The Big Top has been erected, the clowns are giving their final performances and soon we will all flock like willing sheep to the nearest school or church or town hall to make our little cross. I have never in all my life seen such shenanigans as those that I have witnessed recently as the New Planet begins its search for a new leader and change of governance.
The one thing I am assured of however, is that here, voting will be based on critical analysis by the voters and will not take place along tribal lines as it does in the Southernmost Colony, where, no matter how good, bad or indifferent the ruling tribe actually is, the voters seem incapable of placing their cross next to the name (or picture as most of them are illiterate) of a worthy person for fear of the 'eye in the sky' seeing who they have voted for and violent retribution being meted out. Or maybe not...
Watching the live debates (obviously not the entire thing or I might have gone completely off my head and taken to drink) and the manic walkabouts by the hopeful candidates, it strikes me that beneath the civilised facades, there beats in fact a primal, primitive heart in the well-covered chests of the voters. One has only to witness the pushing and the heckling and jeering and downright nastiness of some to wonder if they actually care about hearing what the poor chap has to say, or if they are more intent on grabbing their fifteen minutes of fame. Anyway, despite the rhetoric and name calling, they all seem inclined to vote for the very same tribe they voted for last time, the same one their parents and grand-parents and great-great grandparents voted for. You get the picture.
Now I suppose no politician is to be trusted, or so I am frequently told, but there is something a little bit unsettling when a man makes a comment in the privacy of his car (or so he thinks) and finds himself reviled, ridiculed, and lambasted from a dizzy height by the sanctimonious and mean spirited who have themselves never made a rude comment or proffered an opinion about someone they have met and who rubbed them up the wrong way. Is the man not entitled to his own views or to get annoyed upon occasion? Is he not human? Why is it that every Tom, Dick and Muhammed now has the right to savage and tear apart the mans' character, and that of his wife/partner/child as if perfection is the norm and not the exception? And don't even get me started on how they've been trotting out the wives with all the razzmatazz of a great spinning firework, while commenting cruelly on their fashion sense or smile or unguarded gesture...I said don't get me started!
So, one of our possible Prime Ministers appeared on telly, where he wooed the public, slew the females of the species with his good looks and dazzling smile and became more popular than Winston, and for an entire day was lauded and congratulated in the national press, spoken of as if he'd just walked on water and fawned upon by all and sundry. And then the very next day, his character was attacked when 'irregular payments' in his personal bank account were brought to the notice of the millions of voters who had fallen for his charming manner and eloquent speech. And it makes me wonder....how the hell did 'they' get hold of his private bank statements? What ever happened to privacy I ask myself?
So with only a week to go, let's hope no one says anything else that will reveal that they are not in fact pod people programmed and operated by a giant head on a distant star in a far off galaxy, but are simply human beings with the same failings, idiosyncrasies and emotions as the rest of us.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Thursday, 22 April 2010
The sky is closed
For the last couple of weeks the skies of the New Planet have been closed to all incoming and outgoing craft due to a plume of ash from an erupting island you'd think was too far away to have any effect on us (apart from the banks of course).
Travellers have thus resorted to ingenious ways of returning to the home planet via trains, buses, hire cars and minivans, small craft, the Royal Navy, an extremely expensive taxi ride by one celebrity and one chap buying an old rusted car to drive across the 'continent'. Just think of the adventures that will be regaled over the Christmas roast for decades to come.
When ferries began refusing foot passengers,some clever sorts (who of course come from the New Planet) toddled off to the nearest supermarket to purchase a bike that they could then cycle triumphantly aboard. I wonder if expressive hand gestures were produced for the benefit of les bureaucrats. Most inventive and once again that good old 'Dunkirk spirit' raised its head with one intrepid historian rounding up an armada of small craft, sailing them across Le Channel, only to be stopped by French police who feared he was was planning on smuggling illegal immigrants back to Blighty. You'd think the maroon passports, the piles of dirty luggage, the tearful, exhausted children, newly acquired tans and television cameras might have been a clue that it was in fact a rescue, but non, he was allowed to rescue but a select few...mainly attractive females with taut little bodies I might add. Sacre bleu!
