A Near Perfect Autumn Day

Yet another local holiday for the season!

The National Distrust does provide a beautiful backdrop for the odd day out with the family.

A bit delicate for some sensibilities. There is something about the colour and composition of this. Nuffin to do wiv me guv 'onest.

A late afternoon view from the balcony!

To a mouse.

First thing today, as I filled the kettle, I saw a wee beastie being bullied by the spadgers. The following came to my mind.

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,

Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi’ bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee

Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

It was a feeling that persisted.

Nice one Rabbi!
Burns that is.

A Walk in the Woods

It is surprising what you find in our neck of the woods.

A pleasant little dander from the Grauniad’s Bumper Book of Bimbles for Boys.

Sweet little pigs. Are they Chipolatas?

We ended up on the river Alde and there was the Spritsail Barge ready to take us off into the sunset!

Didn't we do well?

So an interesting series of matches at the weekend!
I am surprised, but why should I be, by the domestic disharmony that the sport of Rugby can engender in households. Our East African co-respondent reports some contention about the England Oz Match!
Life in our neck of the woods has been little better. However, I don't think it was my comment about the Scots defeat. I, who would normally support the Scots against all but the English, opined that I could not bear to see them win as the thought of Frank Haddon smiling would drive me to an early grave!

A real senior moment, screaming for the French! C'mon Thumpy. Eh!

He came on late in the match but almost his first intervention was turnover ball!
A gallic shrug, a foul smelling fag, the reek of garlic in the air, a discussion of the post modern structuralist position and oh, we seem to have won! Mon dieu! All Black, what is zis All Black. Do you 'ave a position on existentialism? Mais Non! Steve Bell why do you spend all your time crucifying politicians they're not worth it.

More later!

A quiet week in Buddhist Pizza Land!

Thanks, once again to John Naughton for dredging up the dark corners of humanity that lurk about us. We used to worry about the Military Industrial Complex - what about the Mercenary-Evangelical Complex. Read all about it - Blackwaters run deep and deadly.

Again from John quoting reports -

Last week–after images of the beatings of Buddhist monks and the killing of a Japanese photographer leaked out via the Internet–Burma’s military rulers took the ultimate step, apparently physically disconnecting primary telecommunications cables in two major cities, in a drastic effort to stop the flow of information from Burma to the rest of the world. It didn’t completely work: some bloggers apparently used satellite links or cellular phone services to get information outside the country.

While some of our media concentrate on complaints about bananas in Norwich!

Good to see that the ingenuity of the human spirit is still able to confront the barbarians.

Ojala!

A happy and a blessed weekend to you all!

Don’t F… with the Buddhists.

In a far off land that changed its name more often than its borders, the hand of his chief bodyguard rocked the General’s shoulder as he slept. The General was leader of the military government by the ageless and venerable constitutional instrument known as Buggin’s Turn. He struggled with consciousness and what was to become a monster hangover. He growled, pointing to the naked body lying next to him. The Political Advisor stepped up to the bed, folding a sheet over the human form, shaking it roughly, and dragging it away.

The Political Advisor advised that the people had taken to the streets.

He was instructed by the General to have the army shoot them.
The General stood next to the bed scratching his balls and then headed for the bathroom calling for coffee as he went. He returned in a robe and grabbed the coffee hungrily.

The Political Advisor cleared his throat and indicated that it was not just the people. It was the monks and nuns. He painted a picture of the river of saffron running through the streets surrounded by a human chain, white shirts and sarongs defining, containing and protecting the violently coloured flow.

Christ what a mess. The geriatric neo-fascists in Peking would be phoning all day long about the negative impact of unconsidered and hasty action on their Olympic Games. The PLA had treated Tibet as their own private turkey shoot for the last 50 years. Must have bagged a few red ones in that time!

Sweet Jesus, Bush would be on the phone in that Christian fundamentalist whine dropping malapropisms about right’s abuse, turrism and demanding the development of a culture of democracy and all that it entrails!

