Bitch on the Blog

March 8, 2017

Forever

This post is not pleasant. I am going to make an observation and don’t expect any of you to answer, if at all, truthfully.

Do you wish/have you ever wished anyone would just die? Not because you bear them ill will, just because you’d like to tick a box (make that a coffin), breathe a sigh of relief and be done with that person?

Can’t believe I am writing this but there it is.

U

February 5, 2017

The eye of the beholder

Filed under: Amusement,Formalities,Future,Peace — bitchontheblog @ 17:27
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I wish Trump were easier on the eye. It wouldn’t make anything better but at least I wouldn’t feel vaguely repulsed every time (which is all the time) I am forced to set eye on the man. Also, he needs a stylist. That thumb touching forefinger forming a circle aka hole does nothing for his allure. Only to repulse further by echoing the shape of his permanently open (and round) mouth. It was therefore with some glee when I came across mention of some fossil. All mouth, no anus.

I recently mentioned somewhere that America’s then-just-about-to-become First Lady looked like a rabbit caught in the headlight. This was, naturally, as is her wont, immediately being taken as a criticism of Melania by someone who – a few moons ago – managed to take a mega dislike to me which isn’t as remarkable as it sounds. The person in question doesn’t appear to like anyone much, not even herself. Fact is, Melania did look like a rabbit caught in the headlight during the inauguration. Pays to pay attention to body language. And what do you know: It’s now all on youtube. No wonder the boy, Barron, looked excruciatingly awkward too.

That Trump has (supposedly) small hands is not his fault or doing. So, STOP going on about it. Having said that, and no use denying it, there is and always has been folklore about what people’s features say about them. For instance, my father warned me about men whose earlobes are not well defined. Can’t remember what it meant. But it wasn’t good. Then there are the thick necked. Which, whilst not particularly attractive, does, for obvious reasons, come in handy if you aspire to become a professional wrestler. What else? Hair. Hair is a matter of pride. And you may joke about the hamster on Trump’s head but what would he look like if he let his scalp go commando? Mussolini?

Other than that I am confident that Angela Merkel will not hold hands with Trump. Unlike Theresa May (with an ‘h’ omitted by the current administration).

And, just now, “the US president has expressed no desire to speak in Westminster Hall, or another venue within parliament.” You don’t say. What an opportunity to miss to make a complete ass of himself. AGAIN. As long as he slurps his tea with the Queen and assures her that he’ll make America GREAT, AGAIN, all will be fine.

Mind you, the Angel pointed out and, as much as it pains me, he is right that whatever Trump’s shortcomings may be he sure has shaken the world and woken even those given to political inertia. If that’s Trump’s only legacy it’ll be swell.

U

November 10, 2016

Don’t fence me in

Once upon a time I was a homeowner with all the responsibility that entails. Not least, in Britain, to respect the boundaries your neighbours will impose. Though not British, when in Britain, I will do (within reason) as the British do – or, at least, try not to ridicule what’s bred in their bone. And as much as the Brits’ homes are their castles (complete with a mortgage that even a drawbridge groans under) as much they do like borders.

Yes, borders. As in walls, fences. One of my more far fetched theories that the reason the British prefer dogs to cats that cats do not respect fences. If they want to climb up and jump over one they jolly well will.

So back to Trump and neighbourly etiquette. If my neighbour wants to put a fence or a hedge or whatever else round his patch of immaculate lawn thus blocking his view that’s fine. What’s not fine, indeed unacceptable, is to ask me to pay for it. That’s Trump’s plan on Mexico. The guy has no manners.

Before I take this post into a direction even I find beyond satire I’ll leave you to do your own fencing.

U

August 26, 2016

Exposure

Filed under: Despair,Errors,Ethics,Peace,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 11:01
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I am incensed – for many reasons – about France’s burkini ban.

So we, in the sacred “WEST”, so concerned about women’s “rights”, come out and tell a woman what (not) to wear in public? Are people actually ticking alright? Four guys (police – law inforcers) standing around a woman on some beach making her take off clothes? In public? If this isn’t outrageous I don’t know what is.

It is violation. It’s indecent. It’s invasion of privacy.

Anyway, let me lighten up and reverse this. In the name of beauty, aesthetics and general psycho hygiene I’d like men AND women – particularly of the less than life enhancing bulk – to cover up. Don’t insult my senses. See how ridiculous this is? You can make up shit on any compost heap. Don’t let it stink out the place.

U

August 14, 2016

Dog spelled backwards

Filed under: Communication,Happiness,Peace — bitchontheblog @ 11:18
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People will say: I’ll pray for you. And that is very kind if – usually – just a throw away remark.

However, twice in my life was I touched by the sincerity of their promise. The first time was some years ago when I turned up at my solicitor. I was in dire need of solid advice. The moment he told me “I’ll pray for you” and he did, there and then and in front of me, I knew my chips were down. Not that he charged me for his time.

The second [assurance I’d be prayed for] was only a few days ago. Given with the sincerity a child offers (children don’t bullshit). And you know what? I was happy. I, the person who doesn’t “believe” was actually happy that someone thought me worthy enough to include me in their prayers.

