I was perusing Times Online before they start charging me for it and I stumbled across an article about the "Vienna Boys' Choir caught up in sex abuse scandals". I don't normally go fishing for such topics, I wanted to get my worth.
If you could think of a more inappropriate name for the covering journalist, I would be very impressed. The article in this case was written by a certain 'Roger Boyes', I kid you not. Aside from this particular article, what were his parents thinking?
I started to think about other odd and unusual names and delved into the World Wide Web to satisfy my curiosity.
Actually before I start, I used to work (many moons ago) with a Chris Peacock and went to school with a fellow called Andy Faggott (pronounced fay-go).
Here is a short list of names I discovered... Real people, still alive, some now departed.
Justin Case
Barb Dwyer
Stan Still - A retired airman who said it was "a blooming millstone around my neck my whole life"
Rose Bush
Annette Curtain
Tim Burr
Some further research found a little article on Cornish names from the late 18th century.
Susan Booze
Elizabeth Disco
Edward Evil
Truth Bullock
Gentle Fudge
Faithful Cock
Levi Jeans
I have always grumbled about my middle name, but at least I am able to conceal it, apart from those invasive forms you have to fill out that ask you all sorts of things from height and weight to dependents and amount of sex (or was that amount of dependents?).
Word of the Day: Plurinominal - Having more than one name
Quote of the Day: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell so sweet" - (Romeo and) Juliet
A big budget film with a heavyweight cast including Bruce Willis, Billy Bob Thornton, Steve Buscemi, Liv Tyler, Ben Affleck and many more giants of Hollywood.
I am not generally one for a film that is predictable, full of corny one-liners, laughable special effects, nauseating heart-string tugging, wooden acting, big budgets and full of Star Spangled Banner type plots.
But it has to be one of my favourite films. I watched it the other night and for the last 15 minutes, I was left blubbing like a baby with a soiled nappy. Quality cinematic tripe at its very finest.
I thought I would provide my short review as I am currently listening to the greatest song ever recorded and felt I should share it.
Get those hankies out...
Aerosmith - I don't wanna miss a thing
I urge you to watch this masterpiece, if you have not already done so. Not even Spielberg could produce something so entertaining and so nauseating at the same time and he is a professional confectioner, not a director as some people might think.
"You missed me, Harry?"
You bet I did!
Word of the Day: Gargalesis - Heavy tickling
Quote of the Day: "Houston, you have a problem. You see, I promised my little girl that I'd be comin' home. Now I don't know what you people are doing down there, but we've got a hole to dig up here!" - Harry Stamper (Bruce Willis - Armageddon)
Before I write this next blog, I would like to apologise to my nearest and dearest for boring them with this story. Nearest and dearest is also neglecting to mention those that I know on a semi-regular basis, people I have met a couple of times and those random people that I have regaled this tale to...
Having said that (or written it) I am unsure as to why I am dedicating a blog to it, but here goes...
Monday, 11th January 1999
New year blues would be well an truly embedded at this stage of the year, particularly with it being a Monday, but I found myself in Ecuador. A relatively unknown country of South America.
There were fifteen of us still acclimatising ourselves to this new land, after only a mad week to date. Quito had more restaurants than you could shake a bit of bamboo at, so inevitably we were stuck for choice. Myself, along with six others, formed a splinter group and headed off into the unknown (slightly, we had a Lonely Planet guide).
One chap and the girls opted for some Chinese eatery, but in a show of machismo, we split from them and decided to try something daring, dangerous and extravagant. It was all talk, but little did we know that this was exactly what we would be doing.
I should probably describe the group at this point, so here goes. Ben, a dear friend from school, was the leader of the pack. He was a well travelled man as his father flew for Britannia and latterly BA. He had a basic grasp of Spanish and he had a penchant for Marajuana. Hadji was a post-graduate Sikh with an addiction to N64 International Superstar Soccer and an undying love for Derby County.