And now another great tradition raises its head on this small planet. Blame. Whose fault was it that hundreds of thousands of voyagers were stuck abroad on other volcanic islands, in heaving ports and deserted airports? The clamouring voices and finger pointing has begun. 'They' over-reacted, 'they' were irresponsible and ridiculously panic-stricken, cost the country and airlines millions, failed to anticipate for such eventualities and on and on, trying to find a scapegoat.
And yet I wonder what those same judgemental people would be saying had a plane been allowed to fly, become clogged with volcanic ash and crashed causing hundred of deaths. Then who would they blame? God?
This constant need to find someone to punish for an event that could never have been predicted much less controlled once it happened, is very tiresome, to me anyway. And it has certainly highlighted the reliance we now have on air travel. Let's hope then that no more 'natural events' occur that will inconvenience and disrupt our perfectly ordered little lives, but at least if we do get flooded or blown over or if our street erupts or the village green collapses or our town slides into the sea, we can then then spend the next few weeks and months finding someone to blame and hold accountable and 'demand' compensation and maybe that will make us all feel better...until the next time.
But let us not forget what lies ahead for the planet in the next month or so....and the debates and character assassinations have only just begun...
Travellers have thus resorted to ingenious ways of returning to the home planet via trains, buses, hire cars and minivans, small craft, the Royal Navy, an extremely expensive taxi ride by one celebrity and one chap buying an old rusted car to drive across the 'continent'. Just think of the adventures that will be regaled over the Christmas roast for decades to come.
When ferries began refusing foot passengers,some clever sorts (who of course come from the New Planet) toddled off to the nearest supermarket to purchase a bike that they could then cycle triumphantly aboard. I wonder if expressive hand gestures were produced for the benefit of les bureaucrats. Most inventive and once again that good old 'Dunkirk spirit' raised its head with one intrepid historian rounding up an armada of small craft, sailing them across Le Channel, only to be stopped by French police who feared he was was planning on smuggling illegal immigrants back to Blighty. You'd think the maroon passports, the piles of dirty luggage, the tearful, exhausted children, newly acquired tans and television cameras might have been a clue that it was in fact a rescue, but non, he was allowed to rescue but a select few...mainly attractive females with taut little bodies I might add. Sacre bleu!
And now another great tradition raises its head on this small planet. Blame. Whose fault was it that hundreds of thousands of voyagers were stuck abroad on other volcanic islands, in heaving ports and deserted airports? The clamouring voices and finger pointing has begun. 'They' over-reacted, 'they' were irresponsible and ridiculously panic-stricken, cost the country and airlines millions, failed to anticipate for such eventualities and on and on, trying to find a scapegoat.
And yet I wonder what those same judgemental people would be saying had a plane been allowed to fly, become clogged with volcanic ash and crashed causing hundred of deaths. Then who would they blame? God?
This constant need to find someone to punish for an event that could never have been predicted much less controlled once it happened, is very tiresome, to me anyway. And it has certainly highlighted the reliance we now have on air travel. Let's hope then that no more 'natural events' occur that will inconvenience and disrupt our perfectly ordered little lives, but at least if we do get flooded or blown over or if our street erupts or the village green collapses or our town slides into the sea, we can then then spend the next few weeks and months finding someone to blame and hold accountable and 'demand' compensation and maybe that will make us all feel better...until the next time.
But let us not forget what lies ahead for the planet in the next month or so....and the debates and character assassinations have only just begun...
Saturday, 20 February 2010
At the end of the week
One of the delights of living on the New Planet, is participating in the little rituals that take place in every small market town at the end of the week.
In my small town, a market is held every Saturday in one of the car parks and it is there that one can buy such delightful things as roast pork rolls, home made dog food, extra extra extra large flowery cotton knickers, jumpers knitted in just the wrong shade of pink and CD's of yodelling cowboys. One can also purchase nuts, bolts, out of date calenders, soggy pot plants and assorted hand made jewellery (the kind with cheap beads, wonky wire and unmatched colours). Now lest you consider this an event only to be participated in while under the influence of elderflower wine, let me elaborate.
