Dear Jeremy Clarkson,
Is the strain of earning too much money and living in the Cotswolds going to your head, Mr Clarkson? Or are you simply coming unglued? In your Sunday Times column devoted to promoting the motorcar, you recently told your adherents that one of your favourite cities is Copenhagen.
Aside from the fact that you enjoy looking at the bottoms of pretty Danish girls, you wrote, “...there are no bloody cars cluttering up the place.” I bet the car manufactures who provide you with gassed-up models for you to test and review nearly swallowed their cheque books.
Your obviously split personality caused you to reveal that, whereas you’re okay about bikes in Denmark, you are not okay about bikes in the UK, and especially not in London. You write, “I am constantly irritated by cyclists, as I am sure they are by me”.
WRONG, dopey! Cyclists aren’t irritated by any normal motorist. But they are afraid of some motorists, Mr Clarkson. Afraid that ‘irritated‘ motorists like you have a tendency to drive like pathological sows protecting piglets. (Now that you live in our bucolic hinterland, can I presume you are aware of the behaviour of fat pigs?) Yes, an irritated motorist, armed with his steed of steel, protected from harm by seat belts and airbags, is a cowardly and dangerous breed.
And thanks to people like you, these lunatics think they have right on their side, That because they pay road tax, they have the right to hard-shoulder other road users to one side, sometimes with fatal results.
You are a heavily-leaded petrolhead, Mr Clarkson. Probably one of the purist around. Why? Because you have curly hair - rather like a pig’s tail. Your hair follicles are bent. Follicles secrete oil onto our scalps. Because yours are bent, by the time your oil has negotiated the bends, it’s hotter than it should be. In fact because you get so steamed up, or one degree hotter than irritated, by cyclists in London, you, by a self-created oil refining process, end up with high-octane fuel swilling around your curly bonce.
This greasy phenomenon may be good for your hair but it’s doing your mentality no good whatsoever. This is why you drive around emitting high-pitched piggy-squeals telling cyclists, caravaners and other normal road users to ‘get out of the way’.
Get your follicles fixed, Mr Clarkson. Your irritation will disappear and you might become inclined to notice and appreciate the bottoms on pretty English girls.
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Thursday, 23 February 2012
Coming to country near you.
I have three things on my desk that are important to me: my Mac and a motivational toy given to me as a birthday present by some dear friends. It’s a large, battery operated button on the top of which is written EASY. On completing a task I press it. A gravelly voice says, ‘That was easy!’ I love it to death.
The third is a Post It note on which I have written ‘Gene Burnett, Jump you fuckers.’ This was a tip-off about a protest song that another friend thought I would appreciate. And how! It’s on YouTube and I advise everyone to listen, laugh and learn.
The people he’s urging to jump from tall buildings, bankers, and so on, never do. It’s the victims of their actions, those whose lives have been ruined by financial skulduggery who do the jumping. So if the following seems a tad obscure to you, I’ll assume that you may not be aware of the interconnectedness of the financial and business world, and how this interconnectedness has ruined and is set to ruin millions of lives.
In view of the fact that if all goes well with Facebook’s float onto the stock exchange, our favourite social networking company may get out of paying any corporation tax in America for a decade, and stay within the rules. This will have serious repercussions. Don’t ask me how they’ll get away it. I’m not a (dopey) regulator.
In addition, the New York Times reported that between 1999 and 2009, US multinationals hired 2.9 million workers in India, China and elsewhere around the world. During the same period they laid off 870,000 workers in America, for which American tax payers are still picking up the tab - lost tax revenue, welfare payments, rising crime and the massive costs of incarcerating millions. One positive aspect is that America can no longer afford to start any more wars.
All our multinationals now have unfettered access to global markets. They are able to pick and choose and move to countries offering cheaper labour. Meanwhile, following advice by merchant banks such as the legendary ‘Giant Vampire Squid’, (aka Goldman Sachs) a slippery creature that advised Greece how to gain access to the eurozone by a supposedly legal subterfuge, they set up tax avoidance regimes involving off-shore accounts. The cash they save enables fat cats and selected shareholders to live off the fat of several lands.
Of companies like the Great Vampire Squid; if, like Adolf Hitler, you wanted to arrange for your Central Bank to trade gold for cash with another Central Bank, let’s say the Swiss Central Bank, trade gold, say, gold that you’d extracted from the mouths of exterminated citizens and converted to bullion, you would choose that sort of company as your go-between. That sort of company would get the job done without restraint or reference to the moral issue. You’d have to give them at least 10% and they'd insist on one of their employees becoming Finance Minister, but it would be well worth it.
It’s not hard to imagine that sometime in the future, when all the bank and sovereign bailout money has been spent, one of our favourite countries is going to go bust. This means that the people who can’t get away with not paying their taxes will be squeezed half-to-death by job losses, inflation, increased indirect taxation and battered to bits by one or another austerity measure.
As we slide further into recession and unemployment rises inexorably, our multinational corporations react. They duck, dive and cut so successfully that they can't help making record profits. Yet tax revenues (are set to) decrease, à la Facebook, Vodafone, Google et al, and none of the profits will be used to reduce trade deficits or stave off recession. Ergo, our multinational corporations will not contribute one iota to the difficulties that we and our favourite countries are set to encounter.
The price for our apathy and our pathetic faith in Free Market Capitalism is going to have to be paid by us, and not by them, in full.
Personally, I’d like to not only see some of the fat cats jump from tall buildings, but as they flail away I’d press the toy button inside my soul and shout, ‘That was easy!’
The third is a Post It note on which I have written ‘Gene Burnett, Jump you fuckers.’ This was a tip-off about a protest song that another friend thought I would appreciate. And how! It’s on YouTube and I advise everyone to listen, laugh and learn.
The people he’s urging to jump from tall buildings, bankers, and so on, never do. It’s the victims of their actions, those whose lives have been ruined by financial skulduggery who do the jumping. So if the following seems a tad obscure to you, I’ll assume that you may not be aware of the interconnectedness of the financial and business world, and how this interconnectedness has ruined and is set to ruin millions of lives.
In view of the fact that if all goes well with Facebook’s float onto the stock exchange, our favourite social networking company may get out of paying any corporation tax in America for a decade, and stay within the rules. This will have serious repercussions. Don’t ask me how they’ll get away it. I’m not a (dopey) regulator.
In addition, the New York Times reported that between 1999 and 2009, US multinationals hired 2.9 million workers in India, China and elsewhere around the world. During the same period they laid off 870,000 workers in America, for which American tax payers are still picking up the tab - lost tax revenue, welfare payments, rising crime and the massive costs of incarcerating millions. One positive aspect is that America can no longer afford to start any more wars.