Will was a biological genius with a place at Oxford waiting for him, I still check the news to see if he has found a cure for Malaria or a similar ailment that has left scientists puzzled. Jon was a quiet soul from oop North, being so quiet, I never worked out what he had done or what he was intending to do; in fact, he was fluent in Spanish, having spent the last six months learning it. Ian was a giant from Hitchin and a local celebrity with a popular band called George - Again, another one with a liking for 'whacky baccy'. Chris was a bit of a pin up, last I heard of him, he was living in LA spending days and nights playing poker, professionally. Then there was me - a fresh faced awkward fellow trying to rid himself of an awful shyness and find himself.
Our first port of call was some sort of Salsa bar. We settled down with out Pilsener and a bowl of popcorn - we found out later that the bowl was an actual ashtray, when we got down to the last layer of corn. After a few tequilas and some more beer, we decided to head off for some food.
Only a few blocks away, we passed some sort of open roof restaurant/barbeque. Ian said "That place looks wicked!". So we ate there and it was affectionately named 'The Wicked Place' (WP). By jove, they produced kebabs as if they had been sent down from heaven. I have never tasted anything so good (apart from the latter visits to the WP) and it is hard to imagine that I will ever again. A glorious concoction of a variety of different sausage meat, peppers, bananas and onions. Whilst sounding very simple, I can assure you now that it was out of this world and we hadn't smoked any weed at that point!
After spending thousands in the WP (15,000 sucre = £1), we decided to go for a wander. Eventually we came across a deserted looking park and Ben suggested that we smoked his morning market spoils. He had even nabbed a carrot from the WP and carved us a little pipe.
No sooner had he packed the vegetable smoking device an lit the ganga a hoard of trucks began to circle the park. I am not talking about the normal sort of truck, I am talking about army trucks packed to the brim with armed policemen in camouflage (not great camouflage as I could clearly count them all). It was then that Ben said "Wouldn't it be funny if they were coming for us..?"
They were.
Jon (the Spanish speaking introvert) and Will (the biological genius) made a run for it. The trucks soon unloaded and surrounded the park. Ben hastily disposed of the pipe and hid the rest of his drug parcel. They closed in, forcing Jon and Will to make a hasty retreat. The next part was a little hazy (I hadn't smoked anything at that point), but we found ourselves on the edge of the park talking to the officer. He demanded our passports, apparently it is an offence not to carry ID, but alas they were at the British Embassy. So that was it. We were arrested.
It was a little bit scary. Our only hope of reasoning with them was Jon. Sadly, six months of Spanish school had not prepared him for a bout of stage fright and he was unable to speak. So we were ushered (at gunpoint) on board a collection of trucks and transferred to some army base.
We were ushered into a larger truck that contained the slime of the streets of Quito. When I say slime, I am not talking about actual chemical slime, I am referring to the ladies of the night, drunks, druggies and ex-armed robbers. It was at that point that I decided to dish out a phone number (carefully concealed in my money belt) to my fellow incarcerates. The number was for our 24 hour support - nothing could go wrong.
Eventually the engine fired up and the ageing vehicle trundled it's way through the streets of the capital. We ground to a halt in front of the main police headquarters and after a bit of shouting, the gates opened and we moved in. Not before a rather 'wellied' (I took that from 141 words for drunk) gentleman attempted to punch Ben, got pepper sprayed and wet himself - the drunk man, not Ben.
The seven of us found ourselves ushered into a courtyard with snipers at every corner. We assembled ourselves into a human shield type formation to protect ourselves from a rather large amount of armed police and an even larger amount of the zombies, prostitutes and bad eggs. It really was quite surreal and the stuff of nightmarish sleeps.
It was then that an official came towards us and offered us a phone call, after much gesticulating to get the message across. All seven of us made a bee-line for the phone. Sadly, we were without a phone card and the coin slot was 'out of order'. Not that it would have helped, it later transpired that Diego, our 24 hour support, was holidaying in Miami and non-contactable. Smashing.
