Freedom of Speech - Fact or Fiction

Firstly, let me open by stating that I truly believe in the right for 'Freedom of Speech' just as much as I stand against any form of censorship. For me, these two are part of the fundamental building blocks, in any open, democratic and civilized society. It's just that – if we're being genuinely honest with ourselves, doesn't really exist – what we perceive as a rallying call against oppression or the right to openly speak out for social reform, is little more of an ideal, a Utopian concept, an illusion of free expression,

For, truth be known, we only really apply this notion when referring to the larger human issues

on the world stage. Religion, politics, terrorism, extremists, racism, global economy or even immigration, these are all perfectly exceptable recipients for our verbal protestations. However, when we come to exposing our more personal beliefs or feelings in a public forum, then things become – shall we say, abit more debatable.

This is in part, due to the scourge of the nineties – Political Correctness. This seemingly innocuous

movement, weaved its way through council initiatives, leaked down into various quangos', cultivated itself in public relations offices across the country, then finally, the alternative comedy circuit, took up the cause. Result: people are now held socially and morally accountable, for expressing any of their – less mainstream – intimate feelings or ideologies. If you are reported as saying you are – or not – in favour of a particular facet of modern, progressive life – then be prepared to be possibly judged and vilified by your “peers” or in some cases, even face criminal prosecution. Is this the Freedom of Speech, we are so protective about ?

Humour has been a serious victim of this injustice, of late, it is always going to offend – unless you're Michael McIntyre - some faction or other, it always has and it always will .This medium - and anyone who has a different point of view contrary to the masses - has to be protected, not just from those who reply with violent force, but from anyone who seeks to silence and reject anything that doesn't meet with own opinions.

Let us stand together, for true Freedom of Speech and against all religious intolerance.

We might not agree with what others believe in, but we should accept their right to believe in it.

The pen is mightier than the sword ..but only if you're allowed to write in the first place..

The Avengers - TV series - Homage

Opening scene, Steed and Emma speeding along a quiet, country road, The Bentley's engine roaring as smoothly as the driver, himself,  Autumn leaves were sent flying wildly behind them, in their slipstream.

Emma: “This had better be serious, Steed ! After all, it's not everyday that I get given free backstage tickets, to see the great opera singer, Loosey Fatalottie. Up close and personal, so to speak”

Steed: “ Serious, Mrs Peel ? I'm always serious, especially when it comes to affairs of the state”

Emma: “ Well, Fatalottie is a big act to follow, Steed, and I was really looking forward to it!

Steed: “ I do feel bad about abducting you away from a night of musical accompaniment.

I might not be able to match the big fellow, but I could stretch to raising you “Three Tenners !”

Emma: “ Oh, Ha Ha ! So, what is so urgent, that needs our immediate attendance ?”

Steed: “ Ah ! Well, it seems that the entire population of a sleepy little village in Surrey, have...completely....vanished into thin air.”

Emma: “ Missing persons or mass migration ? Either way, shouldn't this be more a police matter, than ours ?”

Steed: “ Normally, I'd agree with you, Mrs Peel. But, it just so happens, that this particular village

is situated rather close to a Hush-Hush Secret Energy Research Facility. Currently, conducting completely deniable experiments, in highly unstable, static electric waves”

Emma: “ Sounds, positively hair-raising ! I take it, that the popular theory is one of connection. But, one thing that I don't understand is, how that I haven't heard anything about this, through the press already ?”

Steed: “ Ah ! Stroke of luck there ! It's the football World Cup right now, and the press machine is in full patriotic fervor. In this last week, there have been several military coups – various regions – a small number, of very close international disasters, a couple of near miss aircraft collisions, a few minor earthquakes and one island has been utterly destroyed by an erupting volcano. All of which, have been pushed back for reporting at a later time, space and by-lines willing, til after the game”

Emma: “ My, my ! So, was there any good news, that I may have missed, this week ?”

Steed: “ Yes, of course Mrs Peel ! Dwayne Foolney, England's most experienced player, has been cleared as “ Match fit” for the next game !”

Emma: “ Hmmm ! I thought you said there was some “Good” news, this week, Steed ?”

