On Precocity and Putrid Personalities.

The most prolific flowering plant in my garden is a yellow one which spreads everywhere and is disturbingly dominant. The flower might be described as a large – but all yellow – daisy, or a small sunflower, and it’s the undisputed favourite with bees and butterflies.

I often watch the aforementioned insects and note how picky they are. A bee will fly from flower to flower, apparently prodding each one with its proboscis (I think that’s what the feeding bit at the front is called) before settling on the sixth or seventh in line and then proceeding to feed.

But they all look the same to me, so how does the bee decide which one to use?

Meanwhile, the Shire continues to be a little precocious in the matter of signalling the onset of autumn. Many of the trees and hedgerow shrubs are now dotted with yellow, especially the lime trees which are usually the first to drop their leaves. This is normally the September look. The leaves on my favourite copper beech are no longer claret red, but a dirty and drying shade of brown/green. The wheat fields have been harvested this week and all that remains are a few straw bales which haven’t been taken back to the farms yet. And what particularly concerned recently me was seeing a flock of swallows lined up on a telegraph wire. That’s usually their preparation for the return to Africa, again about a month early.

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Meanwhile on the international front, the BBC headline on the Alaska meeting regarding Russia’s war on Ukraine runs: No Deal, No Ceasefire. There are pictures galore showing Trump and Putin smiling sweetly at one another, and Mr Trump is reported as saying that the day was a great success. So what success is he talking about? Maybe he’s right; I wouldn’t know because I couldn’t be bothered to read any further, being sick to the back teeth of a world dominated by American and Russian Presidents.

And while I’m on the subject of prominent personalities, I’m moved to wonder whether Mr Ben Gvir of Israel knows what a ‘cheap shot’ is. (Do they have that expression in Hebrew?) He certainly should. And that leads me further to wonder how the phrase ‘unbelievably obnoxious’ would translate into Hebrew, Aramaic, Arabic, or whatever language was dripping like stale vomit from Ben Gvir’s mouth down in the cells.

Minor Mutterings and a Messiah.

It was my ex-wife’s birthday yesterday. The last time I saw her she was 29. She’ll be a lot older now and sometimes I amuse myself wondering what she looks like. It doesn’t take long for me to stop being amused.

We think of wasps as buzzing little pests intent on annoying us and looking for an excuse to sting, don’t we? This year I’ve seen several drinking sedately from the birds’ water bowl. My attitude to wasps has changed accordingly.

I just read an old comment string from the lovely Zoe of Pennsylvania/NY. It was dated 8/1/2011 (or 1/8/2011 if you must insist on being American.) I thought ‘7 years later…’

My pear tree has been in my garden for nineteen summers and has never fruited. I learned that it was because, unlike apple and plum trees, pears are not self-pollinating. Today I discovered a pear growing on the tree, so either somebody else locally has now got a pear in their garden, or it’s a rare example of Immaculate Conception.

Baiting the Comfy Trap.

Yesterday I had a text message from my mobile provider telling me that my subscription is being increased by over 100%. Today I had an email from my ISP telling me that my broadband subscription is being increased by approximately 25%. (And all dressed up in friendly language in a pathetic attempt to convince the gullible that the capitalist, corporate machine is not really as heartless and psychopathic as it must surely appear even to the gullible.)

The message is becoming more and more obvious with each passing day.

What’s obvious is that the corporate world generally, the technology wing especially, and Establishments all over the ‘developed’ parts of the planet have quietly been constructing a trap and calling it progress. Almost all functions involving any sort of communication are now done by email, text message, or online facilities. Anybody who wants to live a conventional life in these cultures is now required to have well-functioning computer equipment of some sort or other, preferably several sorts. And that means that the providers of these facilities are now free to rip us off as much as they want to, no matter how outrageously.

The only way out of this trap is to cut loose and take to living in a tent, a car, or a van. Difficult as such a move would be, at least it’s still possible in Britain. Over in America it seems it isn’t. If you do that in the land of the free (dare I for once offer a hearty LOL?) you will be regarded as a vagrant, accused of being either mentally ill or addicted to illegal substances, and locked up. So how far will this spread and how long will it take?