It was going to be a long hard day, his head was about to split asunder, his stomach was fluttering like a Tibetan prayer flag and if he didn’t get rid of these morons he would kill at least two of them.

He roared, they left.

The Political Advisor had prepared a plan by the time the General had emerged, almost sub-human, from his quarters and entered the presidential office.

1. Arrest and torture the usual suspects.

2. Isolate some of the people from the monks and nuns.

3. When the snatch squads were sure no western cameramen were around beat the living shit out of the people and shoot some.

4. Make sure the locals know what happened and that it would happen again until this crap stopped.

5. The Abbots of the local monasteries would be cordially invited to join the General for tea and biscuits to discuss the life of the Buddha, possible economic and legal sanctions against their institutions and the hope that they would join the national council of faith and reconciliation in an advisory capacity.

6. Oh! There would be a photo opportunity with the world’s press for the old saffron slapheads to smile broadly with the General and chuckle in that self deprecating way that Buddhists have. They would not be required to say anything. Who spoke the language in any case.

Very good. These Harvard and Gollyburton graduates could do a lot of the heavy lifting when it came down to it.

The appropriately sanitised military orders were signed by the General and the troops dispatched.

Dwight Pratt was sitting cross-legged in the monastery, uncomfortable in his rough saffron robes. He was facing his tutor Tam who sat in stillness wearing his robes and his consciousness lightly. Tam had been in the monastery for twenty years and was used to the spiritual questing of the few foreigners who made it to this part of the world. What he lacked in English he made up for in intelligence and a willingness to barter enlightenment for western sweets, to which he was addicted, the occasional joint which helped to go with the flow and the sexual advances of his male or female charges, which he could take or leave. Spiritual exercises were interrupted by the director of novices who summoned all to the courtyard where they were told of the Abbot’s dream and the great river of saffron that would flow through the streets and cleanse the country of much agitation and desire.

Dwight thought the whole setup bitchin. It was amazing. He would be there in the thick, his camera phone was charged to the full and he had enough credit to send 6meg Jpegs of every position in the Karma Sutra home to his girlfriend Kelly Ann Stringer who worked on the Akron Ohio Journal. Bring it on!

The demonstration, protest, river of consciousness, whatever, set off on its journey from the monastery. It was quickly coated in a white protective shield of the local population. It flowed on into the city.

Under careful management the elite public order troops shielded the local goons from the few cameras in the square while they delivered points 1 to 4 of the Gollyburton inspired plan.

Stripped of its protective shield the mass of monks and nuns smiled beatifically and exuded warmth and humanity in a non threatening way.

This can be a real bummer if you are an underfed, underpaid eighteen year old grunt in the local forces of law and order. If you are turbocharged on testosterone and plagued by acne such a pacific disposition is a positive incitement. A certain amount of verbal abuse and shoving was suffered by the monks but in tribute to their respected position in society it was relatively restrained and of course the chanting of the supplication to the compassionate Buddha does have a calming effect on those doing it and most of those hearing it.

Unfortunately Ky was near starvation, he was being pursued by the loan shark who serviced the police headquarters and he was a martyr to piles and a variety of STDs. He was sure the monk in front of him was not from hereabouts. He was a head taller, he smelled much worse than the local monks. Ky shoved Dwight. Dwight yelled imprecations that involved Ky’s mother rather than the compassionate Buddha and shoved back. Being an offensive football specialist and about 50 kilos heavier than Ky, Dwight had the edge! Ky landed on his arse with little ceremony. Adrenalin, testosterone and the insult to his mother, who he had never known, propelled Ky back onto his feet and coiled his body about the baton in a position which promised to deliver Dwight a fractured skull, at least. With the naivety and simple belief that goes all the way back to the Transylvanian silver cross, Dwight raised his cameraphone as a powerful talisman; red rag to a bull really.