                                                 A Tribute to Brian Clemens

Brian Clemens  OBE (30 July 1931 – 10 January 2015)

The scriptwriter and producer Brian Clemens, responsible for TV hits such as The Avengers, New Avengers and The Professionals

Steed: “A glorious day for a drive in the country, don't you think, Mrs Peel ? ”

Emma: “ It would be, if this was just a casual jaunt for pleasure, Steed. But, since you have shanghaied me - no doubt, for some nefarious purpose or other - I find this more a pleasant diversion than an idyllic escape.

Steed: “ Ahh ! Mrs Peel how can one be so skeptical ? ”

Emma: “ Mmm ! A lot of practice ? “

Steed: “ Well, just for that I might not introduce you to Sir Digby Hampton-Smallpiece,”

Emma: “And what exactly is a Hampton-Smallpiece, when it's at home ? “

Steed: “ You'll find it under just about everyone of note, in the latest book of Who's Who. A very respected old family, an emerging force in the political world, a man of high moral regard for his charitable ways and apparently, something quite big in the city “

Emma: “ How often a girl has heard that claim ! Wait a moment, something seems to be coming to mind. Isn't that the fellow who was reported to have two young ladies...”

Steed: “ ...Ahem ! nothing was ever proven, and the evidence presented, didn't stand up in court”

Emma: “ Ohh ! That ones too easy “

Steed: “ The legal system and his peers have accepted his explanation of – admittedly – the somewhat bizarre set of circumstances leading to his unwanton social exposure. Anyway, he's put all that behind him, now, and he has thrown himself, whole heartedly, into his charity work and Benefit Balls. It's unfortunate but sometimes, Mrs Peel, it just so happens that a man in his position attracts a certain amount of notoriety ..”

Emma: “ Remind me, Steed ! Just what , was that position he was caught in, actually called, again ? “

Steed: “ I'd prefer to tell you about his Benefit Balls, and our suspicion that “Top Hush-Hush, Don't Repeat This to Anyone” information is being passed over to enemies of the state, under the pre-text of these high-society, social advancement, tax-deductible shindigs.”

Emma: “ So, where do I come into this little scheme of yours ? “

Steed: “ You, Mrs Peel ! Why you're a natural social butterfly, you can dance your way around the floor, you can weave your magic of beauty & charm with the deadliest of fandagos', whilst eliciting the kind of information that most seasoned agents would die for ! “

Emma: “ The last time you took me dancing, I ended up with that drunken, clumsy, over-weight,over-friendly, Russian operative, that you were investigating “

Steed: “ Oh yes ! But you have to admit that he was very quick in the quick step, he seemed quite foxy in the fox step and – at times - surprisingly light on his feet ! “

Emma: “ He may have been light on HIS feet....but certainly NOT MINE ! “

Steed: “ Well, anyway, he spoke very highly of you, quite flattering infact “

Emma: “ Hmmm ! You accused him of being OVERLY friendly – if I remember correctly – what was it that you called him ? Wasn't it the “ Syncopated Sycophant “

Steed – gentle laughs - “ Really ? I was on good form that day, wasn't I ?”

Emma: “ Well, if I'm to give you the benefit of my feet, then at least I get to call this case – and I name this file..” the philandering philanthropist “

TV Chefs – Behind the Scenes

Well, another New Year is well and truly on it's way, and at last we can leave behind us, all the festive food and drink indulgences, along with the traditional, self-promoting TV chefs and their ever-expanding TV specials, bestowing how we can get the most out of the “Big Bird” - no, I'm not talking about young cousin Gemma..

  All the usual culprits were on our screens, ready with their own individual presentations – to show us how we can crank up the pressure and raise our expectations even higher than last year – for a day already festooned with presents and crammed with every known member of the family, within a reasonable driving distance .

Of course, I appreciate that they do serve a purpose – along with promoting their personal book sales..available soon in most low end, discount book stores, nationwide for around a fiver – with a few interesting tips and a thought of ratings in their eyes, they cheerfully extol helpful advice about their seasonal servings, and satiate our food pains for at least half an hour in the prime-time TV schedules. It's just one small, constantly, overlooked detail, which causes my blood to rise to the boil ( regular heat ), and that is....who exactly does all that washing up ?