It was then that Ian remembered he had a photocopy of his passport and produced it. The chief of police seemed impressed and decided to release two of us to retrieve the other copies. So after much deliberating, Ian and Jon were released to rescue our copies. It was pushing on midnight at this stage and our hostel curfew was about to expire. We waited and waited and waited....and waited. An hour passed and there was no sign. We were literally a fifteen minute walk from our hostel and we had been told they had got in a taxi.
The prison bus came and the five of us and all the other criminals were told to form a line. There were no tears, but you could see that we were 'bricking it'. At the last minute, the five of us were hauled out of the queue. Ian and Jon were back, complete with our photocopies. Joy! Now you know how Mini-cabs tend to extend the route to justify a larger fare, well the Ecuadorian cabbies took that to a new level.
Our prints were taken. Our names and passport numbers were registered and we were free to go.
We wandered back. Laughing uncontrollably (we still hadn't smoked at that stage) and returned to the hostel.
"Where the hell have you been?" were the cries that met us (it was 1am by now). We walked in, poured ourselves a tequila, drank it and asked them how their night was.
A terrible evening outright, but looking back on it, certainly one of the best nights of my life.
We went out for food, innocent and relatively inexperienced. We cam back as hardened criminals.
Word of the Day: Borborygmus - A rumbling sound of gas passing through the intestine
Quote of the Day: "A friend is someone who will bail you out. A best friend will be sitting next to you saying 'That was f*cking awesome!' " - anon
He Pingping might have been the smallest person in the world, but he made a huge impact. A wonderful character in the face of adversity.
I watched an hour long documentary about He and he was truly captivating. A wonderful fellow that seemed to mesmorise all those around him and not necessarily because of his size.
Static from the nylon dress gave
Mr Pingping a Tintin curl
It can't have been easy to be a 'circus freak' type character, but he did not seem fazed by his notoriety. In fact, he was determined to be the shortest man in the world. Fame and fortune would seem an obvious target, but it really did seem to be about making the best of what he had. Maybe a lesson to us all.
Quote of the Day: "I certainly did feel inferior. Because of class. Because of strength. Because of height. I guess if I'd been able to hit someone on the nose, I wouldn't have been a comic." - Dudley Moore
Word of the Day: Honeyfuggle - deceive by flattery or sweet-talk.
"... I assure you, it's much more serious than that". Those were the words of the late Bill Shankly of Liverpool fame.
Football was even talked about when it could be your last conversation.
"Three Tommies sat in a trench one day,
Discussing the war in the normal way.
They talked of mud and they talked of the Hun,
Of what was to do and what had been done.
They talked about Rum...
But they point that they argued from post back to pillar,
Was whether Notts County could beat Aston Villa."
Football is part and parcel of old and modern day Britain. Fans turned out in their many thousands, crammed into unsuitably small terraces to watch their heroes take the field. These were ordinary men who often held down another job and lived just down the road from you or even next door.
They were generally men from ordinary beginnings, inflated to hero status, but preserved their wholesome attitude, integrity and rarely would you find a player with air and graces and a feeling of superiority. In short, most of the local heroes at the very top were a completely different breed to the current football player - Yes, John Terry, I am talking about you and your fellow professionals.
Having read the rather excellent My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes by Gary Imlach, you can see why football was embedded as an essential ingredient in English society, during the golden era. Professional footballers went off to war, covered by ageing pros to warm their boots, fell and died fighting for the King. Can you imagine Rio or 'JT' doing the same?
Football nowadays is a greedy sport. I used to love it. I still love Brighton & Hove Albion, but football as a whole has grown into a gruesome monstrosity. I am not sure how comfortable I would feel supporting a club that pays a player more in the space of 10 days than our premier, Gordon Brown (ignoring whether or not you think he is a doing a good job!), earns in a year.
I would rather not contribute towards some rotating alloys for a materialistic thug with a limited footballing ability, earning 20 times the amount a nurse or entry level teacher.
Fans are being priced out of live (in the flesh) football. People are turning their backs on their local club simply because it is easier to stay seated in the armchair and follow a team courtesy of Sky television.