A gentle, perfectly balanced hand moved Dwight to one side just as he was taking his ‘snap’. Tam stepped smiling in front of Ky. He stood in contemplation as the baton descended on his skull. It appeared to witnesses that, as the baton broke over his head,Tam blossomed like a flower. It was this picture, captured by the cameraphone digital delay, which passed around the world to Kelly Ann and made Dwight a millionaire several times over in an instant. He and Kelly Ann retired to a beach house in Carmel which they called, Kahma, and lived relatively happily ever after on the proceeds, chat shows, merchandising and royalties.

The compassionate one ensured that Tam was reincarnated and his spirit moved to a puppy that was born at the same instant the baton cracked on his skull. Well all those boiled sweets, pan drops and sherbet lemons had to be atoned for somehow.

The General’s hangover had not improved.

He did what?

The picture went where?

They captured the pictures and put tits on the monk?

They didn’t stop it?

Jesus Christ on a bicycle am I surrounded by morons?

The Political Advisor had a plan….

The General brushed it all aside.

This idiot Ky will be tried for murder, child molestation and not respecting his community elders!

His village will be burnt!

He will disappear!

The General directed that a memorial will be erected to the monk Tam and the worlds religious and secular leaders will be invited to participate in a ceremony of dedication to encourage peace love and friendship amongst nations.

What a f….ng day. The General was not to be disturbed. His 22.30 appointment should be shown into his quarters with two bottles of Bowbank after the usual body search.

He would review the situation in the morning.

ONE YEAR LATER

The General moved to the podium. Since the discovery of oil and uranium in the north of the country a few of the morally unbending westerners with broom handles stuck up their arses had agreed to join him in celebrating the life and spirituality of a man of peace. Tam was the embodiment of humanity, self sacrifice and all that shit. So he was about to unveil the monument. It was a crap piece of bronze in some contorted way meant to symbolise something, whatever, really the General just wanted to get through to the end of the year when Buggin’s Turn would mean he could enjoy the 100bn dollars he had prudently invested in ah… that would be telling!

A few words from the guests…. people moving into position and here we go.

The Abbot of Tam’s monastery had been invited and characteristically provided a cheerful smiling photo for the world’s press. He moved back when the first flash went off. He stepped on the tail of the dog that housed Tam’s spirit. The Tam dog barked and set off towards the chief bodyguard. The guard drew his side arm and aimed at the dog. The dog hit him midriff and the resultant shot severed the femoral artery of the Political Assistant.

A phalanx of lesser bodyguards formed round the podium and fired at the Abbot. The worlds press and television captured the sight of the smiling Abbot having his chest ripped apart by a fusillade. The general was captured on live feed being bitten by a nondescript dog and trying to shake the mutt off.

The dog lived out its life happily enough after escaping in the confusion.

The fact that it was infected with a new form of CJD only found in Asian dogs meant that on reincarnation it became a butterfly.

The General was not so lucky. His mind began to disintegrate within a month of the bite, and within the year he was to be found wandering the streets muttering and drooling….!

So the great wheel turns.

Speech Day at St Columba's Academy

The strains of the School Song echo over the pa system as Headmaster Broon approaches the podium. The words resound in the mind of every person in the Assembly Hall.

The staff, old boys and guests sing–

Sacred the trust that has been placed in thee

The boys, hum(the dirty wee buggers) and sing the words –

Sacred the crust that has been dipped in tea

But quietly!

Broon, newly released from the hospital for rhetorical diseases, rallies the assembly with a speech

Predecessors – tribute - one school under…

There will be

A tuck shops market

Deep cleaning of the sick bay

Every boy will be able to see the prefect of his choice…

It is a privilege to serve this school….

I will stand up for this school…

I will stand up for education…

I will stand up for Jesus…

I will stand up for you!

A lone voice, Salmo Salmar Senior, shouts from the back;

Sit doon the bugger at the back cannae see!

Celtic Promise

Two men sit in a private dining room in Storemont. They appear to be relaxed and despite the fact that there is no wine or beer on the table there is a definite air of conviviality. The green lawns seen on two sides of the room reflect a warmth into the conversation.

So, Ian, it’s a wee while since we had a good natter.

Indeed it is Martin. The Good Lord has showered much upon us!

