This Morning’s Message:
You may want to kill Ward Clever after having read this superb piece. That is if you haven’t died laughing!
Warning: Reading this story will cause mental anguish and distress, blindness and rage. Consult a doctor before reading it.
Shelly Holeinfence had just changed her name from something ridiculous. She did this to win the affections of the object of her desire, or one of his friends. It didn’t work, so she moved deep into the Blue Ridge Mountains. Not, like, under them or anything, you moron, but a fair distance from any civilization.
And that’s when she saw the elves.
She saw them out her window one day, dancing in a fire. And a few seconds later, jumping around and howling in pain as the brighter elves danced around the fire while EMTs (elven medical technicians) attended to the burns. She tried to stay hidden from the elves, but they knew she was there, because it was difficult to hide a cabin in the middle of the mountains.
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What a brilliant article by my friend Kirsty, and what chilling reading the blog of the Grenfell Action Group makes. (Linked from the “raised again and again….”) Clearly, there has been a problem for a long time, and there is still a problem with other tower blocks. No money to cure the problem? Tough – We have to find the funding! What a great community spirit has been displayed in the aftermath, with no regard to race, colour, religion or gender.
Whether you have a faith, or none, pray that you never have to experience what those fellow human beings have had to endure, and what they have to live with for ever!
Sometimes you can watch the TV news unfold its daily horrors and let it just wash over you; at other times the sheer awfulness leaves you breathless, heartsick, overwhelmed. Today is one of those other days. It’s been difficult to concentrate at work today, flicking back to the news websites every so often with a pounding heart. If this is how I’m feeling, a comfortable 200 miles away from Grenfell Tower, I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for those personally affected.
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Anyone not in the UK will probably be totally bemused by this article. However, I felt that it is entirely appropriate to re blog this on the day that we are deciding who should form our government for the next 5 years.
This is not a recipe. I wrote this as a series of tweets today and readers asked for it as a blog post, so here it is. Our politics may differ, so feel free to skip straight back to the recipes if that’s what you’re here for.
WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT DIANE ABBOTT.
Right one of us political writer people needs to do this and it looks like it’s me. Grab a seat. I wanna talk about Diane.
Diane was first elected as an MP in 1987, the year before I was born. She has been dedicated to serving the British public for longer than I have even been alive. Hold that thought. Understand it.
Diane was the first black woman to have a seat in the House of Commons. She MADE HISTORY. Her father was welder, her mother a nurse. How many working class kids do we have…
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Heard this on “Poetry Please” today on BBC Radio 4, read by Roger, the author of this fine poem. It made me think of someone living with dementia, so made me a little sad, but only for a moment or two.
A Poem Just For Me
Where am I now when I need me
Suddenly where have I gone?
I’m so alone here without me
Tell me please what have I done?
Once I did most things together
I went for walks hand in hand
I shared my life so completely
I met my every demand.
Tell me I’ll come back tomorrow
I’ll keep my arms open wide
Tell me that I’ll never leave me
My place is here at my side.
Maybe I’ve simply mislaid me
Like an umbrella or key
So until the day that I come my way
Here is a poem just for me.
Well, some days you wake up and you just don’t feel your normal self … you’re not just there. What have you got to do to regain your Me! … who is this depressing foreigner that has walked into your skin…
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A fantastic report on Limelight Festival 2017 by a talented young music blogger. Read and enjoy!
We waited patiently, for a whole 12 months. We attended gigs, we played our music loud and we counted down the days until we’d be back in front of that stage once more. We watched with excitement, as the lineup, the headliners and the last minute acts were announced. We planned our May Day bank holiday weekend accordingly and then we headed for Newcastle town centre, cagoule in hand and hopes high.
The fifth annual Lymelight Festival ran from the evening of Friday 28th April through until late afternoon on Monday 1st May and by all accounts, it was spectacular. Opening with sets from Captain Stingray’s Groove Machine, Vidorra, 10o’clock Chemical and Akahum, it seemed that from the get go, this would be more than just your usual local festival.
S A T U R D A Y
It was dry and sunny on the morning of the 29th of…
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The old ones are the best, and that includes the Simple, Village Undertaker. With apologies to Ray!
Her mother told her this was wrong; she must say, “I’m Jane Sugarbrown.”
The Vicar spoke to her in Sunday School, and said, “Aren’t you Mr. Sugarbrown’s daughter?”
She replied, “I thought I was, but mother says I’m not.”
Read this fantastic story of Scouting of yesteryear told by John. He is now retired, both from stealing from the Tuck Shop, and from his legal duties. He can still sing the old scouting songs though!
It must have been the summer of 1961. Certainly before the Beatles. The music that year was all Dean Martin and the Drifters, or itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini.* And I recall being in love with a girl in the 4th form at Queens’s school in Rheindalen, Carol, and constantly singing a song to her called “Oh Carol”.** And there was Elvis of course. Anyway, I was in the boy scouts then. Moved on I had from the cubs, left behind all that Akela and dib dib, dib, dob, dob, dob stuff. Cubs had sixers in charge. I had been a sixer when a cub. Born to command I was. Now, in that summer of ’61, I had graduated to the scouts and I was quickly made a Patrol leader. Sometimes I even wore long trousers.
They would meet once a week, Wednesday evening…
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Kirsty, one of the few blogging friends that I know IRL, has a few views about politics. She gave up soaps some time ago. Now she plans to give up politics……..well, almost!
Several years ago I remember waking up in a cold sweat after a nightmare about EastEnders. I think it was about Sonia Fowler – that sweet brainy trumpet-playing girl who fell in love with bad boy Martin after he’d accidentally killed her lovely previous boyfriend, then didn’t realise she was pregnant until she went into labour, gave the baby up for adoption but then had a breakdown and kidnapped the child back.
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