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April 30, 2004

Bank holiday weekend traffic report

Jams for Mr NBC on his way home


Image taken on 30/4/2004 16:43

Posted by The Englishman at 4:34 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

A giant step

giantstep.jpg Wow, my eldest daughter took her first steps yesterday, three without holding on to anything. Any parent knows that wonderful moment, but for us it was extra special because she is three and a half, and only a couple of weeks ago we were being warned it might never happen. If she conquers this it will make a huge difference to her and us. I am so proud of her.

Also it makes me more determined to do what I can for the Opportunity Centre who have worked tirelessly to help us. - see the sidebar!

Posted by The Englishman at 8:49 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

April 29, 2004

Out of my window this morning.

Yesterday there were two, today three, I must remember to keep feeding them up. Bigger Please!

Posted by The Englishman at 9:43 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

A useful guide if you are planning to visit us.

Britain for Americans - Food & Drink

British food is the best in the world. Be careful, though, the British do love to add spices to everything! And the English pub is a treat not to be missed...

Posted by The Englishman at 9:31 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

A message from the front

Click here

Posted by The Englishman at 12:11 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

April 28, 2004

Come the Glorious Twelfth

I had a little visit from a Kennet Council Environmental Health Officer today.

Up to the 5th April the council supplied community skips for residents to get rid of rubbish, but due to budgets they have stopped the practice. So last week some toerag flytipped some garden rubbish on the farm, so we tidied it up and tried to burn it.

Some bootlick brown-nose reported me to the council, so an officer was sent round. The crime, having regular bonfires that emit black smoke - penalty 5 years in chokey and an unlimited fine. Occasional bonfires and ones that don't send up black smoke are allowed.

My first question was "who accuses me?" - Sorry , Sir under council policy we can't tell you.
My reply - under The Magna Carta I have the right to know my accuser. (To quote - No bailiff shall in future put anyone to trial upon his own bare word, without reliable witnesses produced for this purpose.) The witnesses must be produced.

But of course not a chance. So I show Snodnose the remains of the fire, pointed out it was mainly branches, and we hadn't had more than one fire in a month or so, and after he has spent twenty minutes bareheaded and in a suit in the teaming rain (I had disappeared indoors with his ID card to have a piss, a drink and to change into wet weather gear leaving him outside waiting) he agreed to let it be this time.

But I have plans...

Tweltfth Celebrations,battle of the boyne,ulster,king billy,bonfires

Posted by The Englishman at 11:52 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

Big please


I have had great support from all sorts of people for my appeal - see details to the right.
But one or two of you may still be thinking about dipping into your pockets for a bit of change - if you like think of it as a subscription for this comic. Whatever you can spare would make a huge difference to these families.

(If you don't want to use paypal, drop me a line and I will provide an address to send cheques, used fivers and cowrie shells to.)

Thanks again.

Posted by The Englishman at 10:57 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Thought for the Day

BBC - Radio 2 just had a cleric on giving the usual tosh about how we must see the fight in Falluja in the light of love and forgiveness or something. He mentioned the TV pictures we have all been watching overnight of the bombardment. The producer must have a wicked sense of humour - he segued straight into -

I feel the earth move
Under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feel my heart start to trembling
Whenever you're around

Full lyrics

Posted by The Englishman at 9:26 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

April 27, 2004

He said it

BBC NEWS | World | Europe | EU is 'chaotic and leaderless'

Finnish ambassador to the UK Pertti Salolainen, who said he was speaking in a personal capacity, said: "The EU is chaotic, it has no vision, no leadership and it seems it will have no constitution."

What is the Finnish for "Couldn't agree more"

Posted by The Englishman at 9:38 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

..seldom differ

Two blogs I read this morning are on the same subject...

Crumb Trail

Dawkins's Law of the Conservation of Difficulty states that obscurantism in an academic subject expands to fill the vacuum of its intrinsic simplicity. Theoretical physics is a genuinely difficult subject. Envious disciplines, which I shall not advertise, conceal their lack of content behind billowing clouds of deliberate obscurity,..

And Kim du Toit puts it it slightly more robust language:

Parsing The Bullshit

During a Political Science course at university, I was often at war with one particular professor (Alfred Stadler, for those who remember the poxy Leninist bastard) because during lectures I would constantly stop him to say: "Please could you re-state that in English?"

The first time I said that, he replied that maybe I was in the wrong course, and that I should be taking English instead.

My response was that maybe he was in the wrong place, in that his job was to teach me political science, and not concepta ignota. (I always knew that Latin would come in handy, and the exchange was all the sweeter because he didn't know what I was saying -- "ignota" means obscure).

- My motto entirely, if I don't understand what you are talking about it is your fault not mine, and post-modernist deconstructurism bullshit falls squarely into that category.

Posted by The Englishman at 10:40 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Melanie - please call me

I offered to take part in the ID card Trial. As requested I called Melanie Briere on 020 7347 3023 or email trial@mori.com. but it looks like the trial is going ahead without me... the number is always engaged and I have no reply to my email.... they wouldn't be trying to fix the result would they?

Posted by The Englishman at 9:48 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack


Islamic cleric vows he will not be finger printed nor iris scanned for his ID card...

Posted by The Englishman at 9:30 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

April 26, 2004


The legend of the Wiltshire moonrakers is well known, but while the outline of the story is well documented, filling in the details largely depends on which book you read. The story is simple, though, and its message clear.

A pair of Wiltshiremen, engaged in smuggling brandy, hide a barrel of the contraband from the excisemen in a nearby pond and when they return at some later time, in the dark, they are caught in the act of raking the barrel back to land. They immediately claim that they are trying to rake cheese - the reflection of the moon - from the pond and the excisemen, amused by the apparently simple-minded rustics, leave them to it.


The moral of the story is that, despite their earthy accents, Wiltshire folk are not as slow-witted as some would believe and, to this day, people born in the county are proud to call themselves moonrakers.

Just when the incident took place is far from clear, particularly as smuggling is by no means restricted to any one period in history, but at least one historian has claimed it originated in the 18th century.

The site of the pond is a matter of fiercer conjecture, with any one of the many Wiltshire towns and villages which boast a pond laying claim to be the home of the original moonrakers at one time or another.

However it is generally accepted in happened in one of the Cannings Parishes and there is only one roadside dew pond out in the countryside - and it is this one which is in my garden. So I claim it as the original.

Now of course I wouldn't condone the smuggling of goods to avoid penal duties, but I'm proud to call myself a Moonraker - and as to what is at the bottom of the pond....

Posted by The Englishman at 5:16 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Changed but still the same!

Just a note to let you know that the Adam Smith Institute Blog - apparently
Europe's favourite think tank blog - has moved to: www.adamsmith.org/blog

Posted by The Englishman at 8:57 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

April 24, 2004

Tonight we sing the old songs..

I'm amazed to learn that this is a real company - FUGAWI Navigation Software For GPS Receivers as in "where the Fugawi?"

So Gentlemen - the Loyal Toast has ben drunk, time to start the songs..
Full Lyrics are available, for adults only, below:
Thanks to 24th Missile Regt R.A and others.


We're off to see the Wild West Sho-o-ow,
The elephants and the kangaroo-oo-oos.
Never mind the weather, as long as we're together,
We're off to see the Wild West Show.

Call: Ladies and Gentlemen! In this corner we have the .

Response: The ? Fantastic! Incredible! What the hell is the ?
Tell us about it mother fucker.

Tattooed Lady:
This tattooed lady has "Merry Christmas!" tattooed inside her left
thigh, and "Happy New Year!" tattooed inside her right thigh. She wants
you to come up and see her between the holidays.