Not as much as on some poor buggers!

Now Martin, you know I abjure profanity.

Sorry Ian, but I am a keen student of the interweb and times have been hard for many. I am aware, also, that you may have had a few problems yourself up at the Kirk. Thank god we don’t have that kind of problem with the Army Council.

That would be a capital G Martin, if you don’t mind, and I think it will all blow over soon enough. I have been here before many times and with the help of My Saviour and herself the Baroness we have weathered many storms.

Ian let’s get stuck into the cheese, it was my shout and I think I have come up with a real stoater!

Good gracious, you certainly have. I must get the Baroness to order some of this.

Ian, I’m sorry to do this to you but it is ‘Celtic Promise’.

Ah Martin I’m lost. If herself or the Kirk ever find out; I’m completely lost.

Not so Ian, not so at all. Your secret‘s safe with me like so many others.

Well maybe just a little more and then some of that red Leicester.

Now you’re talking Ian.

The meal comes slowly to a companionable conclusion and each man feels that progress has been made. The stink of Celtic Promise cocoons them from the harsh world of ‘foot in mouth’, nuclear proliferation, pending eco-doom or the ravages of sub prime warriors.

Crunch

Well don't say I didn't warn you.
Not being entirely at one with capitalism it did give me a mild frisson when I heard about the guy who took over 150k of his savings out of Northern Rock, allegedly, yesterday! I wonder if that was in used fivers?
No it is not the 'credit crunch' that caught my eye it was 'super crunchers'; people who process a lot of data.

Within the linked article is a nasty little tale.

Ian Ayres, Yale Law School professor, Forbes columnist, and data fanatic, has now written a book on data mining, Super Crunchers: Why Thinking-By-Numbers Is the New Way to Be Smart.

On determining the presence of racial discrimination in auto loan rates:

While most consumers now know that the sales price of a car can be negotiated, many do not know that auto lenders, such as Ford Motor Credit or GMAC, often give dealers the option of marking up a borrower’s interest rate. When a car buyer works with the dealer to arrange financing, the dealer normally sends the customer’s credit information to a potential lender. The lender then responds with a private message to the dealer that offers a “buy rate” — the interest rate at which the lender is willing to lend. Lenders will often pay a dealer — sometimes thousands of dollars — if the dealer can get the consumer to sign a loan with an inflated interest rate …

In a series of cases that I worked on, African-American borrowers challenged the lenders’ markup policies because they disproportionately harmed minorities. [Vanderbilt economist Mark] Cohen and I found that on average white borrowers paid what amounted to about a $300 markup on their loans, while black borrowers paid almost $700 in markup profits. Moreover, the distribution of markups was highly skewed. Over half of white borrowers paid no markup at all, because they qualified for loans where markups were not allowed. Yet 10 percent of GMAC borrowers paid more than $1,000 in markups and 10 percent of the Nissan customers paid more than a $1,600 markup. These high markup borrowers were disproportionately black. African-Americans were only 8.5 percent of GMAC borrowers, but paid 19.9 percent of the markup profits….

Now doesn't that just give you confidence in the ability of the market to screw you and your friends and relations.

Obese Kids

OK! So there has been some discussion at the village school about children who are a tad overweight! The local education authority has made provision to accommodate such kids coming in off the school run.

Obviously it has not been adequate.

Back to the drawing board.

Doh!

Magdalen Nabb

Magdalen Nabb

Died recently, obits and probably elsewhere give a flavour of her work.

I am pleased to share a birth county, Lancashire, and a birth year with her, 1947. However, the real joy for me is her creation of Marshal Guarnaccia. He has given us so much pleasure. Italian crime before it was either profitable or popular, pace Leon and Dibdin. I really appreciated his ability to get into the humanity of the criminal and the crime.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi; as old mother church would have it!

With a name like that of course she had to be a left footer.

Let me count the days!

You might like to count the days.

Its official or backwards! Otherwise I guess there are thousands of them out there.