Day-by-day my dislike for professional football grows at an alarming rate. The whole Premiership bubble makes me sick to the bottom of my stomach.
The 39th farcical game, allowing the brand to be spread across the world, was obviously about sharing the love of the game and nothing to do with filling the pockets of those that are already bulging and splitting.
'Super Sundays' for the best league in the world, encouraging those who do not know better to spend the day glued to the sofa. £50m for finishing bottom of the top flight with a guaranteed £24m parachute payment to soften the blow.
Hours before a potential winding up order and deadline for Rotherham United, their 'headline' was a little subtitle, the main news being that Man Utd's Wes Brown was on the verge of signing a multi-million pound deal. A community was on the verge of losing their football team and various news sources were focusing on a contract for that donkey.
'Stevie G' holding out for a new contract with Liverpool. "I am not willing to sign yet as I want to concentrate on the game itself". Cue a fortnight of flirting with other clubs and an eventual £20,000 a week pay rise offer. "It has always been about Liverpool. No-one else".
Phil Gartside, of Bolton Wanderers, wanting a two tier Premiership with no relegation from the lower tier. A closed shop.
Restless 20 year olds not content with their £2,000 per week salary, despite giving up edukation (sic) at the tender age of 14.
A game run by buffoons at the very highest level with corruption galore across the globe.
An (Ex-)England captain with no regard for anyone but himself - I won't list his numerous misdemeanours.
Fit and proper persons tests for Premier League ownership that apparently ignores abuse of the Human Rights Act.
It's ludicrous. A world away from the happy smiling faces of African children making do with a ball made from a multitude of plastic bags and some twine. Imagine what the £2000 spent on a Newcastle United heated substitutes seat could do for a little village of keen footballers without access to clean water?
To be fair, I am sure that the footballers earning obscene wages do have some links to charitable work and do sign off the odd cheque. However, they could do so much more.
Generally, money and footballers are an unhappy marriage in more ways than one.
Ulises De La Cruz did not forget where he came from. He went that step further and set up 'Friends of FundeCruz' in which he donated 10% of his wages. This money was spent supplying basic needs of his Ecuadorian village. He was later named a UNICEF ambassador.
http://ulisesdelacruz.org/
Even a pantomime villain in the shape of Craig Bellamy has set up a foundation and poured some of his money into the fund to give some Sierra Leonians a fighting chance after years of civil war and oppression. Liverpool FC refused to insure him, but he went anyway and has not looked back.
http://www.craigbellamyfoundation.org/
Bah. I lost my train of thought after the trench poem.
Hopefully this doesn't come across as being a jealous rant.
Quote of the Day: "Many men, of course, became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of as no-one was really poor, at least no-one worth speaking of" - Douglas Adams
Word of the Day: Cagamosis - An unhappy marriage.
Those NASA guys are pretty good with their cameras, but they should be with an annual budget of £17.9bn.
Truly remarkable pictures. A shame that the two released images (thus far) neglected to include GREAT Britain. I take that as a direct snub from out Atlantic cousins.
On the subject of space, the word reminded me of my second year bedroom at University. Think of the smallest possible room imaginable and stick up a party wall dividing it into two bedrooms. You could swing a cat in it, but you would have to be prepared for a swift visit to the local veterinary surgery, a hefty bill and a sad goodbye to the faithful moggy. There was enough room for a cupboard, a single bed and a minute desk.
There was literally a square metre of floorspace which invariably got covered with a small pile of dirty linen and some discarded beer cans. There was no room for more than two people in the bedroom at one time and you needed to bend like a professional ballerina to exit the room in one piece and any false move would recreate a scene from the Nutcracker, if you didn't keep a keen eye on the door-handle.
I made a fatal mistake of demanding the big bedroom to house my rather archaic PC, whereas the others were talking about needing a double bed for the occasional 'visitor'. Why did I pipe up first?
One plus was that it literally took less than 5 seconds to hoover the floor - not that I ever did. My good friend Ross had the other half of my room and suffered from a year long snorefest - not my conversation (I hope), but the noise and vibration penetrating the tracing paper like dividing wall.
