Tuesday, 7 September 2010

I'm back...

from my holidays. Just three weeks, but it seemed an age. We walked into the town centre here and Sheffield and Jonah (just turned 5) starts panting excitedly.
'Oh, oh! Daddy! Do you remember that building?!?'
'That's Sheffield City Hall, Jonah. Of course I remember that building. It's been there a hundred years. We were just here three weeks ago.'
That kind of thing. And it is nice to see that not much changes, apparently, here in Britain in that time. Every time I go back to Canada -- which, granted, is only once every two years now -- it seems that the place is utterly transformed. Why, this time I learned that the Mall near my Mom's house has had its food court re-done. Again. But, fuck, hey, that's progress. It's only a matter of time before Sutton gets a Wal-Mart and everyone can stay there and drive to the local branch to get really cheap shit without having to go all the way to Newmarket.

(I should add that my Uncle Dave, a Councillor for Ward 3 in Georgina, is still fighting that very good fight against Wal-Mart in the town. So let me take this one chance excretera has to call you to Re-Elect Dave Szollosy in Ward 3! Not much use in me having a sign on my lawn, but anything I can lend to the cause. He's family, you know.)

So nice to see that not much changes at least in one part of the world I inhabit. Britain is much the same. Despite my desperate pleas, for example, some gin-drenched mum pushing her lump of baby in a GX Turbo 9000TT pram failed to notice yet again Jonah skipping towards the crossing light, his little face screwed up in excitement, his finger reaching for that happy spot on the button and, wouldn't ya know it, this crazy streetwalker -- oh, yes, she was! -- pushes the button ahead of him. Lady, if you're reading this, your pathetic little apology meant nothing to my son, and it certainly did nothing to help me console him as he turned to me, all hope and expectation in life suddenly destroyed: mouth curved to his chin, eyes soaked with the deluge of thwarted desire.

(One day, lady, it'll be your kid, slipping, slug-like, to the light. And I'll be there. Waiting. And I will bring the finger of almighty judgement down upon you and your off-spring, and ye shall know the tragedy of such iniquity. And I'll laugh. A triumphant, cruel laugh.)

AND the BBC is taking another beating. God knows what for this time. But this from The New Statesman offers another very good reminder of why the BBC is better than its rivals, and how generally shit (and not in the good way) life will be if Murdoch is allowed to take over the world. I'm sorry. I know he doesn't really want to take over the world. Oh, wait. Yes he does.

This deserves a wider audience. Watch the sycophantic little slut lie back for his sugar daddy. Christ. Crawl back under your shell, you shit-eating mollusk. (Does that even work as a metaphor? You get my meaning, anyway.)



I don't know whether or not Coulson is guilty. No, scratch that, too. Of course I do. We all do. We don't need intangible things like 'proof' to make up our minds. He's as guilty as hell, but that's not the point. The Tories trying to spin this as party-political posturing by Labour shows just how little interest they have in democracy. I mean that. I know that phrase 'contempt for democracy' is thrown by politicians at their opposite numbers every time a minster loses a paperclip, but there is a more important issue here, and New International have been getting away with it for far too long. It needs to stop. And not just swept away. Murdoch's strategy - not even denying it, just completely ignoring it -- is brilliant. (And remember, as The New Statesman article points out, this interview was conducted over a year ago, so it worked, at least once.) Let's just hope that the rest of the British press don't back down as cowardly as they have done in the past.

Honey, I'm home...

No comments:

Post a Comment