The Fukawi Tribe:
A tribe of pygmies from the Grasslands of Africa, the Fukawi grow to a
height of 4 feet tall. They roam through the 5-foot tall grass jumping
up and down shouting "We're the Fukawi! We're the Fukawi!"

The Laughing Hyena:
This animal lives up in the mountains, and once every year he comes down
to eat, once every two years he comes down to drink, and once every
three years he comes down for sexual intercourse. What the hell he has
to fucking laugh about, I don't know.

The Giraffe:
The giraffe is one of the most popular animals in the animal kingdom.
(Why?) Well, every time he goes into a bar he says, "The high balls
are on me."

The Leopard:
he leopard is the only living calendar--he has one spot for every day of
the year. (What about leap year?) Why, just lift up his tail.

The Sabre-Toothed Tiger:
he sabre-toothed tiger is the only 200-pound pussy that eats you.

The Orangutan:
The orangutan has one ball made of brass and the other made of steel,
and when he goes swinging through the trees they go "Orang-a-Tang,

The Elephant:
The elephant has an enormous appetite. Every day it eats 2 tons of hay,
20 buckets of rice...Lady! Please don't stand behind him...Too late.
Bill, go get the shovel and dig her out.

The Oomie-Goollie Bird:
The oomie-goollie bird has balls that hang down 14 inches.
Unfortunately, his legs are only 12 inches long, and whenever he comes
in to land, you can hear him cry, "Oooh, me goollies. Oooh,
me goollies."

The Ooh-Aah Bird:
The male of this species lives at the North Pole, and the female of this
species resides at the South Pole. During their mating season, the
birds fly until they meet at the equator, where you can hear
them going "Oooooh! Aaaaaaah! Oooooh! Aaaaaaah!"

The Winky-Wanky Bird:
The nervous system of this unusual bird has crossed over the links
between his eyelids and his dong. Now, every time he winks, he wanks,
and every time he wanks, he winks. Hey kid! Stop throwing sand in his

Melody http://www.lepanto.org.br/Musicas/Inglesas/erlymorn.mid

T ’was on the good ship Venus
‘Kin oath you should have seen us
The figurehead was Fourskin Ned
Whopping away on his penis.
Chorus :
Frigging in the riging
Wanking in the planking
Masturbating in the grating
‘Cause there ’s fuck-all else to do.

The captain ’s name was Morgan
A homo-sexual gorgon
Three times a day, He used to play
Upon his sexual organ.

The captain ’s wife was Mabel
Whenever she was able
Would lay prostrate , Beneath the mate
On top of the chart room table.

The captain ’s lovely daughter
Went swimming in the water
Delighted squeals Showed that the eels
Had found her sexual quarter.

The cabin boy ’s name was Ripper
Damn sadistic nipper
Stuffed his arse With broken glass
And circumcised the skipper.

The cook ’s was Mike O ’Malley
Didn ’t dillydally
He shot his bolt With such a jolt
He whitewashed half the galley.

The stoker ’s name was Mugger
Filthy low-down bugger
Wasn ’t fit To shovel shit
On any bugger ’s lugger.

The parson ’s name was Farrell
Who wore such strange apparel
They didn ’t know The arse on show
Was him inside the barrel.

The ship ’s dog ’s name was Rover
They often did him over
He moaned and groaned, That faithful hound
From Calais cross to Dover.
The ship ’s cat ’s name was Kitty
Oh how her arse was shitty
But shifty or not, It was a twat
And the sailors had no pitty

The bosun ’s name was Hopper
‘Kin hell, he had whopper
Once round the deck, Twice round his neck
And up his arse for a stopper.
We sailed to the Azores
And rooted all the whories
We caught the syph, In Tel Avif
And pox in Buenos Aires.

Tune: The Ashgrove

The mayor of Bayswater,
He has a pretty daughter.
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees

And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to …her …knees (pause)
One black one, one white one
And one with a bit of shite on
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees

If she was my daughter
I ’d have them cut shorter
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees
She went down to Woolongong
Where they told her they were much too long
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees

I ’ve smelt it I ’ve felt it
It ’s lust like a bit of velvet.
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees
I know them, I ’ve seen them
I ’ve been in between them.
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees

She married a Spaniard
With a prick like a bloody lanyard~
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees
She married an Italian
With a prick like a bloody stallion,
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees

It would take a coal miner
To find her vagina.
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees.
She bangs just like a dunnie door
But she comes back for more and more
And the hairs on her dicky-di-doe
Hang down to her knees

Melody - Itself

It's a bastard away from the women and all,
With a pain in the guts from a great lover's ball,
But there's nothing so lonely, shocking, or queer,
Than to knock off a barmaid that's got gonorrhoea.

The publican's anxious for the chemist to come,
He's looking with lust at the barmaid's big bum,
He's waiting to give her a belt up the back,
But without a French letter he might get the jack.

The stockman rides in with a masterly stroke,
Takes the pants off her and gives a poke,
The look on his face quickly turns into fear,
When the barmaid informs him he just got gonorrhoea.

The swaggie tramps in undoing his fly,
He says, "Give me a poke or I'll shoot in your eye."
The stockman jumps up and says, "Don't do it, mate."
But the swaggie says sadly, "It's too bloody late."

Billy the blacksmith, the first time in his life,
Goes home for a roger with his darling wife,
As he walks in the bedroom, she says with a sneer,
"Without a Frenchie, you'll get nothin' here."

There's a dog on the verandah, still sufferin' from shock,
He's just seen the size of old Billy's cock,
He dashes for cover and cringes in fear,
Billy's sure to root something; I'm movin' from here!

Melody - My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean

They ought to be publicly pissed on,
They ought to be publicly shot,
They ought to be tied to a urinal,
And left there to fester and rot,
Drink it down, down, down . . .

Tune :The Eton boating song (unavailable)

The sexual life of a camel,
Is stranger than anyone thinks,
At the height of the mating season,
He tries to bugger tive Sphinx.
But the Sphinx ’s posterior sphincter,
Is all clogged by the sands of the Nile.
Which accounts for the hump on the camel,
And the Sphinx ’s Inscrutable smile.
Singing bum-titty, bum-titty, tittybum,
Bum-titty, bum-titty aye.
Singing bum-titty, bum-titty, titty-bum,
Bum-titty, bum-titty aye.
In the process of syphilisation.
From the anthropoid ape down to man,
It is generally held that the Navy,
Has buggered whatever it can.
Yet recent extensive researches,
By Darwin and Huxicy and Hall,
Conclusivety prove that the hedgehog
Has never been buggered at all.
We therefore balleve our conclusion,
Is incontrovertibly shown,
That comparative safety on shipboard,
is enjoyed by the hedgehog alone.
Why haven ’t they done it at Sptthead,
As they ’ve done it at Harvard and Yale,
And also at Oxford and Cambridge,
By shaving the spines of its tail.
The sexual life of the ostrich.
Is hard to understand.
At the height of the mating season,
It buries it ’s head in the sand.
And if another ostrich finds it
Standing there with it ’s ass in the air,
Does it have the urge to grind ft.
Or doesn ’t it bloody well care?

Melody - Come Let Us Adore Him

Why are we waiting,
Could be fornicating (masturbating, etc),
Oh, why are we waiting,
So fucking long, etc . . .

Melody - Itself

Why was he born so beautiful?
Why was he born at all?
He's no fuckin' use to anyone,
He's no bloody use at all.

They say he's a joy to his mother,
But he's a pain in the asshole to me,

He's fresh as a daisy,
He drives me crazy,

So drink it down, down, down . . .

