Month: August 2017

Ear Ear!

I am trying to resist rooting around in my ear canal with a thorny twig from the garden. It is itching like the divil. I have no faith that it will be repaired in time for the motor bike epic journey. If not, I will be (even more) insane by the time I get to the city centre let alone 1200 miles further on.

I see the Brit/EU negotiators are squabbling in public again. Squabble, squabble, squabble. How undignified. How childish they sound. Better drowned than duffers, if not duffers won’t drown. I fear a watery end.

Speaking of which: Poor Texas and beyond. Superpower, eh?

Now, where’s that thorny twig?


I am now taking antibiotics for my earache and I feel guilty doing so. I felt guilty bothering the doctor about such a minor, but terribly painful, matter given that the medical profession is well and truly goosed by successive government’s policies and workload and wotnot.

I also feel guilty about many aspects of my past and present existence which, I do realise, is futile in the extreme (my existence, that is, not the feeling guilty). Memories of my teenage transgressions have haunted me this past few days and I am at last coming to understand that I am not immune to human frailties to the extent that I seem to have indulged in 99.9% of them. I am ashamed and embarrassed for being me. Trouble is, if I were someone else (please discuss with reference to obscure philosophers) I would probably have behaved even more wretchedly. But I doubt I’d feel guilty about it. Guilt seems in short supply other than in my head. Maybe I own the world’s stock?


I have a ragingly painful earache. Right ear. And I have discovered that Online Originals was dissolved in November 2015. So I reckon Scotch Mist rights revert to me. Some use that will be! I don’t care. I’m done with writing. I’ve decided not to write a new book. Writing is such a waste of time and energy except for the very talented and/or lucky few. I’m neither, and besides, I have other fish to fry. Tiddlers maybe, but fish nonetheless.

Doctor’s tomorrow for me, if I can get an appointment. Good luck Charlie!

I’m Loving Angels Instead

If you’re one of those who argues that your belief is more true than any other or better than any other or even the best there has ever been, then you’re also a fool.

When Jews claim to be right (and righteous), when Christians protest that they worship the One True God and that, within the realm of Christian variants, when Catholics berate Protestants and vice versa, and Methodists feel superior to Quakers, you can be sure there’s a major problem.

I have never tried to list the religions that mankind has followed since… well, since before Adam was a lad… but you can bet your bottom dollar that the list is long. Just imagine, all those people believing all those different things with equal zealotry! All convinced that they, and only they, had got it right. What arrogance! What madness.

For, in arguing for the correctness, the truth, the objective reality of their own beliefs, the debate always and always descends to the equivalent of how many virgins can dance on the head of a pin. Or similar.

And I would give this answer: Don’t be daft, it’s none, of course.


I’m thinking that maybe a story about six somewhat elderly motor cyclists. Old Men On Bikes! Because I see so many riders around here who are a much earlier vintage than their bikes. Only old men can afford big bikes now; that and the difficulties youngsters have in getting through their tests – it takes money and age qualification. So to see all these ancient guys (not so much the gals) on fast and fiery steeds amuses me.

And, oh boy, can they ride those things!

Impediment to Learning

Harry Harrison stuttered and there can’t have been many more difficult names for him to pronounce than his own. He hated school as a consequence, hated his classmates and so-called friends and, especially, he hated his teachers.

“For God’s sake, Harrison, spit it out, can’t you!” shouted Mr Lancaster, his exasperated Form Master.

“H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H…. H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H…” stuttered Harry Harrison in response to the question: “In which range of mountains can you find Mount Everest?”

Already a delicate shade of puce from the physical effort involved in turning messages from the brain into sounds, Harry Harrison blushed to an excruciating degree as his classmates sniggered.

“H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H…” he persisted.

“Damn it, Harrison, come up here and write the answer on the blackboard rather than keep us all here until the bells goes.”

Harry wriggled out of his desk seat and walked to the front of the class.

“Chalk!” said the teacher, handing him a stick of the stuff. “Blackboard,” he said, pointing to it. “Write,” he said, mimicking the action in the air in front of him.

Harry positioned the chalk between his thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand. He approached the blackboard, raised his hand and wrote: “H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H…” before giving up. Then, sighing, he continued on the board: “I st-st-st-st-st-stutter, S-S-S-S-S-S-S-Sir, espe-espe-espe-especially w-w-w-w-w-w-w-with w-w-w-w-w-words beginning w-w-w-w-w-w-with an H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H…”