Thought chains
I had a thought chain yesterday.
You know those things? You see something which reminds you of something else which in turn sends your thoughts in a completely different direction.
It started yesterday where I read something about Wounded Knee [the American massacre]. This reminded me of a song I had heard called Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. I searched for it but YouTube came up with a version I had never heard of.
I then remembered that the version I was looking for was sung by Richard Digance. I did a search for that and found it.
But having found the song I got to thinking of where I had heard the song originally. I had seen Richard Digance sing at the Cambridge Folk Festival but that got me wondering when I had seen him there.
Back in the early Seventies my world consisted of music and drinking [and wimmin occasionally]. Countless nights were spent in Dublin pubs, like O’Donoghues or Slatterys with a couple of friends playing traditional Irish music. One night one of the group suggested we bring our instruments over to Cambridge. Naturally all the alcohol in us agreed so we set off.
I remember little about that trip. I discovered Newcastle Brown Ale and did my damnedest to double their sales for that year. I do remember playing a few gigs on a side stage which went very well and I remember trying to sleep under one of the stages while some bloke shagged his woman right over my head on the stage. That bloke had some fucking stamina. I saw his woman the following morning and she had a walk like John Wayne. I wasn’t surprised.
I do remember some of the acts I had seen. Richard Digance of course, but also Arlo Guthrie, Planxty, Loudon Wainright III , Martin Carthy and Alan Stivell all managed to pierce my alcoholic haze and stay in my memory. It was a brilliant weekend in Cherry Hinton Hall, but it has always bugged me as to what year it was. All I knew was that it was some time in the seventies.
So anyways, I did my bit of research into the history of the Folk Festival and there was only one year when all of the above were on together.
1974.
Testing times
Well that’s the final hurdle of the current batch cleared.
I had to report for the car test this morning at an ungodly hour. Isn’t it strange that any process which involves screwing Joe Public for a few bob is deemed an “essential service” and not subject to lockdowns?
I hate the car test. I don’t know why as I have never suffered the indignity of a fail. Thinking back on it, I think it’s the old exam nerves rearing their ugly head. It doesn’t matter that you know every question in advance but you still have that feeling that the examiner will have a hangover or has just had a blazing row with the wife/boss and is itching for revenge on some unfortunate stranger.
The test is a bit of a torture in itself. In the old days I used to wander around outside enjoying a pipefull, but they changed things so I have to wait in what can only be termed a viewing gallery. This is a wall of glass, the other side of which is a vast hangar with several car lanes. Each car is driven to the first check where they plug cables into the engine, pipes up the exhaust and yokes in front of the lights. Then they drive forward onto the rollers where the wheels are spun while the car remains stationary. Next it’s a bit of strange driving where they veer off their lane and reverse back onto it. Finally they drive onto a hydraulic lift and poke around under the car. It’s a bit like watching in detail as a surgeon operates on your child’s heart. Unnerving.
While I was undergoing this ignominious process others were being called to get their results for everyone to hear. One poor woman was nearly in tears as they read out a long list of failing features. Her child had just died on the operating table under her worried gaze. At least I didn’t suffer that fate – passed as expected.
My next item is to put myself to test. It’s only when driving on the motorway I realise how long it is since my last proper eye test. The last time was a couple or three years ago when they discovered I was on my way to cataracts. I have had loads of sessions since with specialists but they’re only concerned with pressures and things. It’s the lenses need a seeing to as everything has a slight haze to it.
So now I have to see my way to booking that.
Nearly there
Things are moving along slowly here at the Manor.
The tree is finally down. Actually, I decided to leave the tree and just remove all its branches. It looks a bit weird but it reminds me of Nelson’s Pillar after the IRA blew it up. I actually had some pieces of the pillar debris but they got lost in one of my house moves.
Leastwise the house is a lot brighter, and I mean a lot. And that’s before there were leaves blocking the light [and the satellite signal]. I was very sorry to see it go but consoled myself with the thought of all that carbon that’s about to be released when the wood is burned.
The laptop is still playing Lotto. I have given up trying to fix it, having done a few more factory restores. It works in both Linux and Windoze but it’s an effort to get into either. I’ll just have to live with its annoying vagaries. Apart from that it’s a really lovely laptop.
As I scribble, there is a bloke working on our boiler. We thought it was a simple part replacement but it transpires that the entire boiler was clogged up with soot. He’s vacuuming up bag loads of stuff that he’ll probably sell on to the Fingerprint Section of the Major Crime Squad.
Okay. He’s gone. And the house is going into thermal overload. It should keep Herself happy anyway.
So the only big thing left is the car test. I’m dreading that. Not the test: the getting up before dawn.
According to our Glorious Gubmint current restrictions don’t allow visitors, even in the garden. Not one. If I chatted to a neighbour over the fence I would probably be breaking the law. How that would cause mass deaths and disrespect for the HSE, I don’t know but the law is the law. Anyhows, in the last few days I reckon we have had around ten people around, from nurses and boiler people through tree surgeons [surely surgeons are medical?] to neighbours helping themselves to some nice beech logs and even just neighbours calling.
They are all welcome.
Fuck the regulations.
Lacking the balls
It seems there is a new word creeping into our language.
Womxn.
While this might be great news for Scrabble players it’s a bit of a nightmare for the spoken word. I defy anyone to pronounce it, even when sober.
And what does it supposed to mean, I hear you ask?
I came across it in an item about women bitching about radio playlists of all things. I naturally assumed it was a sloppy bit of typesetting but they then inserted a line explaining exactly what this abomination is –
Womxn is a term used to be inclusive of trans and nonbinary women.
So not content with mutilating the whole concept of gender [and some mutilating their own bodies in the process] they now want to mutilate the language as well. Good fucking luck to them. [Or should that be thxm?]
The radio playlist thing is the usual farce. Women [womxn?] want more female singers to be played on air. But seeing as they are so fucking confused about their gender[s], and in some doubt as to what exactly “female” is then maybe I should rephrase that as a desire to hear less men? Who knows what a woman is these days? Personally I couldn’t give a shite as I don’t listen to Irish radio anyway.
Just as a side note I notice that this new “Why Not Her” [?!] movement is led by music industry consultant Linda Coogan Byrne, global development executive Bernadette Sexton, and researcher and academic Dr Brenda Donohue. Oy! This is blatant gender discrimination! We men demand a male representation on the board!
There are a few mentions today about the Golden Globes awards. There is great celebration at the “diversity” of the winners and a lot of knicker wetting at a woman [womxn?] winning best picture. The winner of Best Actor [which surely is sexist?] was black and dead so that must have pleased the feminazis and the diversity mob with one blow?
Has anyone noticed the parallel between the diversity/gender equality mob and the Anti Smokers? All they wanted was one non-smoking carriage on a train and now look where we are. How long before all mention [or even hint] of gender will be abolished? When will the time come when we shall be sentenced to six-months Diversity Re-Education because we accidentally used a gender specific pronoun?
These diversity people are just a shower of cunts.
