Truthed

America's current Secretary of War is a cartoon character who very much reminds me of Barbie's boyfriend Ken. The main difference is that Ken's plastic head had air in it but the current Secretary of War has testosterone mixed with ignorance in his skull.  Another difference is that Ken was a nice guy. He was never guilty of sexual misconduct, financial mismanagement nor excessive drinking. He was also devoted to Barbie when they went surfing or attended beach parties together. In contrast, the current Secretary of War has had three wives and various affairs.

This is what his own mother, Penny Hegseth, said about him in an e-mail back in  2018:-

You are an abuser of women — that is the ugly truth and I have no respect 

for any man that belittles, lies, cheats, sleeps around, and uses women 

for his own power and ego. You are that man (and have been for years).

You simply cannot imagine Ken's mother writing a similar e-mail about him.

Not only does GI Joe Hegseth delight in using hyperbolic tough guy  language that he has no doubt picked from all the war films he has whooped and salivated about, he also mangles English.

The other day, I noticed him using "truth"  as a verb as he referred to his lord and master's pronouncements  on the propaganda social media site  that was ironically titled Truth Social when it was petulantly established. Hegseth said that Emperor Trump had "truthed" this and also "truthed" that Not the familiar "tweeted" that we had all got used to via Twitter but "truthed"! I ask you.

It is a further irony that the bloated and increasingly demented old man in The White House rarely promotes or speaks the truth. He manipulates it and abuses it to his own narcissistic ends. When others speak inconvenient truths, his instinct is to shut them down or insult them. A more appropriate name for Truth Social would be "Loada Bollocks Social". After all what could be more disingenuous than posting an image of yourself as a modern day Jesus Christ - oh sorry, I meant a  doctor!

Triomphe

 

Cherry blossom does not last very long. Lengthening days and sunshine tempt it out of hiding and then it bursts triumphantly upon the urban scene like a bright firework fountain illuminating a coal-black November sky. All too soon it is gone - especially if there's a stiff wind or an April storm.

These first two pictures are of the cherry tree in our garden. It has put on quite a show this year - the best I can remember. But if we are rewarded with a bumper summer cherry crop then I expect that the birds will get to the fruit first. That's usually the case - with wood pigeons being the main greedy culprits. Pigeon pie anyone?

Last night I attended another pub quiz at "The Robin Hood" with the two Michaels who have been my quiz buddies for a quarter of a century. We have won many quizzes but never before had we achieved a perfect score of 25/25. Many 24s and 23s but never before a 25 until last night. Everything came together nicely. Mick knew that Tom Jones sang the theme song for the 007 film "Thunderball". Mike worked out the anagram - "HYACINTH BUCKET" and for some odd reason I knew that Taylor Swift's current single honours the English film actress - Elizabeth Taylor.

They call it team work and the three of us  floated home on cloud nine.

Also - yesterday afternoon...Who is that mean-looking dude who has just completed the Paris Marathon with  58,852 other runners? There he is on the Champs Elysees with his medal and The Arc de Triomphe behind him.

Why - I do declare - it is our lovely son Ian. Riding aboard the Eurostar train, he was back in his west London flat by 6.30 pm - already planning another foreign marathon in Seville, Spain next February. By the way, he has run much longer distances that a mere 26.2 miles. As I said to him over the telephone, I would feel I had really achieved something simply by walking a marathon distance  in one day with a midday stop for a sandwich and homegrown cherries.

We are very proud of him and he proves that there are tough  vegans around.  A plant-based diet does not have to be a handicap when it comes sport - or in his case running. Is that a sport or a pastime?

I expect that most American visitors to this blog will already know that the massive new triumphal arch planned for Washington D.C. has largely been inspired by Paris's Arc de Triomphe. Of course, The Orange Tyrant insists that America's arch will be bigger and better than all the rest - just like The Golden Ballroom  which is rising from the unfortunate ruins of The East Wing of The White House like a phoenix... or maybe a dodo... or a big fat wood pigeon that has been feasting on stolen cherries.  One name mooted for the crass new addition to the Washington cityscape is The Epstein Files Distraction Arch.

Disappointment

At 1.30pm all seemed hopeful as I marched along Psalter Lane in spring sunshine. At the roundabout, I turned down Sharrow Lane, then across busy London Road and on to Woodhead Road where my son Ian once owned a terraced house. Ahead of me, I could see my destination - Bramall Lane football stadium - the home of Sheffield United F.C.. This famous old ground loomed in red and white livery - the same colours as The Blades' team shirts.