On such occasions, there is much more than the smell of roasting pork and candy floss in little plastic buckets. There is the social interaction that takes place. For no matter how long you've lived here, you are certain to bump into at least ten people you know, or who your friend knows, or who went to school with your nephew's sister's father. And even if you're still a relative newcomer, there are plenty of folks with whom you can have a discussion about the weather.
It is one of the social conventions on the New Planet this. While studying the pleated tartan skirts and neon yellow builder's vests, it is practically compulsory to make such comments as 'Nice day, isn't it?' or 'Weather's pretty rubbish today, isn't it?' or 'Isn't it glorious sunshine?' or even 'How have you coped with all the snow?' And this of course can lead to all manner of further discussions about the quality of the roads, the latest sex scandal or the state of the nation.
And then, just as you move off with a friendly smile and a warm fuzzy feeling, you bump into an actual friend, with whom you can gossip and chat and sometimes, if time allows, pop into the local coffee shop (which incidentally is run by a man from the Southernmost Colony) for a 'cup of chino' (according to one waiter from the previously mentioned colony), or a delicious treacle flavoured latte.
Wandering through the little streets and precincts of the town, past the second hand book sellers, the gypsy penny whistle player and the friendly dogs in woolly coats tied up to the lamp post outside the supermarket, once the chores are completed and the shopping bags are full, one is certain to bump into at least five other people that you know or sort of know. And once again you can vent about the sogginess of the snow, the lethal ice, the budding daffodils...there are endless topics to discuss on a sunny/snowy morning in the market town.
So, to my relief I have discovered that there is never a need to feel lonely on the New Planet if you don't have any real friends yet, you simply take yourself off to market and you are certain to find someone to chat to.
In my small town, a market is held every Saturday in one of the car parks and it is there that one can buy such delightful things as roast pork rolls, home made dog food, extra extra extra large flowery cotton knickers, jumpers knitted in just the wrong shade of pink and CD's of yodelling cowboys. One can also purchase nuts, bolts, out of date calenders, soggy pot plants and assorted hand made jewellery (the kind with cheap beads, wonky wire and unmatched colours). Now lest you consider this an event only to be participated in while under the influence of elderflower wine, let me elaborate.
On such occasions, there is much more than the smell of roasting pork and candy floss in little plastic buckets. There is the social interaction that takes place. For no matter how long you've lived here, you are certain to bump into at least ten people you know, or who your friend knows, or who went to school with your nephew's sister's father. And even if you're still a relative newcomer, there are plenty of folks with whom you can have a discussion about the weather.
It is one of the social conventions on the New Planet this. While studying the pleated tartan skirts and neon yellow builder's vests, it is practically compulsory to make such comments as 'Nice day, isn't it?' or 'Weather's pretty rubbish today, isn't it?' or 'Isn't it glorious sunshine?' or even 'How have you coped with all the snow?' And this of course can lead to all manner of further discussions about the quality of the roads, the latest sex scandal or the state of the nation.
And then, just as you move off with a friendly smile and a warm fuzzy feeling, you bump into an actual friend, with whom you can gossip and chat and sometimes, if time allows, pop into the local coffee shop (which incidentally is run by a man from the Southernmost Colony) for a 'cup of chino' (according to one waiter from the previously mentioned colony), or a delicious treacle flavoured latte.
Wandering through the little streets and precincts of the town, past the second hand book sellers, the gypsy penny whistle player and the friendly dogs in woolly coats tied up to the lamp post outside the supermarket, once the chores are completed and the shopping bags are full, one is certain to bump into at least five other people that you know or sort of know. And once again you can vent about the sogginess of the snow, the lethal ice, the budding daffodils...there are endless topics to discuss on a sunny/snowy morning in the market town.