All our multinationals now have unfettered access to global markets. They are able to pick and choose and move to countries offering cheaper labour. Meanwhile, following advice by merchant banks such as the legendary ‘Giant Vampire Squid’, (aka Goldman Sachs) a slippery creature that advised Greece how to gain access to the eurozone by a supposedly legal subterfuge, they set up tax avoidance regimes involving off-shore accounts. The cash they save enables fat cats and selected shareholders to live off the fat of several lands.
Of companies like the Great Vampire Squid; if, like Adolf Hitler, you wanted to arrange for your Central Bank to trade gold for cash with another Central Bank, let’s say the Swiss Central Bank, trade gold, say, gold that you’d extracted from the mouths of exterminated citizens and converted to bullion, you would choose that sort of company as your go-between. That sort of company would get the job done without restraint or reference to the moral issue. You’d have to give them at least 10% and they'd insist on one of their employees becoming Finance Minister, but it would be well worth it.
It’s not hard to imagine that sometime in the future, when all the bank and sovereign bailout money has been spent, one of our favourite countries is going to go bust. This means that the people who can’t get away with not paying their taxes will be squeezed half-to-death by job losses, inflation, increased indirect taxation and battered to bits by one or another austerity measure.
As we slide further into recession and unemployment rises inexorably, our multinational corporations react. They duck, dive and cut so successfully that they can't help making record profits. Yet tax revenues (are set to) decrease, à la Facebook, Vodafone, Google et al, and none of the profits will be used to reduce trade deficits or stave off recession. Ergo, our multinational corporations will not contribute one iota to the difficulties that we and our favourite countries are set to encounter.
The price for our apathy and our pathetic faith in Free Market Capitalism is going to have to be paid by us, and not by them, in full.
Personally, I’d like to not only see some of the fat cats jump from tall buildings, but as they flail away I’d press the toy button inside my soul and shout, ‘That was easy!’
Thursday, 15 September 2011
The Blame Game
It was 9/12 already, about five in the morning. I was wide awake, and frightened. Had the 10th anniversary of 9/11 got to me? Had watching the twin towers collapse about fifteen times on six different TV channels triggered a psychological reaction? Or was ‘Collapse: How Societies Choose to Succeed or Fail’, the book by Jared Diamond, the key to what had triggered off something nasty in my befuddled brain? Yup.
I had dropped off reading Chapter 1, again. It’s about ‘Montana’, that huge northwestern state in America. Suddenly I was dreaming that I was somehow connected with Mr Diamond’s book; that I was appropriately inserting swear words into the text. (He doesn’t, but I would have used, lots of swear words.) When I hit ‘save’ nothing happened. So I panicked and woke up. It was just a dream and Chapter 1 would not benefit from my heart-felt vitriol. Bugger!
I decided to get up, open a new document in Mac Pages and write down the experience before I forgot it. I made a few notes and then started thinking . In my book, Watch Out for the Bull!, I had already written about what happened to the USA following 9/11. 'It’s a rant' advised a friend. But I included it because the time of the ranter is nigh.
As an apprentice ranter I’m in great company. Jared Diamond is a highly sophisticated ranter. He can get away with it from his position as a scientist. Then there’s Bill Bryson. He’s a first class ranter. He gets away with it because he’s an American-born author with an OBE. His trip along the Appalachian Way turned out to be a minor event in the genre of physical achievement, but his rants about the state of the southern states of America are nothing less than eye-popping. Read ‘Walk in the Woods’ and you will get the picture.
I’m not yet qualified to rant in public but I do know that you must read everything you can about how we are destroying the planet and relate it to global warming. Convince yourself that it’s man-made. Do not listen to the deniers, such as Britain's Jeremy Clarkson or the American Republican Party, especially the Tea Party faction, who seem suicidal to me. To them, evolution is a theory. They deny everything. Their brand of politics depends on oil lasting forever. To them, global warming is not man-made and the spirit of God lives in America. (Mr Clarkson holds similar views but his god lives in the bucolic Cotswolds and drives a green Lamborghini.)
The Tea Party-people are very good at brainwashing The Enemy. (The Enemy is any number of half-witted, quintessential, God-fearing Americans.) If the Tea Party can persuade Sarah Palin to run with Michele Bachman on the ticket, The Enemy will vote them in. (‘Don’t they look cute, together?’) That's the equivalent of Margaret Thatcher teaming up with Lucretia Borgia. Thus, the end of the world. Save now and book a place on a Virgin rocket to Mars.
So what was America like in 2008? Herewith an edited version of the rant in my book, now available as low-cost ebook on Amazon:
“Perhaps we should now take an objective look at the mess that America was in when God’s messenger, Mr Wong, pitched up in Lubbock, Texas. The neo-cons who had worked George W. Bush like a puppet on a string had become history of the worst kind. Excitement was in the air at the prospect of Barack Obama, a mixed-race, liberal, northern Democrat, becoming the next president. Knowing that white supremacists and Republicans are not good losers, that their collective mean-spiritedness could be deadly, the world held its breath and awaited the crack of a sniper rifle.
It was a challenging time, a financial version of 9/11. The American economy had taken an extended dip into a cauldron fired by the sub-prime mortgage crisis. Toxic debts were poisoning banks. The dollar was falling. Towering corporations tottered. Lehman Brothers collapsed. There was chaos on Wall Street as scams and scammers were exposed. Scorched investors emitted stuck-pig screams that echoed around New York’s glass and concrete canyons.
A blindingly rich nation was stumbling towards an unforeseen and unquantifiable abyss. America’s balance of payments deficit roared past an almost incalculable 11 trillion dollars. But who was counting? (It’s now beyond 14 trillion.)
Californians were counting. The figures made no sense. The Golden State was failing. State coffers were empty. Billions of dollars had to be cut from basic services. Thousands of workers were fired. Californians blinked when the unthinkable happened. Immigration went into reverse.
America’s Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation was counting. Responsible for the banking sector they shelled out $850 million when two banks failed. (By September 2009, 94 banks had failed.)
America’s super-rich were counting. The value of their investment portfolios had shriveled like late autumn leaves in New England. Would this stop them laughing up their sleeves? No. Safe inside gated communities they waited for the bailout that was surely coming.
George W. Bush responded by handing responsibility for the crisis to an ex-banker, a man bred on a culture of fat bonuses; a man who had used all his influence not to keep America’s banks under control, but to deregulate them so that they could do what the hell they liked. Billions were doled out and it all trickled upwards to bankers and the rich. Their smirks could be heard rather than seen.
One bright note: a banking group that received $45 billion of public money responded by cancelling the purchase of another corporate jet. The other: the poor weren’t counting. America’s poor don’t count. Many are so badly educated that they can’t count.
