The Syrian Civil War – remember?

Posted: December 8, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I wrote recently about these times being the times to write, and to write about.

We can pause, briefly, and quickly we realise these are just about to be the ‘good old days’.

In 20 years, when this world is a new one, will we look back and wonder what we were thinking? In 100 years, will other looks back and try to understand not only what we were thinking, but also what we had for breakfast (this is a blog after all. Toast, by the way.)?

It’s odd to consider myself a very distant bystander to world events and only as involved in them as I am with Countdown (barely, and eager for less).

But I am.

Seeing it on a plethora of screens, on the radio and even, yes – still, in print…these are the times to write and write about; but also to keep one’s distance from.

The Syrian Civil War is a conflict which, I expect, will come to be known by new names in time. Preferred terms of the victors, either romanticised by traditional historians or made technical by other historians eager to sell books by clarifying that everything is in fact very dull.

Maybe a more romantic name would have kept it in my memory.

I can’t be alone in the West in realising I’d forgotten it was happening.

There’s been lots of wars and conflicts in my 35 years of life, and throughout each I’ve slept well with a fully belly and total expectation of waking for the next morning.

This war, like so many others we’re made to know of, doesn’t seem to be of effect in my life.

Would I like it to be of effect? No. But it would make it real.

Is it not real already? Yes of course, for those living it.

But for me…I’d forgotten about it. Or at least, I was surprised to understand it was still going on.

S’cuse me while I quickly go Googling.

Best part of a million people have died in this war since 2011. It is hard to fathom how extraordinary that number is over that amount of time. It’s a lot of violence.

Maybe too much violence, but not ‘too much’ in the way it should be.

It is too much violence after too much violence. Too samey. Repetition is not good. Repetition is not good.

And that’s not good for viewership.

And I expect that’s why the war and it’s hundred of thousands of deaths fell out of my mind.

Recently though, we have an odd celebrity/fraud scenario in which ‘Hawk Tuah Girl’ became popular following a street interview regarding oral sex, coined a phrase, became a viral sensation (the Syrian Civil War was still happening prior, during and after all this by the way) began a podcast (apparently hard not to) and released a form of crypto-currency in a manner broadly considered to be fraudulent to investors.

Out of the two, the scam and the Syrian Civil War, I prefer the scam as general news. Whilst tempting to say it is depressing too, I think it’s actually affirming.

Not of the fact people will genuinely invest vast amounts of real money into vast amounts of no money, but that the girl provided something with which people could elect to be stupid.

And it’s my right to select something stupid to do.

Other people would have done that for free, but this young lady has made real money from the nothingness (nothingness with a catchphrase).

All the top people are calling for justice in this case, all whilst – I can’t stress this enough – the Syrian Civil War is still going on.

Although, I now understand the Syrian President, Bashar al-Assad, has gone missing whilst rebels occupy the streets of Damascus.

How and when did this anti-government push come about? Was it via a sudden injection of fictional-funds in the form of HAWK dollars?

Would the government forces have faired better if they’d had an obscene catchphrase?

I don’t know.

Repetition is bad, but I don’t know.

Ultimately, I suppose all this – the war and the scam – could have been continuing on their respective timelines. It’s just odd that one seems to have become so prevalent.

Maybe that catchphrase idea isn’t a bad one. I know if the ‘Post Office Scandal’ didn’t include the words ‘post office’ – it wouldn’t have deterred so many from wanting to know about it.

And of course, I’m glad to be at a distance. I just don’t think I should be forgetting about the history that’s about to be.

These are still the times to write, and write about. I think we need to know more about the Syrian Civil War and the experiences of those living it, and the lives of those who no longer are.

I’d invest in that.

Sam

Are we not allowed to be a bit shit? ‘Presidentially shit’?

Posted: December 3, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Biden has, for the previous few years, been degraded on a manner of counts.

One – he’s President, and that’s unforgivable to many.

Two – he’s Democrat, and I know some people who hate that kind of party.

Three – the Afghanistan withdrawal, an undemocratic vendetta against Trump, being too fragile in all capacities and appearing goofy of a kind only previously espoused by Bush jnr.

This week President Biden pardoned his son of crimes he definitely did, after promising he definitely wouldn’t.