One thought occurs to me and the counters in their precision demonstrate it. Some parts of the country will be celebrating before others! Party Party!

In the meantime -

I know they are meant to be satirical but not unkind; what the hell!

Alberto Gonzales thought liberty
a touch flibbertigibbety.
He allowed the use
of torture lite and rights abuse.

It’s Official!

We took advantage of the sun, the official holiday weekend, and the fact that we were in the same location to avail ourselves of LEEZURE consisting of the viewing of gardens, peg looms, churches, paintings, pubs and drinking beer, being accosted by school chums, wine tasting, a Lebanese rosé which I must return to and George Thomas and all his works and pomps. Here he is in his glory.

We saw him in a small messuage in a local village. Look it up! You surely have a dictionary?

Cautionary Tales for Young Economists

A hot and sticky day spent in the middle of England in the company of moneylenders and lawyers.

Remember, I am an altruist and wish to make the world a better place for me to live in!

Paul pulls Steve's leg about default rates. Emotional temperature in room rises by about 500 degrees Kelvin. Its a boys' thing. It looks a bit stickier.

A flash in my mind, I know not from where, and in the stentorian strains, which I can do occasionally, I enunciate clearly:-

"Let him who is without default cast the first stone!"

We've all been there. Emotional temperature in room falls by about 500 degrees Kelvin.
Back to work.

Dog Police!

So another trip to the coast on the whim of a locally declared holiday.

Great day. Sun, sea, paddles and a picnic taken in the shadow of the old coastguard cottages.
A bimble down to the beach and we were all in a stupor of pleasure at the newly arrived summer.

Dog Woman approaches the beach. Sign says this stretch of beach is family friendly and the National Distrust politely and inoffensively requests that you do not take your dogs on it.
Dog Woman ignores sign. A muffled, collective, gasp of outrage and incredulity from those families assembled on the beach. Of course no one does anything! I raise myself from under my hat and pound after Dog Woman. If she had been a 300lb Biker with a Rottweiler I might not have done so. I hesitantly and politely cleared my throat and said firmly, 10 times, excuse me. Dog Woman looked at me eventually as if I was something delivered to the bottom of her shoe by said dog and proclaimed she was hard of hearing. I then pointed out the sign and alerted her to its contents. There was an explosive and abusive comment about the National Distrust. She also added that she could not see and had great difficulty with reading. At this point I had made my point and returned to the fold feeling like a Bateman Cartoon: the man who challenged Dog Woman.

There then ensued a period where she darted about the beach seeking support for her and condemnation for me. Everyone true to form mumbled and hummed. Her dog, a real comic of a mini poodle, had the last laugh. It went up to the post on which the notice was firmly planted and crapped at its base! This caused huge hilarity in our camp. Madam, your dog is a surrealist critic!

Obviously my assertiveness and apparel suggested I was Ranger Bob for the National Distrust.
She accosted me and asked for my name, rank and number, as well as what authority I had to challenge her. I replied that I was for my sins a member. Surely she could see the brown shirt and the insignia of the Dog Police on my hat!

We later saw her on the beach at a point above the Dog Patrol, transgressing Dog Ordinances with abandon.

Cups of tea and ice cream along the coast led to decision to enjoy an alfresco supper of fish and chips by the Harbour. Our little circle of 3 generations were tucking in. Who should appear in a car, apparently untroubled by failing sight, Dog Woman.

She was about to make herself at home, plonking down in one of our chairs and no doubt harranguing us about this that and the next damn thing. Too much; maybe it was chance, maybe she was a sad, batty old dear who loved her little poodle more than anything in the world. Some very firm, assertive, but civil words were said to encourage her to take herself off. She did.

You couldn't make it up!

Wildwood

A weekend of visits, family, friends and over indulgence.

I am sufficiently moved by the experience to declare a public holiday tomorrow. Get in quick you might enjoy it. So the link to walnut trees, see below, it kept me alive through the planning business!

My joy for the past few weeks has been a book by Roger Deakin published posthumously. I really enjoyed ‘Waterlog’ and decided to order ‘Wildwood’ from the Suffolk County Library Stakhanovites.