However poor my bedroom was, I did like that house. It was extremely well placed and we had access to multiple pubs within spitting distance, a bakery round the corner, a kebab shop within sniffing distance and Blockbuster videos. What more could a student want?
In actual fact, we were the closest property to Blockbusters and I believe we were the house that collected the most fines. Sadly, I lost the paper-scissor-stone and the account was linked to my credit card, leaving me to face the brunt of the vicious capitalistic system. There was one particular film called 'The Wonder Boys' that racked up an obscene £104 worth of fines before a final charge of £20 to replace the errant DVD. No-one claimed responsibility, so I was left with the charge.
Years later, I was offered the chance to buy a DVD for £2 as I had spent over £20 on petrol - Brilliant, I thought! Only to cast my eye on the selection and the only disc available was...you guessed it. Out of principle I declined the offer. I was not going to put another penny towards that blasted film, seeing as I personally funded a sequel.
My next bedroom was a step in the right direction. It wasn't the smallest for a change! Unfortunately, I was on the ground floor and facing the road. Divinity Road was a bit of a mecca for students and invariably there would always be someone you knew that would pass the house. I generally always sleep with my window slightly open to allow a circulation of air (I shall not tell you my current address) and more often than not, I got someone clambering in my window at silly o'clock, if they had forgotten their keys or fancied visiting one of the residents.
The worst of that was when my good friend Adam decided to pay us a 3 am visit, the morning of an important exam. Most of the students had finished by then and drunk themselves silly in Fuzzy Duck's. I was awoken by a silhouette of a beer swilling gentleman trying to gain access to the house. I think he was stuck and after an exchange of some blue language he managed to free himself and scurried upstairs. I think I passed the exam in the end, but...
I had a rather delightful abode in Southsea. My friend Nick and I managed to snag a place on the seafront, halfway between his work place to the west and my work place to the east. Wood flooring through out, high ceilings and a delightful decking out the back to sun ourselves whilst we watched Euro 2000 (a TV rigged up outdoors). It made living in Southsea and Portsmouth almost bearable.
Nick found the house, so he bagged the big bedroom with a built in wardrobe. The built in wardrobe was then turned into a laboratory to cultivate, pick and smoke homegrown marijuana. Foil covered plaster board was shipped in, halogen lamps were purchased, various lotions and potions were collected and the seeds were sown. It was quite an impressive sight and the plants began to grow.
I was charged with looking after them for a week, after Nick upped sticks and went to join his father for a holiday in Spain. I was gifted a rather complicated list of things to do, including cutting back dead plants, ensuring there was enough light and checking the pH of the water.
One fine day, I headed towards my local shop for some supplies and had to carefully dodge a chap sprinting along with 48 cans of Carling in his arms. Only when I saw the police searching the shop later that day did it occur to me that he had just lifted them. I thought he was just thirsty and in a rush. I made myself known to the police and they thanked me and asked for my address so that they could come round and take a statement... Oh f*ck!
Chances are they would not have carried out a search of my premises, but there were various smoking devices, loose rizzla papers, actual marijuana floating about and a prolonged odour of hashish lingering in the air. I stuttered and stumbled, claiming that I had forgotten my address as I had only just moved here and gave them my email address. Thankfully, they bought it (not the weed, I should hasten to add).
That is all for now...
Word of the Day: Runcation - the act of weeding.
Quote of the Day: "Space isn't remote at all. It's only half an hours drive away if your car could go straight upwards." - Anon.
(One for Scott and Wizzy)
Barrack Obama is visiting an Edinburgh hospital.
He enters a ward full of patients with no obvious sign of injury or illness, He greets one.
The patient replies:
Fair fa your honest sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin race,
Aboon them a ye take yer place,
Painch, tripe or thairm,
As langs my airm.
Confused and sporting a grin rivalling the Chesire Cat, the President moved on to the next patient, who immediately begins to chant:
Wee sleekit, cowerin, timorous beasty, O the panic in thy breasty,
Thou needna start awa sae hastie,
Wi bickering brattle.