So, to my relief I have discovered that there is never a need to feel lonely on the New Planet if you don't have any real friends yet, you simply take yourself off to market and you are certain to find someone to chat to.
Saturday, 30 January 2010
Into the blue
One of the many delights on the new planet, has been the friends I have made and with whom I have shared many an adventure. The last being a recent trip aboard a large craft that travelled across the great waters to other places unknown and exotic.
The craft itself is due some comment. Large-ish, carrying up to 900 passengers, it was sleek and beautiful, but to my mind, dated in its appearance and more particularly in the entertainment it provided. But then, considering that the average age of my fellow travellers, most octogenarians and many I suspect reaching for their century, I am not surprised. Now, fun though it might be to these grey-haired creaky-limbed travellers, afternoon tea dances and lectures by fading stars of stage and screen could have been deathly and I feared the worst.
To my surprise however, I found that listening to an ex-detective inspector who was one of the original investigating officers of The Great Train Robbery was in fact fascinating. But though I sat through a few of his rambling anecdotes, I did draw the line at watching second-rate dancing girls trying to stay upright as the ship tossed and rolled upon the rough waters. There's nothing graceful about a long-limbed dancer lurching out of control across the stage while trying to prevent her ample breasts from popping out of the top of her costume. Such events are guaranteed to get the giggles going and how could I do this to the poor girl? I could also not bring myself to chuckle at the stale jokes and out-dated comedy styling of the resident comedian...but that is all of little significance in the great scheme.
It sounds as if the adventure was dire, and yes, it could have been, especially as 75% of the travellers, including my friend, succumbed to a nasty bug that the vigorous cleaning and hand washing at every possible opportunity was unable to prevent. I escaped the horrors for some reason and spent time instead standing on the decks gazing out to sea, hoping for a sight of dolphins. No luck. I also encountered some beings from the Southernmost Colony, which helped enliven a few minutes. But truly, a highlight was getting to chat to the ancient and decrepit co-adventurers I chanced upon sitting in the sun or in one of the many lounges scattered about the craft. So easy to slip into a conversation over a cream bun and a nice cuppa, even if I did hope to spend some time in solitude reading my book. I eventually gave up this hope, and surrendered to the long, involved, repetitive and unbelievably fascinating tales of my fellow voyagers.
From the twinkly-eyed missionary to the one-legged Welshman with a hamster called Blondie, I have realised that this is the reason one takes a watercraft and cruises off to worlds unexplored. For it is in listening to their stories of daring-do during First and Second world wars, and the wealth of experience that they are so willing to share (often more than once or twice in the space of ten minutes) that I understood that there is so much more to life than worrying about whether or not my apparel was suitable for dinner. These wonderful well-developed beings, are stuffed to the eyebrows with wisdom and wit and seem completely oblivious to the petty little things that seem to occupy so much of our time. For these men and women have survived two global conflicts in which they lost friends and family members, have seen technology accelerate at frightening speed, and have watched as today's youth repeat the errors they too made in their own early years. Yet they remain calm and focused and have moved beyond the cares of childhood and middle-age-hood into their twilight years.
It was with shame that I consider how often these genuine gems of humanity are shuffled off to cold places where they are forgotten, as if they have always been old. But they are so much more than this, they are more than the wrinkled skin and the rheumy eyes. They are more than a burden to state and family, they retain their wit and intelligence (sometime a bit addled it must be said) and they deserve respect and awe.
To be so at ease in one's skin that appearing in front of 800 other diners in high heels, ankle-high socks, short shorts showing of the saggy legs in all their splendour and a skimpy vest allowing more than a peak at the drooping mammaries, without batting an over mascaraed eye, is surely a wondrous thing to behold. As is an 80 year old fake-tanned body shoe-horned into a sequinned lycra evening dress with no sleeves and plunging neckline and let me not neglect to mention the leopard-skin Speedo worn confidently by the overweight, antique Lothario who strutted about the pool deck leering at the 'younger' damsels -younger than 70 that is. Aah, that is a picture to summon up when in need of some light relief.
