May the Best Man not win

Today, Friday 24 Aug 2018, the Angel attends a wedding (the ceremony starting in about fifteen minutes). One of his closest friends getting married. The Angel being one of three best men. Why anyone needs three best men to carry him to the altar I do not know – but maybe the groom was torn between longest standing friend, brother and, well, the Angel. That’s indecision for you.

In the motherland they don’t do “best man”. Bridesmaids, yes, but men? No. Neither does her father walk the bride down the aisle (in the motherland). Ridiculous. My father didn’t own me all my life; so why would he “give me away”?

Anyway, the English do have their ways in any given social setting and are most particular about it. If you’d like me to expand I will. I have more anecdotes (not least on hats) than I care to remember – though all of them, moderately, funny.

Be that as it may, before the Angel set off earlier he related to me what I had not known. Every time someone relates something to me I don’t know I am surprised (the older I get the more surprised I am at all that indeed I have not known, do not know and never will). So, apparently in an age long gone (don’t hold me to detail) the best man’s duty was not to ship the groom to the altar in time. Not at all. It’s so bad it’s worse.

Cast yourself back to a time when you had to negotiate Robin Hood and other daylight robbery in dark forests on the way to your destiny. Say you got slain. It happens. Then, please dear Readers, do sit down and reach for the smelling salts, the best man had to stand in for the groom. Yes, really. When a wedding was called it had to take place. Never mind about love and stuff. An understudy will do.

The Angel, being of an orderly mind, asked today’s groom (last night) why then he had appointed THREE best men. Were they supposed to battle it out between them should shit happen between departure and destination? Let’s just say that, as incentives go, the Angel was determined to get the groom to the altar in one piece. Not because the bride isn’t lovely. She is. But the Angel  knows he’d win the fight and does have other plans.

Yes, in slightly nostalgic mode; last couple of days letting all the weddings I have attended (not least my parents’ when I was four) pass by my inner eye.

Any memories of your own or others’ weddings you’d like to indulge me with?

U

Backside

Here is a turn up for the books, and please smile as I did: No sooner do I publicly toast John for his part in restoring relations, no sooner some “Georgia” pops up and declares that I “lick ass”. Well, “Georgia”, I don’t think you are cut out for a job in world diplomacy; brokering and supporting peace clearly not your strong point. However, I note your robust language. Maybe a job on a building site more your thing. You could always whistle when I walk past.

What I’d like to know what possessed you to link back to my blog. There is a certain finesse to it; though at half past three in the morning it’s somewhat startling when I clicked on “Georgia” to find myself staring at Bitch on the Blog’s homepage. Obviously it’s a marvellous blog – so I am sure temptation to publish under my name is rife.

Maybe some of my readers could do me a favour and test how this works by leaving me a message, say “testing testing” or something suitably rude, but do put my blogname down in the box where it asks for yours. Can’t wait.

Anyway “Georgia” whoever you are, I hope you are happy that you have caught my attention. Quite a little risk taker, aren’t you, considering that I might come to lick your ass too.

U

 

 

No Echo

This minute I am upset. What better shoulder to throw myself on than that of the collective blogging community?

Before you read on please do remember: I have the patience of a saint. I do bear with call center  staff, making allowances for the shit jobs they do, realizing that they are only mouthpieces of company policies.

But there are limits. And my limit was (nearly) exhausted.

Call center staff have their scripts. I appreciate that. Neither are they nor I robots. How many times do you actually have to plead with them to not read you the same shite again and again. Reminding them of what we covered yesterday and today, and then some. Suggesting a way forward. No, no. Not at all. Let’s go back over the past. I nearly lost it. Which is not my style. In the end I asked to end the conversation as it was going nowhere, resume same conversation later today when I’ll have regained my composure and, maybe, they will have taken time to think (outside their box).

There is something so dehumanizing, impersonal, about the world we now live in it has power to condense me into despair.

U

Own goal

The writer of one blog, a blog  I not so much follow as read for its folly, has lost the plot. Actually, make that two bloggers and their commentators. They warm each other in the same bed. When they talk politics. Birds of a feather. Plucked.

It must be so “nice” to surround yourself with those who always nod at even the most idiotic assertion of yours – not reflecting, dumb.

One of my father’s friends (Austrian Hungarian) was a Russian spy (no shit). He stayed with us for a few weeks when I was in my early teens. This, obviously, well before the vile and guile of the internet. Boy oh boy, not that my parents ever knew (or may they pretended not to), did he teach me the skill of observation and other tricks of the trade.

Yes, so little wool being pulled over my head. And even if – quickly unravelled.

The only thing about the spy that vaguely baffled me when he said I had a footballer’s calves. When my gym teacher had told me I had a ballerina’s legs. Maybe both need muscle. Who knows. Never put either skill to the test. Do I look like someone who chases a ball or jeopardizes her toes? Though do love dancing. Full on.

