House hunting

One of the things the last few months have driven home to Mrs S and I is that our current domicile, while nicely sited, well insulated and great for just the two of us, is too small by a factor of three for our expanding living and working arrangements. Also it's too bloody small when it comes to visitors.

We like visitors; it gives me someone else to cook for and talk with (Although Mrs S's Mother can get tiresome very quickly), and we need more space. Ergo, we are house hunting this labour day weekend. Something to keep a roof over our heads in the medium to long term while we plot and plan how we're going to build our new home over here.

Cat people

In the small little enclave where Mrs S and I have set up home there is little to complain about, yet there are always those who will find something to stir up unrest. Two nights ago I was checking our mailbox to find a plastic encapsulated printed missive regarding 'dog problems' in the area which made certain vague and unspecified, yet sweeping allegations. It signed off as 'concerned citizens'. A term which always raises my hackles as it often contains a sub set of humanity who will not actually make specific complaints or address a problem directly. They're the curtain twitching cowards who can't deal with stuff because no matter the source of complaint, it's always someone else's problem to fix.

By contrast, it's generally expected over here that if you see someone doing something anti-social, you confront and get the offender to fix the problem there and then; For example "Hey! Get your damn mutt outta my yard buddy!" or more often a polite "Would you mind?" with a head tilt to the offending odoriferous pile. It's not a federal matter.

This area, and perhaps the majority of Canada, is amazing. Last year I saw a junkie who had just shot up being given a right royal tongue lashing for dropping his used needle in a bush by a female student. The guy just muttered an apology, picked up the used hypodermic, and then slouched off to the nearest safe disposal point. I couldn't help smiling and thinking; "At last! I've found civilisation."

Meanwhile, back on the subject. To précis, the allegations were as follows; Someone, allegedly had been 'seriously' bitten by a dog.

Okay, this is a problem, so call the wildlife officer and make a specific complaint against the dog in question. Deal with it.

It made unspecified allegations about people being 'frightened' by 'large' dogs on the loose and the beach.

This is news to me, as I walk my dog around this area quite a lot, and the only 'nasty' dogs are three little Bichons that yap aggressively at people as they pass a specific house.

The typewritten note made further allegations about 'aggressive' dogs left to defecate all about and, horror of horrors, not being on the leash at all times.

Okay, I'll partially put my hands up on this one; my dog doesn't like being on the leash at all times but he is obedient and stays close, even if the sneaky little so and so sometimes takes a dump while I'm not looking. Yet there's not an aggressive bone in his body. A sweeter natured animal I've never known.

My strong suspicion is those who dub themselves 'concerned citizens' are Cat people. You know, the owners of small but efficient domestic predators that indiscriminately dig holes in your flower beds and poison the plants with their droppings, kill small birds and other animals up to the size of Jackrabbits, occasionally leaving half eaten carcases on the doormat for an unsuspecting householder to tread on first thing in the morning. And they have the chutzpah to complain about dogs? Sheesh. This sort of stuff is so anal.

Now I grew up with both dogs and cats in the household, and think that a house is not a home without one, the other, or better still, both. Yet I must posit the following; do you see dog owners leaving anonymous messages up by the mailboxes? No? Do most Dog owners deliberately let their pets roam at will? No, definitely not round here, I'm too concerned my precious mutt would get run over by some kid in a Pickup. My dog is immunised, legal, clean, and well cared for, as are (in my observation at least) all the other dogs around here, so what is that litany of complaints about? If anyone has a problem with my dogs behaviour they should come and see me directly, and as a responsible person I'll take reasonable remedial action if my dog is at fault, but I'm buggered if anonymous postings by the mailbox will cause me to change the way I treat my dog.

Update: Driving past said posting by the mailbox this morning I saw that some person, no doubt equally offended as myself at the 'concerned citizens' signature, had used a black permanent marker to scrawl 'Also cats' in large unfriendly script upon the offending notice. Arf.

Include me out

I know there is the odd deluded fool out there who reads the rabid drivel I post on this blog, however this is said blogs purpose. It is not to inform, edify or amuse; it is here to let me vent my spleen in a reasonably polite and diffident way. It is here for me to get things off my chest. To complain, bitch and otherwise publish opinions that my often too reticent true self rarely vouchsafes in public.

My vent today is about social networking sites; Facebook, MySpace et al.