I count myself privileged to have met some of the wonderful old men and women on board, and had I not embarked upon the craft and given myself over to its old-fashioned charms, my life would be infinitely the poorer.
And this all before even stepping ashore on moon-like landscapes...
The craft itself is due some comment. Large-ish, carrying up to 900 passengers, it was sleek and beautiful, but to my mind, dated in its appearance and more particularly in the entertainment it provided. But then, considering that the average age of my fellow travellers, most octogenarians and many I suspect reaching for their century, I am not surprised. Now, fun though it might be to these grey-haired creaky-limbed travellers, afternoon tea dances and lectures by fading stars of stage and screen could have been deathly and I feared the worst.
To my surprise however, I found that listening to an ex-detective inspector who was one of the original investigating officers of The Great Train Robbery was in fact fascinating. But though I sat through a few of his rambling anecdotes, I did draw the line at watching second-rate dancing girls trying to stay upright as the ship tossed and rolled upon the rough waters. There's nothing graceful about a long-limbed dancer lurching out of control across the stage while trying to prevent her ample breasts from popping out of the top of her costume. Such events are guaranteed to get the giggles going and how could I do this to the poor girl? I could also not bring myself to chuckle at the stale jokes and out-dated comedy styling of the resident comedian...but that is all of little significance in the great scheme.
It sounds as if the adventure was dire, and yes, it could have been, especially as 75% of the travellers, including my friend, succumbed to a nasty bug that the vigorous cleaning and hand washing at every possible opportunity was unable to prevent. I escaped the horrors for some reason and spent time instead standing on the decks gazing out to sea, hoping for a sight of dolphins. No luck. I also encountered some beings from the Southernmost Colony, which helped enliven a few minutes. But truly, a highlight was getting to chat to the ancient and decrepit co-adventurers I chanced upon sitting in the sun or in one of the many lounges scattered about the craft. So easy to slip into a conversation over a cream bun and a nice cuppa, even if I did hope to spend some time in solitude reading my book. I eventually gave up this hope, and surrendered to the long, involved, repetitive and unbelievably fascinating tales of my fellow voyagers.
From the twinkly-eyed missionary to the one-legged Welshman with a hamster called Blondie, I have realised that this is the reason one takes a watercraft and cruises off to worlds unexplored. For it is in listening to their stories of daring-do during First and Second world wars, and the wealth of experience that they are so willing to share (often more than once or twice in the space of ten minutes) that I understood that there is so much more to life than worrying about whether or not my apparel was suitable for dinner. These wonderful well-developed beings, are stuffed to the eyebrows with wisdom and wit and seem completely oblivious to the petty little things that seem to occupy so much of our time. For these men and women have survived two global conflicts in which they lost friends and family members, have seen technology accelerate at frightening speed, and have watched as today's youth repeat the errors they too made in their own early years. Yet they remain calm and focused and have moved beyond the cares of childhood and middle-age-hood into their twilight years.
It was with shame that I consider how often these genuine gems of humanity are shuffled off to cold places where they are forgotten, as if they have always been old. But they are so much more than this, they are more than the wrinkled skin and the rheumy eyes. They are more than a burden to state and family, they retain their wit and intelligence (sometime a bit addled it must be said) and they deserve respect and awe.
To be so at ease in one's skin that appearing in front of 800 other diners in high heels, ankle-high socks, short shorts showing of the saggy legs in all their splendour and a skimpy vest allowing more than a peak at the drooping mammaries, without batting an over mascaraed eye, is surely a wondrous thing to behold. As is an 80 year old fake-tanned body shoe-horned into a sequinned lycra evening dress with no sleeves and plunging neckline and let me not neglect to mention the leopard-skin Speedo worn confidently by the overweight, antique Lothario who strutted about the pool deck leering at the 'younger' damsels -younger than 70 that is. Aah, that is a picture to summon up when in need of some light relief.
I count myself privileged to have met some of the wonderful old men and women on board, and had I not embarked upon the craft and given myself over to its old-fashioned charms, my life would be infinitely the poorer.