U

June 27, 2016

Follow the leader. What leader?

Filed under: Atmosphere,Culture,Despair,Errors,Future,Integrity,Peace — bitchontheblog @ 10:28
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I came across a rather strange mention of me on someone else’s blog – something along the lines of “poor U(rsula). She seems to think it’s targeted at her”.

If that is what any reader has taken away from my last two posts then I have not only failed to express myself but I must appear more stupid than I flatter myself I am. Of course, brexit is not “targeted” at the likes of me. And, no doubt, the practical fallout for me personally will me minimal.

What I find a little bewildering that even my most consistent commentators didn’t have anything to say. Not one word of comfort, not even a grunt. Though by way of handing me a virtual tissue to wipe my tears both Ramana and Looney ticked the “liked” box. Good old Nick took pity on me and left a few words. So thanks for that. Anyway, has confirmed a long held belief: People don’t take to being flooded by someone else’s emotion. (or reason, come to think of it) . It’s ok. Just a little strange for someone like me who basically lives in the trenches of passion – mine and others.

What I meant to express was my dismay at a “mindset“, my huge and heartfelt upset at Britain going retrograde. Throwing it all away based on spurious reasons, and, worse, political intrigue. I didn’t call my last post “Shakespearean” for nothing. What is being played out here, and will be for a long time to come unless someone takes decisive action, is pure Stratford-upon-Avon. Except on that stage the curtain will fall and the audience goes back home, unharmed.

Brexit has the impact of living in a family and suddenly you don’t understand the dynamics of that family any longer. Say, your father bolts, your mother still wipes your nose, your brother takes to solitary fishing, your sister marries the man she least likes, the cat snarls at her best friend the dog, the dog comes to me because it’s also totally bewildered as to what the hell has happened. It’s a mess. Let me take the garbage out.

In the last three days I have read (as did the Angel), and we keep doing so, acres and acres and acres of analysis, opinion, prognosis. I am delighted at the many many eloquent, sometimes bordering on brilliant, writings by some of Britain’s finest brains.

And I am dismayed at some of the arguments of the blinkered total delusional Brexiters awaiting tomorrow’s paradise in Britain. Do wake up. Wishful thinking is one thing. A dream is another.

Some people (feeling a bit sheepish now) ticked ‘out’ for a joke because they believed Remain was a forgone conclusion. They now suffer what is so cutely called “buyer’s regret”. At least when you buy something you aren’t so sure off when you get home you can take it back, get a refund or at least an exchange. HA!

And those who advocate popcorn. Sure. Anyone outside the area (Britain and Europe affected more deeply than your scant glance will indicate), those of you who maybe not culturally well versed, aren’t too familiar with history, who don’t have to worry about their kids’ and future generations’ wellbeing – ENJOY.

Let’s go back to the dark ages. Don’t forget to bring a candle (and at least two matches).

U

June 22, 2016

My heart is aflutter

What a perverse world we live in.

Sweethearts, I do have butterflies in my stomach. I won’t think about it till the morning after the day before (make that Friday) but holy cow. Normally I don’t raise political issues in blogland and I am not doing so this minute but …

The sequence of events being that until a few weeks ago I paid sod all attention to the EU referendum. Sure, since I read the world’s press for both professional reasons and my private amusement I’d skim the headlines on the subject. Didn’t take any of it seriously. Of course, Britain would stay in. Why was this referendum called in the first place?

Till, one day, not so long ago I spoke to an Englishman. Him of the velvet, oh so soothing voice. Yes, Magpie, you. Oh my god. To understand – Magpie is measured. And told me in no uncertain terms that whatever the merits of staying in Europe that cat was by no means in the bag. Though I did vaguely poo poo his notion our conversation was enough to unsettle me slightly. Since when I bloody read anything coming my way on this whole disaster. It’s like scratching a scab on your knee after your ten year old self has fallen off the bike. Fascinating, yet totally self defeating. My gall bladder’s bile rising, my stomach feeling vaguely and permanently nauseous, my colon trying its best not to anchor me to the toilet, my brain calling for reason and calm.

Let’s leave aside that I don’t hold a British passport. So even after over thirty years living in this country I have no say. Doesn’t matter. What matters is the future. And that is – and here we are getting back to my first statement, namely, “perverse” – that the very group this will affect most, namely the under twenty five year olds are so dastardly lazy. They don’t give a shit about their own future and – guess what – a lot of them (though not all) will NOT vote. How did one of them say to me the other day: “I don’t give a toss one way or the other.” Pardon? One might, of course and at a push, argue NOT voting is part and parcel of democracy. However, my father instilled in me that NOT voting usually plays into the hands of those you want the least at the helm of your country.

And, if I believe everything I read – despite my best efforts not to, the loudest voting for EXIT are those who have had it all. Those past their sixties with mortgages paid off, sitting on a pile, pensions in place. What the hell do those of you in that position think you are doing for the future of your kids and their children, your grandchildren? To make a point? A cheap point at that, one which will cost future generations?