It seems to me that the western world is primed for revolution, but of course it won’t happen. Why? Because the American middle class and its equivalent in other cultures has been carefully softened up by the lure of convenience, lifestyle obsession, and the imperative to climb shamelessly on the backs of others in order to be ‘successful’ as defined by the Big Brother system. It’s a sort of mob mentality in lavender.

The only people likely to take to the streets in protest are the PBI (an abbreviation of the British phrase ‘poor bloody infantry’). And when they do, the Establishment will revile them as criminal, mindless mobs, while the other mob – the lavender variety – will nod knowingly and call for more containment facilities. It’s happened before, even in the UK when Mrs Thatcher preached the American Dream and tagged us to America’s coat tails. And it's fascinating to note that Orwell saw this coming even before I was born.

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Last night I had another of those awful dreams I was having some months ago – trying to negotiate a dark, depressingly wet world in which everything was falling apart; and every apparent road out led inevitably back into the nightmare. I woke up at 5.30 feeling trapped and terrified, a feeling which lasted until I took a walk up to the fairy glen above the village. Hardly surprising, is it?

Back to the Ladies.

While I’m in the mood for writing things down I thought I might mention that all the significant women in my life had a song to commemorate them. All except one, that is. The Lady B, who was probably the most significant of all, never had one.

Well, she has now. I found one this week which caused her face to rush into my consciousness most alarmingly. And I’m not going to tell you what it is, so there.

On a lighter note, I was walking up my lane this evening, armed with bucket and spade blades, to collect some more horse dung which I saw there earlier. I heard a swishing sound approach me from behind and turned to identify the source. Three cyclists – two male and one female – were peddling past me at speed. The two males ignored me, but the female, who was youngish, splendidly constructed, good looking, evidently fit, (and blonde), turned and smiled at me. I was too in awe of the moment to smile back and they were long gone before I recovered my normally dull senses, but that sort of thing makes my day. It does.

I haven’t said much about the female of the species lately, have I? Songs and smiles seem to have a habit of renewing old peculiarities.

Paltry Notes and Lost Connections.

Considering how serious the last post was, let’s have a few things of minimal consequence to redress the balance.

Ever since last Thursday when I made my previous post I’ve had odd thoughts running through my head which seemed worthy of the telling. But I never had time to write then down, and so they drifted away on the wake of the ship as is usually the case with thoughts which don’t find a home quickly. Accordingly, I’ll have to fall back on trivia if I’m to maintain my status as a blogger of sorts.

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Yesterday I was sitting on a pile of plastic bags containing peat outside the entrance to B&Q on the retail park. Several middle aged women walking past smiled at me for some unaccountable reason, and one of them even spoke. ‘Comfy?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I replied, and that was the end of another unpromising encounter. I must have been in a good mood actually, because at least it was a conversation of sorts.

Today I walked a quarter of a mile equipped with a bucket and two spade blades in order to collect some horse dropping I’d seen lying on the surface of Church Lane. One has to take the opportunity quickly in such matters because vehicles have an unfortunate habit of squashing them onto the tarmac. And then I walked a quarter of a mile back with the same accoutrements only with the bucket all the heavier for being full of horse droppings. I must be in training for something. After that I spat on my hands and began the big job: weeding and digging the vegetable plot which was the intended recipient of the horse dung.

(What’s brown and sounds like a bell? Duuung! Yeah.)

It was a productive if boring day yesterday, but I got through it with nothing worse than some pretty excessive fatigue symptoms.

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Do you know, every night after a couple of scotches I have an overwhelming desire to write to the priestess. The gist of the message would probably be something like: ‘I do miss you, you know. But don’t give any thought to the matter, much less ascribe significance to it or imagine I’m trying to re-open contact. I’m even less worth knowing than I was the last time I said that.’ I don’t, of course. Too circumspect, and we INFJs have a reputation to maintain.