And this all before even stepping ashore on moon-like landscapes...
Monday, 14 December 2009
The Natives at Play
Observing the natives in their natural habitat, is an important part of settling in on a New Planet. Instead of going to the zoological gardens to observe other species, I prefer to sit in a cosy room with a hot beverage, observing some of the strange rituals practised by the natives. It affords me much amusement and I am beginning to take these strange aliens to my heart.
The first thing that I noticed upon arrival some years hence, was the strange apparel the aliens wear. At first I was eager to fit in, but have so far resisted the urge to scrape my hair back and plaster it down with gel, and have not bought enormous silver hoop earrings, almost white skin foundation and pale pink, shimmery lipstick.
I wonder, with a slight smirk, if the undeveloped aliens truly think that pink velour fabric stretched over chunky thighs with a large, white and usually wobbly belly hanging over the waistband, is an attractive sight. Surely there is better use of such material....like a circus tent or housing for a small nation? Those that resist the pink furry stretch fabric are oft times squashed into a pair of denim trousers, a good three sizes too small, and hearing their thighs rubbing together as they mince along reminds me somewhat of a herd of wildebeest rioting across the plains of the Southernmost Colony. And I do wonder, what the purpose is of the flimsy piece of string-like fabric I see poking out of the back of said trousers as they only just manage to stay up? My eyes can scarcely resist ogling the sparkly butterfly or red heart or sequined (usually provocative) word that hovers, oh so cleverly, and not so subtly, above the well-rounded gluteus maximus...perhaps that is the intention, after all.
And watching these beings strut and squeal and throw up in the street, I once more wonder at the diversity of beings on this planet. As well as the loud-mouthed, foul-tongued undeveloped beings who hide their features beneath sinister hooded apparel, there are of course the lovely and gentile sorts too. These can usually be spotted next to sporting arenas, and particularly at horsey events...occasionally it is difficult to tell beast and being apart. They wander around dressed in cigar-scented caghools, leather boots, casual yet obviously exorbitantly expensive cashmire sweaters, cunningly draped pashminas and sometimes, but not always, carry a pampered pooch in a leather handbag.
There is also, to my delight, a plethora of check-shirted, high-waisted, sensible-shoe-wearing beings with loud nasal laughs and immense intellect. In days of sunshine and sweltering heat, they are easily identified by the white socks and brown sandals they sport and their knobbly white legs poke out plaintively from a pair of long shorts or short longs, depending on your point of view. They wander the highways and byways, clutching their oversized bags, pushing their spectacles up their high-ridged noses and are many a time to be seen wandering up a nearby mountain with a map in a plastic bag and a large rucksack on their backs...and of course the obligatory thick-soled hiking footwear, red walking stick and packed lunch (squashed marmite and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower cordial).
I do so enjoy the varied species of life on the New Planet, I think I will continue along this vein in my next epistle...
The first thing that I noticed upon arrival some years hence, was the strange apparel the aliens wear. At first I was eager to fit in, but have so far resisted the urge to scrape my hair back and plaster it down with gel, and have not bought enormous silver hoop earrings, almost white skin foundation and pale pink, shimmery lipstick.
I wonder, with a slight smirk, if the undeveloped aliens truly think that pink velour fabric stretched over chunky thighs with a large, white and usually wobbly belly hanging over the waistband, is an attractive sight. Surely there is better use of such material....like a circus tent or housing for a small nation? Those that resist the pink furry stretch fabric are oft times squashed into a pair of denim trousers, a good three sizes too small, and hearing their thighs rubbing together as they mince along reminds me somewhat of a herd of wildebeest rioting across the plains of the Southernmost Colony. And I do wonder, what the purpose is of the flimsy piece of string-like fabric I see poking out of the back of said trousers as they only just manage to stay up? My eyes can scarcely resist ogling the sparkly butterfly or red heart or sequined (usually provocative) word that hovers, oh so cleverly, and not so subtly, above the well-rounded gluteus maximus...perhaps that is the intention, after all.
