The Skies Will Fall!

It's been whole days- they yawn as if millennia- and I'm scared witless, awaiting certain oblivion!

Daring barely to peek from beyond the sofa, I see that the sky is still blue, that the sun still rises in the east and sets in the west, yet this is surely but an illusion. Life as we once knew it has irrevocably changed, and we are all damned to eternity!

The seconds sound leadened, each one a cancerous nail driven with malice into humanity's collective coffin. The wheeling gulls cry into the approaching storm, yet I hear only human screams. Night draws its veil and I fear that even the stars are slowly winking out. I have taken to charting the heavens, and I am certain that Sunday's count is down. The air tastes strange-surely you've noticed it- slightly bitter, it burns my throat and claws at my eyes. I cry at the slightest provocation.

Thanks to William Cho

If Wednesday's morning's skyline is unchanged the temporary sameness of it all will only taunt me! Tick follows tock, follows tick...

Yes, madness has consumed the nation- some of it- and the UK is now listing, sinking slowly but certainly, strangled by its briny tourniquet. We must pray for the aeons to cleanse our wretched rock free from its sins, that we might someday arise again, more humbled and perhaps begin afresh.

"Gawd 'elp us!" an impeccable observer of the facts has uttered. No further questions m'Lud!
"Unelectable!" one insightful Express reader noted.
Some critics have said, "His clothes are too old."

The election of Jeremy Corbyn has brought about a deep and analytical scrutiny that one might reasonably reserve for carriers of a modern black plague, infectious upon breath, upon mere sight!

Thanks to Franck Vervial

Beware the Corbynistas, they will steal away your children in the night, harvesting human organs to power the mighty bellows. Hell is not yet warm enough! Clutch the infants to your breasts, gather around the night fires- industrial action has already stolen our meagre light- and whisper stories of the dark 1970s, when the Four Horsemen commanded a lawless army so mighty that the hoard covered the earth from coast to coast, consuming everything in its wake. The viscous pitch that bubbled in its trail devoured even the last vestiges of ghostly colour, leaving a vapid landscape where only the scorching winds did thrive.

"Won't be getting my vote!" the Mail's political editor enlightened.
"... bit of an own goal!" discredited pie salesperson Eamonn Holmes scorned.
Some critics have said, "His hair is too grey."

Beware the Loony Left that might bring down our towering glass empire of inequality, throwing up instead ugly brick monstrosities that might house the work-shy unclean, denying them the just rewards of honest toil. Mocking laughter will again ring out to stain the very aether. It denies our most reasonable attempts to commodify the terminal patients superfluous organs. Respect for the animal kingdom will be terminated, as trophy heads and target hides are again discarded to roam financially burdensome into the void of valueless nature.

Thanks again, to William Cho

"... always happy to spend other people's money," HSBC tax consultant Justin Sane told the Sun newspaper.
Some critics have said, "His bike is too slow."

The hard left that despises aspiration, that would meddle in God's work, where man may be set above man, above man, above man, that we all might know and cherish our given place upon this earth. A medieval void beckons to the foolhardy, leading them away from the honourable servitude of their betters, and into the traitorous gawp of that impostor security, away from incentivising and Godly insecurity.

Let not your person slip- as has mine- into that Satanic cauldron of hard left supporters, lest your soul be forever doomed to respect your fellow country persons. Let us instead together cower and pray that the Righteous Sword of DWP, the Avenging Angel IDS, might yet return us to the pathway to honest toil and salvation!

"Copy to press, Mr Paul Dacre?"

Rights of Passage?

Much as I may not care for certain individuals- in extreme instances perhaps wish them misfortune- I am not, nor could I ever be, a killer. The idea of violence on my part is something that I reserve entirely for those that might cause harm to close friends or family, thus currently it languishes in the realms of fantasy. 

True I would wish to remove, from the most greedy, entire fortunes, acres of land and mountains of superfluous self-indulgences, that we might better address our collective social responsibilities. But, to extract that reasonable retribution armed with hammer or knife, no thanks! I would rather see our society redress the growing imbalance through more democratic means. Of course, the chances of this happening, when huge swathes of the electorate are politically inept, remain pitifully remote, but one can dream.

Just to qualify 'ineptness,' I do not necessarily regard these individuals as worthy of contempt or even of mild dislike. Perhaps instead, extreme disappointment. They may well be, in every other sense, utterly delightful individuals, generous of possession and of spirit. But, when I witness (young) people so, so disengaged as to blindly follow the lazy voting preferences of politically inept parents, or I am given to converse with those who do not know, at the very least, who might best represent them, then I am very disappointed. Incidentally, I do also recognise the act of political abstention as a valid choice, infinitely more so than either of the previous options.

The utter simmering contempt is reserved for the neoliberal system, and for those individuals who slavishly uphold its supremacy.

So, how better to meld the three points that I here wish to expand upon other than randomly?

Always grateful for these images, Gerry Gaffney

My first point is still fresh in my mind, my heart still beating, my temper still simmering. It involved a schoolboy. He, upon a bike, almost wiped me out, speeding down the St Stephen' Road slope to the underpass. He skidded, I stepped aside, muttering, "Christ!" we avoided one another and he was gone! I never even had the chance to shout at the stripling.

Had I been sharing the slope with another, he would have collided with someone, and at considerable speed! Had it been my beloved grandchild, I may well now be either pacing a hospital corridor, or else in heated discussion with a rare member of the constabulary. Potential consequences chill my blood, and may well have spilled the blood of several others. I'm sure that I don't need to elaborate further.

He never stopped to see if I was okay, or to apologise. He may be sitting in a classroom still shaking, or he may be laughing it up with mates, who knows? Maybe he collided with someone else, just around the next corner. And, if he did, I know who I'd like to think came off worse.

Secondly, Monday night's TV viewing caused me to chance upon a programme about London's moped gangs. Of course I didn't waste more than a few moments to consider the 'entertainment,' but that was more than enough. Gangs of armed- hammers and knives- young men, filmed targeting the easy money? The 'easy money' came largely in the form of £40,000 wristwatches, weighted upon neoliberal manikins.

The violence was disturbing, certainly something that I would endeavour to avoid. And I found myself reacting with a deal of anger to these CCTV filmed acts. That quite so many had been captured upon film is altogether another debate. The contempt for 'fellow human beings' was in itself contemptible. Any regard afforded to those foolish or brave enough to intervene, I would imagine, would have been similarly minimal.