America’s reputation for fairness and justice had already gone down the same bankrupt road. High-placed whipping boys had used compliant constitutional lawyers to justify un-American activities and sneered at Geneva Conventions by condoning water boarding. Prisoners captured in illegal conflicts were hung from shackles, prisoners who would never be charged. America’s moral compass had spun wildly out of control...
Satan, my master, attempted to put his spiked finger on all of it. 'America and its perceived success is what the rest of mankind aims for. Humanity has fallen for a marketing exercise. Brainwashed into believing that their own personal comfort is paramount, humans will pay any price for it. Thus they consume. Big business prospers at their expense and that of the planet. Mafias control huge black markets through crooked politicians disguised as social-democrats. Media barons control information. Elitists pay lip service to the needs of the proletariat by tossing scraps from their endless banquet. The strongest scrabble for them and winners are recruited to the ranks.'
Satan was on a high. 'God doesn’t get it. But I do. So far as I’m concerned, things are going very well indeed.' (Satan loves a rant.)
So it's now 2011 and how bad is America doing today? It’s credit rating has been downgraded, but the rich are getting richer. 25 million Americans are looking for full-time work. 42.6 million are classified as ‘poor’. Poverty in the USA is defined as follows: if a couple with two children don’t earn $22,314 (16,263 euros - £16,294) per year between them, they are poor. For singles it’s $11,139 (8,163 euros - £7050) £587 per month: that's less than my state pension.
50 million Americans have no health insurance. General Electric reported $14.2 billion in profits (last year) and paid no federal corporate tax: none. Neither did Bank of America who, in 2008, trousered $336 billion of bailout money. And that’s how the Republicans want to keep it. ‘Health insurance is for wimps, socialists or Europeans! Tax-free profits are only for the rich. So butt out!’
Being a wimp, a socialist and a European does not keep me awake at night. Chapter 1 in Jared Diamond’s book does. Knowing what’s going on in Montana is very scary. It’s based on science, therefore it is true. Read my very brief summary points and insert swear words where appropriate.
A) Montana is a relatively dry state, ergo they don’t have enough water.
B) Because of climate change, existing water sources are drying up. Snow melt is reducing year on year and glaciers are disappearing at a rate of knots.
C) Because of rich people building big houses, with big lawns and golf courses to match, demand for water is soaring.
D) Lack of water is bankrupting traditional businesses, such as ranching.
E) Because of past mining activities, hell is underground and on it’s way to breakfast. Toxic minerals are draining out of countless old mine workings and poisoning soil and water supplies.
F) Chronic Wasting Disease (such as the Creutzfelt-Jacob variety) is endemic in elk and deer populations and could spread to humans.
Mr Diamond cites lots of shortcomings in the governance of the state of Montana - and how. In short, Montana seems to have elected to fail. It suffers from a huge list of environmental problems involving toxic wastes, deforestation, soil degradation and salination, biodiversity losses and pests and weeds that are taking over from native species. The damage from these alone is estimated at $1 billion per year. And it’s all caused by the people who live there.
Like (southern) California, Montana is not only dry, it’s broke. So if anyone wanted to do something about this stuff, where’s the money coming from? The Federal government is also broke, and because of the ginormous balance of payment deficit, nothing is going to get fixed anywhere, anytime soon. So what’s going to happen to Montana, a state long touted as pristine wilderness? Nothing useful. It will continue to deteriorate and join a long list of American states with similar or worse problems.It's the result of greed, selfishness, ignorance, stupidity and the breakdown of a formerly civilised society.
The great American philanthropists of the past would have stepped up to the plate and spent and billions fixing the problem. No longer. America is the home of Microsoft, Google and Exxon, still the home of unbridled corporate and individual wealth: none of which are contributing a bean in order to cure Montana’s dreadful ills, and I doubt they ever will. It’s much more fashionable to save Africa.
I can understand that. The states of America, and the country itself, should be able to care of itself. Increased taxes, especially on the rich, would help but the Republican dominated Congress bawls, ‘Over my dead body!’ And so it will be.
The state of Montana is indicative of the state of America which relates to the state of the Planet, so believe me when I tell you that the state of Montana is coming to a state near you. Who and what is destroying everything is no longer important. The failure to protect and defend what was ‘pristine’ is. The consequences if we don't are immeasurable. The environmental collapse of Montana will be like the equivalent of one million 09/11s.
When it happens, a Republican leader will look around for someone to blame. With a scapegoat found, he or she will gear up for another war and again borrow the money to fight it. Because Sadam and Bin Laden are dead, and because of the Arab spring and a new-found desire for freedom and democracy, it’s unlikely to be against the Muslims this time around.
So who’s going to win the blame game? Who’s in the firing line? If I was Venezuelan, Iranian or French, I’d start looking to make friends. Victory fries, anyone?
I had dropped off reading Chapter 1, again. It’s about ‘Montana’, that huge northwestern state in America. Suddenly I was dreaming that I was somehow connected with Mr Diamond’s book; that I was appropriately inserting swear words into the text. (He doesn’t, but I would have used, lots of swear words.) When I hit ‘save’ nothing happened. So I panicked and woke up. It was just a dream and Chapter 1 would not benefit from my heart-felt vitriol. Bugger!
I decided to get up, open a new document in Mac Pages and write down the experience before I forgot it. I made a few notes and then started thinking . In my book, Watch Out for the Bull!, I had already written about what happened to the USA following 9/11. 'It’s a rant' advised a friend. But I included it because the time of the ranter is nigh.
As an apprentice ranter I’m in great company. Jared Diamond is a highly sophisticated ranter. He can get away with it from his position as a scientist. Then there’s Bill Bryson. He’s a first class ranter. He gets away with it because he’s an American-born author with an OBE. His trip along the Appalachian Way turned out to be a minor event in the genre of physical achievement, but his rants about the state of the southern states of America are nothing less than eye-popping. Read ‘Walk in the Woods’ and you will get the picture.
I’m not yet qualified to rant in public but I do know that you must read everything you can about how we are destroying the planet and relate it to global warming. Convince yourself that it’s man-made. Do not listen to the deniers, such as Britain's Jeremy Clarkson or the American Republican Party, especially the Tea Party faction, who seem suicidal to me. To them, evolution is a theory. They deny everything. Their brand of politics depends on oil lasting forever. To them, global warming is not man-made and the spirit of God lives in America. (Mr Clarkson holds similar views but his god lives in the bucolic Cotswolds and drives a green Lamborghini.)