The Ballad of Eskimo Nell

Gather 'round, all you whorey,
Gather 'round, and hear my story.

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue;
When it bends in the middle like a one-string fiddle,
He can tell you a tale or two.

So pull up a chair and stand me a drink,
And a tale to you I'll tell
About Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
And a harlot named Eskimo Nell.

When Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
Go forth in search of fun,
It's Dead-Eye Dick that swings the prick,
And Mexican Pete the gun.

When Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
Are sore, depressed and sad,
It's always a cunt that bears the brunt,
But the shooting's not so bad.

Now Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
Lived down by Dead Man's Creek,
And such was their luck that they'd had no fuck
For nigh on half a week.

Oh, a moose or two, and a caribou,
And a bison cow or so,
But for Dead-Eye Dick with his kingly prick,
This fucking was mighty slow.

Dick pound on his cock with a huge piece of rock,
And he said, "I want to play!,
It's been almost a week at this fucking creek,
With no cunt coming my way!"

So, do or dare, this horny pair
Set off for the Rio Grande:
Dead-Eye Dick with his kingly prick,
And Pete with his gun in hand.

Then, as they blazed their noisy trail,
No man, their path withstood.
Many a bride, her husband's pride,
A pregnant widow stood.

They reached the strand of the Rio Grand
At the height of a blazing noon.
To slake their thirst, and do their worst,
They sought Black Mike's saloon.

The swinging doors they pushed back wide,
Both prick and gun flashed free.
"According to sex, you bleeding wrecks,
You'll drink or you'll fuck with me!"

Now, they'd heard of the prick of Dead-Eye Dick,
From the Yukon to Panama,
So, with scarcely worse than a muttered curse,
The fellows all sought the bar.

When Dick walked in to a house of sin,
The whores all cursed their luck,
Not even a tart dared let out a fart,
When he said - "I want to fuck!"

The girls they knew of his playful ways
Down on the Rio Grande,
And forty whores pulled down their drawers
At Dead-eye Dick's command.

For they saw the finger of Mexican Pete
Move on the trigger grip,
So they didn't wait and at a fearful rate
Those whores began to strip.

Now, Dead-Eye Dick was breathing quick
With lecherous snorts and grunts,
So forty butts were bared to view,
And likewise forty cunts.

Now, forty butts and forty cunts,
If you can use your wits,
And if you're slick, at arithmetic,
Makes exactly eighty tits.

Sure, eighty tits are a gladsome sight
For a man with a raging stand.
It may be rare in Berkeley Square,
But not on the Rio Grande!

Now Dead-Eye Dick had fucked a few
On the last preceding night,
This he had done just to have some fun
And to whet his appetite.

His phallic limb was in fucking trim.
As he backed and took a run,
He made a dart at the nearest tart,
and scored a hole in one.

The lady he bore to the dusty floor,
And there he filled her fine,
And though she grinned, it put the wind
Up the other thirty-nine.

When Dead-Eye Dick lets loose his prick,
He has no time to spare,
With speed and strength, combined with length,
He fairly singes hair.

He had made a dart at the next fair tart,
When into that harlot's hell
Strode a gentle maid who was unfraid:
Her name was Eskimo Nell.

But Dead-Eye Dick had got his prick
Well into number two,
When Eskimo Nell let out a yell.
She bawled to him, "Hey, you!"

Dick gave a flick of his muscular prick,
And the girl flew over his head,
He then wheeled about with an angry shout;
His face and his balls were red.

Nell glanced our hero up and down,
His looks she seemed to decry.
With utter scorn, she sneered at the horn
Which rose from his hairy thigh.

She blew the smoke of her cigarette
All over his steaming knob.
So utterly beat was Mexican Pete
That he failed to do his job.

It was Eskimo Nell who broke the spell
In accents clear and cool:
"You cunt-struck shrimp of a Yankee pimp!
You call that thing a tool?

"If this here town can't take that down,"
She said to those cowering whores,
"There's another cunt that can do the stunt,
But it Eskimo Nell's, not yours."

She dropped her garments one by one
With an air of consumate pride,
And as she stood in her womanhood,
They saw the Great Divide.

She seated herself on a table top,
Where someone had left a glass.
With a twitch of her tits, she crushed it to bits
Between the cheeks of her ass.

She flexed her knees with supple ease,
And spread her thighs apart.
With a friendly nod to the mangy sod,
She gave him the cue to start.

Now, Dead-Eye Dick knew more than one trick,
And he meant to take his time,
For a woman like this was orgasmic bliss,
So he played the pantomime.

He flexed his asshole to and fro,
And made his balls inflate,
Until they looked like the granite knobs
On the top of a palace gate.

He blew his anus inside out,
His balls increased in size,
His mighty prick grew twice as thick
And reached almost to his eyes.

He polished his dick with alcohol,
Then, to make it steaming hot,
He finished the job, when he sprinkled his knob
With a cayenne pepperpot.

Then he did neither start to run
Nor did he take a leap,
Nor did he stoop, but with a swoop
Began a steady, forward creep.

As a marksman might, he took a sight
Along his mighty tool,
And his steady grin as he pushed it in
Showed a calculated cool.

Have you ever seen the pistons
On the mighty C.P.R.,
With the driving force of a thousand horse?
Well, then you know what pistons are.

Or, you think you do, but you've yet to see
The ins and outs of the trick
Of the work that's done on a non-stop run
By a fellow like Dead-Eye Dick.

But Eskimo Nell was no infidel,
As good as a whole harem
With the strength of ten in her abdomen
And the Rock of Ages between.

With nary a scream, she could take the stream
Like the flush of a watercloset.
Now, she gripped his cock like a Chatswood Lock
On the National Safe Deposit.

But Dead-Eye Dick would not come quick,
He meant to conserve his powers,
For if he'd a mind, he'd grind and grind
For sixteen solid hours.

Nell lay a while with a subtle smile,
Then the grip of her cunt grew keener,
And a squeeze of her thigh then sucked him dry
With the ease of a vacuum cleaner.

She performed this trick in a way so slick
As to set in complete defiance
The principal cause and basic laws
That govern sexual science.

She calmly rode through the phallic code
Which for years had withstood the test,
And the ancient rules of the classic schools
In a moment or two, went west.

Right here, my friend, we come to the end
Of copulation's classic:
The effect on Dick was sudden and quick
And akin to an anaesthetic.

He fell to the floor, and he knew no more,
His passions extinct and dead,
Nor did he shout as his cock fell out,
Though 'twas stripped right down to a thread.

Then, Mexican Pete did leap to his feet
To avenge his pal's affront,
With a jarring jolt of his blue-nosed Colt,
He rammed it up Nellie's cunt.

He rammed it hard to the trigger guard,
Then fired two times three,
But to his surprise, Nell closed her eyes
And smiled in ecstacy.

She rose to her feet with a smile so sweet,
Then "Bully," she said, "for you.
Though I might have guessed that that was the best
That you two poor pimps could do.

"When next, my friend, that you intend
To sally forth for fun,
Buy Dead-Eye Dick a sugar stick,
And yourself an elephant gun.

"I'm going forth to the frozen North
Where the peckers are hard and strong,
Back to the land of the frozen stand
Where the nights are six months long.

"It's hard as tin when they put it in
In the land where spunk is spunk.
Not a trickling stream of lukewarm cream,
But a solid, frozen chunk.

"Back to the land where they understand
What it means to fornicate,
Where even the dead sleep two in a bed
And the babies masturbate.