And watching these beings strut and squeal and throw up in the street, I once more wonder at the diversity of beings on this planet. As well as the loud-mouthed, foul-tongued undeveloped beings who hide their features beneath sinister hooded apparel, there are of course the lovely and gentile sorts too. These can usually be spotted next to sporting arenas, and particularly at horsey events...occasionally it is difficult to tell beast and being apart. They wander around dressed in cigar-scented caghools, leather boots, casual yet obviously exorbitantly expensive cashmire sweaters, cunningly draped pashminas and sometimes, but not always, carry a pampered pooch in a leather handbag.
There is also, to my delight, a plethora of check-shirted, high-waisted, sensible-shoe-wearing beings with loud nasal laughs and immense intellect. In days of sunshine and sweltering heat, they are easily identified by the white socks and brown sandals they sport and their knobbly white legs poke out plaintively from a pair of long shorts or short longs, depending on your point of view. They wander the highways and byways, clutching their oversized bags, pushing their spectacles up their high-ridged noses and are many a time to be seen wandering up a nearby mountain with a map in a plastic bag and a large rucksack on their backs...and of course the obligatory thick-soled hiking footwear, red walking stick and packed lunch (squashed marmite and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower cordial).
I do so enjoy the varied species of life on the New Planet, I think I will continue along this vein in my next epistle...
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Under attack
It has become apparent to me that the New Planet has a number of unpleasant elements floating about in its atmosphere (and no, I'm not talking about large-mammaried celebrities). Although I have been on this planet for a number of years now, I continue to be attacked and struck down by these dastardly bugs. Surely a being should build up a resistance after a time? They lurk out there, waiting until I am tired and vulnerable, and then they swoop in and attack and leave me feeling as if I have been run over by a herd of woolly mammoths. And since my stomach is now churning after another assault, I shall retire to my chamber to contemplate, scheme and plot about the best way to take over the world.
Friday, 4 December 2009
Couch Potatoes...
On the New Planet the nights are drawing in, darkness descends in the late afternoon and the air is frosty. And in the gloom, when shopping is manic with present-hunters pushing and shoving and jostling to get the best deal, traffic building up making easy travel nigh impossible, the only retreat for a sane traveller is the couch, in front of the picture box...well, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. But I'm not going to ramble on about the endless repeats, no, I have something much more important to mutter about.
To my disgust and not a little shame, I have found myself enthralled with the latest 'reality show', which as any ex-Southernmost Colony dweller realises instantly, is actually Celebrity Veldschool. For those travellers too young to remember such rites of passage, ask an older sibling or friend that grew up in the dark days 'before', as they will surely remember the delights of such compulsory excursions during their undeveloped years.
Aah yes, veldschool - an entire week of hikes in the rain, leaky shelters constructed out of twigs, runs up a mountain at dawn before breakfast, melkkos, cold showers and the constant, daily, incessant and vehement indoctrination and propaganda designed to make us all aware (and terrified for that is surely a terrorist's aim) of the red terror that lurked behind every khaki-bush, rock and eucalyptus tree. That that very same red terror is presently the governing body on the Southernmost Colony, causes me to smile and wonder what the 'oom' that was in charge of the drip-feeding would think of it all now.
And let us not forget the games we were forced to engage in...'terroriste en soldate' - dropped in the middle of nowhere with a compass and a torch and an instruction to leopard crawl towards the pool of light in the clearing far away, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for the 'soldate' who might stumble across our little band of 'terroriste' as we lay in the damp pine needles, faces daubed with mud like a primitive tribe preparing for war - which in essence we actually were.
Oh, the joy of avoiding capture and the thrill of swimming through crocodile infested rivers, negotiating the twists and turns of bat-riddled caves and muddy swamps as we made for home, in the rain and the pitch dark with the 'oom' yelling at us in a foreign tongue, the language of governance, which we were all expected to speak fluently. Would that I had remained a 'terroris', as I would now be living in splendour with inestimable amounts of treasure at my disposal (even though it should actually be used to govern the colony and not be used for trips to other planets and the building of immense mansions with a sea-view).