The Tea Party-people are very good at brainwashing The Enemy. (The Enemy is any number of half-witted, quintessential, God-fearing Americans.) If the Tea Party can persuade Sarah Palin to run with Michele Bachman on the ticket, The Enemy will vote them in. (‘Don’t they look cute, together?’) That's the equivalent of Margaret Thatcher teaming up with Lucretia Borgia. Thus, the end of the world. Save now and book a place on a Virgin rocket to Mars.
So what was America like in 2008? Herewith an edited version of the rant in my book, now available as low-cost ebook on Amazon:
“Perhaps we should now take an objective look at the mess that America was in when God’s messenger, Mr Wong, pitched up in Lubbock, Texas. The neo-cons who had worked George W. Bush like a puppet on a string had become history of the worst kind. Excitement was in the air at the prospect of Barack Obama, a mixed-race, liberal, northern Democrat, becoming the next president. Knowing that white supremacists and Republicans are not good losers, that their collective mean-spiritedness could be deadly, the world held its breath and awaited the crack of a sniper rifle.
It was a challenging time, a financial version of 9/11. The American economy had taken an extended dip into a cauldron fired by the sub-prime mortgage crisis. Toxic debts were poisoning banks. The dollar was falling. Towering corporations tottered. Lehman Brothers collapsed. There was chaos on Wall Street as scams and scammers were exposed. Scorched investors emitted stuck-pig screams that echoed around New York’s glass and concrete canyons.
A blindingly rich nation was stumbling towards an unforeseen and unquantifiable abyss. America’s balance of payments deficit roared past an almost incalculable 11 trillion dollars. But who was counting? (It’s now beyond 14 trillion.)
Californians were counting. The figures made no sense. The Golden State was failing. State coffers were empty. Billions of dollars had to be cut from basic services. Thousands of workers were fired. Californians blinked when the unthinkable happened. Immigration went into reverse.
America’s Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation was counting. Responsible for the banking sector they shelled out $850 million when two banks failed. (By September 2009, 94 banks had failed.)
America’s super-rich were counting. The value of their investment portfolios had shriveled like late autumn leaves in New England. Would this stop them laughing up their sleeves? No. Safe inside gated communities they waited for the bailout that was surely coming.
George W. Bush responded by handing responsibility for the crisis to an ex-banker, a man bred on a culture of fat bonuses; a man who had used all his influence not to keep America’s banks under control, but to deregulate them so that they could do what the hell they liked. Billions were doled out and it all trickled upwards to bankers and the rich. Their smirks could be heard rather than seen.
One bright note: a banking group that received $45 billion of public money responded by cancelling the purchase of another corporate jet. The other: the poor weren’t counting. America’s poor don’t count. Many are so badly educated that they can’t count.
America’s reputation for fairness and justice had already gone down the same bankrupt road. High-placed whipping boys had used compliant constitutional lawyers to justify un-American activities and sneered at Geneva Conventions by condoning water boarding. Prisoners captured in illegal conflicts were hung from shackles, prisoners who would never be charged. America’s moral compass had spun wildly out of control...
Satan, my master, attempted to put his spiked finger on all of it. 'America and its perceived success is what the rest of mankind aims for. Humanity has fallen for a marketing exercise. Brainwashed into believing that their own personal comfort is paramount, humans will pay any price for it. Thus they consume. Big business prospers at their expense and that of the planet. Mafias control huge black markets through crooked politicians disguised as social-democrats. Media barons control information. Elitists pay lip service to the needs of the proletariat by tossing scraps from their endless banquet. The strongest scrabble for them and winners are recruited to the ranks.'
Satan was on a high. 'God doesn’t get it. But I do. So far as I’m concerned, things are going very well indeed.' (Satan loves a rant.)
So it's now 2011 and how bad is America doing today? It’s credit rating has been downgraded, but the rich are getting richer. 25 million Americans are looking for full-time work. 42.6 million are classified as ‘poor’. Poverty in the USA is defined as follows: if a couple with two children don’t earn $22,314 (16,263 euros - £16,294) per year between them, they are poor. For singles it’s $11,139 (8,163 euros - £7050) £587 per month: that's less than my state pension.
50 million Americans have no health insurance. General Electric reported $14.2 billion in profits (last year) and paid no federal corporate tax: none. Neither did Bank of America who, in 2008, trousered $336 billion of bailout money. And that’s how the Republicans want to keep it. ‘Health insurance is for wimps, socialists or Europeans! Tax-free profits are only for the rich. So butt out!’
Being a wimp, a socialist and a European does not keep me awake at night. Chapter 1 in Jared Diamond’s book does. Knowing what’s going on in Montana is very scary. It’s based on science, therefore it is true. Read my very brief summary points and insert swear words where appropriate.
A) Montana is a relatively dry state, ergo they don’t have enough water.
B) Because of climate change, existing water sources are drying up. Snow melt is reducing year on year and glaciers are disappearing at a rate of knots.
C) Because of rich people building big houses, with big lawns and golf courses to match, demand for water is soaring.
D) Lack of water is bankrupting traditional businesses, such as ranching.
E) Because of past mining activities, hell is underground and on it’s way to breakfast. Toxic minerals are draining out of countless old mine workings and poisoning soil and water supplies.
F) Chronic Wasting Disease (such as the Creutzfelt-Jacob variety) is endemic in elk and deer populations and could spread to humans.
Mr Diamond cites lots of shortcomings in the governance of the state of Montana - and how. In short, Montana seems to have elected to fail. It suffers from a huge list of environmental problems involving toxic wastes, deforestation, soil degradation and salination, biodiversity losses and pests and weeds that are taking over from native species. The damage from these alone is estimated at $1 billion per year. And it’s all caused by the people who live there.
Like (southern) California, Montana is not only dry, it’s broke. So if anyone wanted to do something about this stuff, where’s the money coming from? The Federal government is also broke, and because of the ginormous balance of payment deficit, nothing is going to get fixed anywhere, anytime soon. So what’s going to happen to Montana, a state long touted as pristine wilderness? Nothing useful. It will continue to deteriorate and join a long list of American states with similar or worse problems.It's the result of greed, selfishness, ignorance, stupidity and the breakdown of a formerly civilised society.
The great American philanthropists of the past would have stepped up to the plate and spent and billions fixing the problem. No longer. America is the home of Microsoft, Google and Exxon, still the home of unbridled corporate and individual wealth: none of which are contributing a bean in order to cure Montana’s dreadful ills, and I doubt they ever will. It’s much more fashionable to save Africa.
I can understand that. The states of America, and the country itself, should be able to care of itself. Increased taxes, especially on the rich, would help but the Republican dominated Congress bawls, ‘Over my dead body!’ And so it will be.