  There must be a mountainous pile of crockery, utensils, assorted straining devices, measuring implements, not too mention those damnable, neverending pots and pans, lurking, somewhere in the background – because my friends, the one thing a chef NEVER TELLS you about is, that EVERYTHING you use, will need to be boiled, scrubbed, cleaned, dryed, polished and then stored away, after you have enjoyed your FIVE whole minutes of culinary pleasure !

  Yes ! behind every TV/Celebrity chef, there is their little “Dirty” secret – the unspoken legion, behind all these new stars blazing – or rather flambaying – their way into your kitchen and onto your bookshelves, mascarading as “light entertainment.” It is, to these individuals with their cockney charm, or their bullish air interspersed with coarse language and even those who stare coyly and seductively at you, down the lens of the camera, all slyly veiled around a cooking based format – that I charge with gross neglection and denial of duty, in such a fundamental role in the cooking process.

I speak out for the masses of forgotten people, who end up in the kitchen, alone, after the dinner party, bending over a hot sink, wearing a pair of Marigolds one size too small, trying to stare out of a steamed up window ! I know, for I am one of those people ! But, I have taken my years of personal experience and finally, have written my own book, a tome which has unified all the myths of responsible recycling, turns the tide against water displacement, it exposes the ratio of detergents and their performances against varying temperatures, explores the known practices of removing grease without the aid of sulphuric acid, as well as listing the natural order of breakables and finally, reveals the equations of just how many kitchen paper towels – will one sheet really be enough – will be required for the task and which ones will provide maximum absorption to soak up the small puddle of sweat you're now standing in ?

I have called this all encompassing volume, this long awaited, thinking man's O.C.D of cleaning and the virtues of using a leading brand of washing up liquid ....”The FAIRY of Everything ! *”

* I appreciate the relevance of this blog will date rather quick, so I use Stephen Hawking as a point of reference. You should read his book too,although he doesn't cover all that much about charred roast trays. 

My Life......Back to the Future

 Once more, Spring has sprung, blessing us with her seasonal warmth for another year – just in time for summer – and with it, a young man's thoughts turn to romance, and all the thrills and promises that accompany a new love. Unfortunately, if your NOT a young man – by general consensus that is – then you're probably turning your thoughts towards another lady – Mother Nature ! She is a far more demanding and unrelenting a mistress. With trembling knees and cold sweats – like a first date, really - I'll start to think about having to jet wash the patio, or suffer mild panic attacks with the expectation of having to mount an expedition into the darkest regions, of the lost world of flora & fauna, more commonly known as 'me back garden'.

It was with this oncoming event, that may - I confess – have influenced my decision to “accept” an invitation to a garden féte at the local vicarage. A community tradition, as British as cream teas, Morris dancers and Midsomer Murders. During my walk-a-round, I passed the familiar institutions, the “A Kiss for a Pound” stall – nice to see Jordan in steady employment for a change – and the competition for ' Best Buns.' usually judged by some pillar of the community or local celebrity – before the “rise” of Big Brother/Goggle Box “winners”

Then, suddenly, I came across the “Fortune Teller” tent, and it triggered a flashback to my youth, and my first exposure to occult practices and the powers of prediction.

It was the summer of 1980, and I was a shy, insecure, self-conscious and flat broke young man, just another of those  “statistical reminders of a world that didn't care.” So, with desperation as my moral compass, I sought answers with the aid of Lady Constance Ophelia Norman, and her crystal ball.

Usually, searchers of the unknown and keepers of truth, go under the title of Madame or Mistress something or other, but my psychic adviser had much more nobler credentials. Which I thought must be a good omen, for surely a member of the aristocracy, would have much” better connections” when downloading the spirit world. Constance Ophelia Norman – an abundance of names for one supposedly medium person - was as the classic soul song said 'once, twice, three times a lady'. She entered the tent in a heady haze of mysticism and Estee Lauder, her large frame dis-placing the air as her generous form approached me. She extended a heavily beringed hand towards me and gave me a fixed expression accompanied with a choice of astrological readings and a non-refundable price list..

“ Which would you prefer ...the Tarot cards or the Crystal Ball ?” she enquried.