Back to the subject: Forgetting that one shouldn’t discuss politics and religion in “polite” society, how can any blogger even consider doing so when most (though not all)  comment boxes allow only sound bites rather than proper discussion?

Anyway, mustn’t be too hard. If you want to read a truly impassioned intelligent well argued piece on American politics you won’t waste your time reading

http://shackman-speaks.blogspot.com/2018/07/what-frustrated-you-most-last-week-and.html

And if you want to argue YOUR corner, not only will he let you but listen.

U

Authenticity

Every so often I do remember my blog’s name and that I have to honour it. And do a bit of bitching.

Yes, so there is someone in blogland (no blog of her own) who regularly and frequently leaves comments on blogs which we both frequent.

However, and I am annoyed with myself, she is beginning to get on my nerves big time. To understand – the few blogs I do follow I always read all comments,  in detail.

Why is she beginning to get on my nerves?

I tell you why: It’s one thing to be human – foibles, tempers (good and all), being misguided, argumentative, under the weather either temporarily or permanently, whatever. It’s another to be saccharine to the point of dripping. That woman is incredible. If I were her I’d encourage myself to become a professional condolence letter writer. She is so CONSISTENTLY “sweet” it borders on insincere. I don’t like insincere.

I have “known” her for, say, a couple of years now and started imagining her life. I can’t give away her locality – let’s just say I can see her wafting through the wines, no, not daisy waving; an illusion of herself. I can see her being the saint of her, possibly and most likely vocal if faintly bored, family. What I mostly see is her weaving her sugar net of constant and indiscriminate approval of others (and thereby, by implication, approval of her in return). Everything any blogger does or says she approves of, not only lavishing praise but piling it on. It’s almost fraudulent.

Sweetheart, life doesn’t work like that. If you want people to take you seriously then the odd questioning or not agreeing with a blogging friend would add greatly to your credibility. The odd jarring note.  A bit of critical distance. Not everything someone does or says is laudable. If any of my friends (blog or other) and family would be as approving of everything I do, say or cook as you appear to be of others I’d run screaming to the hills. I’d think they were taking the piss.

Still, in your defense – and it really really really wasn’t “nice” what you said there a day or so ago – who’d have thought it you had it in you; in a sort of underhand way you left a comment, somewhere, which makes you the bigot I thought you were all along. Yes, yes, sweet …… and what do you know … condemning a whole demographic group. Can’t say I enjoyed your (gentle – naturally)  malicious thought. Prefer your saccharine. As cloying as it is.

And before any of my readers do an “Iris” (what’s happened to the oracle?)  and tell me who I am referring to: Don’t. Because if you identify her she is guilty as charged.

U

Mad dogs, Englishmen, Sun

I live in a green city. Very green. Parks. Huge, weathered, amazing trees – their trunks  and canopy making you feel secure, giving you happiness and shelter should you seek it. Those parks’ existence and maintenance – and most charming bobbies on the beat – the main reason I am reconciled to paying an ouch amount of council tax.

The other day, walking back from town, a stone throw – depending how far you can throw – from where I live I came across someone I vaguely know. Nice lady. Probably in her mid sixties. Smokes whilst wheezing but then all of us are heading exit by various means if only age or accident. On approach I thought she may have lost the plot because it appeared as if she was talking to one of our stylish black metal with golden inscriptions municipal park bins. As it turned out she’d taken her daughter’s tortoise for a walk. Think beautiful tabby cat, only in a hard shell.

“I can’t understand why she [the tortoise] keeps seeking out the bin”,  she said. Well, one reason, not that I said it out loud, that that bin’s vicinity offered the only shade on a hot summer’s midday. It’s all sorts of things – sad, funny, ridiculous, ludicrous, outrageous, who cares – it ain’t easy to put people right on their misconceptions. She thought the tortoise craved sun. By all evidence it didn’t. Never mind. Sometimes one has to weigh voicing common sense against upsetting someone by showing them the errors of their ways. Yes, poor tortoise. A victim of polite society.

U

 

The Sculptor – One

I quote a useful reminder to myself:

“It is a bad allocation of intelligence, resources and money.”

Let’s leave money out of it since I haven’t spent any. The resource, badly allocated, is my time. Maybe even emotion better allocated to those who can read a heart. Intelligence? Well, I don’t mind throwing it about with abandon. It’s an infinite resource. Time isn’t. So, I’ll waste a bit more and then lay some wasters to rest.

Yes, we are back to the Alternative Comment Box.

