There are no words adequate to accompany the first two infographics: commentary is superfluous; the third one simply illustrates some people who rose above the hatred and the barriers their society imposed on them to become great men and women, by any standards, and they were exemplary role-models for any children.
Just when it seems there might be a slight respite from extreme gun crime in the US, you come across a post which makes it clear there are hundreds of mass shootings which we don't even hear about over here. The stats are utterly appalling and paint a picture which is far worse than we've been led to believe. President Obama has not taken up my suggestion to leave office in a blaze of glory by taking on the gun lobby: I don't blame him, it would be like wearing a sandwich board with 'shoot me' on the back and a target on the front. He probably also knows something that we'd all like to know: how many senators and congressmen are on the payroll of the National Rifle Association. Rule number one in politics everywhere seems to be: whether you are a politician or an ordinary voter, vote from your pocket.
RUPE & JELLYBABY: Love takes many forms
Rupert and
Jerry were lovers, though not like Frankie & Johnny. That’s probably the
best way to put it. He was certainly in love, not just with her long, slim,
languid legs, her feminine curves and her blonde tresses, but also her voice:
that Texan drawl and twang found a kind of resonance in him, for it was not unlike
the Australian voices of his family and friends. And most of all he loved the
fact that she seemed to love him, despite being 40 years younger. Her love for
him was a little different; she was very fond of him, he was good company, not
too demanding, took her to unbelievable restaurants and stayed in five-star
hotels all over the world. In the 7 months they had known each other she had
never been able to get any cash out of her pocketbook: he always grabbed the
bill and had filled her purse with so many credit, debit and store-cards that
there was no room for cash, anyway. It was true that she’d had younger, better-looking,
taller, more handsome men in her bed, who didn’t try and race an egg-timer –
and usually win – but sex wasn’t everything, whereas shopping very nearly was,
to her. She was very curious about his net worth – and he was very evasive. She
didn’t read the papers or understand computers and he always switched the TV
off when he thought he was on.
She was not
sure she bought his story. He said he
was a ‘newspaper man’, that his father had left him a half-share in the
Brisbane Bugle. That although he was based in Panama for tax reasons he lived
here for much of the year and decided to buy a British paper to keep his hand
in and his finger on the pulse: so he bought a free sheet in Watford. But his
new business interest was buying a small chain of Bingo halls, which is how
they met: he was looking round a prospective purchase, she was being
interviewed for a job, though she didn’t tell him that. She was on hard times:
the modelling work had all but dried up, and her career as an actor was
stubbornly refusing to get off the ground. The critics were cruel: one said her
Texan accent was as inappropriate for Shakespeare as her acting which was more
suited to Dallas than Dunsinane. Another recommended the soft-porn film industry:
King Leer, or As You Like It, I’ll Do it Again. Anyway, she didn’t recognise
him when he walked down the steps of the bingo hall towards her; he stopped to
talk to her, several steps above, thus equalising their height, an astute move.
Only later did she realise she was a full foot taller. Oh well, she said to
herself, apparently small men often have the Avis syndrome – ‘we try harder’ –
which turned out to be true in business but not in bed.
As things
became more serious between them, marriage was tentatively broached and the
delicate matter of pre-nups was ushered in the door. She started to try and
guess what he was worth. The papers and the bingo must be worth a couple of million,
at least. Therefore she should settle for nothing less than a million, plus
maybe a house. In the event, his lawyer said she should get nothing if she left
him for another man, 2 million if there was an amicable separation and divorce,
and 5 million if he just died – but nothing if there were suspicious
circumstances. She was delighted with this unforeseen bonanza. The price of ignorance: his current
net worth was…. $12 billion..
When they
got married the photos showed them like any other young newly-weds except there
was nothing new about either of them and that he was old enough to be her
grandfather. What lay ahead for them? One thing would be a constant concern for
his health; another would be the need for Jerry to develop the patience of a
saint. Within a few months a difference between them arose: he remained
besotted with her body and was happy to wait hours, if necessary, to manage
sex. She took to reading during his foreplay, in order not to look rude by
falling asleep. One day, he said “It would really help if you’d gently stroke
my back. Not like that, a stroke, gimme a stroke”. “What a very good idea”, she
said and soon buried her head in a medical textbook to see how one could be
induced, without suspicion of foul play.