The state of Montana is indicative of the state of America which relates to the state of the Planet, so believe me when I tell you that the state of Montana is coming to a state near you. Who and what is destroying everything is no longer important. The failure to protect and defend what was ‘pristine’ is. The consequences if we don't are immeasurable. The environmental collapse of Montana will be like the equivalent of one million 09/11s.
When it happens, a Republican leader will look around for someone to blame. With a scapegoat found, he or she will gear up for another war and again borrow the money to fight it. Because Sadam and Bin Laden are dead, and because of the Arab spring and a new-found desire for freedom and democracy, it’s unlikely to be against the Muslims this time around.
So who’s going to win the blame game? Who’s in the firing line? If I was Venezuelan, Iranian or French, I’d start looking to make friends. Victory fries, anyone?
Monday, 22 August 2011
Wrong! Wrong! Do it again! (Pink Floyd’s ‘The Wall’)
That old saying, Spare the rod and spoil the child, is being bandied about a lot these days. No wonder. Today’s undisciplined youth are now the shock-troops of the consumer society. Their way of shopping - Shop ‘til you’re shot - can be likened to guerilla warfare.
Modus operandi: don hood, old trainers and call mates on smart phones. Distract demoralised police by throwing petrol bombs at police stations. Block roads by setting fire to furniture stores, or attract fire and ambulance services into cul-de-sacs on sink estates and pin them down.
While they’re all busy fending off bombs, bricks and fireworks, send wrecking crew to the centre of town. Kick in doors of favourite shops and acquire drugs, booze, new trainers, laptops, Raybans and Blackberries (but not books, apparently!). Later, meet up with old friends and exchange small amounts of money for stolen designer goods.
(Get caught; go to court; plead guilty and do six months. Upon release as stir-hardened felon, bask in the glory of enhanced street-cred. Sure beats the hell out of working for Tesco.)
Oh to be young again! The most exciting thing that happened to kids of my generation was finding unexploded ordinance on bomb sites. Can you believe that we were so honest and naive that we located the nearest bobby-on-the-beat or bicycle and informed him of the danger to society?
The other major difference between us and today’s youth is that we could read, write, do arithmetic and get jobs at Woolworth’s or down coal mines. This is because of teachers like Miss Jackson (OMG!), late of Kirkby Avenue Infant’s School, West End, Bentley, near Doncaster.
Miss Jackson was a spinster and it showed. She had breath that reeked of nicotine and pickled onions. Her cardigans had leather patches on the elbows and there were egg yolk stains on her old tweed skirt. But she was a dedicated teacher with attitude. She had no time for naughty boys and girls who dicked her around and wasted her time. She was there to teach and, by God, once taught by Miss Jackson, you stayed fricking taught.
Her modus operandi was also simple. After ‘Good morning Miss Jackson,’ she reached into her desk and took out a bamboo rod called ‘Cane’. When she said “Spelling”, we spelled. When we spelled correctly all was well. When we spelled incorrectly...You knew you’d got it wrong when she stopped you spelling and said, “Stand up”. You stood up until you spelled a word correctly. The last kid standing was not a sissy. ‘Cane’ reigned and no kid complained.
Thanks to Miss Jackson, by the time I was eleven I was reasonably literate, numerate and enjoyed French lessons. Although inept with a slide rule, I could spell logarithm and trigonometric. I had some lousy jobs but I was never out of work.
Had my parents seen me on television throwing rocks and stealing bottles of mineral water, (Duh!), the best thing I could have done was to emigrate. Had my mother clipped my ear for stupidity, I wouldn’t have reported her for breaching my rights. We were not often spoiled and the rod was never spared. It worked. We need to recruit lots of Miss Jacksons, patch their cardigans, fix them up with mouth washes and turn them loose.
Wrong! Wrong! We’ve got it all wrong. The kids know it. The parents know it. The teachers know it. Can someone please tell the bloody government?
Modus operandi: don hood, old trainers and call mates on smart phones. Distract demoralised police by throwing petrol bombs at police stations. Block roads by setting fire to furniture stores, or attract fire and ambulance services into cul-de-sacs on sink estates and pin them down.
While they’re all busy fending off bombs, bricks and fireworks, send wrecking crew to the centre of town. Kick in doors of favourite shops and acquire drugs, booze, new trainers, laptops, Raybans and Blackberries (but not books, apparently!). Later, meet up with old friends and exchange small amounts of money for stolen designer goods.
(Get caught; go to court; plead guilty and do six months. Upon release as stir-hardened felon, bask in the glory of enhanced street-cred. Sure beats the hell out of working for Tesco.)
Oh to be young again! The most exciting thing that happened to kids of my generation was finding unexploded ordinance on bomb sites. Can you believe that we were so honest and naive that we located the nearest bobby-on-the-beat or bicycle and informed him of the danger to society?
The other major difference between us and today’s youth is that we could read, write, do arithmetic and get jobs at Woolworth’s or down coal mines. This is because of teachers like Miss Jackson (OMG!), late of Kirkby Avenue Infant’s School, West End, Bentley, near Doncaster.
Miss Jackson was a spinster and it showed. She had breath that reeked of nicotine and pickled onions. Her cardigans had leather patches on the elbows and there were egg yolk stains on her old tweed skirt. But she was a dedicated teacher with attitude. She had no time for naughty boys and girls who dicked her around and wasted her time. She was there to teach and, by God, once taught by Miss Jackson, you stayed fricking taught.
Her modus operandi was also simple. After ‘Good morning Miss Jackson,’ she reached into her desk and took out a bamboo rod called ‘Cane’. When she said “Spelling”, we spelled. When we spelled correctly all was well. When we spelled incorrectly...You knew you’d got it wrong when she stopped you spelling and said, “Stand up”. You stood up until you spelled a word correctly. The last kid standing was not a sissy. ‘Cane’ reigned and no kid complained.
Thanks to Miss Jackson, by the time I was eleven I was reasonably literate, numerate and enjoyed French lessons. Although inept with a slide rule, I could spell logarithm and trigonometric. I had some lousy jobs but I was never out of work.
Had my parents seen me on television throwing rocks and stealing bottles of mineral water, (Duh!), the best thing I could have done was to emigrate. Had my mother clipped my ear for stupidity, I wouldn’t have reported her for breaching my rights. We were not often spoiled and the rod was never spared. It worked. We need to recruit lots of Miss Jacksons, patch their cardigans, fix them up with mouth washes and turn them loose.
Wrong! Wrong! We’ve got it all wrong. The kids know it. The parents know it. The teachers know it. Can someone please tell the bloody government?
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Phuket Connection
(Leaked letter via Phuket Connection)
Dear Mrs Suu Kyi,
Dealing with your new politicians from the ranks of the Military Junta is a nightmare. Sorry, but those guys spend too much time on the golf course. In any case I hear that you are now the best person in Burma to contact. (Or do you prefer Myanmar?)