"Back to the land of the grinding gland,
Where the walrus plays with his prong,
Where the polar bear wanks off in his lair,
That's where they'll sing this song.

"They'll tell this tale on the Arctic trail
Where the nights are sixty below,
Where it's so damn cold the jonnies are sold
Wrapped up in a ball of snow.

"In the Valley of Death with baited breath,
That's where they'll sing it too,
Where the skeletons rattle in sexual battle
And the rotting corpses screw.

"Back to the land where men are Men,
I'll say 'Terra Bellicum,'
And there I'll spend my worthy end,
For the North is calling: 'Come!'"

Then Dead-Eye Dick and Mexican Pete
Slunk away from the Rio Grande,
Dead-Eye Dick with his useless prick,
And Pete with no gun in his hand.

When a man grows old and his balls grow cold,
And the tip of his prick turns blue,
And the hole in the middle refuses to piddle,
I'd say he was fucked, wouldn't you?

Posted by The Englishman at 1:02 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

April 23, 2004

Happy St George's Day


For Mr Free Market

" I see you Stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the Start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge
Cry "God for Harry! England and Saint George!"

Shakespeare, Henry V (1599) Act 3, Sc. 1, L. 31

Posted by The Englishman at 10:05 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

For St George's Day!

Thanks to Tally for forward me a suitable text for today:

England and the English - A Book of Words - Rudyard Kipling

My lords, ladies and gentlemen - for what there is of it - for such as it is - and for what it may be worth - will you drink to England and the English?

England and the English

Beyond the Pillars of Hercules, they do things inversely and, perpetually appearing to dig their own graves, by some means erect world-beheld monuments—an example, however, not to be followed by less confident peoples.

Royal Society of St. George: April 1920
I THINK this is an occasion on which it behoves us all to walk rather circumspectly. If you will let me, I will try and tell you why. About sixteen hundred years ago, when Rome was mistress of the world and the Picts and the Scots lived on the other side of the Wall that ran from Newcastle to Carlisle, the story goes that Rome allowed all those peoples one night in the year in which they could say aloud exactly what they thought of Rome, without fear of the consequences. So then, on that one night of the year, they would creep out of the heather in droves and light their little wandering fires and criticise their Libyan Generals and their Roman Pontiffs and the Eastern camp followers, who looked down on them from the top of the great high unbreakable Roman Wall sixteen hundred years ago.

To-day, Imperial Rome is dead. The Wall is down and the Picts and the Scots are on this side of it, but thanks to our Royal Society of St. George, there still remains one night in the year when the English can creep out of their hiding-places and whisper to each other exactly what we think about ourselves. No, it is not quite safe to criticise our masters—our masters who tax us and educate us, and try us, and minister so abundantly to what they instruct us our wants ought to be. Since these masters of ours have not yet quite the old untroubled assurance of power and knowledge that made Rome so tolerant in the days when the Picts and the Scots lived on the other side of the Wall, we will confine ourselves to our own popular and widely recognised defects.

Some of our severest critics, who, of course, are of our own household, have said that there never was such a thing as the English Race—that it is at best the intolerably insolent outcome of ancient invasions and immigrations, freshened with more recent Continental gaol-deliveries. Far be it from me to traverse such statements. I give them on no less authority than that of the late Mr. Daniel Defoe, Liveryman of the City of London, author of Robinson Crusoe and of a pamphlet called The True-born Englishman. He deals very faithfully with the English. So faithfully that, in deference to the susceptibilities of some races, I will not give his version of the Englishman’s pedigree, but in his summing up of the true-born Englishman, Defoe says:

A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction,
In speech an irony, in fact a fiction,
A metaphor intended to express
A man akin to all the Universe.

In that last line it seems to me that Defoe slips into a blessing where he meant to curse, because a man “akin to all the Universe” cannot be wholly lost. He must have some points of contact with humanity. And the Englishman has had several.

The Phoenicians taught him the rudiments of shopkeeping; the Romans taught him love of sport by hiring him to fight wild beasts in their arenas. Under the Heptarchy he studied Social Reform, which in those unenlightened days consisted of raising levies on capital in order to buy off the Heathen of the North from taking direct action against English industries. He next took a three-hundred-years’ course of colloquial and Law French under eminent Norman teachers. He did not learn that language then or since, but it left him with a profound respect, based on experience, for his neighbours across the Channel, and a conviction, which time has deepened, that they were the only other people in the world who mattered.

For five hundred years his affairs, domestic and foreign, were controlled by French, Italian, Spanish, with occasional Austrian, politico-ecclesiastical authorities, who tried to teach him that “this realm of England” was but part of a vast international organisation destined to embrace, protect, and instruct all mankind. He escaped from those embraces only to find himself subjected to the full rigours of the Puritan Conscience, which at that time was largely directed by gentle men from Geneva, Leyden, Amsterdam, and the Low Countries. While thus engaged he was, under pretext of union, finally and fatally subjugated by the Scot. A few years later he embarked on the swelling tide of party politics in all their attendant purity; since which he has seldom been allowed to look back, and never forward.

I submit that such a nightmare of national experiences would have driven an unmixed race to the edge of lunacy. But the Englishman is like a built-up gun barrel, all one temper though welded of many different materials, and he has strong powers of resistance. Roman, Dane, Norman, Papist, Cromwellian, Stuart, Hollander, Hanoverian, Upper Class, Middle Class, Democracy, each in turn through a thousand years experimented on him and tried to make him to their own liking. He met them each in turn with a large silent toleration, which each in turn mistook for native stupidity. He gave them each in turn a fair trial and, when he had finished with them, an equally fair dismissal. As an additional safeguard he devised for himself a social system in watertight compartments, so arranged that neither the waters of popular emotion nor the fires of private revenge could sweep his ship of State from end to end. If, in spite of this, the domestic situation became too much for him he could always take a ship and go to sea, and there seek or impose the peace which the Papal Legate, or the Mediaeval Trade Union, or a profligate Chancellor of the Exchequer denied to him at home. And thus, gentlemen—not in a fit of absence of mind—was the Empire born. It was the outcome of the relaxations of persecuted specialists—men who for one cause or another were unfit for the rough and tumble of life at home. They did it for change and rest, exactly as we used to take our summer holidays, and, like ourselves, they took their national habits with them. For example, they did not often gather together with harps and rebecks to celebrate their national glories, or to hymn their national heroes. When they did not take them both for granted, they, like ourselves, generally denied the one and did their best to impeach the other. But, by some mysterious rule-of-thumb magic, they did establish and maintain reasonable security and peace among simple folk in very many parts of the world, and that, too, without overmuch murder, robbery, oppression, or torture.

One secret of the success of the English was, perhaps, their imperturbable tolerance. A race that has been persecuted, or—what comes to the same thing—bored, by every persecuted refugee to whom they have ever given an asylum, naturally learns to tolerate anything. Their immensely mixed origin, too, made the English in a very real sense “akin to all the universe”, and sympathetic in their dumb way with remote Gods and strange people. Above all, their long insular experience of imported brain-storms had taught them that men should not try to do better than good for fear lest worse than bad might follow. And there has been enough of worse than bad in the world for the last few years. Our national weakness for keeping to the easiest road to the latest possible minute sooner than inconvenience ourselves or our neighbours has been visited upon us full tale. After ninety-nine years of peace the English were given ninety-six hours in which to choose whether they would buy a little longer peace from the Heathen of the North, as some of their ancestors had done, or whether they would make peace with them as our King Alfred made it with the Danes. It was a race that had almost forgotten how to say “No” to anybody who said “Yes” in a sufficiently loud voice. It seemed as if it had quite forgotten that it had broken a Church, killed a King, closed a Protectorate and exiled another King, sooner than be driven where it did not want to go. But when its hour came, once again it decided to go its own way, and once again by instinct. For it had prepared nothing—it had foreseen nothing. It had been assured that not only was there no need for preparation against war, but that the mere thought of preparation against war was absurd where it was not criminal. Therefore, through the first two years of the war, it was necessary to throw up a barricade of the dead bodies of the nation’s youth behind which the most elementary preparations could be begun.