But ultimately, as with so much societal violence, the levels are a carefully calculated balance of potential personal gain set against potential retribution. Inside the head of the villain this might simply equate to, 'The risk of imprisonment for murder is or is not worth the chance of not needing to find gainful employment for another couple of months.' The footage, and any subsequent acts,  would seem to suggest that the youths had opted for the latter.

In the short space of time that I watched the barbarism, the maximum gain captured upon CCTV was a forty grand wristwatch. It told the time, and hung a lot heavier upon the arm than does mine... which also tells the time. In defence of his badge of superiority, the chap (target) raised a broom. Three armed thugs against a broom handle? No chance!

Cut to the Chief Superintendent with a plan. One might briefly have been forgiven for believing that the British Police plc. are still rather more than corporate mercenaries with ever-so-tiny frills, but only very, very briefly.

Again, much appreciated, Randy McDonald

And finally, yesterday's drive to Waitrose, along the full length of Norwich's Newmarket Road, brought about reasonable use of the rear view mirror, as should all such journeys. And, as journeys go, this one wasn't so very different to numerous others that I've had. Not so very different, in that I happened perchance to witness a young lady driving a black SUV whilst texting. I was stationary, at a traffic light, she was slowing down to join the back of the queue, not the most blatant use of a mobile whilst driving that I'd ever witnessed.

The lights duly clanked round to green and the chain of vehicles chugged up through the gears. The texting woman afforded the road a cursory glance, before drifting onwards. Not too close, again not the worse case of mobile phone use whilst driving that I'd ever seen.

Up through the gears, another flick of the eyes, before the text was again prioritised. Clearly, this text was judged to be more important than the life of any temporarily distracted pedestrian. Walk five minutes through the city and one'll encounter more than a few of these distracted pedestrians, heads buried within similarly important texts one would imagine.

Finally, I reacted! I opted for hazard lights, the texting was, after all, a hazard! She duly slowed, whilst continuing to text. The line resumed, me driving, she texting. I attempted a second time to make my point. The text prevailed. Upon a third burst of hazard lights the woman was seen to be less than happy. She presented an angry face, probably uttered something of a derogatory nature and gesticulated her impatience by waving her arms about. Perhaps she had considered my driving to be dangerous, I don't know. Either way she wasn't that happy!

When I turned off she was still texting as she sped onto the duel carriageway. Perhaps this had become one of the more sustained uses of a mobile phone whilst driving that I've yet seen. I feel confident in my assumption that she hadn't devoted much time to calculating the likelihood of any potential death(s) into her decision to text.

Thank you, Avital Pinnick

Lives are very much upon a sliding scale consideration in neoliberal Britain. All three of the above instances involved fleeting calculations as to its worth. When a Norwich bus driver jumps the lights at a busy crossing, or when IDS lies and misleads and bullies genuinely sick individuals back to work, and then fights tooth and nail to prevent resultant fatality figures from being published, all these instances involved placing human lives upon a sliding rule. The covert implementation of TTIP, and especially ISDS, into European legislation will be permitting many more corporations to push human life down this sliding scale.

Now, for whom should I reserve the greater contempt? Who's most likely to kill my granddaughter?

Blue Sky Thinking.

Don't you just hate those God-awful expressions, those that certain types might use in order to 'justify' abomination? 'Blue sky thinking,' 'Smash the glass ceiling,' 'Think outside of the box,' 'Low hanging fruit,' 'On the same page,' 'Reinventing the wheel?'

Ultimately- cut through the psychobabble- the pseudo-poetry of these expressions seeks to simplify, thus justify, the unjustifiable. They're using the language of the boardroom, where decisions that will condemn those beyond are invariably these days to be made. Decisions about your health, your home, your pension, your human worth! That empty husk that we all must soon leave behind? What's the expiry date?

Blue sky watching!

Purporting to be 'reason' these decisions are hatched, nurtured, and polished, prior to taking that illusory graceful flight. The dais is prepared, gilded and buffed, shield your face lest its brilliance should strike blind your unworthy eyes! Go on then, just a tiny peep! If you absolutely must!

The spawn may be revered, not so much through rose tinted specs as under the all-familiar red banner headline, as are all such things. Father Christmas is no longer the greatest of lies! The king is dead, long live 'neoliberalism!'

It has come to light- ever more so in recent years- that society is broken. Not merely broken, but absolutely shattered, ground under divisive heel into the dirt! It's hardly a great revelation! Have we kept the receipt, do you think? People have been saying it for an age, 'the extremists,' 'the loony-left,' 'young student protesters'- the implication being that these types've yet to properly grow up. The 'side liners,' society's non-participants, what would they know? 

Yet the 'voice of reason' always prevails, to ensure that such things are kept 'in proper perspective.' It's all very well wanting to make that little protest, but, at the end of the day, 'reason' must surely prevail! Where would we be, if we changed course at the behest of each and every tiny (minority) protest? Exactly! Thank you, Andrew Neil et al! No really, thank you!

££££££££- the unmistakable smell of human flesh?

"Just hear me out! What if... what if we commodified everything! Absolutely everything!" Blue shy thinking! Infirmity, health- NHS 'Business Services Authority,' three words that should strike fear into the heart- the ocean, sport, the Third World, war, art, news, all information, parking, speeding, rainforests, sight, wildlife? Global inc!" Rest assured that a boardroom somewhere will be working '24/7' on 'the blue sky,' those moments that are not yet entirely subordinated to Global Inc, perceived moments of beauty, the weather, the air one breathes, sleep!

When Thatcher started to sell back to us all that was already our's the bargain basement mentality that prevailed blinded us to the monster that lurched in the shadows. And, unseen, it chose to feast, curiously enough upon itself!

"Shares, what are they? I'll have some of those! Bargain!" Approaching four decades later the claws and the teeth are everywhere, they're the cement that holds together Global Inc. Those shares delude us that we stand to gain from further attacks upon the workforce. "Easy Joe, that's your own dad's pension, that is!" "Why not buy your own council house for a knock down price? Slide seamlessly from tenant, to Tory landlord? Invest!" "D'you really think one house is going to be enough? What about infirmity care, for when dad's older?"

"Of course we care about the rainforest, but just look at the sheen on that hardwood staircase! And it says sustainably sourced on the label." Education, health, infirmity, everything must go! The neoliberals have already price tagged everything Greek. It's an international car boot sale. "Have a look! Pick up a bargain! How dare that upstart, Yanis Varoufakis, deface those expensive advertising placards!" 