Usually, when I go to see my beloved team - The Tigers of Hull City - I have to travel by car or train. It's sixty miles from Sheffield to Hull. However, yesterday I could walk to the game. Just 2.3 miles from our front door. A welcome change.

On the corner, a young woman was selling football programmes. I handed her a tenner and then the fiver in my change blew out of her hand and I had to chase it. We both laughed about that but perhaps it was an omen.

Outside turnstiles 16 to 23 there was a tedious security operation taking place - specially devised for visiting fans. The queue moved terribly slowly and some fans suffered the indignity of body searches. Fortunately, they did not pick on me. After all, 72 year old lifelong supporters rarely turn up for away matches with flares and house bricks. All of the security personnel were in bright yellow day-glow jackets and two of them had barking dogs on leashes. Another hound was a sniffer dog. He did not pick up any suspicious smells from me probably because I was wearing  Salle de Bain by "Old Man".

I scanned the barcode on my ticket and proceeded through the turnstile. Up two short staircases and I was in the cavernous Bramall Lane stand concourse, below the seating. It was packed with Hull City fans in black and amber - my tribe. A scrum of two hundred or so lairy youths were chanting in unison taking it in turns to crowd surf. It was quite hard to get through them.

Finally, I reached my assigned seat - at the far end of a row and partly for that reason I was very happy with it. Before kick off, I sat and read my programme and ate a satsuma.

For some unknown reason, visiting fans have developed the habit of standing up throughout the playing time and so it was yesterday. Quite irritating really when you would otherwise be sitting down on the seat you have paid for. I watched Oli McBurnie score Hull City's opening goal after four minutes - down at the other end of the pitch. It was a fast moving, flowing game with The Tigers clearly on top. 

In the second half we remained in the ascendency until our battling midfielder  - John Lundstram - received a second yellow card and was therefore sent off. That's when the game turned.

United won a dubious penalty and then with two minutes to go, they scored the winner.  City had spurned several good chances but it wasn't to be. Time ran out.

Ten minutes later, I stood at the bus stop at the bottom of  Ecclesall Road feeling blue and dejected as I waited for the 81 bus home. I admit that after all these years it is pretty insane that the result of a football match can affect my mood for the rest of the weekend. As they say - it's just a game but it never quite feels that way to me. Maybe I am in for more agony when I attend next week's home match against Birmingham City. In the meantime, all I can say is - Up The Tigers!

Deodorant

 

I am sure you have heard of  "Old Spice" for men. The range includes aftershave, shaving cream, soap and deodorant. They are products that  go way back in time and are mostly favoured by the older generation

Old men like me, Andrew in Melbourne, Red in Alberta and Cro Magnon in Brighton really do not want body products that are aimed at the younger generation. We actively spurn "Lynx" and Jean-Paul Gautier. What we need is sprays and roll-ons that are specifically tailored for the senior male market.

This is why I decided to invest all my pension lump sum in a new start up business that aims to fill this potentially profitable gap in the market. Rather than getting cunning and creative with fancy brand names, the company intend to call all of their products quite simply - "Old Man". There's no deception in such a name.

Parisian perfumers have skilfully concocted four possible deodorant fragrances for the "Old Man" deodorant range and I suspect that they will prove really popular with the over sixties. It's nice to have choices...

1) "Granddad" - Pipe tobacco, halitosis and "Dettol"

2) "Care Home" - Stale urine, armpits and smelly socks

3) "Salle de Bain" - Lingering farts  mingling with  medicated soap.

4) "Rose and Crown" - the authentic odour of a traditional pub with 

hints of stale beer, cigarette smoke and sports changing rooms.

If the "Old Man" range sells well - as it is surely bound to do - then the company hope to create  similar products for the fairer sex called "Old Woman" but as yet no fragrances have been devised. Perhaps you can think of some suitable combinations.

Earworm

I know that I not alone in  this. Sometimes I will be simply trucking along in this rutted furrow that I am ploughing for myself when a song from long ago will pop into my head  uninvited. It may stay for a few days, resurfacing every so often. And there's not a damned thing I can do about it. It's just there like somebody else's choice on a juke box.

Currently, I keep hearing a song by The Who. It was written in 1967 by the band's lead guitarist and main songwriter - Pete Townshend. I was never a great fan of The Who but I did see them twice in their heyday - including their headlining gig at Hull City Hall in February 1970. I loved them that night.

They were a tight four piece band - Townshend, Keith Moon on drums, John  Entwistle on bass and singer - Roger Daltrey - who by the way is now eighty four years old. Yep - they could really rock and recorded many distinct and characterful songs like "Who Are You?", "Pinball Wizard", "Substitute" and the iconic "My Generation".

But the song that has been buzzing in my head like a bluebottle in a glass jar is "Pictures of Lily". It is an odd kind of song. The Lily in question  may be Lillie Langtrey -  the once famous British actress and socialite and the song may or may not have had something to do with teenage masturbation for that is one oft-repeated theory about it. Of course masturbation was never something that interested me... honest!

I used to wake up in the morning
I used to feel so bad
I got so sick of having sleepless nights
I went and told my dad
He said, "Son, now here's some little somethings"
And stuck them on my wall
And now my nights ain't quite so lonely
In fact, I, I don't feel bad at all
I don't feel bad at all
Pictures of Lily made my life so wonderful
Pictures of Lily helped me sleep at night
Pictures of Lily solved my childhood problems
Pictures of Lily helped me feel alright
Pictures of Lily
Lily, oh, Lily
Lily, oh, Lily
Pictures of Lily

And then one day, things weren't quite so fine
I fell in love with Lily
I asked my dad where Lily I could find
He said, "Son, now don't be silly
She's been dead since 1929"
Oh, how I cried that night
If only I'd been born in Lily's time
It would have been alright
Pictures of Lily made my life so wonderful
Pictures of Lily helped me sleep at night
For me and Lily are together in my dreams
And I ask you, "Hey, mister, have you ever seen
Pictures of Lily?"

Food

I am very glad that I picked up "The Stones Diaries" in a charity shop a month ago. Over the course of the past few days, I consumed it like good food. It really held me and I admired several things about the writer - Carol Shields.

I appreciated her humanity,  wisdom and keen understanding of the human condition. Furthermore, I enjoyed the novel's quirky, clever and varied construction. In addition, I admired her use of language. Words being used to make telling points like daggers or smoothing like a gentle balm. And there was plenty of humour too. How can I say it - this book was very much "alive". Filled with joy and sorrow and misunderstanding and eccentricity and kindness and stupidity and hope.

Of course, I could go on explaining the plot, describing the central character - Daisy Goodwill and the eighty years of life she experienced before dying - as so many aged and financially stable North Americans do - in Florida. Instead, I am just going to leave you with a flavour of the book through these four quotations...

⦿

“When we think of the past we tend to assume that people were simpler in their functions, and shaped by forces that were primary and irreducible. We take for granted that our forbears were imbued with a deeper purity of purpose than we possess nowadays, and a more singular set of mind, believing, for example, that early scientists pursued their ends with unbroken „dedication“ and that artists worked in the flame of some perpetual „inspiration“. But none of this is true. Those who went before us were every bit as wayward and unaccountable and unsteady in their longings as people are today. The least breeze, whether it be sexual or psychological – or even a real breeze, carrying with it the refreshment of oxygen and energy – has the power to turn us from our path.”

＆

“My mother is a middle-aged woman, a middle-class woman, a woman of moderate intelligence and medium-sized ego and average good luck, so that you would expect her to land somewhere near the middle of the world. Instead she’s over there at the edge. The least vibration could knock her off.”

＆

“He was discomfited to see how easily men (and women as well) stepped from the train to station platform, from platform to train – with ease, with levity, laughing and talking and greeting each other as though oblivious to the abrupt geographical shifts they were making, and disrespectful of the distance and differences they entered. Many were hatless, their clothes brightly coloured. The cases they carried appeared, from the way they handled them, to be feather-light.”

＆

“Dreaming her way backward in time, resurrecting images, the young girl realized, with wonder, that the absent are always present, that you don't make them go away simply because you get on a train and head off in a particular direction.”

Carol Shields (1935 - 2003)

Incantations

Drill baby drill!

Shoot baby shoot!

Fake news baby fake news!

Grab baby grab!

America first baby America first!

Me first baby me... first!

Grift baby grift!

Lotta gold baby lotta gold!

Lie baby lie baby lie!

Deny baby deny baby deny!

You're fired baby you're fired!

Me  first baby. Me!

Hyperbole baby hyperbole!

Repeat baby repeat!

Accuse baby accuse!

Excuse baby excuse!

Bomb baby bomb!

Drill baby drill!

Kill babies kill!

Me baby me! Me baby me! Me baby me! Me!

Baby baby baby baby...

Images from "The Times of India" & "The Guardian"