Firstly I’d like to thank whoever is responsible for sending the refugees who provide us with our cheap labour. Thailand, let alone Phuket, can’t do without them. We, part of the Ma Fia Corporation - southern chapter- located in Patong ‘Boom Boom’ Town, are overdeveloping Phuket on a grand scale.
We employ thousands of your people on our most dangerous building sites. They’re good workers, especially the women. They’ll work high on old bamboo scaffolding - in flip flops, without safety belts and hard hats! They’ll work in liquid cement in bare feet. Our Thai workers wont do that any more. They’ve now got rights. They demand 200 Baht per day - that’s just over £4 in international money - and spend half the day on their mobile phones.
My job is to keep your workers in line. I do this by holding back their wages, half of which we keep for agents’ commissions. It’s a sweet deal for us (and there could be something in it for you.) However, we have a problem. Your women are developing bad backs lifting bags of cement, steel girders, and so on. This slows us down and we get behind schedule.
Now don’t misunderstand me. We’re not asking for compensation. We don’t work like that. We beat them up, or shop them to our immigration people who deport them. They sometimes put them on boats, tow them out to sea and leave to them it.
What I’m asking for is a more effective vetting system. We only want the strongest. We don’t need softies from cities. We prefer your ethnics, those who hump through mountainous jungle trying to stay ahead of your soldiers. Carrying all their possessions around for a few years develops stronger muscles. Plus they can’t read or write and have no ID. They’re ideal.
So how was your incarceration by the lake? Same same? Okay, so good luck. Oh. If you haven’t spent all the money from the Nobel Peace Prize award, why not invest it in hardwood tress? Let us know how many you have and we’ll tell our man in the Thai government. He’ll organise transportation and payment. You can expect to at least double your money.
We look forward to hearing from you in due course.
Boonpai Sukkertrap
Dear Mrs Suu Kyi,
Dealing with your new politicians from the ranks of the Military Junta is a nightmare. Sorry, but those guys spend too much time on the golf course. In any case I hear that you are now the best person in Burma to contact. (Or do you prefer Myanmar?)
Firstly I’d like to thank whoever is responsible for sending the refugees who provide us with our cheap labour. Thailand, let alone Phuket, can’t do without them. We, part of the Ma Fia Corporation - southern chapter- located in Patong ‘Boom Boom’ Town, are overdeveloping Phuket on a grand scale.
We employ thousands of your people on our most dangerous building sites. They’re good workers, especially the women. They’ll work high on old bamboo scaffolding - in flip flops, without safety belts and hard hats! They’ll work in liquid cement in bare feet. Our Thai workers wont do that any more. They’ve now got rights. They demand 200 Baht per day - that’s just over £4 in international money - and spend half the day on their mobile phones.
My job is to keep your workers in line. I do this by holding back their wages, half of which we keep for agents’ commissions. It’s a sweet deal for us (and there could be something in it for you.) However, we have a problem. Your women are developing bad backs lifting bags of cement, steel girders, and so on. This slows us down and we get behind schedule.
Now don’t misunderstand me. We’re not asking for compensation. We don’t work like that. We beat them up, or shop them to our immigration people who deport them. They sometimes put them on boats, tow them out to sea and leave to them it.
What I’m asking for is a more effective vetting system. We only want the strongest. We don’t need softies from cities. We prefer your ethnics, those who hump through mountainous jungle trying to stay ahead of your soldiers. Carrying all their possessions around for a few years develops stronger muscles. Plus they can’t read or write and have no ID. They’re ideal.
So how was your incarceration by the lake? Same same? Okay, so good luck. Oh. If you haven’t spent all the money from the Nobel Peace Prize award, why not invest it in hardwood tress? Let us know how many you have and we’ll tell our man in the Thai government. He’ll organise transportation and payment. You can expect to at least double your money.
We look forward to hearing from you in due course.
Boonpai Sukkertrap
Monday, 13 December 2010
Novel Race
King’s Regatta, Phuket,Thailand, 4-11 December, 2010.
With only one dead through inhaling his own vomit (officially, a heart attack) the King’s Regatta was not only a great event but a wow of a party, according to participating yachties from as far away as Canada. However, the extra, unscheduled race that took place in a gale on the last day proved to be a tough one.
Sponsored by Shaky Beer Company, the aim of the race was to get yachts and crews as near to Kuhn (Mrs) Pun’s Beach-Side Beer and Sandwich Bar as possible. Billed as a novelty event it ran true to form and the results were novel.
Khun Pun’s bar is midway along one of Kata’s magnificent arched beaches, infamous for deadly surf and powerful undertow, and a well known watering hole for those who can’t afford to stay at Club Med or use their facilities. So, for the race to end at Khun Pun’s place was a bit of coup, a welcome end to a quiet trading period but a busy time for paramedics.
With the surf pounding away, the flotilla of racing yachts set off in the driving gale. Pennants flapping faster than a humming bird's wings, some reached record speeds. Especially the catamarans. Some skippers, suspecting the worst, turned back. Others couldn’t make up their minds and turned back too late. Sideways on, sails now controlled by nature instead of by beefy crew members, they were blown off course.
One headed north and missed the rendezvous at Khun Pun’s by 500 metres. Called Bees K-nees Diver, it dived too steeply, smashed it’s keel and ended up parked on it’s side. Laughing hysterically, the crew scampered away and haven't been seen since. Also having drifted too far north, Miss Sy Gone made a brave effort after narrowly missing a large tree. Her crew seemed in with a chance as they abandoned ship and split for the bar.
To the south of Khun Pun’s place, other yachts made an even bigger splash of it. Three of them plowed into the beach with such force that they found themselves wedged firmly in the sand (and may be moored there for some time).
The catamarans were the clear winners. Arriving on the beach at a high rate of knots, they were perfectly lined up with Khun Pun, rather than her place. Like two wartime Marine Commando vessels, they scythed through the sand and headed straight for her. It was a close call but Yellow Peril nailed the result by a short, snappy spinnaker.
The skipper called out, “Fifteen Shakies” (beers) and Khun Pun set ‘em up. As most of the yachties were drinking to forget, it was going to a long night. A photo taken by Khun Pun shows Yellow Peril nestling amongst her beach furniture. ‘He came so close, so fast, that I thought it was a hostile takeover bid. But high season arrives next week and I would have said no. Or, maybe.’
The booby prize went to a local yacht that ended up about 600 metres south of the bar. Dismasted and looking like a HMS Victory after the Battle of Trafalgar, the crew offered no explanation other than, ‘Before the race started we were smashed.’ They were disqualified and have since filed a protest. When morning revealed the carnage, the Thai flag was still flying from their yardarm.