24/7

Behind the scenes, the boardroom bods are working their socks off to protect the banking sector. If nothing else, it keeps the crooks off the streets, some of them. Deregulate everything! " You monster, for wanting to harm other people's pensions! Have you no conscience?"

"Maybe, if we replaced ten percent of the teachers with non-qualified staff. Just a thought!" "I know it's Johnny's education, but he's doing alright! At the end of the day it's still uncle Harry's investment fund." "Maybe, if you ask nicely, he'll pay for Johnny to go private!" 

Maybe, we'll save the bees, if a boardroom can commodify them in time. Maybe we'll save the butterflies, if we can just commodify their iridescence. Maybe the oceans, maybe the rainforests, maybe the Antarctic! Maybe not! "If you want to help, invest!" 

Everybody who's anybody has an investment in the planet's destruction, so it's a 'win win' really! A million and one reasons why we can never change direction. The Neoliberal revolution! Currently, there's more money to be made in 'noise commodities' than there is in 'peace and quiet commodities,' so unless you can invest in greater 'land commodities' you'll just have to put up with those 'exhaust commodities.' "It's your right to choose though,  freedom of choice!"

It's all looking rosy, at a pixelated 2D level, and if you can stretch that budget, to invest in some '3D technology commodities'... imagine how much better things could appear!  

Better than real life!

And, if you think Greek destitution makes our's look palatable, just wait until TTIP hatches! The Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership, that almighty * 'Arc across the Atlantic.' "My God, let's be having some of that!" If we're really fortunate, it'll come accompanied by ISDS, the Investor State Dispute Settlement. 

Imagine, a system whereby a corporation might sue a country- secret tribunals, behind closed doors!- for impinging upon its commodity investments. Education, health, water, wildlife, habitat, air, sleep, dreams... or just conceivably nightmares! Progress? When TTIP's discussed in The Commons, do you know what your MP's health investment portfolio looks like?

That quite so many sources might seek to discredit Jeremy Corbyn, Yanis Varoufakis and others of this ilk should serve as more than ample warning that someone has designs upon your 'freedom of choice.' Yvette Cooper may well be a home flipping, welfare bill abstaining, austerity hugging Tory-lite, but hey, she's the Guardian's choice, BBC favoured... "Hell, I kinda like the idea of somebody else doing all the leg work, so's I don't have to. If my newspaper and the TV news both support her..." "Not everything's a conspiracy, Tom!"

If TTIP and ISDS offer so much wonderful clear blue sky, ** why the Hell isn't the BBC all over it? If it's really in our best interests, why is it such a secret? It's a question we should all be asking, not texting about Kim Kardashian's damned arse!

Is it me, or does the dawn look just that little bit more expensive?

The ** link really is essential viewing. An almost empty House of Commons can be witnessed 'debating' the implementation of TTIP and ISDS. It's evident that several of the MPs present had no idea that the EU was trying to covertly rush the implementation through, some MPs didn't even know that these beasts even existed! At least two others had already invested in the privatisation of aspects of the UK's healthcare. Two and a half hours is a long watch, but having TTIP and ISDS foisted upon us unawares makes this commitment pale into insignificance! Filmed upon 16th January this year and of immense significance, Jeremy Corbyn can be witnessed arguing for the removal of both ISDS and TTIP from the UK's statute books, whereas MPs Burnham, Cooper and Kendal are conspicuously absent! 

Sustainable commodification upon a finite planet? You can be absolutely certain that 'we' have a top team of advertising moguls working 24/7, upon a 'reimagining of the end game.'

* This is the dangerous one!

** And this, if not since been removed by the BBC, is the 'oh so soft' alarm bell (91/2 minutes in is a bit of a clincher, as are 44 1/2, and 1 hour 23 minutes.)! Note the turnout!

The Numbers Game Language

"Would you like to check out here, sir?"

I declined. I explained that I try to avoid 'self checkouts,' out of respect for the staff whose jobs might well be inversely dependent. Obviously, I wasn't quite so damned pompous!

"That's a common misconception." the lady at the till was able to clarify. Or, so she seemed to think.

Catholics and Dragons?

Obviously not a paying parking space.

"The old numbers game!" I parried. But she wasn't biting. Anyway, there was an orchestrated queue, so prudence seemed to be in order. I thanked her for her help, and made my way out to the car park. Generally speaking, in such situations, I'm invariably something of a cantankerous old so-and-so! Even as I was exiting the warehouse, the followup line was fighting to take flight, but I bit my lip. Short of opening the debate to questions from the floor, drifting slowly homeward really was the best option.

The lady was very pleasant! Definitely no dragon! She appeared steadfastly loyal to her employer, and 'the numbers' had apparently stacked up in her favour. That is, "Not a single job lost to the self-checkouts!" So, she was sort of right!

But, only 'sort of,' she was also mostly wrong! And, it had saddened me that she'd been so proud to be so!

Obviously, she'd failed to factor in the fact that any increased staff productivity would be circumnavigating workers, en express route to the CEO and to the company shareholders, or that the next half dozen 'moving on' staff were not going to be replaced. But, Hell, no redundancies today! And this particular company were proud of their adherence to the minimum wage 'guidelines.' No mean feat, in these austere times. But, several of the more popular non-self-checkout options had most definitely been lost! Hence, the orchestrated queue!

Is this really such a proud boast? Is this really the best of what's still to come?

Orchestrated, but no queue.

Incidentally, the dragons with which I've chosen to embellish this post will be offering scant opportunity in the manner of continuity linkage- most beautifully embellished as they are- so hang in there! The dragons I've referenced are poles apart from those far more austere TV dragons, the ones that might well be cashing in, big time upon the ingenuities of others.

"I'm in! 0.04% of my worldly wealth, for 85% of your's!"

My goal is simple! It's to visit all eighty-four of these dragons under my own steam. That is, without recourse to the ol' motor, or bus, or whatever. Me or me and my bike! And, when I say, "My goal," what I mean, in this instance, is my tiny recreational one; obviously this post more than alludes to a far more significant and pressing goal!

So, 'twas a tad bothersome to find that most of the in-store- 'a-bit-of-fun-for-the-kids'- dragons were secreted away upon the third floor. Fun for the kids maybe, but also a these-days-sales-opportunity never to be missed, as accompanying adults will be dragged through the entirety of the store. "Enjoying it much yet, mum with three kids in tow?"

