Good morning Negative Soundbyters! This comes to you live from an overcast Dublin and is the first NSB with a wider European flavour – if Guinness is your thing of course! I am here on business having arrived late last night on the cattle car (otherwise known as Ryanair). To be fair my experience wasn’t too bad; I paid the extra for priority boarding which is a small mercy really; the words queue and airport are synonymous so if there is an opportunity to jump one then I am a taker. Mrs H will testify to that fact that I am not that patient, especially when it comes to waiting in line.
For instance, you have had a long, tortuous day in the swamp; you down your tools at exactly six o clock, and make a dash for the tube. You contort yourself into a position strictly reserved for gymnasts, make it to your home station, bolt up the escalator to freedom and get stymied at the barrier by a fellow passenger who is repeatedly tapping their Oyster Card on the reader, yet is unable to comprehend the instruction “Seek assistance” when the barrier doesn’t give way. Nope – if I tap my card again-and-again-and-again, the algorithm imbedded in my card will suddenly realise that it has made the mistake, and let me through. NO you dumbass, you just forgot to top it up or renew your travel card. And then of course it’s a bit of a faff because they are now caught like a cow in cattle pen; stuck between the billion people trying to make a dash for daylight and that pesky barrier. Of course this situation unwinds in a minute-or-so but for me – the hard-done-by Londoner commuter it feels like an eternity!
What of the wider world? Anything of geopolitical importance to report:
A story from home. Some white guy in South Africa wrote a blog, sent it to the SA version of the Huffington Post who published it. Nothing usual about that. Except the chap who sent it in created a fake profile of himself dressed as a woman (he / she wanted to conceal his/hers true identity!) and the piece he/she had written was basically that most of the world’s travails were the fault of the white man and that maybe if you took his vote away, the world would right itself again. The Huff deemed this notion worthy of debate (a little scary) and stuck it up on their site without doing any sort of checks on the “blogger” or the content of the “article”. Well a furore erupted. The article went viral; the Huff editor was inundated with hate mail; the Huff then tracked down Shelley Garland (great “fake name”) and outed him/her at his place of work no less – and on camera (he turned out to be a rather squat, middle level manager at some think-tank). He resigned. The Huff was then reported to the Press Ombudsman who decided in its infinite wisdom that Shelley’s contribution to the world amounted to “hate speech”. The editor of the Huff then resigned (you could say she left in a “huff” – sorry!) and well, there you have it. Just another day in the rainbow nation. You just couldn’t make it up! Oh no wait, somebody in drag actually did!!
And what of this week’s anecdote?
Big love to you all.
Hoddy x
Parks.
London has some of the best parks in the world. People of all shapes-and-sizes use them; often in various forms of undress which can either be a pleasant experience – or not so pleasant depending on what tickles your fancy. (I dare not explore the origins of this phrase as this is ostensibly a family friendly blog!)
There are dog-walkers, “doggers” (veering into R-rated content Hoddy), bird-watchers (those who carry binoculars for the feathered variety and those that don’t), lycra-festooned cyclists; hot chicks; families trying to enjoy picnics with Little Jonny (who is intent on playing in the traffic); PT enthusiasts; hot chicks; footballers – and even the odd juggler no less (and in case I didn’t mention it – hot chicks…sorry men – because this blog is strictly gender neutral!).
But I have now witnessed a new park pastime to throw into the mix which is certainly a little different.
So I am heading up to my private botanical garden called The Rookery on Streatham Common. I have my yoga mat under my arm as it is my intention to stretch out the chassis and then calm the mind with a spot of meditation in what is a very tranquil, zen-like setting. My meditation as I have explained previously involves me breathing in-and-out and allowing my mind to wander; this usually causes a fresh round of panic as I then begin to realise all the things in my life I don’t have a handle on! (Don’t tell Mrs H; she thinks I am in total control!)
I stroll up past a group of individuals who are clothed head-to-toe in black with lots of padding; the sort of gear that one would expect of serious motorcyclists or the MET riot police or even a martial arts movie for that matter. I don’t think too much of it even though I cannot see any Ducatis or police vans or Bruce Lee in the immediate vicinity.
I disappear into the Rookery and do my routine while Little Jonny runs riot in the pristine garden beds just within earshot. Needless to say I wasn’t at peace when I exited the gardens about 45 minutes later; only to be confronted by the Streatham Common Ninjas enacting a battle scene out of some bloodthirsty medieval B- grade movie – with broad swords and stabing knives (not of the plastic variety either!)
They were lunging at each other with real intent; the one Ninja was circling the other Ninja with a sword in one hand and a spike in the other. I was like dude be careful with that sword; a beheading on Streatham Common just isn’t going to sit well with the Health-and-Safety Executive. I decided to beat a hasty retreat. Let Little Jonny witness the severed limb. I was outta there!
Call me chicken but I was supposed to be zen; not freaked out by some weekend warrior keen to impale his mate on the end of his spike (which does feel kind of fitting on Streatham Common given my past experience! See Edition 6 "Woof Woof") :)
OUT!
Pic of the Week:
Spot the Ninja!