There has been no such slaughter of the English in English history, but the actual war was no more than a large-scale repetition of previous national experiences. If an Elizabethan Statesman (or adventurer) could have returned to England during the war he would, I think, in a very short time have been able to pick up his office work almost where he dropped it. His reports and his maps would have been a little more detailed, but he would have been surprisingly abreast of the whole situation.

Where the old English influence had struck deep all the world over, he would have seen help and comfort hurried up to all the fronts from all the world over without count or tale, without word or bond to limit or confirm it. Where the old alien influences that he knew so well had persisted, or where the new influences directed by the old were at work, he would have seen, as he would have expected, all help for the war denied, withheld, or doled out grudgingly, piecemeal at a high price. He would have recognised that what held firm in the days of the Armada held firm at Armageddon: that what had broken beneath his hand then was rotten in our hand now. Bar a few minor differences of equipment, he would have felt just like any sailor or soldier returning to some bitterly familiar job of sea-patrol or trench life between ’14 and ’18. Like those men he would have taken for granted a great deal upon which other nations might have wasted valuable thought and attention. Our stories of Coronel and Zeebrugge, of the English county battalions not one year old that died to the last man as a matter of routine on the fronts that they were ordered to hold, would have moved him no more and no less than the little affair of Sir Richard Grenville off Flores, in the Revenge. That troopers of County Yeomanry in Mesopotamia, picked almost at random, could, single-handed and by sheer force of character, control and conciliate in a few days a turbulent Arab village, would have amazed him no more and no less than any tale of Panama, or of our first venture across the world, told him by Sir Francis Drake or any forgotten captain of the same age. Being of the breed he would have known the breed and would have taken the work of the breed for granted.

And herein, as I see it, lies the strength of the English—that they have behind them this continuity of immensely varied race-experience and race-memory, running equally through all classes back to the very dawn of our dawn. This imposes on them unconsciously, even while they deny or deride it, standards of achievement and comparison, hard perhaps, and perhaps a little unsympathetic, but not low—not low—and, as all earth is witness, not easily to be lowered. And that is the reason why in the things nearest our hearts we praise so little and criticise so lavishly. It is the only compliment which an Englishman dare pay to his country.

As you know, our standards of achievement and comparison do not appear on the surface; nor are they much in men’s mouths. When they are, they are mostly translated into terms of sport or the slang of our various games. But whenever the English deal in earnest with each other, or with the outside world, those standards are taken for granted. And it is by the things that we take for granted without word that we live. It was taken for granted during the war that every day was St. George’s Day, on one or other of our seven fronts.

And now, we and our kin, after these great years, are sick, dizzy, and shaken—like all convalescents, a little inclined to pity ourselves, a little inclined to stay as long as possible on a diet of invalid slops, and a little more than inclined to mistake the hysteria of convalescence for the symptoms of returning life and thought. Here also instinct tells us that the weight, the range, and the evenly spread richness of our national past should ballast us sufficiently to navigate through whatever storms—or brain-storms—there may be ahead. And we are threatened with several.

One school of thought, Muscovite in origin, holds, as the Danes held twelve hundred years ago, that rapine and scientific torture will elevate our ideals, which up to the present have merely taught us to try to do our duty to our God and our neighbour. Others are content to work for the organised bankruptcy of whatsoever is of good repute, including the systematic betrayal of our friends, very much on the same lines as some people used to panic after every Crusade and every visitation of the plague. We are further promised an unparalleled outbreak of education, guaranteed to produce a standardised State-aided mind. The Church evolved almost a parallel system in the Middle Ages, which, much to her surprise, produced the Reformation.

Lastly, lest we should ever again lapse into our “pathetic contentment”, the breed which organised at a week’s notice to achieve the impossible and achieved it—by earth, sea, and air achieved it—is now, as a reward, to be ruthlessly reorganised in every detail of its life, walk, and conduct. That great work was begun by William the Conquerer, Anno Domini 1066, and has been before Committee or Commission ever since.

Norman, Papist, Cromwellian, Stuart, Hollander, Hanoverian, Upper Class, Middle Class, Democracy, have each in turn tried their fleeting hand on the “man akin to all the Universe”. From each in turn he has taken what he wanted; to each in turn he has given a fair trial; and, when he has quite finished, an equally fair dismissal.

What will he do in the future?. We are too near to the dust of the main battle to see clearly. We know that England is crippled by the loss and wastage of a whole generation, and that her position, from the civil point of view to-day, is the position of our armies in the darkest days of the war. That is to say, all leave is stopped for any man who can manage to stand up to his job, no matter how sick or stale he may feel himself to be, and there is undreamed-of promotion for untried men who, simply because they are not dead, will now have to face heavier responsibility, longer hours, and criticism that certainly will not grow milder as the years pass. But no miracles have occurred.

This world of ours, which some of us in their zeal to do better than good have helped to create, but which we must all inherit, is not a new world, but the old world grown harder. The wheel has come full circle. The whole weight of the world at the present moment lies again, as it used to lie in the time of our fathers, on the necks of two nations, England and France. The sole force under God’s good Providence that can meet this turn of our fate, is not temperament, not opportunism, nor any effort to do better than good, but character and again character—such mere ingrained, common-sense, hand-hammered, loyal strength of character as one humbly dares to hope that fifteen hundred years of equality of experience have given us.

If this hope be true—and because we know the breed in our hearts we know that it is true—if this hope be justified, our children’s children, looking back through the luminous years to where we here stumble and falter, will say to themselves: “Was it possible—was it possible that the English of that age did not know, could not see, dared not even guess, to what height of strength, wisdom, and enduring honour they had lifted their land?”

But we will be circumspect! My lords, ladies and gentlemen—for what there is of it—for such as it is—and for what it may be worth—will you drink to England and the English?

Posted by The Englishman at 1:11 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

April 22, 2004


At home tonight looking after the Englishettes, both little Angels (As Pope Gregory would have said - Responsum est, quod Angli vocarentur. At ille: "Bene," inquit; "nam et angelicam habent faciem, et tales angelorum in caelis decet esse coherides.") are asleep. So for once I get charge of the remote control - nothing on!
A Greek property show, twice; Footer and something about Dead Di and Dodi, Beaky, Mitch and Titch. So a chance to look through the videos - not those ones - and the only one I have and not watched is Michael Moore Oscar winning twaddle - I have not seen it but I can't risk having to buy a new television..
So it will be a choice between The Searchers and Sir Henry - "Break out the Winchesters" vs "If I had all the money I'd spent on drink, I'd spend it on drink."...

Posted by The Englishman at 8:03 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Grease Guns

One of these I use on the tractor - one I don't...

Can you spot which one?

Thanks to Kim du Toit for one of the photos

Posted by The Englishman at 9:47 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

April 21, 2004

Today I mainly have been washing my car.

No time to Blog today - I wanted to get the old Battle Bus up on ebay. It has been sat in the barn for too long, and I am never going to get round to doing it up. Too many other projects on the go.
So here it is:
eBay item 2475082149 (Ends Apr-28-04 09:07:05 PDT) - Land Rover Series 2 LWB project

(Please buy it so my children don't starve!)