Page ix of the introduction states –

“It is through tress that we see and hear the wind……”

“…and the falling raindrops ripple out into every tree ring.”

Know a practitioner, learning by doing, someone who can set knowledge in language which captures the imagination.

The first section of the book gives a very strong sense of place, Suffolk. This is Deakin’s place of work, love and life. The naming of parts has never interested me. What we may forget, and others not know, is that there is such a joy to understanding, at whatever level. The skills of the hunter gatherer applied to knowledge bear fruit only after they have been assembled like an unruly flock of wild animals. Field trips to the New Forest with an inspired teacher probably lit the fires laid by Deakin’s home, family and its history. After this we pass through bluebell woods for a picnic and sleep under a rookery where, in the late watches of the night, he claims that the fledglings can be heard in the nests. There follows a minor discourse on the vocalisations of these birds. His conclusion is that for all the understated faint praise in literature for the sound of rooks the nearest approximation in human terms he can think of is ….

“If you found yourself across the fields from a Somerset pub, late at night, at cider pressing time you might hear something like a rookery.”

And so it goes. Cobbett is there of course, and easy references to Hughes and other native species. The Observer review by Tim Adams claims that his travels afield in Australia and Kyrgyzstan are less sure footed and result in less close observation than the native jaunts. I would defy anyone to read the idyll of Deakin’s perambulations in the walnut forests of Kyrgyzstan and not believe they had been granted a vision, in detail, of paradise. His view of the black hand gang is not without its appreciation of the fragility of eco systems and the difficulties they face.

So home to Suffolk which, strangely enough, is where we find ourselves. I do not feel I have to know trees as individuals, or to hug them, they will get along just fine without me. However, I have been inspired by this book. It’s a great pity he never got round to seeing the forests of Cedrus Libani. He might have thought they would be worth a word or two.

Walnut trees

One of the reasons for not posting recently has been my incidental attendance at a planning appeal in connection with a property in our village.

Two whole days were spent in buttock numbing exposure to the secretos pequenos de mi pueblo.

So if the Red Tops get hold of it here it is:- Incest, animal husbandry, crime, the history of crime, the Krays, arson(failed) and arsing about, aggregate rendering, tax exiles, companies in the Isle of Man.... I could go on but I lost the will to do so several hours ago.

It's not a joke. The people who have suffered long and hard have done so with dignity.
The shower of neerdobadlys have made their lives a hell. I was spotted as a fresh face to harass.
"Who is that fat bearded bastard. Is he a new councillor?"
How dare they assume I'm a representative of local democracy!

"Is he with them?"
I'm not proud I'll sit with anyone!

And menacingly,
"I never forget a face!"

The councillors and long suffering villagers were solicitous.
Would I like to walk out of the building with them?
Would I like a lift to the car with them?
All really appreciated, but having lived in the East End of London for a while it seems a bit excessive. There was one individual I would not like to meet on a dark night. But being a good boy and not going out on dark nights I don't think I would have to worry too much.

One of the good things about being a dead man walking is that you can offer the open hand!
After that anyone can take their chance.

Why walnut trees?
Just you wait you have treat in-store!

Glossary of Financial Terms.

I was writing about Community Land Trusts
in an email to a colleague recently and the ravages of age, alcohol, and stubby arthritic fingers produced the word LOANDOWNERS instead of LANDOWNERS.

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.

I knew immediately that whatever terms were used in the official terminology of our portfolio of loans, PAR would always be LOANDOWNERS; amen!

The Game Theory

So our Vic went off on one in the local parish magazine. It might not be obvious from these scratchings but I have no allegiance to any religion or other irrational leanings.

The local parish is a civil construct and it promotes a rag which finds itself delivered into the 300+ homes in the locality. Sadly, or otherwise, the Vic of the established kirk feels the need to deliver his thoughts to the parish (- Parish?) through the rag. The Baptists appear to have abandoned the scene some time ago and the Methodists congregate in the next village.