‘Damn fine effort,’ according to Commander ‘Dopey’ Dave Lifebuoy, the race organizer, who phoned from Bali. (Well, he said he was in Bali.) When asked if the event will be included officially, as a permanent fixture of the King’s Regatta, he replied, ‘Gotta go, mate. I’m wanted in Darwin.’
With only one dead through inhaling his own vomit (officially, a heart attack) the King’s Regatta was not only a great event but a wow of a party, according to participating yachties from as far away as Canada. However, the extra, unscheduled race that took place in a gale on the last day proved to be a tough one.
Sponsored by Shaky Beer Company, the aim of the race was to get yachts and crews as near to Kuhn (Mrs) Pun’s Beach-Side Beer and Sandwich Bar as possible. Billed as a novelty event it ran true to form and the results were novel.
Khun Pun’s bar is midway along one of Kata’s magnificent arched beaches, infamous for deadly surf and powerful undertow, and a well known watering hole for those who can’t afford to stay at Club Med or use their facilities. So, for the race to end at Khun Pun’s place was a bit of coup, a welcome end to a quiet trading period but a busy time for paramedics.
With the surf pounding away, the flotilla of racing yachts set off in the driving gale. Pennants flapping faster than a humming bird's wings, some reached record speeds. Especially the catamarans. Some skippers, suspecting the worst, turned back. Others couldn’t make up their minds and turned back too late. Sideways on, sails now controlled by nature instead of by beefy crew members, they were blown off course.
One headed north and missed the rendezvous at Khun Pun’s by 500 metres. Called Bees K-nees Diver, it dived too steeply, smashed it’s keel and ended up parked on it’s side. Laughing hysterically, the crew scampered away and haven't been seen since. Also having drifted too far north, Miss Sy Gone made a brave effort after narrowly missing a large tree. Her crew seemed in with a chance as they abandoned ship and split for the bar.
To the south of Khun Pun’s place, other yachts made an even bigger splash of it. Three of them plowed into the beach with such force that they found themselves wedged firmly in the sand (and may be moored there for some time).
The catamarans were the clear winners. Arriving on the beach at a high rate of knots, they were perfectly lined up with Khun Pun, rather than her place. Like two wartime Marine Commando vessels, they scythed through the sand and headed straight for her. It was a close call but Yellow Peril nailed the result by a short, snappy spinnaker.
The skipper called out, “Fifteen Shakies” (beers) and Khun Pun set ‘em up. As most of the yachties were drinking to forget, it was going to a long night. A photo taken by Khun Pun shows Yellow Peril nestling amongst her beach furniture. ‘He came so close, so fast, that I thought it was a hostile takeover bid. But high season arrives next week and I would have said no. Or, maybe.’
The booby prize went to a local yacht that ended up about 600 metres south of the bar. Dismasted and looking like a HMS Victory after the Battle of Trafalgar, the crew offered no explanation other than, ‘Before the race started we were smashed.’ They were disqualified and have since filed a protest. When morning revealed the carnage, the Thai flag was still flying from their yardarm.
‘Damn fine effort,’ according to Commander ‘Dopey’ Dave Lifebuoy, the race organizer, who phoned from Bali. (Well, he said he was in Bali.) When asked if the event will be included officially, as a permanent fixture of the King’s Regatta, he replied, ‘Gotta go, mate. I’m wanted in Darwin.’
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
When to panic?
Don’t panic when you hear an announcement that the train you intended to catch is not going to stop at the station nominated by the rail company, at the time specified:even if it will prevent you making a vital connection with another train. Don’t panic. Act.
So there I am, following a miserably sleepless night brought on by worries about making the aforementioned vital connection, standing on a draughty platform at Rotterdam’s roofless and antiquated station. Burdened by my weighty rucksack (how come laptops, guidebooks and peripherals are so bleedin’ ‘eavy?), I’ve already lugged my 15 kilos of wheelie-case down one flight of steps and up another.
But no worries. The board was showing that the 1155 to Brussels ‘Zuid’ was on time, leaving me plenty of time to eat a sandwich made in Belgium upon arrival. Or made in China like everything else. But what was this?
'This’ was an announcement to boldly state that the super-Hi-Speed Thalys (also going to Brussels), though running 45 minutes late, would be along soon. A Thalys 45 minutes late? Lord above. Is nothing sacred? It got worse. An indifferent voice said something like, ‘By the way. Someone has put the train together wrongly and the First Class carriages are at the rear of the train instead of the front. Ons excuses’ (‘Sorry about that’).
My working-class instincts kicked in instantly. Happy as a pig in effluent I watched rich people hauling their designer luggage along the adjacent platform, disgruntlement writ all over their chubby chops. I knew exactly what they were thinking. They were thinking, ‘You just can’t get the staff these days’. Tough!
It got funnier. The Thalys crept into Rotterdam like a high-speed tortoise, and guess what? The flipping First Class carriages were not at the rear of the train but at the front where they so obviously belonged. The tragedy was that I couldn’t see the faces of those affected by the non-change. But I could imagine them and had to stop myself from emitting my Lady MacBeth cackle. Loaded up, off it went as smooth as skins being slid over sausage meat.
Now for the main event. The board showed that my working-class train was still on time - for about three seconds. Then the information disappeared. Gone. In a flash. Just like that. What the f...? My heart skipped a beat as the same indifferent voice said something like, ‘The 1155 to Brussels will not be stopping at Rotterdam today. Ons excuses.’
Ons ex-frigging-cuses? I needed more than that, God dammit, as did many others standing with open mouths, agog, appalled, bewildered. Without hesitation I sprang into action. Grabbing my wheelie-case I hauled it to the steps then lugged it down. But was was this? Younger people, unencumbered by baggage and a heart condition were overtaking me. I tripped up two of them with my walking stick - they didn’t see that coming - but by the time I got to the information desk I was way down the line.
Then, as my forehead leaked sweat down my face and into my beard I heard a voice. A lady staff-member was telling a couple of lady tourists where to go, or what to do and I heard her say, ‘Thalys’. I butted in. ‘To Brussels?‘ ‘Yes sir.’ I shook my fevered brow and all three stepped back to avoid being drenched in manly water. ‘Oh no. The Thalys has gone.’ ‘Oh yes, sir. That was the late Thalys. There is another one here already, but it is going soon. Ask them if you can catch it.’
As the other ladies paused I leaped slowly onto the escalator to platform 1b. Yes, there’s a moving bleeding stairway to the Thalys, steps for the rest of us. I frog-marched myself to the top, did a right and there she was. As I made it onto the empty platform I heard a whistle. That was when I panicked.
