A Dry Drowning

The Sage was sitting at the table over dinner, with Eden at his feet. His compatriots Claire and Rupert were busy eating the dinner the Sageís man had left for them all. The Sage tried not to keep his man about the house too late whenever possible. There were so many times when he was needed when one crisis or other kicked up.

Tonightís discussion was about something that wasnít a crisis, or at least not at first appearance. The person involved was not in need of their immediate help. He was, in fact, not in need of anyoneis help at all. The plods local to the death were treating it as a suicide, a rather odd one, but a suicide nonetheless. After receiving the email and hearing about the Jasminlive.mobi event, the Sage had contact the local police station offering his help. He had been, alas, woefully incapable of getting the D.C. involved to admit that anything odd had occurred. This meant that the suicide would have to have been noticed by those who look out for such things in Devon, or worse yet, in London.

The Sage had gathered his cadre of people together to decide whether or not it was worth heading down there and not bothering to wait.

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One more time with feeling…

The BBC’s current bizarre Leftists passivism is neither new nor uncharacteristic. Briton’s near defeat and subsequent US rescue in WW2 was not, as is generally accepted, the result of Nazi cunning or superiority, but British cowardice and ignorance, significantly brought on by 9 years of BBC misinformation.

Both pre-war Prime Ministers Baldwin and Chamberlain, required BBC under-emphasis of the Nazi threat, to the point where Churchill was virtually banned from broadcasting. Again today, Right wing academics, writers and leaders often find their way into BBC studios blocked by a long line of Leftists, Al Quaeda sympathisers and apologists.

In 1930’s America audiences openly debated the coming war on local and national radio, while British audiences were kept firmly in the dark. Similarly, today Talk Radio hosts put the Right’s point of view across America, while the BBC sticks resolutely to anti-Americanism and collaberative prinicples.

The ability for the BBC to see cowardice in the face of danger, today, derives from its almost exclusively middle/upper class, Left wing makeup, e.g. BBC vacancies are only advertised in 2 left wing newspapers.

The British public continues to trust the same monopoly broadcaster which almost lead it into the jaws of disarmament and defeat in 1939, leaving those on the Right to rant, rave and swear oaths of bitter recrimination, much as Churchill did for much of the 1930’s.

Clinton’s BBC Interview

Clinton’s interview on the BBC was reverential (did I spell that right) was this a politician caught lying, or a demi-god giving audience. It was hard to tell.

Why do the BBC and other networks keep referring to Iraq as a ‘bloodbath’ didn’t Saddam slaughter his fellow Iraqis by the hundreds of thousands? Perhaps this has been conveniently air-brushed out of history.

The problem arises, I fear, from the BBC’s almost total reliance on White, upper-class, university educated, Liberals on whom to spend its guaranteed annual £3 billion budget.

For the privileged upper classes of Britain, who have attended private schools, eat the best food, live in the safest all-White suburbs and work in an ultra-cloistered environment, it must be hard, damn near impossible to comprehend life outside their Liberal cloister.

Remeber this is an organisation which only hires staff out of one, anti-American Left wing newspaper, the Guardian.

Today’s Radio 4 discussion featured a Arab praising the invasion as ‘The most moral war’ while upper class, White Liberal reporter, Kate Adie attacked it with venom. For the Arab it meant freedom, for Kate, Liberal humiliation and victory to the Left’s mortal and most hated enemy American Republicanism.

The Arab spoke with heartbreaking emotion of the slaughter and misery under Saddam, and an over-stuffed liberal declared it wasn’t worth it.

It could have been a Monty Python sketch. ‘No you silly little Arab’ Kate declared, ‘we chaps can have democracy, but as for you darkies, you’ll just have to wait. Now run allong and no more talk of freedom, you cheeky little imp’.

The last 24 hours in G.o.D..’s life

To say the last 24-36 hours have been amazing would be to put it lightly. After last night’s activities, at about 4am, I had a shit-eating grin on my gob. Today’s development’s were in danger of turning my face into the Joker’s sans make-up. For once things went not only according to plan, but even better!

Our famous guitarist arrived spot on time at Wimbledon station, with all his kit and raring to go. After a few drinks (I was the only one drinking booze.), we went off to the studio and got cracking. Now I knew this guy was a shit-hot guitarist from seeing him play live with his Chaturbate band. What I didn’t know was how well he would work outside his own band. I suspected that besides keeping us in stiches with his odd sense of humour, he would fit well into the G.o.D. way of doing things. Fit well? The bloke fit like a well-worn pair of jeans. Not only did he lay down guitars on three tracks, he managed to have time to do guitars on a fourth track. Since it was pretty seat of the pants he was able to come up with original music on the go. I am pleased to say that I made some suggestions musically in a way that was easy to understand. At about 7:30, he left us with a very positive vibe going. I am sure said fellow will be involved again. John and I stayed up to 4am working on the tracks. They now sound like almost complete songs which is trés cool. We plan to have em’ down and dusted by early July.

While the lads were laying down the licks, I took the oppotunity to ring blogger/guitarist Mike to talk about his coming over for the recording of the album. He may (possibly with his band,) become part of the circus that is G.o.D.

I came home this afternon thinking of having a quiet one wrestling with my domestic chores and logistical crap. Fat chance! I got an email, from a record company interested in our band, offering the lead vocal spot for a summer tour with a band “between singers.” I think I am just getting over the shock. I am seriously looking at the offer, after chatting to my bandmates.

I know this may sound odd, but I am hoping for rain. The pollen in London is murder right now, and a few days respite will help my pipes. All of you join in that hope…for the band’s sake, of course!

Thames Path Zero: from Gravesend to Dartford

The Saxon Shore Way ends at Gravesend and the Thames Path does not properly begin until the Thames Barrier. Nevertheless, a proper path does run from the Dartford Creek Barrier, some two miles west of the Dartford Bridge. But, on Sunday, taking the opportunity of clement weather, I took the more challenging and ugly approach between Gravesend and Dartford.

Part of this revolves around shorter, urban walks during the winter months; even on the shortest day, you can walk for fifteen miles with an early start. One forgets that it is light at 8, dark at 4.

The fourteen miles that I undertook is some of the most aesthetically pleasing: a mixture of urban decay, factories, wasteland and sewage farms. All of the route has litter in some shape or form. Half of the world's plastic is strewn across the countryside. Nor is there a distinguishing building, sights, or other marks: unless one considers the approach to and from the Dartford Bridge. Although, nestling between the marshes is Greenhithe, a pleasant enclave of cottages and olde-world charm within the blight.

No doubt my masochism still views this as a fine walk: perhaps better in frost. One does not get the views that are, perhaps, more impressive further west; and, trotting to and from the shoreline via industrial estates, can be frustrating. Better to follow a footpath through a meadow than past Asda. Nevertheless, the Swanscombe Marshes east of Greenhithe (dominated by transmission lines) and the Dartford Marshes provide sufficient greenery. At the end, one follows the twisting River Darent back towards Dartford on the Darent Valley Way. That final part of the walk is a frustrating yet rewarding passage. The path twists far away from the river, then back again, set up on a ridge over the marshes. A direct path along the riverside is impassable. And this meanders almost back to the Dartford Bridge again, giving thoughts of a U-turn. One can see all the way: in flat marshes, you can see where you are going and imagine how long it is before the phone beeps eleven or twelve miles.

Most fortunate of all, it did not rain until I stepped back on the train to London Bridge.