Posted by The Englishman at 7:52 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

April 20, 2004

Ding Dong

I say, ding dong!
Happy 80th Birthday to a hero of all Englishmen.

Posted by The Englishman at 7:03 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Send for the men in white coats.

The Daily Ablution points out this group of symptoms:

# losing your temper
# arguing with adults
# defying adults or refusing adult requests or rules
# deliberately annoying others
# blaming others for your own mistakes or misbehavior
# being touchy or easily annoyed
# being angry and resentful
# being spiteful or vindictive
# swearing or using obscene language
# having a low opinion of yourself

- Oh dear looks like I've got it, as have some other bloggers I could mention..

It is "Oppositional Defiant Disorder" - or, inevitably, "ODD." -

So when I say "Fuck you Tony Blair, I'm not going to vote the way you want me to." I am
* losing my temper
* arguing with adults
* defying adults or refusing adult requests or rules
* deliberately annoying others
* blaming others for my own mistakes or misbehavior
* being touchy or easily annoyed
* being angry and resentful
* being spiteful or vindictive
* swearing or using obscene language
* having a low opinion of myself

He will probably send the men round to take me off to be cured.....

Posted by The Englishman at 6:38 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

April 19, 2004

Why the U turn?

Tony's U turn on the Referendum has been perplexing me.

1) He needed to take the heat out of the Tories who were going to run with it in the Euro elections . So good reason to announce holding one.
2) He won't win the referendum, and he doesn't pick fights he doesn't believe he can win.

So either he is a fool who thinks the public will buy him being pretty reasonable sort of guy and back him or it is like the Euro referendum. We still haven't had that one either!

I bet it isn't going to happen. Either the rest of the Europolitcos will scupper it as last time, or it gets so changed that the UK Parliament turns it down. Either way no need for a referendum and Tony holds the moral highground.

Posted by The Englishman at 9:06 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

There may be trouble ahead..

The Sun says:

Only 16 per cent would vote Yes in a referendum and 28 per cent are not sure.

...an exclusive Sun poll shows at least 53 per cent would REJECT the constitution.

But that figure will soar as one third of the nation is still undecided, while fewer than one in five are in favour.

But while there's music and moonlight
And love and romance
Let's face the music and dance.

Posted by The Englishman at 5:57 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Can't do better - my arse.

On Friday the trusty old Saab wouldn't start - looked like the battery was flat (- what shape should it be etc..). I tried charging it on Saturday - no joy, so late in the afternoon I popped into Devizes to get a new battery. First big place to sell them is Kwik-Fit - Five to five, doors still open, before I get to the front door a fitter comes out and says - "Sorry mate we are about to close, and there is a queue of people we are already seeing to." I say fine - I just want to buy a battery, I don't need anyone to fit it - but no they were about to close so they wouldn't serve me. " Come back tomorrow" he said, "Bollocks" I said - luckily I found the little one man motor spares shop was still open and so I was happy to give him my £48.

And then I remembered a couple of years ago when I had a flat tyre at Gatwick airport - my car had every tool apart from the correct socket to undo the nuts (I know I should have checked). RAC man got me to Kwik-fit by blowing the tyre up. " Sorry mate we are closing"
RAC man " I bring lots of people here, surely you can just change the tyre".
Luckily a Halfords was near by and I bought a socket and changed it myself, and the RAC man said "bollocks" to them.
So note to self - "Kwik-fit - just say NO".

Posted by The Englishman at 5:30 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

April 16, 2004

Please make me happy by taxing me more.

BBC NEWS | UK | Blair attacked on quality of life
Sir Jonathon Espie Porritt's little think tank has come up with a report which basically says "(we) recommend higher taxes to promote healthier lifestyles....the government must fight the "delusion" that economic wealth necessarily made people happier...The problem of climate change is now as important to the world as international terrorism"

I could read the rest of this ridiculous report but I can't be arsed - it wouldn't improve the "quality of my life" to listen to more of this bollocks.

Posted by The Englishman at 1:09 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

How moral am I?


Your Moralising Quotient is: 0.30.

Your Interference Factor is: 0.00.

Your Universalising Factor is: 0.40.

What do these results mean?

Your Moralising Quotient is an aggregate measure of your tendency to condemn the actions described in these scenarios as morally wrong. A score of 1.00 indicates a fully moralising position. A score of 0.00 is a fully permissive response. (See below for more on these.)

Your Interference Factor is an aggregate measure of your tendency to judge the actions described here as being the legitimate target of societal interference in the form of prevention or punishment. A score of 1.00 indicates that you think that every act described in these scenarios is subject to societal interference. A score of 0.00 indicates that you think that these acts are essentially a private matter, and that societal interference is inappropriate.

Your Universalising Factor is an aggregate measure of your tendency to judge moral wrongdoing in universal terms. A score of 1.00 means that every time you have determined one of the acts depicted in these scenarios to be morally wrong, you have universalised the judgement of moral wrongoing; that is, you have indicated that the act is wrong regardless of prevailing cultural norms and social conventions. A score of 0.00, on the other hand, means that where you see moral wrong in the acts depicted in these scenarios, you have not once universalised the judgement of moral wrongdoing; that is, you have indicated that whether an act is to be thought of as wrong is largely a matter of social norms, and that it is quite possible that what is wrong in one culture may not be wrong in another. A score of -1 means that you saw no moral wrong in any of the activities depicted in these scenarios, and so it is not possible for this activity to determine the extent to which you see moral wrongdoing in universal terms.

Posted by The Englishman at 6:47 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

April 15, 2004

Go on please ask us..

The Times reports:

TONY BLAIR is seriously considering calling a referendum on the new European constitution in what would be one of the biggest policy U-turns of his premiership, The Times has learnt.

Senior ministers and advisers are urging the Prime Minister to grasp the opportunity of the expected agreement in June on the proposals to open a national debate about whether Britain should play a full part in the European Union.

I can't wait.

Posted by The Englishman at 9:11 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Some are more equal than others.

A letter in today's Times sums up this government.

In 2002 Margaret Beckett, the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, said in a written answer to David Liddington, MP, about consultation prior to the ban on swill-feeding:

The majority of respondents were in favour of a ban on the feeding of catering waste containing meat or meat product as swill to livestock (Hansard, July 22, 2002, col 703W).

Unfortunately her Minister, Ben Bradshaw, subsequently landed his boss in the pigswill by confirming that only 32 per cent of the respondents supported a ban on the feeding of pigswill, with 37 per cent against (Hansard, March 30, 2004, col 1305W).

However, Defra has now reinterpreted the meaning of the word "majority". In answer to my inquiry Defra states:

The use of the majority was not simply a matter of numerical counting of letters, but that those in favour of a ban included major organisations representing widespread interests.


On a connected but completely seperate note, the Government's treatment of the Swill producers who were doing a useful recycling and legal job until their trade was banned overnight has been disgraceful, no compensation, no help etc.
And now thousands of tons of food go into landfill where vermin can feast away and spread diseases far and wide.

Posted by The Englishman at 9:08 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

April 14, 2004

Hot Chick webcam

Subservient Chicken - wearing a suspender belt and she does what you want live.....

Posted by The Englishman at 10:19 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Bush Speech - reactions

BBC NEWS | Have Your Say | Bush speech: Your reaction

There is actually a fairly balanced selection of views here - but I thought this one would have you spluttering your coffee...

