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A monstrous blast of the Trump

Friday? What happened to Thursday? And my weekly Multi-Post?

I’ve been doing a spot of decorating this week and seem somehow to have lost track. Paint fumes, probably. Generally, ideas for articles come to me on my morning walk with Hunzi. It’s nearly five pm now, which might explain why there’s no theme. We didn’t get our morning walk.

I remember thinking yesterday that something was missing, something I was supposed to do. I went to bed feeling I hadn’t accomplished anything at all. I have two rival plans in mind: redecorate the living-room (I’ve not been decorating my own house, just helping with someone else’s), or edit that play I wrote thirty years ago, that everyone says is terrific but half an hour too long.

Instead I drank another bottle of wine and watched a fascinating documentary about the Mona Lisa. I recommend it. The documentary, not the wine: that was a bit thin and sour and I had to force myself to drink it and spent the night trumping sulfurously until I couldn’t bear being in the same room. Never drink a wine someone has brought to your party and left behind, however kind their intentions (it was estate-bottled and had some notional vintage).

Apparently, see, science has shown the real portrait of Mona Lisa was painted underneath the famous portrait in the Louvre, that is of someone else entirely.

I forget who.

I’m looking for something to act in next year, and the only script I’ve been offered thus far is awful: a turgid old Irish museum piece in blank verse. The director is obviously out of her mind: an intellectual conceit, surely no-one will pay to come to see it.

Unfortunately, one of my many personal problems is that, having been brought up by jobbing actors, I was trained on the potty never to say no to any offer of work, however unpromising. As a result, I’ve had lots of pretty grimy jobs, made silly career moves, worked for too many lying bastards and never made any money myself, whilst helping my employers get rich.

I think I might just say no to this one, to see how it feels. Bad, I expect. I hate letting people down, especially when they deserve it.

A monstrous blast of the Trump

Okay, so you can’t ignore him.

No, actually, you can.

And should.

But wait… What if?

The other Republican runners are reportedly beginning to whisper. Loudly. So dismayed have they been by Trump’s more far-out grotesqueries, they are beginning to wonder if this longtime friend of the Clintons might really be working for… the Dark Side?

They point to the coincidence that whenever they’re about to dish some good dirt on Hillary and the Democrats, Trump comes out with another outrageous remark or ludicrous policy initiative and off the media goes yapping in pursuit.

An interesting piece on the BBC website by Anthony Zurcher takes up the story.

Watch that space!

Pathetic wimps

The morning after the purulent, meatfaced money-sausage told a rally aboard a World War Two destroyer that he proposed to ban Muslims from entering the USA ‘until our national representatives can figure out what the hell is going on’, the BBC’s correspondent spoke to some supporters who had been there.

Most agreed with the policy. One man explained earnestly that he was frightened of being killed by terrorists.

Give or take a few Muslims, there are 320 million inhabitants of the USA, thinly spread like Marmite over three-and-a-half million square miles. Since 9/11, fourteen years ago, almost no-one in the USA has been killed by actual terrorists, largely because the odds are so heavily stacked against it. Hundreds of thousands of Americans, however, have been shot to death by their own, well-armed countrymen and/or the police. Dozens have been clumsily executed by the nation’s anachronistic justice system.

What is it in the American psyche that makes them so pathetically fearful of things they could understand if they really wanted to?

What the hell do they think is ‘going on’?

Even a cursory reading of the history of US foreign relations in the Middle East could be cross-referenced with some residual Puritan fellow-feeling for the stern morality of Salafist Islam and a few hours’ critical viewing of Eddie Murphy movies, against the global index of relative poverty, to explain why some violent lunatics on the other side of the world consider America to be the Great Satan.

Perhaps it’s catching.

A report today from a health watchdog here in the UK stimulated a press headline claiming that obesity in women is ‘as big a threat as terrorism’. No women at all having been killed by terrorists in the UK in the past year, we can therefore be fairly confident that guzzling a pound of chocolates and a large bucket of KFC every night poses no danger to women whatsoever.

Paris Blues

Delegates from 195 countries around the world have, it is reported this morning, finally agreed a watered-down draft agreement in Paris on what to do about the man-made element of global warming, that all now accept is causing climate change. (Except ‘Dave’ on Yahoo!)

Just in the nick of time, because it’s still bucketing down outside my window.

The mercifully short (30 pages) agreement largely consists of vague commitments by the ‘developed’ nations to bribe the ‘developing’ nations with large sums of cash, to get them to shut up about it.

Britain will of course claim to be the prime mover of the new paradigm. The insufferable crowing of Cameron will fail to mask the fact that his government has deliberately killed off our world-leading program to develop carbon capture and storage, and removed at a stroke, the subsidies that were both driving our renewables roll-out and helping people in substandard old housing to insulate their lofts.

Instead, we are to build – is it fifteen? – new gas-fired power stations, presumably to burn the as-yet hypothetical volumes of gas to be produced at some unspecified time in the future by fracking Blackpool.

The expected vote next year to leave the EU will also help George Osborne achieve greater competitiveness for British industry, as Britain will no longer be bound by the renewables obligation or indeed, any of its obligations to reduce carbon to 20% of today’s effusions by 2050.

We can spend the money instead on raising flood defences and paying unemployment benefits to the 30,000 people now working in the renewables industries.

Oh well, okay then…

“In his statement, Mr. Trump quoted a poll by the Center for Security Policy, whose president and founder, Frank Gaffney, has claimed that President Obama is aligned with the Muslim Brotherhood, an extremist political movement born in Egypt, and that agents of the Muslim Brotherhood have infiltrated the U.S. government, the Republican Party and conservative political organizations”

  • New York Times ‘First Draft’ website*

Sometimes it’s hard to know what planet Americans are living on.

Trump’s poll ratings in Iowa, the first of the upcoming party caucuses, were on the slide when he came up with his doozy idea of banning the 100,000 people believed to be of Muslim extraction who visit the US every year; and of putting all resident Muslims on a database (a form of electronic internment). Immediately, his ratings firmed into a lead.

Although you might expect the New York Times to be somewhat biased, given the gruesome episode in which Trump mocked their reporter for being disabled, I can recommend this piece to any of the 500,000 Britons who have signed a petition agreeing with his immigration policy (as opposed to the 500,000 Britons who signed the other petition calling for him to be banned from entering Britain. He is certainly a divisive figure.)


Signifying nothing

And should Tyson Fury, our homegrown IBF World Heavyweight title winner, be removed from the shortlist for BBC Sports Personality of the Year, for his absurd sexist and homophobic bollocks?

Well, I looked at the rest of the names on the list and thought, at least he’s got a personality, even though we may not like it much.

Another joke occurs…

Sorry, I’d intended to stop there but I thought of another joke the other day and needed somewhere to curate it.

I’ve latterly been playing the parts of two different pirates in a production of Treasure Island, so it’s a pirate joke, to be read with a pirate accent:

Long John (for it is he): “Arr, oi’ve fathered ‘undreds of children from ‘ere to Port o’ Spain!

(pause) Unfortunately, none of ’em could swim…”.

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