Let me put this gently; I have this blog, I also have Facebook and MySpace accounts, both of which I was persuaded to open against my better judgment. I haven't time to keep updating either and frankly only visit the bloody things infrequently. After several annoying spamlike messages I actually logged into my MySpace account this evening and removed the two 'Friends' on it and published my feelings on several matters, including a statement to the effect that I am emphatically not the kind of person I would like to be a friend of as I don't suffer fools gladly. At some time in the near future it is my intention to visit the same treatment on my Facebook account.

Hopefully this way my e-mail inbox will be a little clearer. I mean, get real guys, there are all these really brilliant offers of fake Rolexes and cheap Viagra I want to spend time applying for; not to mention several very kind people from Nigeria who need my bank details to make me very rich indeed. What do I want with facile social networking sites? I have a perfectly functional e-mail address.

Update: Myspace and Facebook accounts have been deleted. I have better things to do with my time and prefer dealing with real living breathing people, not their fantasy simulacra. You can stuff 'Second Life' as well.

Leaving on a jet plane

Youngest is winging her way back to blighty on a twenty four hour eastbound trip via Vancouver and Minneapolis. Lots of hugs and promises, and Mrs S was decidedly emotional with separation anxiety. So much so that I didn't sleep at all well last night. Too many tearful elbows in ribs and me speaking very softly to my other half to try and get her around the sometimes self defeating guilt she feels. That and trying to get a decent nights bloody kip.

Said maternal guilt is based around the premise that we no longer live in crowded old England and are not at everybody's beck and call 24 / 7. Mrs S seems to think Youngest still needs her every thirty seconds for a hug, which is not so, although she is still capable of curling herself up on her Mum's lap like a four year old. Youngest is the baby of the family, and babies always impose the greatest gravitational pull on their mother's emotions. What can I say?

In these circumstances I must play the emotional rock and let the sea of female anxiety wash at my habitual stoicism. It's not easy, especially when I'm feeling a bit fragile myself. Despite various fallings out and her tendency to defend her inconveniently manipulative biological father, there is a bond between Youngest and I. Not much, just a little. We can hold grown up conversations on a wide variety of topics, and can even share the odd giggle, even if she tells me I'm a right scary bugger (Her words) sometimes. She's even been known to single her grouchy old stepdad (Me) out for an unsolicited hug.

To the shared relief of Mrs S and I, we have had three (so far) phone calls to say all is well but a trifle boring, and youngest is one third the way back to University. Before that she will be sleeping off the jet lag at her elder sisters place in jolly old Londinium. Eldest is not so much of a traveller as her younger sibling, and tends to be a bit of a hometown girl. As such, we do not often see Eldest this side of the pond. However, I shall sleep with the phone handset by my side of the bed tonight, just in case we get a call in the early hours of the morning our time with the plaintive complaint; "Me bloody sister's not turned up!" At which juncture other relatives will be roused and sent charging to the rescue.

I have photographs of aircraft taking off with youngest waving frantically from window of Seaplane. These must be processed and e-mailed to coincide with her safe arrival. Mrs S will need another 24 hours of comforting, and then I must take care not to let her kick off for the next week. Oh the joys of married life.

On a vaguely related topic, I see that one man is suspected of killing his stepdaughter and then supposed to have hanged himself, and speculation of incestuous doings are rife throughout the media and various blogs, yet we have no evidence of the man's motivation. Was he the predatory sexual monster some have intimated? Was the motive sexual, or was it a little bit more complicated than that. Being a stepfather of girls myself, and thus being better schooled in the emotional complexities of non biological bonding, I will withhold judgment until there are more facts in the public domain. Having grown up amongst those belonging to the 'stands to reason' school of applied (excuse my oxymoron) logical gossip, I will only condemn the action of the girls murder and the man's subsequent (apparent?) suicide, but I won't be calling the lorry driver a paedophile. Not yet. Not until it's been proven. There's something which doesn't smell right about the whole business.

Very few stepfathers are monsters, despite the stories the media feed us.

A little stepfatherly pride...

I may not be her father, and I don't appear in any of her holiday photographs, I know because she had me burn them onto a CD.

This is one of the perils of being a stepfather. The certain knowledge that your stepchildren do not care enough for you to keep or record an image of you. No keepsake or token of your existence will be held by them, and when you are gone she will edit you out of her Mothers life as though you have never been. Yet despite all this, youngest gives me hope for the future. Hope for the next generation.

Why, apart from massive cognitive dissonance on my part, would I think this? Well, her choice of viewing gives me a clue. She cares about what's right, what's proper and free. I've found myself watching her reactions out the corner of my eye. The movie in question is V for Vendetta, famously slagged off by the UK Labour politicians of the time as 'glorifying terrorism'. She dug the movie out of my collection without overt or tacit influence on my part. She is the one who has tried to watch it repeatedly despite a skipping disk drive (Since fixed).

It doesn't matter that she bears me no real love, and that my own affection for her is not reciprocated. To be honest she thinks more of my dog than me, unless this is some form of transference. It matters that she is all grown up now with her own deeply held moral code (Which I hope I have been influential in the shaping of), and is quite the critical thinker.

When the current batch of politicians have finished wrecking the Western economies, it is the next generation that will pick up the pieces of our broken society and change it for the better. I have this sneaking hopeful feeling that she and her children will be a part of that. Maybe this is a lot to read from the viewing of one movie, but I like to look on the bright side that the generation I have helped nurture will bring real hope and change for the better. Not just empty rhetoric. If you'll forgive me I will indulge myself in a little pride at this one tiny achievement. I approve of her.

Arf.....

Keep on seeing stories about the UK Met offices gi-normous 'pooter Deep Black 'creating' thousands of tons of 'carbon pollution'. Yet still it can't make a weather prediction better than Piers Corbyn with his solar charts and pocket calculator.

Mind you, I suppose all the techies at the Met Office need something that can play a network game of Halo2 or World of Warcraft on Vista without appreciably slowing down. So far said machine has proved less than effective at mid to long term weather forecasting so it has to be used for something. Three years on the trot the UK Met office has got it's outlook forecasting disastrously wrong. Barbecue summer anyone? Snigger. ROFL. The year we left the UK (2007) it was chucking it down, major floods, UK summer 2008 was likewise a washout, and now 2009. Three years wrong predictions should be telling them that their models are like models everywhere; very little to do with real life, no matter how much computing power is thrown at them. Furthermore, said machine has a two month boot up cycle, which kind of makes my antiquated Thinkpad running Windows 98SE look like a champeen performer.

Like all this climate change mallarkey, it's a massive waste of taxpayer dollar / pound / euro / whatever, and anyone with half a functioning brain cell can see that. The models don't work because the premise behind them has to be fatally flawed. Minor atmospheric trace gas as major climate driver? Pull the other one Guv'nor.

Maybe all those Met Office boffins who are trying to 'prove' global warming with their climate models should re learn the scientific method. You know, use the data to work out the answer, and not work the data to prove their chosen answer.

There's also all the brain-dead 'climate change' protesters (Not a Science or Engineering degree worth spit in a busload) who want everyone else to fall in line with their Neo Malthusian nonsense. As someone who happily recycles and lives a relatively 'green' lifestyle I'm not impressed.

Tell you what boys and girls, if you think this world is so over populated, go fall on your swords and leave the rest of us in peace. Alternatively, yea and verily go thou out into the wilderness and live off carbon credits. Live in a commune or ashram in the wilderness. Become 'breatharians' (But keep your CO2 emissions to a minimum). Put your own well being where your mouths are. See how long you last without all the industry based support mechanisms of the modern world. Take Uncle Al Gore and all the other Global Warming advocates with you. You won't be missed. Let the real environmentalists highlight things like deforestation, pollution and overfishing. We need more trees and fish, and less pollution.

Stuff 'em all. I've got important things to do and my Dog has found a dead seal on the beach which should keep him happily occupied for days.

A night at the movies

Mrs S, Youngest and I went to see a movie last night. Julie & Julia. Verdict; excellent. Two thumbs up. Meryl Streep is magnificent as larger than life 1950's American cook, Julia Child, with the ever splendid Stanley Tucci in support.

Great movie, go and see it. It's worth it for the Lobster and chicken gags alone, although vegetarians and vegans won't be impressed. A real foodie movie.

It even made up for being dragged round the shops for three hours beforehand, it was that good. Tremendous enjoyment, and I empathised every step of the way with the way Merly Streep acted when her character finally got her cookery book published. Brill.

Now if only they'd kick that pious proselytizing pseudo environmentalist David Suzuki off the screen on the pre show adverts, the evening would have been even better. I don't know why his lecturing style irritates me, only that it does.

But.....

This is a post I wrote a few weeks ago about some of the stresses we’ve been going through. Specifically Mrs S’s reactions to immigration setbacks. Fortunately she’s past the negative stuff now, but at the time I was completely backed into a corner and contemplating all sorts of dire scenarios.

…Just made a nice supper this evening. A nice slab of Sockeye that I’d barbecued. Three of my delicious nine minute boiled eggs, toast, lettuce and a smattering of seafood fried in olive oil and butter before being chilled.

Mrs S turns up from work in a foul mood and promptly stains the whole evening because of a damned half-assed e-mail from our Immigration Lawyers saying the bank statement we’ve provided them with isn’t current. Immigration Lawyer is an idiot. Bank statement is dated June 2009 in top right hand corner, three weeks before we collated our package of documentation and sent it to her in July. Last transaction date on savings account when the interest had its yearly calculation in January 2009. I try to phone. Immigration Lawyers offices in Quebec are shut at this time of day. Mrs S gets all tearful and there’s not a thing I can say or do to ease her mind. She’s made her mind up it’s a bloody disaster, and nothing I can say or do will make a sodding difference.

To try and ease her pain a little so we could talk I got her a drink. Made her a cup of tea to help her wind down. Tried to talk. What happens? I got the figurative door in my face. This was driving me crazy. I put the supper on the table after she had the drinks, sit down to eat and what happens? She goes to the kitchen to get something, scuffs her foot and promptly collapses in floods. That was it. I had to take the dog for a walk. She ate alone. My appetite deserted me. I just felt sick and supper went to waste.

Yet again I’m at my bloody wits end and don’t know what to do. It’s like the woman I married has read all the books on how not to be unhappy and is doing the exact opposite of what they recommend. The least little thing gets her tearful and I’m buggered if I can understand why. We can’t move forward like this if she’s going to behave like the annoying archetypal girl in the slasher B-movie who falls over, twists her heel, screams and slows everyone down just as the hero is leading everyone else to safety. I’m supposed to be strong for both of us, but even the strongest have to ask for quarter sometime.

I hate it when she’s like this; it turns everything sour and no one can enjoy anything. The best food and wine are ashes in my mouth, I can’t think logically and fix whatever is going awry because if I even try I’m yapping at empty branches and the monkeys are throwing rocks from other trees. I can’t touch her or offer comfort because everything I do will be wrong. My normally eloquent tongue is nailed firmly down in my mouth for fear I will make things worse. I feel so bloody useless. “This is going to give me a bloody heart attack.” I said at one point, the words pushed out of my lips by the sheer frustration of it all. My appetite disappeared and I’m still desperately trying to leave the whiskey bottle alone. I feel I’m backed into a corner with no way out. I feel depressed by any measure of the word.

I want to throw something big and heavy and watch it smash, cut my stupid traitorous heart out with a kitchen knife, drive the bloody car off a cliff. Anything but just sit here and take it all the bloody time. Christ knows I do my best, but I'm constrained by work permits, circumstance and finance and having to tough it out because there’s no current alternative is no bloody fun what-so-fucking ever.

This isn’t right. Here we are, living in one of the most beautiful parts of the world, superb vistas, impossibly blue skies, lovely weather, nice neighbours and she’s miserable at the drop of a hat. All the resilience that should be there isn’t, and guess who’s in the firing line when her frustrations boil over. The emotional shrapnel wounds bloody hurt, and I’ve no-one to talk to but a computer screen.

I can feel a tightening in my chest every time this happens and I’m sure at some stage the stress and frustration will kill me in the not too distant future. The constant overstimulation of my parasympathetic nervous reaction may cause a rapid build up of atheroma in my coronary arteries until one gets blocked and there is a massive, terminal, cardiac infarction. The affected triangle shaped section of heart muscle will die and rupture causing a massive bleed into my pericardium. My heart will literally break. I will be at an end, and to be brutal I’m not so sure this will be a bad thing. It is at this point the darkness within me speaks up to say sneeringly; “When it’s all over and the endless night reclaims your petty consciousness; won’t that be a relief, eh, Mister ever so clever Bill Sticker?” I don’t want to agree, but the logic appears flawless from where I’m sitting. The way I feel right now, a bullet in the head would be the ideal personification of God’s infinite mercy.

Yet to let that happen would be the ultimate cop out, the easy way. There are people depending upon me to do my job. There are talks to be given, projects to be completed. People in genuine need.

The irony is that the following day I called the immigration Lawyers and pointed out their error re information on Bank statement. Immediate apology and retraction of half-assed e-mail. Yes, everything fine. No problem, everything looking great. Well thank the Lord for that.

Blood and sand.

A brief obituary

I don't usually comment on the passing of a politician, but in this case I will make an exception and break my usual habit of de mortuis nil nisi bonum. Senator Edward Kennedy is dead. Well I can't say I'm sorry to hear the news. Perhaps the fires in a small corner of Hell are burning a little brighter.

For Mary Jo Kopechne who he left to drown alone.

For the victims of sectarian violence in Northern Ireland, for which he was openly complicit in raising money for terrorist weapons . 'Campaigner for peace'? Hah!

Now Ex-Senator Edward Kennedy is being lauded by the new US President for his 'achievements'. Oh dearie me. I'm sure the Northern Irish graveyards, and in some cases the unmarked and unknown graves funded by Senator Kennedy's efforts are not unappreciative. As someone with Irish antecedents I feel disgusted that the UK government gave him an honorary knighthood. Not in my name, say I. Nor in the name of my family.

He is gone. Today the world feels a little (But not much) cleaner.

Mojo working is

For months I've been looking at my writing output with a modicum of despair. Poorly constructed arguments, rubbish sentence structure (No I don't usually write like this), disjointed paragraphs, poor vocabulary and ugly metaphors. Today for some reason my mojo is most definitely working overtime to make up for the shortfall. My second manuscript is virtually writing itself and finally the characters have taken on real personalities that you can actually relate to. They bitch, they are fallible, by turns unstable and steadfast, the heroes are flawed but credible, and the villains plausible yet deeply unpleasant. Five thousand words of good, solid copy and dialogue so far today and I'm still going strong.

I'm actually rather enjoying myself.

Last act of a drama

Mrs S and youngest have got the trusty (or not so) battlebus all fixed and are homeward bound from Kamloops. My sigh of relief when they return home safely will be heard clear across the mountains to Tofino.

Truth be told, when it comes to my families well being I'm a bit of an old worry wart. Their safety is very important to me, and I would take a proverbial bullet for each of them should the need arise. Although, given the choice, I would prefer re engineering the situation so they don't end up getting shot at in the first place.

It's a long drive to the ferry and a rendezvous in the early hours of the morning, but there's one thing I'm sure of; Next time they fly.

Well this is going to work......not

Just read the outline of how the UK government intends to prevent 'illegal downloading' of material from the Internet and am trying to stop laughing. They really don't get it do they?

I write this because there are holes in this proposal big enough to drive the proverbial truck through. According to the proposal, Internet connections of 'persistent offenders' will be 'cut' or have their download speeds 'throttled'. Oh dearie me. What a bunch of bozos. They want to control something, but really have no idea how it works. Identifying the 'illegal downloaders' requires a closed, stable network, with fixed identifiable IP addresses and machine names. It pays no attention to Wi-Fi devices which can access the Internet and download anywhere there's a decent signal. For example, Youngest has an iTouch which can download music and videos off any public Wi-Fi point. If you move around a town with any modern laptop or netbook and use the many free Wi-Fi services, then accessing peer to peer sites is a snip. Simply accessing a peer to peer file sharing site via anonymous proxies can help dodge the bullet on these proposals. Jeeezus! These UK control freak politicians really have no idea about technology have they?

Just when you think there's no more stupidity to ridicule, along comes a UK Government Minister parading his ignorance like a fourth of July celebration. On the very subject for which he is supposed to be Minister. In the words of the sage of sages, Bugs Bunny; Whattta maroon! They don't even believe in Internet Gremlins.

I need tea.

Oh dear....and ouch

Mrs S and youngest were due back this evening. At one o'clock this afternoon I received a plaintive phone call. "We're in Kamloops." Said my other half.
"Why?" Says I. Kamloops is five hours driving and a two and a half hour ferry ride away.
"The car was chugging at the traffic lights."

There followed several strained telephone conversations, both with Mrs S and the Service Manager of a local Ford Dealership. The upshot is that the transmission on our old grey battlebus has blown a gasket, which will require around seven hundred dollars plus to fix. Mrs S came over all stressed, and I put my best talking head on to keep her calm. The upshot is that Mrs S and youngest are stranded for two days in Kamloops waiting for the car to be fixed. I am left wincing at the size of a large unexpected bill which just wiped out my last paycheque. We'll cope, but it's just inconvenient. A client still owes me money for work done (Invoice put in four months ago, several reminders sent, second Invoice just submitted), so no extra tea, toast or treaties for a while. Bummer.

To keep my spirits up I'll end with a small joke which seems appropriate;

Percy the Amazing Penguin is driving through a small town on a hot day when his car goes phut and coasts to a stop. Of course he's 'amazing', you ever hear of another Penguin who can drive a car? Percy gets a tow into the local Garage, and having ensured that his car will be fixed that afternoon, goes to visit the local ice cream parlour.

Percy being a highly stressed Penguin, much comfort eating of Vanilla ice cream ensues. The day being hot, a lot of ice cream ends up all over Percy's beak. While in the ice cream parlour, greedily scarfing another pint of ice cream, Percy gets a text message summoning him urgently to the Garage where his car is being fixed. So quickly does Percy leave the ice cream parlour that he forgets to wash the melted ice cream off his beak. Arriving at the Garage all stressed, out of breath and his face covered in ice cream, Percy demands of the mechanic; "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Well it's fixed, no problem." Says the mechanic.
"But what happened?" Demands Percy.
"It looks like you just blew a seal." Says the mechanic. Percy suddenly catches sight of his ice cream daubed beak in his reflection and goes bright pink in embarrassment.
"No, it's really just ice cream." Said Percy.

You have to laugh of you'd go daft.

Weekend alone

Mrs S and youngest left me on my lonesome with my dog this weekend while they went over to a weekend conference in mainland BC. The chores are done, I've been fishing, and the house looks like a rubbish bomb has hit it because I defaulted to bachelor mode. Why? Why not? I wanted a lazy couple of days is why. Yet when Mrs S and youngest return tomorrow eve, all will be clean and fresh, and my other half will be none the wiser.

What has happened? Not a lot apart from the odd spot of unwelcome wildlife in neighbour folks Koi pond. Unwelcome wildlife butchered all the fish in the pond, which has much displeased neighbours. They tried traps etc, but to no avail. I did suggest snares but I've got a sneaking feeling that course of action would have the local wildlife officer down on them like a thousand kilo's of rectangular clay building things. Not a happy thought. Also suggested a 5mm perspex sheet with a number of two inch holes drilled in it hidden just under the water. The idea being that unwelcome wildlife would take a header after viewing juicy looking sushi and Splash! Bonk! Unwelcome wildlife gets a perspex induced migraine, and elects not to use their Koi pond as a feeding station again; pain being a great teaching aid. Well, that's the preferred outcome. Failing that, I was going to suggest stringing 30lb fishing line across the pond, just under the surface, but then neighbour folk would have had to deal with highly pissed off wildlife tangled up in the line in the small hours. So mayhap this was not such a good idea.

Did some worthwhile writing on my latest manuscript. Good character and story driven dialogue which kind of gets me out of a rather sticky plot conundrum by switching narrative threads. Don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.

What the hell, the weather's been gorgeously sunny and not too hot. Mr Brain is ticking over nicely without ten million intrusive domestic details and left field questions to fret over, yet the chores are getting done without any fuss and palaver. Time to feed the dog.

Dan Hannan speaks..

At the US Army and Navy club. Now I've developed quite an admiration for Dan over the past few months. He stands for the individual and not an unrepresentative state, and is that rarest of beasts, an honest politician.



H/T The Last Ditch and Theo Spark

Watch and pass it on.

Utter cobblers

Saw this 'news' story and had to stifle a 'what a bunch of pathetic idiots' that rose unbidden to my lips.

If you read the story, which is a prime example of lazy cut and paste journalism, you'd think this is a new phenomenon. Gasp! Bad people running amok with GUNS! Lawks! We're all gonna get our froats slit in our BEDS! Help, help! Call nine one one! Call out the militia, cos we're all a-gonna DIE! Well excuse me, but this is a complete load of utter bollocks.

I'm going to pour cold water on this one because there's nothing new about shotgun peppered roadsigns in the UK. People potting street furniture in rural areas has been going on ever since a drunken Farmer Brown first took exception to these manifestations of the Highway code late one night. It happens in rural Canada, the USA, probably in China, Russia, Australia, or wherever. I've passed shotgun peppered warning signs in France, Germany Italy, Switzerland and Spain. My first recollection of the practice came when my Dad drew my attention to one such example when I was a mere stripling of ten years. Less than a quarter mile from our doorstep. Was anyone shot to death? No.

The culprits are generally otherwise respectable folk who've been out 'lamping' for vermin in the dead of night, and have had a nip or two to keep the cold out of their bones. Mostly young guys, but I've heard of one incident where a very respectable pillar of the community took a dislike to a particular speed limit sign, and gave it both barrels of his Purdey in the early hours of one morning. As kids, specific unpopular road signs were often targets for catapults, rocks and airgun pellets when no one was looking. No-one ever got hurt. It was usually a protest at a specific unpopular council decision, so to draw attention to such practices as 'sniping', is hyperbole of the first order. One guy I recall was stupid enough to get caught shooting at road signs and lost his shotgun licence for a year, but that was the worst of it.

The RAC foundation spokesman in question is obviously wetter than a Halibuts breakfast and needs to grow a pair. Must be the silly season.

Just confirming what I always knew...

My Political Views
I am a center-right moderate social libertarian
Right: 2.8, Libertarian: 2.91

Political Spectrum Quiz

I remember Lockerbie

I remember Lockerbie very well. In December 1988 I was working my way through college working as a van driver, and said village was on my regular run from the UK Midlands up to Edinburgh, twice a month. An early start to arrive for 8am at a wholesalers on the Kirkcaldy Road. The job just about paid my tuition, course fees and rent with the odd few pennies over for a beer or two at a weeks end.

The day before the terrorist-bombed 747 fell to earth and obliterated several houses in that village I'd driven past (Once northbound, once southbound) with barely a glance. All Lockerbie meant to me was a mile marker on the A74(M). The following evening I watched blurred BBC footage of the whole village ablaze, and burning debris on the road. Repeated images like the above of the eggshell fragile nose section lying crushed, misshapen and embedded in Scottish soil. All that I could think at the time was; There by the grace of God go we all.

Two weeks later I drove past on my regular run up to Edinburgh and saw a fire stripped low hillock where houses had overlooked the highway. A long half oval section trench in the blasted earth pointing obliquely towards the road, some three or four metres deep. On the hard shoulder there were a couple of gawkers, but apart from that the road was pretty well deserted. Just as if all the regular traffic was in mourning for the people whose lives were involuntarily ripped away; both at thirty one thousand feet, and for those who died in the fires on the ground. For my part I could not imagine why that aircraft? Why those people?

Even now I have an awful mental image of people tumbling and screaming in free fall, shards of flaming aircraft falling with them. Freezing air stripped from their lungs at high altitude. Did they burn? Was the pain too awful? Sometimes my imagination is a little too gruesome. I do remember remember praying quietly to the little bit of God I know that the passengers and crew had not suffered.

Then I ask myself for what did these people die? Were they active combatants? No. In an active war zone? No. A 'revenge' attack for an Iranian airliner that was shot down when it wouldn't change course? Maybe. All I know is that every time innocent people die in terrorist related incidents, it is, to use a latin phrase culled from the Domesday Book, wasta est(It is a waste). A waste of resource, a waste of lives, a pointless destruction of tomorrows which will only generate revenge. What did it achieve? Did anything positive arise from it? No. Just like 9/11, a capricious, pointless, and above all, ugly gesture at the wrong target.

Now the man convicted of the bombing has been set free, arriving to a heroes welcome in Libya. He will die shortly. Some say he was not guilty, a Judas goat to placate outraged American public opinion. I do not know. I do not think we will ever know for certain.

When it comes to my recollection of Lockerbie, the only thing I know for certain is that innocents died for nothing. It achieved nothing positive. It brought no victims back from the dead. It brought no peace. No justice. It didn't help any displaced Palestinians. It did not serve God. Perhaps that is the true punishment for the perpetrators is knowing that the murders they committed that night served no purpose at all, and thus render the murderers without use or purpose. Perhaps understanding that pointlessness is the Hell they so richly deserve.