Georgie, it's ok, you can stop now. There are grown ups at the UN who can clear up after you. Run along now, back to your toys in your own back yard.
Conrad Cockburn, London, UK

Strange name - Conrad Cockburn from London - Google gives me a naval architect and a runner who may be the same person - who knows? And it also gives me a 1960s Male model dressed in a flower power suit. I hope it is this old hippy still wearing his smelly Afgan coat, smoking a strange cigarette with his young friend by his side who posted the entry - you can buy a photo of him adorning a thong from the Mirror100 site

Posted by The Englishman at 10:13 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Depressing news

All nice middle class children in England are brought up watching Blue Peter. Get two or three fortysomethings together and the names of Valerie Singleton, John Noakes, Peter Purvis, Petra etc will start coming up. They were the presenters in the sixties. So I am sad for many reasons to learn that Caron Keating, a presenter from the eighties, has died. It is obviously tragic that a young mum has died, I remember watching her as a gorgeous young woman when kids television just happened to be on.. But where did my youth go when the generation of presenters after the generation, after the generation I remember start dying...

Posted by The Englishman at 4:04 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

More Bunker news

My morning walk today took me past this Second World War Bunker


Image taken on 14/4/2004 11:55

It is near All Cannings and was used as the base to run a dummy airfield. It has a couple of rooms under about 18 inches of concrete and below ground level. On suitable nights they went out into the neighbouring fields with oil lamps and laid out a pattern of an airfield in the hope it would be bombed and not the real one a couple of miles away. Local legend has it that it only fooled one aircraft, a homecoming Spitfire which tried to land and got stuck in the hedges and ditches of the area. Even a cushy home job sounds dangerous enough to me when you are trying to encourage the Luftwaffe to bomb you!

Posted by The Englishman at 2:25 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

April 13, 2004

DDT - why Africa needs it

I have blogged before about how DDT is essential for Malaria control in Africa, and how the demonization of it is killing people. Here is an extract from the NYT that is well worth reading - go on line and register for free at the site to get the full story - (more also at the Cato institute)

The New York Times > Magazine > What the World Needs Now Is DDT

what really merits outrage about DDT today is not that South Africa still uses it, as do about five other countries for routine malaria control and about 10 more for emergencies. It is that dozens more do not. Malaria is a disease Westerners no longer have to think about. Independent malariologists believe it kills two million people a year, mainly children under 5 and 90 percent of them in Africa. Until it was overtaken by AIDS in 1999, it was Africa's leading killer. One in 20 African children dies of malaria, and many of those who survive are brain-damaged. Each year, 300 to 500 million people worldwide get malaria.

During the rainy season in some parts of Africa, entire villages of people lie in bed, shivering with fever, too weak to stand or eat. Many spend a good part of the year incapacitated, which cripples African economies. A commission of the World Health Organization found that malaria alone shrinks the economy in countries where it is most endemic by 20 percent over 15 years. There is currently no vaccine. While travelers to malarial regions can take prophylactic medicines, these drugs are too toxic for long-term use for residents.

Yet DDT, the very insecticide that eradicated malaria in developed nations, has been essentially deactivated as a malaria-control tool today. The paradox is that sprayed in tiny quantities inside houses -- the only way anyone proposes to use it today -- DDT is most likely not harmful to people or the environment. Certainly, the possible harm from DDT is vastly outweighed by its ability to save children's lives.

o one concerned about the environmental damage of DDT set out to kill African children. But various factors, chiefly the persistence of DDT's toxic image in the West and the disproportionate weight that American decisions carry worldwide, have conspired to make it essentially unavailable to most malarial nations. With the exception of South Africa and a few others, African countries depend heavily on donors to pay for malaria control. But at the moment, there is only one country in the world getting donor money to finance the use of DDT: Eritrea, which gets money for its program from the World Bank with the understanding that it will look for alternatives. Major donors, including the United States Agency for International Development, or Usaid, have not financed any use of DDT, and global health institutions like W.H.O. and its malaria program, Roll Back Malaria, actively discourage countries from using it.

Posted by The Englishman at 8:43 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Google - the new great Satan?

BBC NEWS | Business | Google's Gmail could be blocked

I have been following the news about Google's planned email system with interest for three reasons.

1) I like Google - and I want to use Google like sorting on my email, for a while I have tried a local system on my machine - zoe - but it was too cumbersome for my old box. (It might be better now.) But I want it available anywhere.

(Whilst talking of email I will remind you to that popfile is the spam filtering system I recommend to everyone but that is also local to my machine so I want that networked as well!)

2) I am a bit obssessive about personal data protection so I have been watching how that is handled; so far so good. Your ISP has copies of your emails, but doesn't tell you, the system is like a seive, but no one tells you. Google is being open and honest about the implications.

3) Arsehole politicians getting in on the act. They want to BAN it because of the privacy implications. These are the people who are happy to enable spooks to spy on you to for security, for tax, to see if you watch televison etc but don't want me to able to take up a really useful service if I want to. It is my data and I will share it with whoever I want to. I trust Google more than I do politicians! And if I don't trust Google I wont use their Gmail. Simple huh.

Posted by The Englishman at 2:42 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

April 11, 2004

Going Green

I was pleased to see this driver uses eco friendly green batteries


Image taken on 11/4/2004 19:09

And what is he driving?


Image taken on 11/4/2004 19:09

A medium sized crop sprayer -
(note 'Pollo the dog getting in on the picture).

Posted by The Englishman at 7:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

April 10, 2004

"stuck with cloves and roasted or baked"

Guardian Unlimited | The Guardian | Bustards brought back to Britain

In the next few weeks, 40 great bustard chicks will be taken from their nests near the Volga river in Russia, driven to Moscow, put on a night flight to Heathrow, rushed through Customs and, while still dark, taken to a pen on land rented from the army on Salisbury plain.
The two-week-old birds will wake to a motherless world of unlimited food, high wire fences and nearby artillery practice. Most confusing of all, however, the only people they will be allowed to see for many months will be dressed in Ku Klux Klan-type "dehumanisation" suits, without visible arms or legs, who will train them to survive in the the wild by poking at them stuffed foxes on the end of sticks.
The birds are by any standards extraordinary - a cross between a turkey and an eagle with whiskers, weighing up to 22kg (50lb) and practically needing a runway to take off.

All within Mr Free Market's and my locality - it is going to need a Goose load I think...

Posted by The Englishman at 7:03 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

April 9, 2004

Schweine News

wildtiere-live.de - dabei sein, wenn's passiert - Hirsch,Wildtiere,Rotwild,Brunft,Live Video,Livecam,Wild,Tierfotos,Tiere

Kalle, Oskar and Willy,and Luise, Berta and Sophie, romp naked for your pleasure in the woods. These continentals, no shame.

Posted by The Englishman at 12:27 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

April 8, 2004

Simian Update

3, 6, 9
The goose drank wine
The monkey chew tobacco on the streetcar line
The line broke, the monkey got choked
And they all went to heaven in a little rowboat,

The Flying Space Monkey Chronicles has a new home.

Posted by The Englishman at 8:18 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Better off out.

Boston.com / Business / Euro deficit cap being violated

Half of the 12 countries using the euro are projected to break the European Union's budget deficit rules this year as the continent's economic growth continues to lag far behind the rest of the world's, the EU's head office reported yesterday.

The euro zone will see growth in 2004 of only 1.7 percent, compared with projections of 4.2 percent in the United States, 3.4 percent in Japan, and around 7 percent for the rest of Asia, the European Commission said.

While the euro area is accelerating from last year's anemic 0.4 percent growth, the commission trimmed its 2004 prognosis from last fall's 1.8 percent because "overall, the balance of risks appears to have shifted toward the downside in recent months," the report said.