The Vic, who styles himself as Team Rector, appears

"No too fond of the mongs." as our friends from Leith would say.

That is my opinion of his view of a TV programme about Game Theory and Nash the mathematician.

Nash may have had many problems - these did not, as far as I am aware, affect the quality and value of his work or the fact that however flawed, he shared a common humanity.

If I were paranoid I might think that Rowan has sent out a pastoral letter to suggest that the CoE attack scientists, mathematicians and rationalists to get some purchase against the likes of "Serious Dawkins" and take the heat off the Monty Python flavoured debate about sexuality. That would be absurd, obviously!

I found his article citing "The Game Theory" as much use as mine might be about "The Religion" or "The Christianity".

One approach in "Game Theory" has always struck me as having something for us all to consider in our lives. This is the "Tit For Tat" strategy in the "prisoners' dilemma". As the name suggests, it is a reactive strategy but only after the first move or gesture, which is always the equivalent of the open hand (of peace or co-operation?)

This is not a strategy to win, wipe the board clean, or even take the moral or spiritual high ground and look down, witheringly, on the lesser mortals, infidels or "mongs" below.

It is a way for individuals, groups, and populations to live in equilibrium with each other. I suppose the"Big Yin" would have it as "do as you would be done by" with the rider that if you are done get your retaliation in first!

It avoids the tragedy of the commons in civil society and offers a way to contain and neutralise those that would oppress us. It does not require us to postulate a "relationship with a supreme being" to justify our actions or give value and respect to humanity. It may all seem like enlightened self interest to you Vic. Life, for me anyway, is too short to worry about irrational beliefs.

SubPrime Warriors 2!

So! There they were; the rats arse end of the 21 century, the centre of the North Sea Wash

Three figures shambled across the flatlands. Their progress produced a ripple in the surface water which spread like a visual cliché from a hundred years ago. A short figure, the centrepiece of the triptych, protected by the mass of a body covered in rags on each side. She was driving the retable forward with language which would curdle larva. They moved toward The Settlement. The left hand side of the three-legged race, head erect, straight back, shambled with whatever dignity he could muster. The right hand creature, The Profit, stretched and strained as if it was possessed by a daemon eating through internal organs. The rolling, hate filled eyes and halo of grey hair lent this figure an Old Testament quality.

It just needed a winged chariot to swoop down and take the wretched trio to the bosom of some compassionate creator. No such luck. The Settlement sent a hydrogen powered flat boat to warn them off.

Dave sat at the front of the flat boat nursing a piece of metal which could reduce human beings, or similar, to a charred mass in less than five seconds. It gave his declamatory speech some weight.

“We don’t want no religion or god botherers in The Settlement.”

“Hain’t got no use forem since we burnt the last lot.”

“Whatever you sellin we hain’t got no use for it, less it smoke, weed or snort.”

The Profit kicked off on one, in a high pitched scream. A string of names and blasphemies issued from his lips. Dave pulled the piece of metal up and pointed it in the direction of the unholy trinity. He was trying to catch the torrent of hate,

“A Dam Smith…..Ric…o, Hume the Baileyvas… matchsticks, badge oflamont…. Shit the Cargo Friedman, God Damn Hungarians…Hyek still and Hyek swell the mighty greenback whale…….”

His partner began to intone a sombre, ethereal and mystical melody. Like Hildegard a millennium before him, the words and the music calmed. Dave’s troubled mind and itchy finger lost their purpose , he strained again to catch the wonderful sound.

“Rochdale, Owen, Kier, and Clem bless the Vig for all of them.”

“Grameen Yunus Brac and Illitch make our tools convivial not rich”

Dave was having difficulty putting his mind to the job of wasting these specimens.

A small figure crossed the space between the group and the flat boat in a trice and Dave’s heart stopped at the point when her knife entered his left ventricle. It was a signature move and she had perfected it.

The Profit cried – Eloi Eloi Lama Sabacthani as he often did. It didn’t mean shit but somehow it fitted the sense of the apocalyptic.