*  *  *

Another odd thing which happens every night – without exception – when I’m on my way to bed is that I remember a film I saw years ago. It was called The Vanishing and I think it was originally made in the Netherlands and then re-made by Hollywood. It’s a rather disturbing tale about a man’s relentless obsession with discovering why his girlfriend disappeared one day and was never seen again. Why would I think of that every night? Maybe it has something to do with old and lost connections.

Lurching to the Right and Some Questions.

A few days ago the UK Prime Minister, Keir Starmer, made an impassioned – by his standards at least – speech in which he soundly condemned the Israeli government’s policy with regard to Gaza and the Palestinians. The following day 500 people (more than half of which were over 60, apparently) were arrested while protesting on behalf of the group known as Palestine Action.

To some extent it’s obvious that those 500 were effectively a token generated by a neat contrivance. They weren’t arrested for protesting as such because the British public would be unhappy with such an assault on the right to protest peacefully. They were arrested for carrying placards. I wrote on this blog a few weeks ago that Palestine Action had been proscribed following an illegal entry and a bit of vandalism – a dubious decision in its own right, but convenient you must admit. This made it illegal for anyone to demonstrate support of the organisation, and carrying a placard is just that.

Is anyone smelling a rat yet? And given the facts outlined in the previous two paragraphs, are we not at least seeing a monstrous demonstration of duplicity?

Meanwhile, I’m seeing large numbers of complaints coming out of America about the fact that homelessness is now effectively a crime. The exact details of this are sketchy I admit, but it certainly seems that Trump is determined to sweep the homeless under the carpet rather than seriously and humanely addressing the issue of homelessness.

And of course, Trump being the irrational and excessively hyperbolic creature that he is, aligns the homelessness problem with the ‘out of control’ increase in the crime rate in DC. Well, homelessness might well have an effect on the crime rate to some extent, so deal with homelessness for heaven’s sake. (In fact, the claim of an increase in crime is highly disputed.) Instead, Trump calls in the National Guard to take control of the situation, thus militarising the situation in order to make Washington ‘beautiful’ again.

And so a number of questions occur to me:

1. What is Trump really up to?

2. Is this worrying lurch to the political right actually a smokescreen on the way to handing power to some group or organisation currently staying under the radar? (Research the Bilderberg Group for evidence that such might not be merely the stuff of conspiracy theory.)

3. How far along the yard arm will I – along with the rest of us – be forced to crawl before the grim reaper brings me merciful release?

4. Will I soon be open to arrest and confinement for making posts like this?

5. Will my descendents – and the rest – be offered an alternative way out through an asteroid strike, the outbreak of nuclear war, or economic meltdown? Times are changing and it doesn’t look positive.

6. In the short term, will I live long enough to see what happens when the next US Presidential Election is due? That could be fascinating.

7. Are the aliens taking note of all this? (That's a sort of joke, but possibly not.)

8. Will Trump still think he's God when this is over?

9. If God is really the Universe, does it matter?

Specimen Hunting.

I sat outside Sainsbury’s for ten minutes yesterday, watching the ladies trip hither and thither between the town and the car park. Some were fat, some were thin. Some were pretty and some were ugly. Some were young…

‘Jeffrey!’ came a strident voice from up above me somewhere.

‘What?’

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Am I?’

‘You are. How many times do I have to lecture you on this subject? The terms ‘fat’ and ‘ugly’ are relative and born of your grubby little prejudiced mind.’

‘But I’m looking for interesting specimens.’

‘Heavens above! There’s another one. Specimens indeed!’

‘I do the same with dogs.’

‘That’s hardly the point. Mend your ways, young man, or you may find yourself regretting it one day.’

‘I’m not young.’

‘Shut up.’

‘And I’m not sure I’m human either. That’s why I look for interesting specimens.

‘Shut UP!’

My higher mind is a right Miss Trunchbull, you know. The suspicion that she’ll still be there when I’ve rung down the curtain never leaves me. What concerns me most is that she might be the only thing that’s there when I get to the other side.

Isolating for the Future.