EU economics commissioner Pedro Solbes blamed a lack of progress in reforming labor markets, pensions, and healthcare systems by governments afraid of paying a price at the polls -- as happened last month in France.

Not much to add to that is there...

Posted by The Englishman at 5:45 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Bugger Dropped it.

The strap broke, what do I do now?


Image taken on 8/4/2004 17:29

Posted by The Englishman at 4:58 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

April 7, 2004

Folk Music

I turned the wireless on in the kitchen just now and it was some BBC Folk music show - stereotypes abound, Jolly Celtic music for jigging to and then some English dirges, in this case about Transportation to Australia - not original songs but some composed in the last fifty years. (When "the real criminals the Judges and Landowners walked free" to quote the presenter.) I bet myself she would intone, "once I went a-courting". Of course she bloody well did. No one ever sang this rubbish and it is always the same old cod rural accent and a-courting in the woods and a-kissing under the moon etc.

I can not believe a nation as addicted to drinking, hunting, fighting and riotous merrymaking as the English didn't have some rousing folk music in the past. My limited experience of rugby clubs and other similar gatherings bears me out. So if we must have folk music, let it be "John Peel" and "Eskimo Nell", not some Guardinista wrapped up in rags feeling the pain from all those years ago.

And if we must have music from the north and east of us why do I never hear the magnificent sound of the Drum and Flutes of the Apprentice Boys - that is real authentic 17th Century marching music...

Anyway I am off to sing The Vly my local Regiment's song - all together now - words below..

The Vly
T'were on a jolly summer's day,
the twenty fust of May,
John Scruggins took his turmut hoe,
with this he trudged away,
Now some volkes they loike haymakin',
and some they vancies mowin'
But of all the jobs as Oi loike best,
gie Oi the turmut 'oein.

The Vly, the Vly-
The Vly be on the turmut,
Tis all me eye,
For Oi to try,
To keep Vlys off them turmuts.

The fust place as Oi went to wurk;
it were wi' Varmer Gower,
Who vowed and swore as how Oi wer
'-a virst class turmut oer;'
The second place Oi went to wurk,
they paid Oi by the job,
If Oi'd a knowed a liitle more,
Oi'd sooner bin in quod.

The Vly, the Vly-
The Vly be on the turmut,
Tis all me eye,
For Oi to try,
To keep Vlys off them turmuts.

The last place as I went to wurk,
they zent ver Oi a mowin'
Oi sent word back,
Oi'd sooner get the zack,
than gie up turmut 'oein',
Now all you jolly varmer chaps,
what bides at 'ome zo warm',
Oi'll now conclude my ditty wie a wishing you no 'arm.

Posted by The Englishman at 9:18 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

and roses

as promised my real interest in life


Image taken on 7/4/2004 18:3

Posted by The Englishman at 6:22 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack


Now that is what l call contentment


Image taken on 7/4/2004 14:58

Posted by The Englishman at 2:15 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

St George's Day celebration

The Daily Ablution points out in a wonderfully researched article that the London Celebrations seem not to be as prominent yet as Ken promised they will be, you don't think he has forgotten after yet another St Paddy's Day he celebrated with Sinn Fein funsters at our expense do you?

I think I will play safe and go to my local Pub and sup ale and claret with a Sirloin of Beef cooked by a Frenchman as all good Englishmen should.

(Last year it was a 24lb Sirloin - 50 minutes cooking time, wonderful....)

Posted by The Englishman at 11:09 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

April 6, 2004

Bored - what shall I make today?

My ammonium nitrate store.


Image taken on 6/4/2004 9:38

Just to clear it up. The bags are 600Kg each hidden inside a barn, the stack is about 20 ft tall and l thought it made a nice picture. Nearly every farm has a similar stack at this time of year.


Image taken on 6/4/2004 9:39

Posted by The Englishman at 8:43 AM | Comments (13) | TrackBack

April 5, 2004

"Stuff 'em, tank 'em, ammer 'em" – was offensive.

Unpersons reports that everyone is now a winner and none shall lose and everyone will get prizes...

Under whatsit footer matches are now in the Alice world of the politically correct - see this Oz report on it

Thank God we didn't win the Rugby World Cup , but merely shared it with all the other deserving teams who played really really well, otherwise nasty mean people would be jumping up and down and pointing out that we came a sort of second in other recent matches - It didn't happen - we feel the pain of the subjegated Celtic and French races and so we shared - hey it is bigger to share than to beat someone, isn't it...

Posted by The Englishman at 11:42 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Things I learnt at the Weekend

1) After the dog comes back from rabbiting with a cut ear and shakes his head in the kitchen - do not talk about his "bloody ear" unless you want your three year old going round telling everybody "I've got a bloody ear, I've got a bloody nose, I've got a bloody mouth" - how do you unlearn a word...

2) Tightly coiled 1/2 inch data tape in a backup cassette stops a .22 at quite close range - do not rely on this if in a combat situation. We take obselete data destruction seriously!

Oh well, back to the gardening leave...

Posted by The Englishman at 4:24 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

April 3, 2004

Britain 'must scrap multiculturalism'

Times Online - Britain

BRITAIN’s race relations chief last night called for the abandonment of the policy pursued by successive governments since the 1960s of building a “multicultural society”.

Trevor Phillips, the chairman of the Commission for Racial Equality, said that multiculturalism was out of date and no longer useful, not least because it encouraged “separateness” between communities. As British-born Muslims burnt the Union Jack on the streets of London yesterday, he said that there was an urgent need to “assert a core of Britishness” across society.

In an interview with The Times, he said that multiculturalism — one of the founding principles of his own organisation — “means the wrong things”. He added: “We are now in a different world from the Sixties and Seventies.

“What we should be talking about is how we reach an integrated society, one in which people are equal under the law, where there are some common values.”

I think I need to go and have a lie down - "I'm amazed" is not strong enough.

Posted by The Englishman at 9:39 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

April 2, 2004

Good news and tax free too...

Telegraph | News | Colonel wins libel payout over war crime claims

Col Tim Collins, the Army officer who won worldwide renown for a rousing speech on the eve of the Iraq war, has won undisclosed libel damages against two tabloid newspapers which accused him of war crimes.

Posted by The Englishman at 2:13 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack


Start digging. The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler was very concerned in his understated way that http://www.cooperforpresident.com/
had sold out to "the enemy". And harsh words were spoken. Today it is revealed as a hoax. I think harsher words are coming....

Posted by The Englishman at 5:12 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

April 1, 2004

Hello Kevin

It is nice to know your readers...

Statistics for anenglishmanscastle.com

Search Keyphrases (Top 10)

858 different keyphrases Search Percent
chavs 224 12.6 %
chav 69 3.9 %
german jokes 61 3.4 %
bos primigenius 54 3.0 %
celebrity swearathon 42 2.3 %
englishman 25 1.4 %
honi soit qui mal y pense 24 1.3 %
pig drawing 21 1.1 %
entente cordiale 17 0.9 %
katherine gun 15 0.8 %
Other phrases 1216 68.7 %

Posted by The Englishman at 4:13 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

ID Cards

I presume the trial of ID Cards went well as Mr Blair said today: "There is no longer a civil liberties objection to that in the vast majority of quarters.

I offered to help trial them - An Englishman's Castle: ID card Trial but they never contacted me again, I wonder why?

Posted by The Englishman at 3:54 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Un confession

Je suis réellement une fille Française faisant une maîtrise dans le psycology et ce website a servi de base à mon disertation sur des attitudes anglo-saxonnes.
Merci d'aider moi,
Viva la France et John Kerry :)

Avril Poisson

Posted by The Englishman at 5:38 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack