[More on that story later]
[More on that story later]
I’m writing this a day ahead because I’m going away
Going clubbing in That London in a rather fancy way
And waiting for a van with new tv and broadband hub
Makes me, I think, a member of a far more boring club
We’re now inside the window where delivery is due
The tracking site tells me the van has fourteen more to do
Before it gets to my place and delivers me my shit
And so, in just an hour or so, I can instal my kit
So why have I been sitting, since the text showed on my phone,
For over five long hours doing nothing, all alone?
I’m leaving, or I should be, on that midnight train to
So I should be getting ready, press my suit and put my shoes on
But I’m mesmerised to watch the dot that shows me where it’s at
Always sitting, hitting keys, and just refreshing like a prat
It’s been on number 55 for longer than I’d care
Perhaps he’s found some extra action with a lonely housewife there
In the old days we would moan that we’d be waiting all day long,
For things that never came or when they did the time was wrong
But now that I can track the damn things electronic-ly
I’m even more distracted then I ever used to be!
The title says it all
As they used to say on Sunday Night at the London Palladium…
Can you come back next week?
Well, it isn’t but I had a tooth out yesterday and don’t feel like blogging today so this is by way of a sick note from me mam, with a random photo of her parents…
Come back next week
“Let’s stop romanticising the misguided, possibly dangerous actions of spurned men.
On Saturday, the Bristol Post reported the story of how a 34-year-old man was intending to play one of the city’s public pianos in order to “win” back his ex girlfriend. Calling the woman who he’d been dating for four months “Rapunzel”, the stunt was intended to show off how much he loved her.
As is fairly typical in these kinds of stories, the Post branded the stunt as romantic, calling Luke Howard “heartbroken”, tagging his efforts as “dedication” in their tweet. However, in refusing to accept his ex girlfriend’s “no”, and by making a huge public statement demanding that she recognises his “love” for her, Howard’s behaviour is not romantic. It’s entitled – and it’s symptomatic of a wider problem of men’s harassment of their exes.
This is not the first time that women have been told to accept men not taking no for an answer as a romantic gesture. From John Cusack’s ghetto blaster in Say Anything… to the best man’s creepy filming of his friend’s bride in Love Actually, the ideal of a heartbroken man harassing the object of his affection has been sold to us as true love over and over again.
But there’s nothing romantic about refusing to accept that a woman has a right to leave you. It’s not a love story when a woman tells a man “no” and he demands she change it to a “yes”.”
[various posts, originating on a site called The Pool, I think]
I find the reactions in some quarters to this poor, suffering sod most upsetting, What mean-minded miserable buggers there are in this world. HAve they never been dumped? Or even loved?
On what basis are people extrapolating shit about ‘entitlement’, and his not accepting her ‘right’ to leave him? It’s a dumbass gesture born of wretchedness, and I’ll agree the guy seems a bit of a wet twerp, but at most it’s a case of pleading, not ‘demanding’. I see no evidence in article or interview of him not ‘accepting her right’, but he seems to be trying to exercise his own right of appeal (not very appealingly, it must be said). And unless the poor lass lives near the piano or he’s lugging around wherever she goes, he’s hardly ‘harrassing’ her.
Personally, I would support a policy of summary execution for anyone who dumps their partner without good demonstrable cause (though not after such a short relationship as his with ‘Rapunzel’, and with the proviso that the dumpee has to agree to it — and that after a cooling-off period). If I stabbed someone I could cause them extreme pain and some possible impairment, and I would quite rightly be castigated and punished for it, but the wounds would heal in short order, and life continue much as it was. Dumping someone who loves you can cause at least as much anguish, physical pain, and even seriously increase their risk of heart failure, leaving internal scars that time does little more than stick plasters over, and which make successive relationships harder to hold down; but the law doesn’t even get involved unless the sufferer acts unreasonably and illegally. Even then the victim gets all the blame and deprecation, rather than any support or help.
Theologists used to say (maybe still do) that the greatest sin is to break a vow. If free will is the main gift of the deity, we take a great step by surrendering it to a promise. So the greatest insult to said deity is to throw the gift back in Her face by breaking our word. And the same people who demand (and they are demanding) that guys simply accept the pain of being dumped are usually those who bemoan the lack of commitment shown by so many blokes these days. I have heard someone say that their vow to stay for better for worse, ‘didn’t include if it made me miserable’. For fuck’s sake, it’s no vow if you’re only saying ‘I promise to stay as long as it makes me happy’! And anyway, statistics show that a great many dumpers come to regret it later, by which times. I’d be the last to say ‘suck it up’ about any misery it does cause, but to cause even more misery to get out of it is morally no better than stealing to solve your cash flow problems.
But like I say, the guy seems to be making a prize pranny of himself. Stephen Pinker suggested that the irrational actions of the rejected have evolved to make the rejectee scared and more likely to stay around out of physical fear. I rather think they’re there to ensure the separation. Grand romantic gestures, and all the other things that a man or woman will do when scrabbling with bleeding fingertips to cling onto a crumbling cliff, do little more than make us look complete twats that no one could possibly love. That will kill any tendency to guilt feelings in the dumper, so they can go off and mate with some fresh supplier of eggs or sperm. Life, eh?
crippling headache and photophobia
going back to bed
service may resume next week, if i’m still alive
here’s some tall ships in Cádiz harbour
Must to my club just now. Picture on display in the new group show. May be back late. This post just a placeholder. Something may replace it soon.
Or not. Can’t show the picture for rather silly personal reasons.
Addendumb: I’m trying to set up a form at my website to do a questionnaire for a chum. It’s quite a learning curve. What you see there is not yet in the form of a form. The answers are dummies (as I think is rather obvious from the content). It’s taking up my spare time so blogging is on hold.
I was gonna write summat wuzn’t I?
Maybe I should just copy and paste some of the bonehead spam mail I get on here, but any wordpresser will no doubt get the same.
I still smile when a post congratulates me on the ‘useful info’ in my posts on ‘this subject’, when the post is a pome, a pic or a short story with about as much info as a Microsoft User Guide.
I don’t even care what the ones in Japanese say.
But it’s been a busy ol’ day, still cataloguing the SPA portrait entries and I’ve bought a wee desk to turn my bedroom into an office/sleeping quarters for my wee Chinese houseguest in August.
And that, said John, for now, is that.
I can’t do it.
I had planned to present you, dear reader, with a more serious and carefully argued essay on the question of democracy, as it has been shown up and misused in the sadly post-Brexit and hopefully not pre-Trump window. Its tag line was going to be the idea that ‘democratic’ seems to be defined as ‘the result I wanted’.
Notes had been scribbled and juggled and some progress made on pulling the themes into a brief and coherent piece.
But a week and a half ago I feared I was possibly terminally ill (or at least terminally hypochondriac and in fear, as was Sharon in Kath & Kim, of being put on a broad-spectrum placebo), then the tests came back and I got a stay of liberation and now, just as I’m ready to be creative and even argumentative again, I get the second rhinovirus in as many months.
My nose is full of runny snot, my eyes of achy pain and my brane of sludgy soup; my knees are achy-wibbly and my left buttock has gone off for a holiday in the Bahamas, despite or perhaps because of the rest of me not having a passeportout. And the sneezing has got the pain under the rib which may have been the stones of gall niggling again. And the fambly comes to visit at the weekend.
So next week, then. Democracy. Or something else.
Bed and generic lemon-flavoured paracetemol drink.