I’ve come across an interesting statistic from more than one source recently. It’s said that 51% of YouTube content globally is now the work of AI masquerading as human YouTubers, and it's rising. And they’re not only creating the content; they’re even generating comments, usually either as effusive praise or as something contentious which will provoke an argument. Apparently, it’s all to do with keeping viewers on the channel longer so as to attract more time for the advertising to take effect. That way the platform can charge more.

And the same is also happening on social media, both in terms of content and comment. This is particularly ironic because social media is now being seen as the phenomenon which began the process of eroding actual human connection from the human experience in the first place, and now AI is taking it to a higher level.

Further, what about the retail experience? We’re seeing the near-death of the high streets and the predominance of online shopping. Quite apart from the general inadequacies of online shopping – which are many and most regrettable – AI is also getting in on the act there. Some retailers are now using it to generate fake positive reviews to persuade shoppers to buy from them.

And here’s the greater point: It’s always been normal for older generations to take a reactionary view of changes to new ways. Things were never as good as they were 'when I was a kid'. But this time it’s different because taking face-to-face human interaction out of the human experience is in a wholly different league from having electric cars instead of petrol-driven ones. This time we’re right.

So who’s really behind all this, apart from the obvious ne’er-do-wells running the giant tech companies? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Questions and Frustration.

I spent much of today getting nowhere. First I had a question of the hospital: ‘Why are you suddenly and without explanation calling me for a consultation when I’m on the list for an MRI scan?’ (Getting to the hospital is a bit of a trial at the moment so this matters.) Result: ‘No-one is available at the moment. Try again later.’ I tried again later – and again and again later and later. Result: ‘The line is busy.’

And then I had a different and unrelated question: ‘Where can I get a good quality flannel (not flannelette or brushed cotton) fitted sheet for my bed?’ I went online, because that’s the only way to do it these days now that appropriate shops and market stalls are almost non-existent. After an hour’s effort I was still no closer to getting an answer, so I gave up (for now.)

This is modern culture. I know I’m supposed to be used to it by now but I’m not. It frustrates the hell out of me.

A couple of days ago I spent half an hour typing a blog post which required the uploading of a photograph from my Pictures file. At one time they just uploaded, and then Google insisted on the blogger agreeing to have cookies installed on the blog. Eventually I gave in and allowed them. Now they have a second level of prohibition requiring me to have all cookies of Google’s choice added to all my Google products. This time I declined because it seems we need to put our foot down with a techno world which is working surreptitiously to take over the culture for their own ends. Maybe the tech firms will be the instrument by which capitalism will destroy itself through its own greed as Marx predicted. Who knows?

Meanwhile, I’m becoming right royally pissed off with the way the world has deteriorated over the past few decades. So much greed, so much self-interest, so much erosion of human values.

At the moment my main concern is another question: Would I like to meet a Nordic alien? And will I have a choice? I'm not kidding.

A View on the Extreme.

I was thinking today about how much politicians and media figures love to use the word ‘extremist’ in relation to attitudes and opinions which run counter to the established order. It’s been my experience that many – if not most – views labelled as ‘extremist’ are not extreme at all, but simply different. There are exceptions to prove the rule of course – especially on the far right and at the totalitarian end of the liberal alter-establishment – but the word is much overused and often disingenuously so. In most cases, ‘extremist’ is nothing more than a synonym for ‘alternative.’

But of course, politicians and establishment figures dislike the word ‘alternative.’ It’s a thinkers’ word, and people in power generally want people to follow, not think. ‘Extremist’ is far more appropriate because it carries the inherent suggestion of danger, of being a threat to everything which people have grown used to regarding as comfortable, axiomatic, and even sacrosanct. It’s good for the rich and powerful that people should be so persuaded because that makes them more compliant.

I’ve no doubt the Chartists were described as ‘extremist’ because they advocated such outrageous nonsense as having secret ballots during elections. Do we still think of the secret ballot as extremist? And the suffragettes also held the extremist view that women should be allowed to vote.

And so, if I might be so presumptuous, I would like to suggest to young people that every time they hear a politician, a police officer, a civil servant, a politically polarised newspaper, a school teacher, or even a parent use the world ‘extremist’, they might step to one side and ask what the word actually means.