“ Oh, well, I'll take the.....ball, please. I've always been curious to see one of those in action”

“ Ah ! That's a pity. Unfortunately there was a slight accident, earlier, and I sort of... cracked it.” Constance confessed.

“ So, you mean it's broken. Too bad you didn't see that coming” I laughed nervously.

“ Hmmm, or you, for that matter” her ladyship muttered under her breath, “ but I can see just

as well with the cards, or perhaps I could interest you in a bit of palmistry, if you're feeling lucky ?” she smirked.

“ Lucky ? “my faith wavered slightly, “ I'll go with the cards thanks, lets just hope my fate doesn't come with a marked deck !” I tried to be funny – a feat that I still have as yet, to master.

“ One man's luck is another man's destiny” her ladyship countered.

“ That may as well be. But, tell me how about superstition, where does that stand in the cosmic scheme of things ?” I queried.

“ What, you mean like walking under ladders or a crossing black cat ?”

“ Ah, now black cats, I get confused about that one. If a black cat crosses your path, is that a good or bad thing ?”

“ I suppose, that all depends on just what one is doing at the time “

“ Yes, true, very true. I never thought of it that way. “ I conceded.

Her ladyship, displayed an impressive degree of manual dexterity and kept her cards very close to her chest – which was even more impressive given her stature- before splaying them out in a semi-circle on the small table, between us. Channeling the appropriate energy, she began the reading.

“ Now, ask the cards, whatever your heart most wishes them to show” she advised.

“ Gosh ! Where to start ? The future, all my hopes, dreams, desires, there are just so many questions, where shall I begin ? I mean, can they actually tell me everything, like where I'm going to ?”

“ Well, I can tell where you've been !” my guide retorted, with a look of disdain.

I decided to ignore this remark, “ O'k. How about romance. Lets asks the cards...will I ever find love ?”

“ Not in that shirt !” advantage spiritualist – I felt at this point..

“ Look here, I don't care too much for your attitude towards me. Kindly, keep your views to yourself and focus your energies on me future, if you would please !” I exploded.

Her Ladyship, looked down at the table, in silence, and then slowly turned over one of the cards.

“ Oh Lord !” the sayer gasped.

“ What is it ? Have you seen something disturbing ? ” I fearfully enquired.

“ Other than you ? " she answered holding up the card. "It's Mr Moody ! “

“ Mr Moody ? which type of card is that ? “

“ You know...' The Mister Men'... Mr Moody.... the blue one ! “

“ Is that why he's moody, because he's blue ? “

“ NO ! Of course not ! What's his colour got to do with anything ? “ she snapped.

“ You're absolutely right, we shouldn't let our colour dictate who we are -- “ at this point, I began to fear that we were about to lose ourselves in a pack of misunderstandings. So, I tried to re-animate my reading,“ Mr Moody, does this mean that I'm about to be emotionally challenged or something ? “

“You mean you're not already ? No. It means my precious grandson has been playing with MY CARDS again ! Let me see,” the mistress of fate, desperately shuffled through the rest of her mystic deck. “ Yes, it's as I feared, some of my signs are missing. I can't seem to find “ Death” anywhere ! “

“ Don't trouble yourself on my account ! “ I exclaimed.

“ Death doesn't necessary mean the end of existence on this earthly plane. It can merely be heralding in the end of one cycle and the dawning of a new era in your life. Like a change of job or a change of lover. Change...it CAN be a good thing”

“ Surely, that all depends on just WHO's doing the changing !”

“ What are you talking about ?”

“ Well, it's o.k. If I'm the ONE doing all the changing, But, what if it means that my boss is about to give me the sack or that my girlfriend's getting ready to dump me. Then, change ...really sucks !”

“ Oh, I see your point.”

“ Still, It could have been worse, I suppose” I posed philosophically.

“ How so ?”

“ It could have been Mr Blobby ! “ I pointed back towards to the cards.

“ Hmmm, quite.....especially in that shirt “

With this last remark, I sensed it was time to call it a day, and cease my quest for otherworldly guidance, and – after crossing her palm with several hours of minimum pay - headed out into the daylight once more, but no less in the dark about my destiny as before.