Where to start the narrative since there are so many options? My mental health? So generously speculated about by one Sculptor, and one John who only a couple of days ago advocated that mental health should NOT bear stigma. My question why “mental health” is then, so often, all over blogland, is used as an insult, a personal attack, a way of shaming someone into shutting up? Naturally, no answer was forthcoming. It happens when people run out of rhyme and reason to justify their limitations. And I quote the Sculptor aka Tom:

“John. Why do you tolerate that ghastly woman Ursula? Because she has mental issues you think you can help with?”

No, let’s start somewhere else to make the narrative a little more tense.

I question a commentator on the Sculptor’s blog. It’s, as far as I know, an elderly lady – though why I even mention that I don’t know. Mitigating circumstances?

Sa(i)d old lady, let’s call her J, wishes some wastrels dead. So I reply

“How charitable to wish on anyone “being hit by a bus”. I suppose you are also in favour of the death penalty, wish Trump dead whilst priding yourself on your Christian “values”, ethics and morals. I take it you are American?”

This made me, on two blogs, not only “that disgusting woman” but also “that ghastly woman” (don’t say the Sculptor doesn’t use his Thesaurus to vary his disgust at me).

John who took Tom’s batton (always doing the Svengali’s bidding) says that “J is one of life’s sweet people….everyone knows that”.

To which I replied:

“Yes, John, Joanne may be one of life’s sweet people. However, even the sweetest can, occasionally, put a foot wrong, are not above criticism.

I didn’t “attack” Joanne. I thought her comment out of order. You can’t go round wishing for people to die. Sorry, but that’s way off my moral compass. And I said so.

As to “bitter and personal ATTACKS” [Tom accuses me of] – well, Tom, you are the expert. And when you can’t think of anything else to admonish me with you resort to questioning my mental health. Truly inspired as reasoning goes.

Greetings from that “disgusting” woman,
U”

And before you ask: Yes, my comment was deleted. Again. Tom’s calling me disgusting was let to be stand. Yes, Sweethearts, that’s the justice of this world, that’s balance, fairness.

So I am disgusting and off my trolley because I question a sweet old lady calling for someone to die in revenge for the poor Sculptor having to do his sculpting in a metal container in the middle of a UK heat wave (!). That’s right. Let them swing for it. Mind you, having said that, a friend of mine (American), also a very sweet Lady albeit not an old one, also wishes someone dead (Trump). Maybe that’s how it’s done in the States. Hang them. Shoot them. Take a short cut.

To be continued …

U

Schwarz Rot Gold

Never let it be said that I can’t make a complete ass of myself.

I walked into the lounge as chips were down in equal measure for both Sweden and Germany, and said: “I take it the ones in white black are the Germans.”

“Yes”.  You know the sort of yesssss (?) you get when people question whether you are still with it, if you ever were.

So far so fine. My intelligence doesn’t take easy offence at being questioned.

“The Swedish look like Ikea”, I offered. You know, blue and yellow.

The Angel who has known his mother from the word go didn’t flinch: “You, Mama, could be straight out of American Dad – or any program”. Then reminded me that blue and yellow are the colours of the Swedish flag. Ikea. As I said.

U

 

Anything goes

Where no etiquette exists you have to make it up as you go along. Blogland will, eventually, write its own rule book.

I am not being facetious here. I am in a quandry. Seriously.

A blogger has finally, against all odds, managed to throw me for six. Our blogging relationship died some time ago, briefly resurrected in the last few days.

Why am I floored? I left him a brief message acknowledging my own role in what went wrong within a particular circle of bloggers, at the same time questioning whether he felt any responsibility [for his own role] too.

I received an answer back to the effect that his (very old) mother was dying in hospital (location specified) and for me to “fuck off”.

I am sorry for his imminent loss. However, despite my sympathy, I fail to see how anyone can wallop you with a fact I wasn’t aware off, neither does it make any difference to the rationale of our exchange. I find it vaguely distasteful (and this is not a criticism, it’s just how I feel) to “use” his mother’s possible demise to tell me where the door is.

Am I missing something? Obviously I’ll leave well alone though my first instinct was to impart my good wishes. But having been told to fuck off under the pretext of your parent dying, to me not quite congruent, it’s probably best to do just that [eff off].

Well, who’d have thought it: He finally managed to shut me up and leave me with a bad taste into the bargain.

And for those I need to spell it out for: This is not about point scoring. I am genuinely bewildered.

U

Debt to pleasure

Conceited bastard that I am I rarely quote anyone, preferring to make up my own “shit” (reference John’s assessment of my merits). There are exceptions to my rule and here is one, courtesy of Frederic Mistral:

“Aioli epitomises the heat, the power and the joy of Provencal sun, but it has another virtue – it drives away flies.”

Made me think of the limitations of communicating in the virtual world: How not so much DRIVE away flies as not to ATTRACT them in the first place. Or, worse, not to BECOME a pesky fly yourself.

On this happy note I am certain the aioli I am just about to make won’t curdle.

U