So my point is this, as undeveloped beings on a far off planet, we survived the tortures of sleepless nights in a cave, on the muddy ground, in a windswept cabin, bugs, spiders and the occasional serpent, didn't complain (much) and were not paid vast quantities of treasure to endure these deprivations. We were even forced to ablute in full view of the other undeveloped beings, many of whom did not even have the manners to turn away as we perched on the small bucket in the middle of the woods, and all this in the name of 'education'. I can only imagine how well such experiences would be viewed by the safety-obsessed bureaucrats on this planet - why, nary a helmet or knee pad or harness or hoist was seen - we did it all ourselves and if we fell down a ravine or lopped off a limb while using an axe unsupervised, tough, we simply climbed back up and continued on our merry way...and no one was sued.
Tantrums and pouting were not allowed, food was scarce and might well have been cockroach pate and lion testicle for all we knew. Did we mutter and moan and storm off in a huff, no we did not! I'm not comparing us all to the opinionated and puffed up seekers of fame that are presently sequestered in a jungle, I'm only pointing out that we survived veldschool, and so will you...
To my disgust and not a little shame, I have found myself enthralled with the latest 'reality show', which as any ex-Southernmost Colony dweller realises instantly, is actually Celebrity Veldschool. For those travellers too young to remember such rites of passage, ask an older sibling or friend that grew up in the dark days 'before', as they will surely remember the delights of such compulsory excursions during their undeveloped years.
Aah yes, veldschool - an entire week of hikes in the rain, leaky shelters constructed out of twigs, runs up a mountain at dawn before breakfast, melkkos, cold showers and the constant, daily, incessant and vehement indoctrination and propaganda designed to make us all aware (and terrified for that is surely a terrorist's aim) of the red terror that lurked behind every khaki-bush, rock and eucalyptus tree. That that very same red terror is presently the governing body on the Southernmost Colony, causes me to smile and wonder what the 'oom' that was in charge of the drip-feeding would think of it all now.
And let us not forget the games we were forced to engage in...'terroriste en soldate' - dropped in the middle of nowhere with a compass and a torch and an instruction to leopard crawl towards the pool of light in the clearing far away, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for the 'soldate' who might stumble across our little band of 'terroriste' as we lay in the damp pine needles, faces daubed with mud like a primitive tribe preparing for war - which in essence we actually were.
Oh, the joy of avoiding capture and the thrill of swimming through crocodile infested rivers, negotiating the twists and turns of bat-riddled caves and muddy swamps as we made for home, in the rain and the pitch dark with the 'oom' yelling at us in a foreign tongue, the language of governance, which we were all expected to speak fluently. Would that I had remained a 'terroris', as I would now be living in splendour with inestimable amounts of treasure at my disposal (even though it should actually be used to govern the colony and not be used for trips to other planets and the building of immense mansions with a sea-view).
So my point is this, as undeveloped beings on a far off planet, we survived the tortures of sleepless nights in a cave, on the muddy ground, in a windswept cabin, bugs, spiders and the occasional serpent, didn't complain (much) and were not paid vast quantities of treasure to endure these deprivations. We were even forced to ablute in full view of the other undeveloped beings, many of whom did not even have the manners to turn away as we perched on the small bucket in the middle of the woods, and all this in the name of 'education'. I can only imagine how well such experiences would be viewed by the safety-obsessed bureaucrats on this planet - why, nary a helmet or knee pad or harness or hoist was seen - we did it all ourselves and if we fell down a ravine or lopped off a limb while using an axe unsupervised, tough, we simply climbed back up and continued on our merry way...and no one was sued.
Tantrums and pouting were not allowed, food was scarce and might well have been cockroach pate and lion testicle for all we knew. Did we mutter and moan and storm off in a huff, no we did not! I'm not comparing us all to the opinionated and puffed up seekers of fame that are presently sequestered in a jungle, I'm only pointing out that we survived veldschool, and so will you...
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