Head down, stick in hand, I went into my version of Fifth Gear. The nearest doorway was twenty-five metres away. Further along an arm popped out of another and waved as if to say, ‘Unless you can go faster than that, old fart, you’re going to miss it.’ So I changed into Overdrive and I did not miss it. With the doors snatching at my case I stormed the steps and landed in the space between compartments. ‘Schplunk’ went the doors and off went an on-time Thalys, a TGV intent on reaching three hundred kilometres an hour.
To say I was in a bit of a state is an understatement. Chest heaving and pounding, eyes bulging like a bullfrog trapped in his lady frog's spawn, I leaned against a carriage window. The adjacent door opened soundlessly. Out stepped a man in uniform. Rotund and frowning officiously he said, ‘Ticket.’
Stuttering breathlessly about the frigging train not stopping at Rotterdam today, I offered him my special promotion ‘cheap’ ticket for a non-TGV train to nowhere. His frown deepened. I knew that expression. I’ve been attracting it for about sixty-five years. Here it comes, I thought. ‘You now have to pay...’ But it was not a case of money. ‘Sir,‘ he intoned. ‘You must ask permission before you take this train under those circumstances.‘ HUH?
I could not quite believe my ears but my brain could and it sent a signal to my big mouth. In that so awfully polite English way I found myself saying, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry but time was pressing and I was in a state of panic.’ I’m unsure if his brain processed my state and the use of ‘pressing’, but he had heard the word ‘sorry’. Without further ado he took my case, showed me to a spare seat and after saluting me, left me to count my blessings.
Should you ever be in Rotterdam and your shitty Dutch train to Brussels is cancelled, do not fret. Even if you are already ten minutes late you can still arrive in Brussels twenty-five minutes early. All you have to do is to panic and catch the flying Thalys.
So there I am, following a miserably sleepless night brought on by worries about making the aforementioned vital connection, standing on a draughty platform at Rotterdam’s roofless and antiquated station. Burdened by my weighty rucksack (how come laptops, guidebooks and peripherals are so bleedin’ ‘eavy?), I’ve already lugged my 15 kilos of wheelie-case down one flight of steps and up another.
But no worries. The board was showing that the 1155 to Brussels ‘Zuid’ was on time, leaving me plenty of time to eat a sandwich made in Belgium upon arrival. Or made in China like everything else. But what was this?
'This’ was an announcement to boldly state that the super-Hi-Speed Thalys (also going to Brussels), though running 45 minutes late, would be along soon. A Thalys 45 minutes late? Lord above. Is nothing sacred? It got worse. An indifferent voice said something like, ‘By the way. Someone has put the train together wrongly and the First Class carriages are at the rear of the train instead of the front. Ons excuses’ (‘Sorry about that’).
My working-class instincts kicked in instantly. Happy as a pig in effluent I watched rich people hauling their designer luggage along the adjacent platform, disgruntlement writ all over their chubby chops. I knew exactly what they were thinking. They were thinking, ‘You just can’t get the staff these days’. Tough!
It got funnier. The Thalys crept into Rotterdam like a high-speed tortoise, and guess what? The flipping First Class carriages were not at the rear of the train but at the front where they so obviously belonged. The tragedy was that I couldn’t see the faces of those affected by the non-change. But I could imagine them and had to stop myself from emitting my Lady MacBeth cackle. Loaded up, off it went as smooth as skins being slid over sausage meat.
Now for the main event. The board showed that my working-class train was still on time - for about three seconds. Then the information disappeared. Gone. In a flash. Just like that. What the f...? My heart skipped a beat as the same indifferent voice said something like, ‘The 1155 to Brussels will not be stopping at Rotterdam today. Ons excuses.’
Ons ex-frigging-cuses? I needed more than that, God dammit, as did many others standing with open mouths, agog, appalled, bewildered. Without hesitation I sprang into action. Grabbing my wheelie-case I hauled it to the steps then lugged it down. But was was this? Younger people, unencumbered by baggage and a heart condition were overtaking me. I tripped up two of them with my walking stick - they didn’t see that coming - but by the time I got to the information desk I was way down the line.
Then, as my forehead leaked sweat down my face and into my beard I heard a voice. A lady staff-member was telling a couple of lady tourists where to go, or what to do and I heard her say, ‘Thalys’. I butted in. ‘To Brussels?‘ ‘Yes sir.’ I shook my fevered brow and all three stepped back to avoid being drenched in manly water. ‘Oh no. The Thalys has gone.’ ‘Oh yes, sir. That was the late Thalys. There is another one here already, but it is going soon. Ask them if you can catch it.’
As the other ladies paused I leaped slowly onto the escalator to platform 1b. Yes, there’s a moving bleeding stairway to the Thalys, steps for the rest of us. I frog-marched myself to the top, did a right and there she was. As I made it onto the empty platform I heard a whistle. That was when I panicked.
Head down, stick in hand, I went into my version of Fifth Gear. The nearest doorway was twenty-five metres away. Further along an arm popped out of another and waved as if to say, ‘Unless you can go faster than that, old fart, you’re going to miss it.’ So I changed into Overdrive and I did not miss it. With the doors snatching at my case I stormed the steps and landed in the space between compartments. ‘Schplunk’ went the doors and off went an on-time Thalys, a TGV intent on reaching three hundred kilometres an hour.
To say I was in a bit of a state is an understatement. Chest heaving and pounding, eyes bulging like a bullfrog trapped in his lady frog's spawn, I leaned against a carriage window. The adjacent door opened soundlessly. Out stepped a man in uniform. Rotund and frowning officiously he said, ‘Ticket.’
Stuttering breathlessly about the frigging train not stopping at Rotterdam today, I offered him my special promotion ‘cheap’ ticket for a non-TGV train to nowhere. His frown deepened. I knew that expression. I’ve been attracting it for about sixty-five years. Here it comes, I thought. ‘You now have to pay...’ But it was not a case of money. ‘Sir,‘ he intoned. ‘You must ask permission before you take this train under those circumstances.‘ HUH?
I could not quite believe my ears but my brain could and it sent a signal to my big mouth. In that so awfully polite English way I found myself saying, ‘I’m dreadfully sorry but time was pressing and I was in a state of panic.’ I’m unsure if his brain processed my state and the use of ‘pressing’, but he had heard the word ‘sorry’. Without further ado he took my case, showed me to a spare seat and after saluting me, left me to count my blessings.
Should you ever be in Rotterdam and your shitty Dutch train to Brussels is cancelled, do not fret. Even if you are already ten minutes late you can still arrive in Brussels twenty-five minutes early. All you have to do is to panic and catch the flying Thalys.
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