Now read on……
The Cameron Govt promised to abolish fuel poverty
by this year. Instead of that it has doubled. This has been disguised by
altering the basis for calculation: lies, damn lies and statistics.
Nine
thousand people died of cold-related diseases last winter: mainly heart
attacks, strokes and respiratory disease.
This is a cull of the old, poor and sick. Still, it must save quite a
lot on the pensions bill, and they are probably mostly Labour voters anyway so
it’s a double whammy.
Hypothermia
and related diseases cost the NHS about £1.3 billion a year. I think we could
safely conclude that this money would more than pay for adequate heating for
the fated 9000. Possibly one of those fact-finding missions which put Cameron,
Osborne and Johnson in a cold, damp
under-heated Council flat for a few days would have persuaded them that icy
cold is not just for skiing and cocktails, and the problem could have been
solved in a week.
 |
| GREAT SHOTS ROM TREVOR JOYCE |
Some more candidates to be consigned to oblivion:
1) TELESALES CALLERS who persist with their spiel long after you have been more rude to them than anyone else
in your life. OK, so they have a mind-numbing horrible job. They chose the job;
you didn’t choose to be called. Do they not understand Anglo-Saxon?
2) BAD DRIVERS who are brave enough to give you the finger after you have indicated
their error, but who cower in fear as you approach their windscreen with a tyre
iron, at the next red light.
3) PEOPLE who give directions as though you already know the area. You
don’t…or you wouldn’t be asking. Sample:
“Oh that’s easy, you go down here to the end of the shops, you know –
where the launderette is, and before you reach the end you turn right by where
the Post Office was, go about 200 yds and turn left - well, it's more like straight really, then over the bridge,
you know, up to the roundabout take the third exit or the fourth counting where
you are, only be careful, there’s a small one which is almost hidden – don’t
take that whatever you do, and then its about 100 yds on the left – except
that’s a no entry. You wanna get a SatNav,
you do.” Any set of directions which contains the words 'you know' is, de facto,
stupid and futile, and the informant should be 'disappeared'.
This week The Gallery showcases the bloomin' gorgeous jewellery of Joanna Swan, modelled by her bloomin' gorgeous nieces, Mahli and Bala Piti-Swan. This is an unsolicited showcase, as are the photographs and paintings by other friends and relatives I have featured. I am happy to consider more material to feature (including writing). Send it to me at davidmilner777@gmail.com or via facebook.
The last couple of years have seen renewals of friendship with a number of people with whom I had lost contact for many years: Barbara and Roy Saunders, Amblavaner and Jenny Sivanandan, Ruth Ayisi, Frances Webber, Amanda Rose, Nikki Kyracou, Sean Sprague and Frances Carter. This is not a coincidence, it's the result of looking back and thinking who you really valued but had lost touch with and determining to do something about it. Or sometimes them doing so. In the same spirit I have also renewed my acquaintance (tho' not face-to-race) and admiration for some more famous heroes, notably Dylan and Muhammad Ali. Now it's the turn of my greatest literary god, Philip Roth, who I have followed since his very first novel in the 1960s. I found a cache of quotations from him, and they could fill several posts. Here are a few:
I was doing some digital archaeology when I came across this video: for some reason I'd missed it at the time. Without puffing it too much, I think this is the British entertainment industry at its best: stars taking the piss out of themselves for charity.
So was that where the idea for Carpool Karaoke came from? Please tell me it was James Corden's idea, though credit where it's due, I have to admit George Michael's better at comedy than anyone would guess from his interviews or records (though some of them are unintentionally funny).
Answer to 'quiz question': icon #9 is Rosa Parks, the woman from Montgomery, Alabama, who ignited the Civil Rights movement with her extraordinary courage: alone she sat in the front of a bus and refused to move, single-handedly facing down 100 years of racist laws, violent intimidation, discrimination and everyday racial prejudice, and won the first victory of the movement. She was black and a member of the Weaker Sex.........
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