Now seriously troubled, Obama turns to the accompanying doctor and asks, 'Is this a psychiatric ward?'
'No,' replies the doctor, 'this is the serious Burns unit.
I can't claim any credit for that, but it did make me chuckle.
Anyway...
I managed to heave myself up to the Doctors surgery to register. I had forgotten how unique the British waiting room is. A wide collection of different people with differing ailments. I am not a regular attendee, but I always try and pass the time by guessing the illness of each particular patient. There are some obvious signs to look for, of course. A cough or a uncomfortable fidget are sure fire signs of influenza or piles, respectively. It is certainly more preferable than fingering through a germ infested copy of the December 1972 edition of the Horse and Hound
I had to announce my reason for wanting to see the doctor to a room full of coughing and fidgeting patients. So much for confidentiality! Reminds me of Dr Karl (of Neighbours fame), when he wasn't too busy curing an epidemic in the hospital, he used to march his patients out through a busy waiting room saying something along the lines of "Apply the cream twice a day Mrs Benzel, they should clear up in no time."
Something else that tickled my fancy was a small poster. It went something like this...
____________________________________________
Free Numeracy Classes for Single Parents
Children should be aged between 2 - 5
There are 4 classes being held between 12:00 & 16:00
18th March 2010
22nd March 2010
2nd April 2010
5th April 2010
____________________________________________
That's an awful lot of numbers. Unless I have misunderstood numeracy, I am minded to believe that there may be trouble ahead when it comes to the actual classes.
I was ushered in to meet a rather mad professor looking Indian lady, who was busy losing herself in a pile of papers. The doctor in question was aghast that I had not visited or needed to visit a GP for over 6 years (perhaps more), not as much as I was with her computer literacy or should I say illiteracy?
Apparently, my condition (depression) entitles me to a massive discount at the local gymnasiums. Exercise is good for the physical AND mental health. Instead of paying close to £50, I shall only be required to part with £11 a month. A bargain, I am sure you will agree. Not as much of a bargain as someone who is suffering from dual personality syndrome. That's a minimum of two members for £11 a month! I shall be sad to leave behind the personal trainers and buoyancy aids of David Lloyd, but what can you do?
Anyway, I have been prescribed a drug with a name that comes straight out of the Arsenal line up. Apparently it might make me feel slightly anxious and I should avoid alcohol. That should cheer me up..?
My blood pressure was relatively normal - thanks for asking - and I was shepherded up to see the nurse to finalise my visit. A rather switched on lady who promised to text me sometime this week. Getting texts from a nurse? Why didn't I think about signing up sooner.
Things are taking shape. Watch this space.
Word of the Day: Zeroable - Able to be * from a sentence without any loss of meaning.
Quote of the Day: "One can't complain. I have my friends. Someone spoke to me only yesterday" - Eeyore (AA Milne)
* Omitted: non-zeroable
Sang the late, great Roy Castle.
I am not on course to break any records, but I have made some tentative steps towards getting fit again. David Lloyd is the temporary gymnasium of choice and it has served me well, thus far.
I finally got back on the saddle of a bike, albeit an exercise bike, after my jaunt to Bristol from London. I do enjoy cycling, but the particular bike I picked was positioned in front of a large TV showing the morning edition of 'Jeremy Kyle'. Three participants of the show, looking much like the result of generations of inbreeding, were arguing about text flirting, drinking too much and the paternity of a little boy caught up in the middle of the whole debacle.
Somewhere along the lines after many foul mouthed tirades, goading from the presenter and a passage of multiple gesticulations, the paternity issue was resolved and they were sent packing to carry on with their miserable existence of swearing, drinking and texting.
I tried my hardest to pedal away from the heinous torture, but alas exercise bikes are not renown for their moveable capabilities and I was trapped with 5 minutes left of my exercise programme. My pulse was racing from both experiences before I decided to head off to the weights section.