Why am I writing this now? The day before the day? Because I have just come across a “youngster” who at least will vote – if out. His brother (honestly the things people will freely tell me without much prompting) who is also voting OUT has put an obscene amount of money betting that Britain will stain IN. Perverse, or what?

Anyway, when he – not so tactfully – asked me how EXIT would affect me, foreigner after thirty years in this country, I told him truthfully: Ask me on Friday. I tend to cross bridges when I come to them. No point wasting energy on something that hasn’t happened yet. Try and tell that to my stomach.

At least the whole caboodle won’t affect the Angel. Whatever the outcome he holds the key (dual nationality) to what both Britain and Europe have to offer post referendum. And, yes, he will vote. And, to his credit, he sees both sides of the argument. However, in chime with the Libran he is you throw a pound on one side of the scales and a Euro on the other. And then see how it balances out.

You know what the biggest shame in all this is? Elements of Britain (obviously not all of the British but sometimes you do take a nation as a whole) have shown themselves from a truly ugly side. Namely immigration, immigration, immigration. It’s always the same. Look through history. You latch onto a minority group and blame them for the shortcomings of your own government’s policies. Yes, I know I am simplifying but that is precisely what the lowest common denominator of this country is doing: Throwing a whole populace to the dogs over some Angst over Polish people wiping old British bottoms in British care homes.

I do believe in damage limitation. However, Britain in the eyes of some of the world have done themselves huge damage. Regardless of how the referendum pans out. Empire – my foot!

So disappointed,

U

 

 

January 18, 2016

Jackson Pollock

Cheerful Monk aka Jean, a woman I respect for a number of reasons, asserted the following in her last post:

“I know some people who think life just happens, they don’t have much say in the matter. That attitude seems to work for them, but it’s against my nature to be that passive. … It’s more fun to be the painter than the paint.

If you want your story to be magnificent, begin by realizing you are the author, and every day is a new page

This last one points out how incorrigible I am, that at the age of 76, I still think I’m a creator in my life.

For me it’s a lot more fun than just being the paint.”

 

To which I replied in her comment box, and such is my purpose and sorrow that I vent same what I feel this moment on my own blog:

“My dear Jean, if only it were so easy. Yesterday (Sunday) evening, in a moment of misguided optimism and hope, I, the author of my life as you put it, took an initiative and “painted” and what did I end up with? A lot of paint on my face. So much paint on my face it will take a lot of resolve and tears to wash it off.

Say what you like: Sometimes we are at the mercy of others. And when we are at the mercy of someone else, you – the supposed editor of your life’s story – may take time off and go home early. Yes, I hit a brick wall. Hard.

I am devastated. Wish I could “re-write” that chapter of my life (into the future) but I can’t. Why? Because no man is an island. There are occasions, maybe few but nevertheless, where we are entirely dependent on someone else’s ability and willingness to communicate. And if that will isn’t there you may as well (metaphorically speaking) fill your coat pockets with stones and wade into water.”

U

October 28, 2015

Less haste more speed

Filed under: Accuracy,Amusement,Peace,Philosophy — bitchontheblog @ 10:45
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I think time to be in too much of a hurry.

However. Yes, the dreaded HOWEVER. Sometimes time slinks and sloshes as if it were a never ending commodity.

That hour going back last Sunday caught me out big time, and I haven’t adjusted yet. I wish there were more continuity in life. Let time be. Up with the cockerel (that’s hens), feet down at dusk. Saves on electricity. Natural order of things. Man dragging woman (at her hair) back into the cave, Bambi being Bambi cute, and dinosaurs. Not sure about dinosaurs. One moment they Tyrannus Rex you, the next they are extinct.

“Slinks”. Do you remember Slinky? That metal coil slinking its way down the stairway? I gave one to the Angel at the early end of his childhood. And had the distinct feeling he was less impressed than I was. In my experience you need a spine to make your way downstairs. Unless, of course, as I did, circa 1997, just having moved to a new house and trying to find my bearings – getting a feel for the place, you slip and slide the whole way. No damage done. And no, I was NOT drunk as some helpful friends suggested by way of comfort. I am never drunk. Mainly because I don’t like losing control. Yes, so there I was at the bottom of the stairs, on my back – and went, momentarily, into shock. It’s another fine example of when time takes on a whole new dimension. A bit like toothache. A minute or five do stretch into eternity.

To put a piece into the puzzle: It’s years and years and years (remember we are talking time) that I have worn a wrist watch. I don’t like shackles. Which is why I’d be a soul destroying non participating partner in anything vaguely bondage. So, yes, I don’t do time. Neither do I carry a handy/mobile/cell phone. If and when pressed (for time) I will ask strangers what the time is and they look it up on their handy/mobile/cell phone. A great conversation starter. People, first startled, are happy to be asked. For anything. TIME? Then you weed the obsessive (it’s 0923 and five seconds) from the slap dash (it’s about ten).

Am sure Beckett is still waiting for Godot … I like waiting. A subject that can wait. For another time.

U

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