The Oval Office has such power, but it is also proudly presumed that this power is not to be used in a way that results in poor PR.

‘Optics’ are a crucial component of the American mythos, and the Constitution guarantees this purely through the way it is written. It presumes innocence of purpose with absolute power of authority.

Biden was a father before a President.

Evidently.

And if Biden jnr makes his way across the world now, taking drugs and owning firearms for which he doesn’t have a license….fine.

If he continues to be a figurehead of funding, receiving millions of dollars from the arrangements of his father….fine.

In honesty, this is something I expect of government, modern and historical. It’s the premise of the opportunity of governing: you don’t have to worry about particular things because we know you’re busy enough.

Of course, you can also sway a nation towards better times, with a better identity, but you can also get your little boy (I’m a father and I think this perception will never truly diminish) off of drug and firearm charges.

I’d do the same.

I’d ruin the optics of the constitution in favour of the reality of the Declaration.

Pursuing happiness.

The guy needs help, not jail time.

And President Biden needs to do what he still perceives (cataracts aside) as the right thing, which as a father myself – I’d do too…..fine.

Because we’re accordingly all a bit shit (Biden is ‘Presidentially shit’!). Because we’re human. And prideful optics are easily surrendered for the cause we hold more important – which is family.

What does that mean for me and you – those without Presidential representation and power? It means we were as previous: wishing our Dad’s could save the day because we’re a bit shit.

Biden jnr needs non-negotiable therapy. President Biden needs a nap.

And we need to appreciate that we’d protect ours too, when the occasion presents itself.

Obviously.

Otherwise you’d be a bad father. And that makes for a bad president. And that bodes poorly for all.

Local football – the difference between quality and enjoyment

Posted: April 21, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: I've been about | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Before I begin – I’ve looked up the rules of WordPress (by which this blog is generated) and whilst I can’t play music over the top of these words – I can link you to websites that play music – meaning you can enjoy sounds from one tab whilst reading words on this tab .

So I’m linking to some suggestions I’ve had from YouTube: Deep Space Banjo Ambience, A playlist to feel like you’re inside a Monet painting, and Rest Here a Moment.. Tomorrow We Start Again. I don’t know if you’ll like them, or if I do – but the internet seems to feel these pieces summarise me.

My dad and I travelled to watch Gillingham FC play yesterday. The Gills are a Kent-local team with a respected regional history that is over-shadowed by an incredibly devoted fanbase that reminds you that people are dedicated to all sorts of things, including screaming.

I find going to the stadium quite intimidating due to the crowd all around – especially behind me. There’s something about a mob that hasn’t realised it is one yet – it really makes me stay home.

I’m not really frightened of having a fight because no ones tends to start fights with me. However, I’d be quite tentative about starting a fight because I don’t know how to do it.

At what point am I allowed to punch you in the nose?

What happens if we’re exchange insults and threats, and I punch first? And then, everyone gasps and suddenly my wouldn’t-be opponent sobs with hysterical confusion, questioning what drove me to do such a thing – and then I’m politely asked to leave?

Unthinkably embarrassing and really not what the beautiful game is all about.

There are other aspects to the game which is beautiful. Elements that one can’t perceive through the screen watching premier league fixtures.

For one, the litter

There’s litter on the pitch and trundling down the stadium steps.

I think this comes down to two issues.

One – the stadium is draughty, being a stadium, which facilitates litter blowing into the goalmouth and clattering against the fanbase.

Two – the local stadium doesn’t have a two-deep line of hi-viz staff constantly trawling through the square footage to clamp down on the litter that risks being a form of unlicensed advertising (“a Snickers wrapper?! I didn’t approve that flutter by!?”).

Plus, everyone keeps dropping litter, which is likely the most crucial cause of littering.

Pigeons are fucking on the stadium roof

It’s spring, and nature is springing, which is beautiful.

Pigeons, fucking on the stadium roof, is also beautiful, but is that kind of beauty nobody really wants to see. Or hear.

If they could smell it, this sport wouldn’t exist.

It does make one feel lucky to be alive though. Spring is here!

Football! Sunshine! Pigeon eggs (eventually)! And god knows these past few months of dark winter, we’ve all been looking forward to more pigeons. The thought of that got me through Christmas.

The elements are real, not like on TV

I remembered to bring my hat this time, as previously I’d spent the entire 90 minutes saluting the spring-time sun in a vain effort to protect my eyes and see a single moment of play. And I don’t like saluting.

I could probably take eye-damage more seriously though. We all could. But I’m still not going to.

The sun hit my forearm for a long time that afternoon. Feeling something, as opposed to that dulling sensation of generally sitting – in which one only feels anything when they’ve been sitting for too long – I don’t get that at home watching TV.

It’s good to feel something, from the sun on my forearm, to the breeze that helps the litter along.

THUDS

Sitting 3 rows back from the field – you can hear the real thud of the game – thuds of players colliding, landing after tackles and the ever-thwack of the ball.

The same ball that everyone cheers as it makes it way by means of foot-empowered-flight out of the stadium towards brown top-hat chimneys of houses just feet away; it thuds when kicked, it thuds when it hits the roof, and it thuds and beep-beeps when it lands on a car just outside the stadium.

That ball is what makes me feel even more on edge than the mob around me and the procreating pigeons above me. There is a constant feeling, sitting so close to the pitch, that the ball is going to be kicked (perhaps…passed) right into my nose with such power it would colonise my face in the name of football.

It’s brilliant.

Fear can be a good thing, especially when it only relates to cosmetic issues and minor brain damage.

‘THUD‘ personifies that.

Money where it can be found

Each goal was sponsored – something I’ve never encountered before.

I wasn’t sure after the first goal, thanks to the roar of the crowd, but after the second – I’m sure the stadium announcer declared: “In the 47th minute, goal scored by JOSHUA ANDREWS!!! This goal was sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts, of Twydall.”

Not only did this hyper-localise the local football game, but it made clear that ways to make money are discovered through ways to spend money. In this case, hyper-local; to donate money.

Outstanding.

Unbalanced and loving it

With my Dad – I think we were too balanced to fit in properly. When the ref judged a handball, we’d quietly agree with each other, whilst all about us let there position known not so much by direct disagreement, but by calling the ref a cunt.

It’s a matter of passion over facts. Everyone’s got a football opinion, because that’s the point. If you’ve got a football fact – that’s nice, but one hardly screams it at the opposing fanbase.

All about me were the folk who came to slightly decrease their overall long-term blood-pressure by drastically increasing it for a highly vocal 90 minutes (with a quick 15 minute break for liquids – in and out).

The referee represents the villain in the pantomime – you just know you’re supposed to boo them, regardless of what they actually do on the field/stage. The Gillingham-devoted have no idea of this ref’s name, they just want to enjoy the hour and a half of absolute love and total hatred; football.

The greens are greener

You can see the blades of the grass.

Not just general greeness – like on TV, but actually blades, and flying tuffs as boots dig in deep to the pitch whilst missing the ball somewhat.

It’s the same with the players’ hair, the swish of limbs, and – again – the pigeons fucking.

It’s spring!

Glory. Real glory

There were children asking for autographs from players in case they’re not nobodies, and the players were dutifully signing them. It’s wholesome – live with it.

But whilst they’re potentially not nobodies in the future, right now their names are revised and celebrated by the kids who have this hyper-local passion that is, I expect, replicated up and down the country and probably the world.

And then there is that particular moment of glory, when it comes – as it did for Joshua Andrews (sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts) in which the ball came to him, he paused for a moment and thought (visibly) – “why the fuck not? I’m supposed to aren’t I?!“. And he kicked it, almost a punt on a punt…and it went in.

And a collective of associates who either know one another by name of the fact that they’d also die for this football club, felt every theme of joy conceivable – and they showed it.

By god, or more importantly – Gillingham FC – they showed it.

That’s a glory that cannot be compared.

But it can be beaten, by this:

There are other nobodies, ones you’ve not heard of and I’ve since forgotten, who played with this club for years and may have enjoyed times such as Joshua – the current number 9. Decades later, they passed away, and yesterday, they and their name received a standing ovation over 60 seconds in honour, absolute honour, of their life and service to this club.

There’s glory on these Saturdays, and dreams come true on the field, but it is in the stands that the living of life can be found. It’s excitement – and it is contagious.

All in all – you might get a bit of it, but there’s no way you get all the above from watching the Premier league on the TV.

Some, not all.

3-0 to the Gills it was.

Me and my Dad went.

Sam

Genitals in a tornado – and other topics that don’t get you far as a writer

Posted: April 12, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

‘Whirly whirly whirly‘ they’d go.

There’s something to it as a topic….the topic being genitals in a tornado.

It’s got depth, and history. It’s also metaphorical, but that’s not as important as literally having your genitals in a tornado.

Which genitals? You name them, they’re there. In fact, bring your own! BYOG!

Which tornado? I don’t know – I don’t any tornados. Obviously they’re all named, but I don’t know the depth of their character in the same way I do genitals.

Either way, I like the idea of genitals in a tornado, because that implies being naked in the elements.

And being naked in the elements, the wind and the rain, the sun and the snow, that in itself implies something too.

There’s depth to these genitals, especially hers.

I think it’s an epic representation of how tiny you are, an insignificant little human in a slightly larger universe, which is entirely indifferent, but the stars are out and pretty, and though you might be insignificant – feeling the rain and the wind and the starlight proves you’re alive.

Which is nice.

You might be able to picture the scene:
A person (perhaps yourself) looking up at an unending sky and appreciating all that living can be, whilst the turbulence of life on Earth increases – the wind rises and makes the person sway and lean into the now-raging storm threatening to rip them away, the will to be and live swells greater than the storm, and proof of living is undeniable and powerful, and all the while their genitals are going round and around like the clappers.

I’ll bet it’s good for them.

Doctors should recommend a tornado for your blood pressure, variations of hair-dos, and for your genitals. Or perhaps, just for the experience – why shouldn’t a doctor want you to have a fun time?

These. These are the topics that don’t get us far as writers. Probably because they’re so interesting, we don’t want to move.

There’s history to these genitals.

Well, really pre-history, but mostly guesswork and even statistics. There’s no way you’re the first person to have genitals out and about in a tornado.

And there’s absolutely no way in hell that you’re the first person to helicopter your penis hands-free but elements-dependent, such as a tornado provides.

The likelihood of this happening goes back further than even helicopters, further back than lassos, further back than any other things you might consider waggling round and round. A penis was doing it first – and I’ll bet there was a tornado right alongside it.

This is history that wasn’t written down at the time it happened, but I bet there’s an undiscovered cave painting somewhere in the world, with storm clouds and rain depicted – with a focus feature of a simple human figure encumbered with a penis so overly large it upsets other people’s balance, surrounded by motion lines to indicate rapid revolutions, and other members of the tribe keeping an awed-whilst-embarrassed distance.

That’s art that I wouldn’t pay for, but I would paint it.

I think they have something similar in the Vatican. Maybe on the walls that hold the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel up.

Turns out – there’s art and architecture to this.

I don’t know about breasts, since they seem to wobble most of the time anyway, but when it comes to history, I’m sure I’ve heard the term “like tits in a wind-tunnel” is one I’ve heard before. I just can’t recall when. I can recall why though – things were going extraordinarily well at the time – like tits in a wind-tunnel.

Vagina-wise (which is a theme, not a given-title for experienced gynecologists) – I’d have to imagine that whilst the tornado might make one’s ovaries a tad chilly, the hollow vagina in a tornado would emit a pleasing ‘toot‘ sort of noise – like when blowing into a half-finished bottle of beer. And you’ve finished the second half, first.

These are the topics that get one nowhere, not even preferably lost.

The important point here, is that writings on topics like these are the guarantee of successlessness. In addition to the creation of unreal words such as at the end of the last sentence, they are not what you want to read about.

But by golly, they’re enjoyable to write about.

And I write, to write.

Doing it this way is to ‘other’ yourself, which gets you attention such as I’m not getting, but the potential is still there.

These are the topics, as you’ve seen above: history, depth, metaphors, art, and architecture – who could possibly be interested in such subjects as these?! Thank heavens there was a unifying theme.

Maybe ‘genitals in the breeze’ would be a better title?

Sam

The News. Interesting, irrelevant or 80 years old.

Posted: January 1, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Today's paper. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I am sitting here, trying to remember what articles I read now. Thankfully it was the Daily Star, so there were lots of pictures.