My future still questionable, and as much a mystery, as it is today.


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Pants the whole pants, and nothing butt the pants

Being of sound mind and body - granted this is negotiable - at least for the purpose of this exercise, That I find myself confessing, to having reached a period of my life, where I seem to have collected a series of social scenarios, that are guaranteed to get my gander up, a number of pet peeves, a short list of annoyances, - to which I refer to as my " gripes of war."

Religious intolerance, censorship, animal cruelty, car insurance evaders, political correctness, solicitors, ageism and then on lesser charges....bad customer service, car rage, white van drivers, the french ( more a national pastime ) and young offenders.
For the nature of this discourse, it is to this last category - which has the most significant amount of entries on my "gripe" sheet - that I feel compelled to bring to "justice", or at the very least make them accountable for their actions, in the form of ridiculing without prejudice - on this occasion.
.In particular, the male of the species, these serial perpetrators who consistently carry out GROSS miscarriages of social etiquette. They semi-walk, well more of a degenerating swagger, along - their crotch, seemingly relocated somewhere around their knee area - with their gravity defying jeans, that suspend disbelief and practicality---and then to add insult to personal injury, they insist on exposing their bloomin' kaks !
As if this act of social defiance, gives them some sort of street cred, instead of seeing the colour of their money, we're left with just seeing the colour of their laundry. To make matters even worse, there appears to be a different levels of "coolness" attached to these fashion victims of public, posterior display. It started out as just whities as the preferred colour of undies -probably inspired by the Beckham effect - but has since collapsed into a free for all between blue versus grey, I suspect though, their choices are more simply based on whatever pair their mother has recently washed for them. I have also noted -un-voluntarily - that there is a movement towards reducing the space - even more - between hipbone and kneebone, or more succinct if you will, more pants less cover.
A friend of mine had recently informed me that this action owes much of it's origins to the penal system. Where prisoners would convey their sexual availability to other inmates, by exposing their underwear to new depths, to show if they were in or out. This got me to thinking that perhaps our teenagers had a secret level code, for the difference in backside prominence, say:
Level One, Will be available for basic hand-holding with incorporated embarrassed blush
Level Two: Would be open for general - awkward - kissing duties and level one playing.
Level Three:  Multi-player, fully inter-active role games and rapid downloading access - this is romantic parlance for the noughties generation.

In any event I charge the plainstiffs - these progenitors of the rear-guard action -guilty, GUILTY, GUILTY...of this heinie-ous crime !
in every sense - especially the common one - of the word. If no-one stands up to them now, where will it end ? It's a slippery slope my friends, that nobody really wants to see.

Would these young offenders be as understanding or as acceptable of this fashion grime, if their fathers or granddads walked around town displaying themselves in such a manner, I think not...I think not.

Let us live by the maxim - in this case - less is more !