"What better place to situate the beasts, than adjacent to the children's department?" staff might counter. Indeed they well might. Which brings into question, why the children's department is on the third floor in the first place. "Children have an innate love of heights," maybe?



My photos incidentally, are care of an Apple application by the indifferent name of 'Photos,' with which one or two of you may already be familiar. And, should this be the case, I'm guessing that this won't have been through personal choice. Mine wasn't! If only we hadn't surrendered all of that power to the corporations. Ho hum! As the checkout lady might have clarified, "Not a single photo lost to the serious downgrading of your already-paid-for editing package."

The Apple dawning dictatorship- now more wealthy (powerful) than most nations!- owns just that little bit more of your soul! "But hey, have you seen the latest iPhone?" I have, that would be the mobile being used by three out of every five people who distractedly collide with me on the high street, but it doesn't solve my photo-editing conundrum does it? Apple- the same Apple that sold me the application- have decided to no longer support 'Aperture,' made redundant upon the stroke of the latest software update, 'Photos' will do! "And not a wink's sleep lost to corporate conscience," the techno-whizz with the sweatshirt might have elaborated.

Might we be permitted to pay for another Apple application, Mr Apple?

In truth, I'm being slightly disingenuous, Apple might be able to sort it for free, should I drag my heavy Mac into the store. Or I could pay, over the phone. Whether or not it's sortable, I've yet to discover. But every tiny upgrade will continue to further downgrade my remaining life-force!

House of Frazer had no dragons- the one on the doorstep didn't count- but they did have exactly the sorts of sheets and pillowcases that we've been looking for. Unfortunately, the means to pay for the same was somewhat hindered by my bank. HSBC- the same HSBC who were recently organising for wealthy business people to evade the jolly inconvenience of taxes- have seen fit to turn the tables, but this time entirely upon their less wealthy savers. A tiny matter of 'verify by Visa' popped up at the till. "Working hard to protect your money," might have been proffered.

I mean, obviously I've written the damned thing down, but that was back at home. Not being able to carry that thirty-second pin number or password in my skull had finally put paid to my attempts to access my own bank account. Perhaps HSBC were going to need these meagre funds to help those rumbled wealthy businessmen, I thought. "And not a single penny lost upon your desired purchase," the salesperson might have countered.

Reflecting life.

One of my favourites!

One of two victims of UK hospitality.

Life sort of goes on, and hopefully without a sponsor's theme tune. Just apply this austerity program, as advocated by all bar Mr Corbyn, and we might just live to see the promised new dawn. All pulling together! Incidentally, my part in the nation's frightful overspending spree was limited to one bogus purchase. And that would be a rather foolish investment in RBS, undertaken 'on my behalf' via my 'elected' government. I'm currently investigating the mis-selling compensation route. Apparently, if I'm willing, I might soon be permitted to buy back a chunk of RBS, from myself! Does this mean that the money stays in my account, or does it- slight of government hand- end up back with the crooks? It's all very confusing!

Except, it's not! It's actually very simple, very simple and very, very alarming! As Lenin is supposed to have said, "A lie told often enough becomes the truth." And, he may well have had his detractors, but clearly there are more than a few selective fans also!

I think that the * Jeremy Corbyn situation, perhaps best illustrates where we're currently at. But, only if we're prepared to put those comfy blinkers to sleep! They've become almost like a favourite old jumper, haven't they? He questions the current adherence to Europe's Austerity Program. As a consequence, he obviously draws fire from the likes of The Mail, The Telegraph, The Express, The Tories blah, blah... But, it extends far beyond this to incorporate The BBC, The Guardian and numerous purportedly leftward-leaning groups, it's currently burrowing into the nation's very fibre. It goes almost without mentioning that the like of The Guardian won't be treating its readers with the utter contempt that The Mail does its readers, the subtleties will be more nuanced, but the final destination is pretty much identical. Even those in 'his own' party appear to be reserving greater firepower for Jeremy Corbyn than they do the creators of the economic crisis. Top businessmen constantly in our faces! "They far better understand the finer machinations of the markets." "They're the experts."

Well, yes and no! They're the experts in so far as it serves their interests. And they're 'presented' as the 'experts,' regardless of how honest they're actually being. In reality, you'd be more likely to get a balanced opinion from a well-read student or public sector worker. But, even here the real issues have been skewed, and alarmingly so! The question might better be, where do we access our information, and even more precisely from whom do we acquire this information? Blair knew who owned what and who might best grease his already greasy palm!

Life might go on, but the language has changed, and our understanding of it has most definitely changed! Whatever it is we're being led to believe...

... and irrespective of the language, there's a fair to good chance that "That's really a common misconception!"

* If you can find time to reference just the one link, I'd suggest this one. It perfectly illustrates the more nuanced approach to information sharing. In contrast here are eleven minutes of Mr Corbyn.

A Rich Tapestry

… or an oily rag, fit for disposal?

A while ago I stopped to consider the sparsity of 'hits' that my posts might attract. I know that I tend towards verbose- not always a good thing in these busy-busy times- and that I remain a relative 'nobody,' so why expect more? Which I really didn't.

But, then I paused to further consider the many sites that I routinely visit, a few of them clearly attracting far greater footfall, but most perhaps not, yet all with something to report which I'd considered worthy of a read. You see, the thing about many of these sites- just a few linked via my blog- is that the vast majority of them tend to widen the national and international debate; that is to say that, often, they consider issues which 'our media' have either 'chosen' to ignore, misrepresent, or have simply attempted to bury. And invariably, it seems to me blatantly wrong to ignore/accept this approach.

So, then I duly reconsidered my own contributions, yet, all the while recognising my tendencies to prattle on, and to have a politicised view upon so many things. In conclusion I thought I'd tail it back a bit! But then life goes on to bite one in the posterior yet again, upon which one absolutely has to respond!

So, t'other day caught us watching ITV! Thank the Lord that there were no witnesses. Our excuse being that ITV have commandeered the Tour de France coverage. This in itself is actually a very good thing, if you pre-record and fast-forward all the gunky commercials. It might otherwise have gone to parasitic Sky, thus further depleting the UK's already sparse sports coverage- care of Jeremy Hunt (JC) et al! At this juncture, we could reflect upon recent government assault upon The BBC, and whether we expect this to enhance our TV access or to impinge upon the same. We could consider the vastly increased volume of commercials to which your viewing-hungry child may consequently be exposed. We could, but we shan't.

After The Tour stage completion, we simply stopped watching but entirely foolishly permitted the TV to drone on in the background, washing our subconsciouses with all manner of drivel. That is, until the 'News' happened to refocus our attention. Two items stood out, I think in succession but cannot be sure upon this latter point.

The first item involved Kleyo De Abreu, a young student who tragically struck an adjacent bridge whilst bungee jumping in Lanjaron, Granada, Spain. The second item concerned an incident closer to home, at an industrial estate in Norwich, where two men were sadly killed in an explosion.

Neither of these incidents were new to me; I'd gleaned details about both from earlier reports. And here's the thing, in each of the earlier reports a close relative had been interviewed by news teams. A father and a brother had both naturally expressed great sadness at the loss of a loved relative, a daughter in the former report, and a brother in the latter. Both father and brother presented with dignity, whilst being understandably saddened by these awful events. Each was quietly trying to somehow to comprehend the tragedy.

Which rather begs the question, why it was that these victims of cruel circumstance were to be so shoddily treated by (on this occasion) the ITV News Teams. During the evening reports both victims were seen to be insensitively badgered until the requisite tears were duly extracted. Thereupon, the camera man-or-woman zoomed in to concentrate the viewer's gaze upon the grief-laden faces. Whereupon tears could be witnessed to fall, the (online gaming) viewer judged perhaps incapable of otherwise imagining the grief! Job done, swiftly onto something else!

Aspirations! As a news team, ideally these might be to expose rampant corruption or injustice, to draw the viewer's attention to the most pressing of national and international concern, to ensure that democratic ideals are always upheld- clearly failing on this point- to highlight humankind's greatest achievements. There is a wide array from which to choose.

Or they might be, to focus upon the bullied face of grief, that we might catch the cameraman's drooling reflection in a single perfect crystal tear. I give you art, Mr Damien Hirst.

Ashes to Ashes...

… or 'For whom the Bell tolls.' Choose your own epitaph! Although probably not quite yet, 'Too many Cooks…' Not just yet that is, unless we are, perchance, contemplating the captaincy, and even then I'd be pressing for a somewhat more cautious approach, that is at least until I settle more comfortably into this alien-feeling chair.

But enough of this easy cut and pasting of clichéd quotations, and instead on to this most heavy and pressing burden of my current responsibilities.

"So, ahem, It is with great sadness and a heavy heart, that I find myself having to announce the cancellation of the current Ashes Series. Some time in the immediate future, should my current responsibilities as temporary 'Head of The MCC' be made more permanent, I will be pressing strongly for no sudden changes to this unsteadiest of helms."

Winding down, as I was, for the summer recess, I'm sure that I don't need to over-stress the depth of my  hesitancy at climbing unto the breach. Yet, without this having been made blatantly evident to the wider public, this breach (post) had remained un-soldiered for far too long! And it certainly wasn't that I'd set out with even the most slender inclination of stepping into this role. The truth is that I hadn't fully paused to consider the potential links to England's paucity of cricketing credentials. I'd rather just assumed that 'we' were working through another one of those cyclic and routine English cricketing collapses, as certain as night follows day.

That is, until strolling towards the magnificent Lords Cricket Ground on the Sunday, I was rather unceremonially accosted by a most curious looking character- didn't know me from Adam- pleading in the most Etonian of accents. This gent was jolly proper, so much so that I'd initially assumed him to be conversing in some sort of foreign tongue. Indeed having resided in the UK for the past decade, I might more naturally have assumed him to be asking for money, but no!

"For the sake of all that is holy…" the character pleaded. The situation was so bizarre to me that my recollections, such as they are, remain cloudy and unclear, but I am as certain as I can be that this jazzy-blazered chappy had genuine tears in his eyes.

To cut to the chase, this most unexpected of encounters culminated in my acceptance of the post of, 'Head of The MCC.' I can't even pretend that I'm yet entirely 'reluctant,' as, truth be told, I'm still in something of a daze! I've not been home for fully an hour yet, and still I'm digesting the fuller implications of the MCC's hastily convened meet. Any more recent events have served merely to further consolidate my determination to do what is right!

"The MCC fully recognises that there will be severe financial implications to this decision, yet remains unanimously adamant in their resolve. Those members of the public wishing to avail themselves of a full ticket refund should proceed through the usual channels. We would request that callers exercise patience, in the event of busy telephone lines. At this juncture, we would also like to thank the Australian Team for their indulgences to date, and to wish them good fortune in securing an alternative and more befitting series against a more adequately equipped opponent."

"The MCC fully expects a future English Eleven to be able to compete at a level more befitting of a national team during the upcoming 2017/2018 Australian Ashes Tour, when we will have sifted through the  debris and debacle of recent events and, it is to be hoped, laid a more sturdy foundation."

"The MCC offers its most sincere apologies to both the Australian Team, for the inappropriateness of the most recent encounter, and to Mr Ian Bell for the briefest of interruptions to his otherwise lazy weekend. But, on a more positive note, those hardened loyalists may be pleased to note that the retained Mr Benjamin Stokes did manage to catch the earlier train."

As an aside, I am aware that there are indeed other sporting spectacles available to the less discerning sports fan, whilst all the while recognising that these will be of a somewhat lesser calibre, that is decidedly 'not cricket!' Whilst on the subject, sympathies must go out to Mr Christopher Froome, recipient to recent projectile urine assault whilst competing in the Tour de France. Were my role to be instead that of Sky Team Coach, I might be inclined to have Mr Froome's urine-soaked kit tested for performance enhancing drugs, just to establish the level of sophistication of the current protesters. If nothing else, a 'positive' would imply a deal of introspective pre-Tour planning on the part of the pseudo-protesters.

And that 'Bell?' 'It tolls for thee,' because 'no man is an island!' No, there is undoubtedly an unfortunate joined-up-continent feel about the current England Team. Whereas a much-needed-and-refreshing narrow channel or inlet might well assist in preventing further contagion. 'Remember that life is a great Ballancing act.' Although curiously, it can also, on occasions, have a tad too much Ballance!

'The Sky's the (viewing) limit,' might be rather more apt, in light of the government use of the current austerity screen. It's counter intuitive thrust entirely, if somewhat dejectedly, sums it all up.

"At this juncture, it would be remiss of me here not to take this opportunity to dispel current rumours that the England Team requested a Lords featherbed wicket, in order to nullify the Australian attack. And to clarify that the 'current' MCC considers that it would be improper to venture any such similar statement on behalf of the 'former.'"

Obviously, evidence suggesting that Messrs Anderson, Wood and Stokes believed it to be so, and therefore bowled accordingly, will need to be omitted from the final draft of this statement.

"In conclusion, I should like to pay homage to Mr Ed Smith, who was able to so succinctly appraise the depth of the current crisis in stating, "I can scarcely remember an innings where a wicket looked less likely to fall than Australia's innings. I can scarcely remember an innings where wickets looked more likely to fall than this England innings."" 

* The full unedited version of this MCC announcement is currently available through 'Catch Up,' on one of Sky's many monopoly sports channels.

Wilde Savages!

When the Emperor Hadrian's Wall was built, some time around 100 AD, in order to "keep out the barbarians," it was planned to be operating in entirely the wrong direction. Were it operating today, maybe it would be hoping instead to 'keep the savages in.'

Hadrian had sought to keep the 'civilized' empire intact, to seal the borders from uncivilized attack, to protect the more cultured races from invasion. Today this historical site marks another border, that separating the humane from the savages, as the issue of fox hunting again rears its ugly head. That is to write, the noble head of the native fox, as opposed to the foie gras and vintage port stuffed heads of the idle rich.

Yes, whilst the rest are being fed the tired old lies relating to the 'benefits' of austerity, those who are never affected by such things- except for those opportune moments to cash in upon the misery of others 'less deserving'- are busily manoeuvring to repeal * 'the fox hunting laws.' The only 'belt tightening' that might ensue here, might be in order to spare the horses.

Many thanks to Hunt Sabs

Should we observe this blatant hypocrisy against the conveniently buried story of 'The Middleton Hunt rearing fox cubs, in order to supplement the currently much depleted fox population,' we might consider this move in a more informed light. To spell it out, our native red fox population is currently considered low enough to require the additional release of captive animals, yet at the same time being considered numerous enough to require culling. Amongst the hypocritical classes such issues may have become nothing more than an issue of personal conscience, where clearly none exists. But to the wider electorate this should be of greater concern, lest we should wish to blunder onward, entirely oblivious to what is being considered on 'our behalf.'

The term 'savage' purports also to refer to a less civilized being, perhaps a stage of development which we have long since hoped to have surpassed. Savages, acting rather like animals- a comparison with which I have often struggled- would necessarily place the self above others. The concept of sharing would constitute a degree of civilization, thus should be considered to be beyond savagery, ergo a savage would not share food, but nor would a savage plan ahead regarding feeding itself. It is 'sold' to us that we have 'developed' beyond this.

Many thank again, to Hunt Sabs

'Moving on, we find that a huge chunk of 'the 'civilized' modern world not only no longer shares its (abundant) food, it now actively destroys much of this in order to maintain profit margins and to further the monetarist's ideals. The supermarkets may hide this fact behind the pretended logistics, but the mountains of surplus food should be allowed to 'speak' for themselves. 'Surplus' is the term applied to this destroyed food, that might otherwise keep other human beings more comfortably alive. But, perhaps this, many of us already knew! These discoveries are hardly recent, which rather begs the question, why has not more been done to resolve this issue?

Those that propose to repeal the * fox hunting laws appear to have devolved beyond even this, that is that whilst 'owning' the means of production- they own pretty much everything- they now seek to again butcher that which cannot be eaten. As Oscar Wilde so succinctly put it, "The unspeakable, in full pursuit of the uneatable."

* Before we profess great indignation here we might first consider that the idle rich are anyway routinely and almost daily flouting current fox hunting laws. How dare we seek to exploit democracy, in order to impose so upon 'our betters!'

Once Upon A Time...

… there was a magical world where nothing was quite as it appeared. 'Twas the stuff of fairy tales, and everyone was jolly happy. Nobody died!

But, if they did IDS was going to do everything in his power to ensure that at least some of the people lived happily ever after, and that the rest lived in 'blissful' ignorance of the facts.

Imagine a situation whereby one organisation pretends to assist the police with an also-pretend 'investigation' into their own activities, whilst 'journalistic' reportage pretends that the ongoing scenario is some sort of unearthed revelation. Throw a local MP into the mix- he'll pretend that "this has come as something of a shock"- and all that's left is for the general public to pretend that this is an unexpected outrage, and we're effectively done! Imagine living here!

But, let's see if we can't flesh it out a bit, shall we, see if we can't lend this 'fabricated' world a tad more credibility? Let's refer to 'the investigated' as, effectively, the 'Middleton Hunt Kennels,' in North Yorkshire, thus making 'the investigators,' the 'North Yorkshire Police.' The local MP might have a name like, 'Kevin Hollindrake. Who knows, he might even regularly fraternise with the upper echelons of the aforementioned same hunt group… allegedly. 

A jolly tricky one to sustain, eh? We'd need to conjure a







Thanks to John Perivolaris

countryside quite literally 'crawling' with problem' foxes, 'necessitating' such comments as, "foxes desperately need to be culled." Curiously, we would still also find a need to covertly supplement this 'bursting' population with released foxes for the hunting of, which is theoretically currently illegal. I would imagine that a spokesperson for the hunters would have to fabricate a 'statement' along the lines of… well, where could one even begin with such a paradox? Best keep the ol' gobs shut and allow a professional team of legal misrepresenters to do the talking. Or, far more likely, to set about intimidating the doubters into compliance. And, of course, there's the ecological contention to consider, the one that argues that, "hunting is an effective way of managing a an over-populated species." Pure fantasy!

But, also much the same sort of skewed 'reality' that the recently deceased Chris Woodhead has just


Thanks to Grant Hutchinson

departed, that is to write one conjured from the pages of a modern fairy tale, or else from the minds of those given to regular misrepresentation of the facts.

The current Education Secretary, one Ms Morgan, described Woodhead as an "immense figure in the world of education," wittering on to 'claim' that, "our education system is better for it." That would be Woodhead's "raised aspirations," her words, not mine! Whilst she was speaking I would imagine that she wore the wide-eyed look someone who disbelieves virtually everything she is saying.

So, let us cast then aside the man's (Woodhead's) ingrained dogma and spiteful methodology, whereby each new and enthusiastic intake of sparkly, fresh, young teachers would be greeted with the words, "The profession is riddled with incompetence, complacence and malpractice!" Not wishing to corrupt this post, I have paraphrased the man. His actual words were invariably couched in far more unpleasant and Third Reichian terms. Even so, I have actually bothered to research the cadaver far more thoroughly than he did the thousands of teachers and support staff that he chose to routinely lambaste.                   

Thanks to Trey Ratcliff

Wilshaw (current Chief Inspector) was quoted as saying that he, "greatly appreciated the courage and bravery he (Woodhead) showed in confronting a complacent education establishment," never, of course, pausing to praise the real workers labouring under this remorseless onslaught of denigration. Blunkett (Blair's Education Secretary), another highly unpleasant character, found it harder to praise the man that he had personally chosen to retain in the role of Chief Inspector. He said that, "behind the scenes we agreed." Perhaps then Blunkett grew to dislike Woodhead because he was rather like himself. Make no mistake, Blunkett rose through the ranks entirely because of his disability, not, as presented, in spite of it!

"Brave to the end, the children's champion who fought useless teachers as hard as he (Woodhead) battled crippling disease." The Daily Mail has of course chosen not to reference the numbers of useless journalists who fester under its own reactionary banner. Increasingly like some sort of rabid dog, The Mail seldom these days bothers to conceal its undemocratic agenda.

"Tributes poured in for the Academic who took on left-wing teaching unions…" The Daily Express was also highly selective, with its own brand of dishonest journalism. There are, of course, just too many useless journalists for the Mail to harbour alone!


Thanks to Anne Worner

So, no mention of the hypocritical actions of the man then? No mentions of the affair with one of his own pupils, surely as clear an example of unprofessional behaviour as ever one is likely to find in these times of 'rampant unprofessionalism.' As the UK tracks ever further towards its own brand of plutocracy, we will, no doubt, find increasing volumes of examples of this, "do as I say, not as I do," behaviour. He may well have abused the trust his pupils miguidedly placed in him, but he was absolutely determined to stamp hard upon many of those with far more honourable goals!

Perhaps some sort of state funeral might yet be in order?  

"And, just who are these people, whose skulls might be so empty as not to see the real world festering away beneath the two-dimensional, sparkly princesses and flag-waving national-pride fabricated one?" one might ask. Well, meet The lads!

There's 'Believer- Long-Odds Douglas,' 'Generous- Team-Sport- John,' 'Mr- Positive at Both Ends- Brightside,' 'The- Calculator with a Beard- Professor,' and there's 'The- When You Know You Know- Gut-Truster!' These are the dreamers, the glory seekers, the back-page philosophers, the Wednesday night warriors, the have-a-go-heroes! Yup, these are the Ladbrokes Lads!

They're not just morons, prepared to gamble away the children's next lunch, the family holiday, the six-year-old's bike! Hell no, these lads are glory-seekers, they're philosophers, warriors, they're heroes! Those t-shirts one sees being worn on the street- Help for Heroes- why they're dedicated to the type of 'man,' who every Wednesday night eyes up the kiddy's piggybank, contemplating heroically winning back the happy family home, whilst pretending not to notice that the Gut-Truster's taken to sleeping rough, under the local railway embankment. 

When you know you know, you know. And, you just know that they didn't 'all live happily ever after.'                                                                           

Granddad!

When I write of the cornucopia of emotions that consumed me upon the birth of my granddaughter many parents and grandparents will already be well ahead of me. Yet, to labour the point further, it was entirely a vast and all-consuming wave of overwhelming love, with flotsamesque smatterings of shear blind panic! Of course, I'd much prefer to dwell in the realm of love but the latter is the inevitable consequence of the former, so in this sense my hands really are well and truly tied. And, it goes without saying that recent election results have done nothing to satisfy the love, feeding instead wholly into the fear.

Taking a keen interest in the fast-declining state of 'our' nation, my voting now is undertaken entirely with future generations in mind. My generation having long since kicked our chances into some sort of excrement-laden canal. Truth be told, I'd completely lost faith in bothering to vote at all, but then the jaded perspectives of an ageing aesthete should not so casually also write off the chances of our yet-to-be-quite-so-disenchanted youth.

So, I duly dragged myself to the local polling station, crossed the proverbial fingers and tried to pretend that others might have been similarly disenchanted, thus were focused upon prospects of something of a brighter hue. Such frail hopes as these lasted for all of two hours. Indeed, should current undemocratic trends continue, I might again put voting to bed, thus at least avoiding that awful feeling of complicitousness and of course that nagging sense of betrayal?

My idea of democracy stubbornly refuses to morph into some kind of Ancient Egyptian allegory, whereby the people slave eternally to erect yet another half-decadly pyramidal temple, always to the same God of austerity and corporate greed.

Earlier in the day, I'd nipped to the shops in order to restock a poorly depleted larder, before devoting the rest of the morning to my delightful granddaughter. The thought of her smiling face was etched into my mind, as I waited at one of Norwich's many 'pedestrian' crossings. In line with the nation's slavish adherence to corporate values, I've long since got used to the fact that any pedestrian now counts for little when scored against any multi-tax-paying-motorist, and I was languishing against the barrier, wondering whether the red Ford, barely visible upon the horizon, would have passed me before my meagre six seconds was to be begrudgingly afforded. The motorist duly passed, and was fast closing upon the opposite horizon before the concessionary beeping signalled that I'd better 'damn well soon cross and be on my way.'

I don't know quite what it was that caused me to pause. My mind wasn't entirely upon the task in hand, but then neither should it need to have been, 'twas a pedestrian crossing after all, in a city where pedestrians and motorists are expected to coexist in some sort of monetarist's 'utopia.' A moment's thought should be able to deduce that, immediately after parking the vehicle, the one anyway becomes the other. But, pause I did, and thank the Heavens so! Thus extending my life by perhaps yet a few more years.

Well aware that the chance to cross is but a fleeting one, I might 'sensibly' have stepped out upon the first sighting of that elusive green man. Which would have been slap up against the grill of the eager First bus, hurrying as it did obliviously through the red. Granddad gone!

The First bus that chose to plough unconcernedly through the red light, had far more 'important' things to do than to hesitate. And, the old guy at the crossing? Why, he didn't even look like a potential customer.

I'd love to pretend that this was an aberration on the part of the driver, but this is actually the third time that a city bus has swept through a red light, just prior to my stepping out. And these are entirely my experiences! So, I'm guessing that this kind of shall-we-call-it-a-mishap(?) is far from infrequent. These are buses, vehicles whose very existence depends upon the very existence of pedestrians. My God, you really couldn't make it up!

The number and variety of other offending vehicles? Well, I've long since given up attempting to keep track! I can recall having been accelerated at whilst correctly using a pedestrian crossing. I can still picture the weaselly face of the youth at the wheel, as he held his onanist-weary fist to the horn. Why, only five days ago I watched a black SUV confidently sail through a beeping crossing, never once pausing from his 'important' telephone conversation. Nobody else seemed to even notice or to care! As a cyclist, I've more than once watched a set of lights complete a full circuit, without even acknowledging the solitary waiting cyclist. Only a conspiracy theorist might suggest that the lights had been calibrated to hasten traffic, by registering the approach of vehicles excepting the non-tax-paying bicycles. I could try writing for clarification to Norfolk County Council, but I'd be wasting paper and time, and I'd be pretending to myself that we operated in some kind of accountable democracy. So I shan't!

The city's bus lanes- also curiously (and wrongly) open to taxis- on the surface might appear to be a good thing. Who, in their right mind, wouldn't think that public transport ought to be somehow advantaged? Yet, as a frequent user of the adjacent narrow footpaths, I am constant witness to juggernaut-like buses thundering down the inside bus lane, mere centimetres from the bustling crowds. Should a misguidedly helpful pedestrian choose the wrong moment to step off the kerb and he-or-she'll end up decorating the clothes of fellow strugglers. I'm sometimes given to thinking that these roads were a great deal safer when the more reckless taxi and oblivious bus drivers were also slowed by the nefarious other road users.

If only there was the occasional police presence! One might be forgiven for almost sympathising with their predicament- how to police when austerity reigns with such malice?- if only they hadn't been quite so vindictive in their attacks upon so many other professions. I suspect that they'll still be able to muster a presence should any Human Rights campaigners elect to challenge the dictatorship! As is often said,
* "One can expect to hear more than the occasional novelty horn these days, but just try finding a novelty policeman, to take issue with this festering imposition."

So, with granddaughter growing up fast, and roads about as corporation-friendly as befits this plutocracy, I'm naturally more than a little concerned for her future. "Green man, go!" she'll happily share with her grandparents. The following few seconds might well prove highly significant, for our small family unit!

Should the worse happen which it surely will yet again, am I so very wrong to hope that the event does not cast its darkest shadow in my granddaughter's direction? Rather, towards some other poor distracted soul?

And, when the inevitable inquest takes place, will the offending driver cry 'actual' crocodile tears, will he cite his own still-living family at home, as evidence of his 'good character?' Will the victim's family be sold short? Will there be a sacrificial lamb, before things continue along much the same lines? I believe that this is invariably the current 'working' model for such eventualities.

 

Would the 'killer' feel violently, as would I, towards the slaughterer of his own child, should roles be reversed? Will The Gove's sinister plans for the rescinding of 'The Human Rights Act,' in any way, shape or form, affect the outcome? Under recent Governments, the answers are invariably to be found by following the money.

I have it on good authority that an as-yet-unnamed Minister for Science plans to get around the issue by linking 'human classification' to collateral 'worth.'

* Try Googling 'novelty car horn issues,' or a suitable variant and marvel at the absence of any acknowledgement. Instead, it's entirely page after page of ads for yet more noise!

The Over-beating Heart.

For our compact family, Thursday 21st May saw the wonderful Norfolk and Norwich Festival draw to its close. So much to see, hear and experience in so very little time! The truth being that there were actually three fancied performances on the Thursday evening alone but that Mr Cowley, having thus far eluded me, had been that little bit more keenly sought.

The Neil Cowley Trio was the third act of the week that we'd elected to watch. I'd been a fan since the release of the group's 2012 album, 'The Face of Mount Molehill,' so as soon as I knew he was scheduled to perform these were obviously the first tickets to be sought. Row three, stage left, these seats were going to prove significant!

Those familiar with The Trio will know that Neil's jazz combo has carved a tiny niche of spectacular uniqueness for itself, in a musical genre already bursting at the seams with so many mind-blowing and diverse talents. There is a pulsing drive to this group- often ostensibly piano based- slightly darker, with more dangerous undercurrents than one might usually expect from a jazz trio. Yet this is sprinkled also with the gentler, more conventional smokey jazz-club 'standard' numbers. Still, for me, it is invariably that thumping driving energy that best reels me in!

So 'twas to be the concert's second half, the meatier cuts compiled almost entirely from the group's better known stuff, that grabbed me most firmly by the throat. Numbers such as, 'Rooster was a Witness,' 'Fable,' 'His Nibs,' and 'She Eats Flies,' leaped off the stage and dragged the Cowley faithful to the edge of their seats. Feet began a-thumping, fingers a-tapping, and Evan Jenkins's drumming became ever more acrobatic, stop-start racing, a clipped perfection! Centre stage, Rex Horan swayed twisted and caressed his double bass through an increasingly complex routine, throwing also some more haunting bow work into the mix. And Mr Cowley grinned directions from stage right or else rolled with the tempo, like a helmsman battling through a gale force eleven, beating the keys with an intensity more befitting of a heavy rock combo. A tightly woven musical tapestry to spin the head, the joint was a-rocking, or conceivably a-jazzing!

And here's where our keenly sought third row seats' significance hit home! The one minor blemish if you will! As the trio really hit their straps so the tempo upped, the acrobatics intensified, the tightly woven syncopations became increasingly complex- at times not unlike turning a supertanker in a goldfish bowl- undertaken with the deftness of a hummingbird switching flower-heads mid-heartbeat. The drumming ricocheted about the stage, seemingly in defiance of the laws of time and motion, yet with an intensity as to cause the blood in the ears to simmer. That is to say, just a tad too loudly on the skins, certainly less appreciated by young Kerry.

Should The Neil Cowley Trio deign to again grace the Norwich stage, at any time in the near future, I'll be there in a flash- perhaps alone this time- eagerly anticipating another musical extravaganza. The music was magical, so as to leave the heart singing for days, but next time I might see if I can't negotiate a seat rather more stage right, or perhaps attempt to smuggle in a pair of old-guy ear plugs.

But, as for what could have been, 'What Will Have Been,' really topped the festival. We saw 'The Circus' on Sunday 17th May and we  instantly knew, then and there, that nothing- absolutely nothing- was going to be able to hold a candle to this. Words alone would not suffice!