and-twenty bowmen brave
Came leaping over the lea.

And when they came to the churchyard,
Marching all in a row,
The first man was Alan-a-dale
To give bold Robin his bow.

'This is your true love,' Robin said,
'Young Alan, as I hear say;
And you shall be married this very hour,
Before we depart away.'

'That shall not be,' the bishop said,
'For your word shall not stand.
They must be asked three times in church -
That's the law of our land.

Robin pulled off the bishop's coat
And put it on Little John.
'By the faith of my body,' Robin said,
'The clothing makes the man.'

When Little John went into the choir,
The people began to laugh;
He asked them seven times in the chursh
Lest three times wasn't enough.

'Who's giving the bride?' said Little John.
'I am.' Up Robin stood.
'The man who takes her from Alan-a-dale
Must reckon with Robin Hood.'

And so the wedding came to an end -
The bride looked fresh as a queen;
And then they returned to the merry green wood
Among the leaves so green.

(Traditional/Folk)

Gordoom's Facepalm Moment;

No need for words.

Letter to me at 16

Nice and simple this one..



That is all.

Do you remember David Bellamy?

I remember him most fondly.

He was a favourite of mine when I was a child.
His enthusiasm, and animated motions of glee when he spoke about whatever bug, bird, flowers, or mammal that he was on the television telling us about, always enchanted me.

I wanted to be just like David Bellamy, I used to do impressions of him, stroking my pretend beard and gesticulating wildly in front of the family dog. (Who would stare back in bewildered confusion with his head tilted slightly to one side!)

I had a few of his books too, and I seem to recall an 'I Spy' annual related to him as well. He was in fact, a perfect childrens wildlife presenter.

Where did he go? He just disappeared from our lives in the late nineties didn't he?
I put it down to the fact that children's wildlife programmes were less popular now, for whatever reason.

Part of me even wondered if he had passed away...

Well, thanks to Steve at The Daily Referendum, I have been reunited with my childhood friend, alive and well, and still just as enthusiastic about his science, which he believes is the reason he is no longer with us on our televisions;

Two media colleagues, Julian Pettifer and Robin Page, were publicly sacked by the BBC — in essence, because they could no longer be viewed as non-biased in their opinions.

I can only only assume that, to them, I also fell into that category — because from that point on my career on TV came to an abrupt end. Despite my resume of approximately 400 TV shows. more: 5th December 2009...

I am genuinely thrilled to have him back! Seriously!
I can still learn much from him, and he's still talking about things that I want to hear about, just as he did when I was a child.

There is no evidence of carbon dioxide being a poison, or that it is capable of causing a warming Armageddon.

What follows is a summary of the proof — straight from real science, peer-reviewed over the past 232 years by legions of physicists, thanks to Newton’s Principia. more: 12th December 2009.

Mr Bellamy, welcome back Sir!

For FUCK'S SAKE!

English Mother fucker, do you speak it?

Jules Winnfield; Pulp Fiction.

Their.

The possessive of they. Something that belongs to someone.


There.

Over there, under there, it is there. A place.


They're.

They are. Are they? Yes they are.


They're putting their coats over there.


GET IT RIGHT! It's not so difficult!

What's that? You could care less about what I say?

GOOD! Because that means that you DO care enough to be able to care LESS!

Personally, I COULDN'T care less, because I already care so little, whether you care or not, just GET IT RIGHT!

RAWR!

Because it needs preserving...

I read this this morning, on The Times' website.

A few minuites ago, I read elsewhere that it has been removed from the Times' website, with only a missed quote appearing randomly at the top of the homepage occasionally.

Full details HERE, but just in case that gets lost for any reason, here is what Jeremy Clarkson had to say in his column in The Times yesterday;

I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I’m afraid I’ve decided that it’s no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I’m afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country until he isn’t alive any more.
He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be allowed into the country’s top universities even if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot has leapt

I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he didn’t bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even though he’s resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not elected. Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of their senses.

There’s talk of emigration in the air. It’s everywhere I go. Parties. Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good grades at GSCE and can’t see the point because she won’t be going to university, because she doesn’t have a beak or flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don’t live in America.

Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can’t stand the constant raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can’t understand why they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation’s capital. They can’t understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can’t understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because it’s racist.

And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn’t understand because he’s a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”

It’s a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else. But where?

You can’t go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can’t go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don’t sweep your lawn properly, and you can’t go to Italy because you’ll soon tire of waking up in the morning to find a horse’s head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for “organising” a plumber.

You can’t go to Australia because it’s full of things that will eat you, you can’t go to New Zealand because they don’t accept anyone who is more than 40 and you can’t go to Monte Carlo because they don’t accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can’t go to Spain because you’re not called Del and you weren’t involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can’t go to Germany ... because you just can’t.

The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one day, whether you like it or not, you’ll end up like all the other expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it’s okay to have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we can’t go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.

Canada’s full of people pretending to be French, South Africa’s too risky, Russia’s worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet. So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn’t help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you’ll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.

I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it’s been for decades, but the lunatics who’ve made it so ghastly are on their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the lecture circuit.

So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it’s a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit.

Thank you Jeremy.