Notre-Dame - A Joke retold as Short Fiction

The seasoned, Notre-Dame tour guide, stepped to one side, to allow the rest of his "party" to join him up in the bell-tower area, and give them a chance to regain their composure, along with their breath. "Ah so ! we are all 'ere in one piece, bien ! Now, as you will see, zer are four bells 'ere, in zis North Tower. But, zer is one more, much larger bell, ze great boudon bell , Emmanuel, located in der South Tower, which is ---" at this point, the guide was rudely interrupted, mid-verbatim, by the sudden arrival of a colourfully attired gentleman, hailing from the United States. " Hey, buddy ! Where's da Hunchback fella, Quasi-pseudo ?" he enquired, as loudly as the print on his shirt.
" Ah monsiuer, zis gentleman was, how you say, a fiction of your imagination, zer is not and 'as never bin a Hunchback 'ere, nes pas !" the guide tried valiantly to explain the lack of a vertically challenged campanologist, but to no avail. "Listen, bub, I paid forty - god dam - bucks for this tour, just to see the the guy in the movie ! I demand that I git satisfaction, or I want my money back, comprehendez vous ?" pressed the agitated American.
" But, monsieur, the bells 'ere are only rung by electric motors now ! It's true, that sometimes when we 'ave no power, Anton, the cathedral's maintenance man, can ring them manually," surrendered up the defeated guide
" Great ! well don't just stand there, git this Anton, fella out here, now !" 
 " Anton, are you up 'ere ? Anton, please come out , if you can 'ear me, show yourself, s'il vous plait !" 
 There appeared, slowly, from out of the bells shadow, a shambling figure, which moved it's way towards the now, tightly packed, slightly apprehensive group. As he drew near to them, his facial deformities became apparent. From the the nose down, the lower jaw was exceptionally swollen, distorting the natural order of his features, this abnormality physically forcing his tongue out of the side of it's mouth, resulting in a shotgun delivery of saliva every-time he endeavored to converse.
 " Qui !" he answered.
" Ah Voila ! this gentleman," the guide gesticulated towards the overly prominent American, " has requested to make your acquaintance." 
" To hell with meeting the guy, I jus' wanna see him ringing these babies ! I paid good American dollars and climbed enough stairs to reach the top of Mount Everest, so let's see these bells in holy action !" 
 With this, Anton stepped towards the smallest of the bells, and drawing it up to his chest he 
sent it swaying across to the other-side of the tower. On reaching the zenith of momentum, it slowed and for just a second looked like it had actually froze in time, before making the return trip across the dark belfry. As the bell hastened upon it's sender, Anton skipped towards it, and welcomed it's arrival with a short, sharp, head-butt of the face !  Creating a unique musical collaboration - known as Gothic fusion - a blend of flesh, bone and heavy metal, resulting in an heavenly chime that passed through the little band of on-lookers, before leaving the tower and sweeping on over the surrounding Ile de la Cité . 
 The crowd were in complete awe and appreciation of Anton's display and rewarded him with high praise and wild applause !  Which in turn drove the highly impressionable, trans-Atlantic visitor, to such a state of elevated excitement, that he wanted to share in the ultimate Notre Dame experience himself. So, he grabbed the nearest bell to hand, and lifting it way up over his head, he proclaimed,  " That's nothing ! Stand back Frenchie, This one will make the angels themselves, cry ! "  
With this, he summoned every once of strength - and considerable weight - which he had at his disposal, and launched the bell along a similar trajectory. Unfortunately, the power behind this action, didn't permit as smooth a motion as before. The bell almost breaking free of it's fixtures and fittings as it jolted to an abrupt stop, on reaching "the other side", then without pause or loss of speed....it began re-entry. 
 This time, at the crucial moment of contact, the Yank made a fateful error of judgement. Miss-judging
time and space, he leaped up towards the on-coming holy vessel, all too late, the lip of the bell catching him squarely under the chin ! 
  What occurred next, was purely answerable to the laws of physics, in-particular those laid down by a Mr I. Newton - firstly the law: That which is in motion will prevail.
Evidence: The way the body was propelled through the air, pass the remaining group and over the low, belfry wall.
Thereafter, followed by another - very popular - law of Issac's.....gravity.
Evidence: Sudden loss of height.
Anton, was stupefied in witnessing this horrible chain of events, but he still managed to set off
immediately, down the steep stone staircase of "  Our lady of Paris" tower, in pursuit of his fellow "Ringer." But, even taking the stairs three at a time, it was still quite a feat, to descend to the ground
in time to aid any possible assistance or last minute rites.

A passing Gendarme had arrived at the scene, and was conducting his investigation into the macabre situation that lay before him. Using simple methods of deductive reasoning. he had come to the conclusion that the cadaver belonged to a male caucasian of middle age, no distinguishable marks - except those sustained by colliding unexpectedly with the earth - or any visible means of identification.
With no other lines of inquiry left open, the lawman resigned himself to asking for eye-witnesses, among the growing crowd. now assembling around him and his nameless companion,
" Is there anybody here who knows how this happened? Has anyone seen this gentleman, before ? PLEASE, DOES ANYBODY KNOW THIS MAN;S NAME ?" he pleaded. Just as he finished, Anton, finally appeared, bursting through the into the inner circle of observers. One hand clutching his chest - to prevent his heart from exploding out of it's comfort zone - and the other hand held high in the air to gain attention, without pausing or thinking, he responded, " I don't know his name, but ------HIS FACE RINGS A BELL !"

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