I have never been a great fan of any of the weight sections I have ever come across. In a previous existence, I used to visit a gym near my parents house. More often than not, I managed to time my visit with NASA boys (National Anabolic Steroids Association) - I jest with the last bit. The sort of man that would spend much of the morning, having polished off an 18 egg omelette, counting how many protruding veins he had and carefully selecting the smallest pair of cycling shorts from his closet. The stench of protein shakes and ego polish normally sent me packing early doors.
I've never quite got to grips with the whole mirrored atmosphere either. It is not that I dislike looking at myself in the mirror, but I just don't see the point of gazing, puppy eyed, at my sweaty efforts to lift 20kg weight above my head - but whatever floats your boat.
I beat a retreat and headed down to the pool. Supposedly the best exercise one can get, unless like me, you have trouble staying afloat and risk suffocation by filling your lungs with liquid. Thankfully, the pool is relatively shallow and I did my very best impression of a frog for 25 lengths or so.
The Sauna was the next port of call and gladly it was not rammed to the ceiling with Swedish bodybuilders and their frying pans. I did my best to wheeze my way through the 15 minutes of sweating before retiring for a much deserved spa.
The bubbles were working their magic and my mind begin to drift. Bliss. It was then that I was joined by a rather attractive bikini clad lady, who, how should I describe it? She entered the bubbling cauldron complete with artificially enlarged buoyancy aids and I am not talking about water-wings here. I wasn't quite sure where to look (or perhaps I did?). Anyway, the bubbles ceased and I made my excuses and retired to the shower before meeting Joy to take me home.
Thoroughly enjoyable and bound to become a habit.
Word of the Day: Colposinquanonia - Estimating a woman's beauty based on her chest
Quote of the Day: "A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise" - A A Milne
It was an intriguing contrast. At one o'clock I was doing my very best impression of 'Desperate Dan' and eating my way through a herd of cows and a Yorkshire Pudding. Two hours later, I was wandering around an exhibition about the Holocaust and confronted with pictures of innocent people being sent to their death - scared, hungry, fearful and sometimes unknowingly.
I spent a very pleasant hour or so wandering from London Bridge to Lambeth North. The rain was dribbling away and it took me about an hour, I didn't feel like upping the pace. The most disappointing aspect was the closure of the Waterloo Bridge book fair. It is quite an archaic bridge and tends to leak during rainy periods - books and rain don't mix too well.
I made it to Lambeth North, just in time for the Church service to finish. Therese, Mark and I ended up in the Doghouse. Not because we missed the church service, Mark and Therese made it, it was the name of the pub. A veritable feast ensued, later joined by Helen (the victim of an oversleep and dodgy public transport). 
It didn't look quite so good, but it was devoured nonetheless.
Mark departed to play some soccerball and the three of us were left to recount old tales, plans for the immediate future and merits of a Teutonic existence (I jest with the last part, obviously). The three of us digested the lunchtime feast, Therese and Helen opted for a crumble and custard to round things off...and eventually headed towards the Imperial War Museum.
The main aim of the visit was to sit ourselves in the bomb shelter experience - something I have not tired of despite numerous visits. However, we headed up to the heavens and stumbled across an exhibition dedicated to the the Holocaust.
Harrowing would not come close to describing the experience. I have read the Diary of Anne Frank and have paid a visit to Struthof concentration camp, but it really did bring to home the horrors of the ordeal facing 4 million plus civilians. Ironically, there were two people locked out of the camp tour (circa 1991) and they were German. "Let us in!". Not that I am wishing to label all Germans as being Nazi's, I hasten to add.
There have been and there will always be movements hoping to wipe out a particular race, tribe or creed. We have to be brave and stand up to those.
It was emotionally draining. We were faced with faces and actual real live people who were destroyed for the sake political policies. Innocent lives treated no better (worse, obviously) than cattle destined to end up on our dinner plates. I believe I have done a complete circle there.
Word of the Day: Anosmia -is a lack of functioning olfaction, or in other words, an inability to perceive odours or smell.
Quote of the Day: "... in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquillity will return again." - Anne Frank