Pictures are good memory joggers, especially as they make words standout in the first place, and the Daily Star nails this, mainly through images of massive interest and zero relevance. Like this one:

Its a beaver. Doesn’t really need the words actually, though I do like the “Hey“.

“Hey” indeed.

The Daily Star might be what we’d hand to the extraterrestrials to give them an idea of what our focus really is, or we’d roll it up to bop them on the head (nearest equivalent) to shoo them out of our atmosphere.

Either way, we’d still say “Hey”.

If they ever come at all, but in the meanwhile….we’ve clouds.

We’re just not dangerous enough yet. Or cool enough either. I’m doing my bit, but you should all really be a bit more dangerous.

Perhaps like the warrior in the garden, rather than the gardener in a war. But I’m frankly more interested in a dangerous gardner.

With big, purple and suggestive-as-hell vegetables. Mainly purple.

It’s nice to have a goal which accommodates climate change, since the UK is going to have no aims to avoid it.

And, purple vegetables. Very ‘in-vogue’. Very ‘end-times’.

It’s getting hotter. Leave the heating off, especially if you’re in the pub.

I like a cold pub. It’s a chance to wear your coat indoors, as though you’re at ski-resort in South London (great place to drink and ski but not actually the latter).

Or you can wear loads and loads of fashionable outfits, like the music video for ‘Only You’ performed by The Flying Pickets.

THAT’S fashion. THAT’S a chilly pub.

It’s scenic. Looks good. You can’t take it away from chilly pubs, from The Flying Pickets, and from magpies.

Take a magpie. Take two, they’re free.

Now flatten it.

And you’ve got yourself the flag I’ve always thought would suit me, and my inevitable nation-state, very well indeed thank you.

Of course the black, of course the white. But those two; with that blue……if not the heights, then certainly the depths of fashion.

The last thing I noted in this paper was an advert. For a book of a tale from a witness to warcrimes they endured as a child in WW2.

I’ve tried to write about this theme but I’ve struggled to summarise in my irreverent style.

WW2 is still the news. Because we still can’t quite believed it happened.

Probably a book worth reading. Like a newspaper worth enjoying the pictures of.

Sam

I read the paper. Now I’ve opinions.

Posted: December 24, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Today's paper. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

You’d better watch out!

You’d better not cry!

You’d better watch out and I’m telling you why...

Sam just read the paper, today.

And the world is fucked, in a very ‘but buy tomorrow’s edition’ way.

Actually, you can’t buy tomorrow’s edition because it’s Christmas Day, but that’s no reason to not panic about world events.

Such as the pet owner who was charged £40 for a phone call to discuss his cat’s constipation.

If the cat had eaten the phone, causing both constipation and a necessary phone call, I’m on the side of the vet. Holding up a scratching and wailing cat to my ear will result in me as calmly as possible letting you know that I’m going to be charging you for this above my normal rates.

Of course, the cat didn’t eat the phone, which is nice, and it did get some medicine, which is about as nice as not eating a phone.

Then there was the annual Christmas Day plunge into sewage on the nation’s coastal swimming spots.

Concerns are that those who like the bracing experience of seawater in December whilst wearing an amusing hat might get poo in their mouths, eyes, stomachs and bloodstream. And brain, probably.

I don’t know much about poo, but I wonder if it’s good for the skin. Probably not, but also, possibly so.

Maybe we should start finding alternative uses for poo, rather than just sending it down river or hiding it under less-pooey things.

Maybe use it in Law? Like shitting in the sinks of the water company Execs for every illness and death their actions caused. Copro-punishment.

Still, here’s hoping the Execs and the swimmers all have a happy Christmas.

The Druids made the news, at the only time of year they ever seem to these days (scarcely at all this millenia so far) to welcome winter solstice.

They watched the sun come up apparently, at Stonehenge. Quite windy, according to reports.

Surrounded by Druids and flaming torches, with a sun rising between ancient menhirs, that must feel like a good place for the world to end. Wiltshire.

And lastly, someone was arrested for stealing some valuable criminal damage.

Banksy does his stencil and spray-paint thing and people are arrested for stealing it before the council has a fair chance to steal it for themselves.

When I write “bugger” on a wall, I’m just stared at. By my wife. In the living room.

A good message in the sign though. Things do need to stop. I hope they do.

Merry Christmas wishes and hopes to all those who won’t have one.

Sam