Looking at life

Blair says he does in God believe,
And this the people should relieve,
And he does also say,
In a subtle kind of way,
He the decision made,
To Iraq invade,
Because God him told,
To be bold,
And the Queen's army send,
So they a hand could lend,
In a fight,
Which he thought was right,
And would the Devil cheat,
When they did Saddam defeat.

But though blair does in God believe,
He thinks it's right to deceive,
So even if he told not actually a lie,
He did truth defy,
When he chose the people to mislead,
So he could with war his ego feed,
Because he did the truth deface,
When he did the benefits of war best-case,
Saying things like: "Easy-peasy,
It will all be easy."
Then told a story really grim,
Of the result,
If voters others did consult,
And tried to his ambitions trim.

Condi Rice maybe said it best,
When she the voters' nerve did test,
By saying it would be no fun,
If the smoking gun,
Did New York enshroud,
In a mushroom cloud.

Oh dear,
The voters ran around in fear,
And suffered from incontinence,
When they the thought did countenance,
And so most Americans they cried for war,
As soiled undies made them sore.

Then blair gave as well the voter's voice,
A simple choice,
Of something really easy,
Which none would make uneasy,
Or something really horrible,
Which life would make impossible.
But though there were more than just a few,
Who saw that this simply was not true,
They could not fight the media,
With their multimedia,
Who did profits eye,
And supported well the lie,
As war for them would money make,
If all would in war partake,

Anyway, they to shareholders were responsible,
So it was their choice defensible,
That they should truth ignore,
So bush and blair could have their war,
For historically, politicians who in God believe,
Think they have a right to in His name deceive.

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There in blair was no abode,
For a middle road.

Munich 1935: Hit-Ler, Hit-Ler, Hit-Ler.
Berlin 1936 Seig-Heil, Seig-Heil, Seig-Heil.

Kosovo 1997: To-Ny, To-Ny, To-Ny, To-Ny.
Iraq 2003: Is a prime minister allowed to dream?

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"My it's cold! Being left outside to freeze on a winter's night is no fun but it seems to be my place in life. My destiny if you like. Later, after the sun rises I'll start to move around a little and this will spread warmth throughout my whole being and as the day progresses I'll forget the miseries of this horrible night. However, later on there'll be the open road and as I begin to go faster and faster the heat inside me will build to intolerable levels and so it's probably fair to say that in the course of the day I will go to extremes of both heat and cold. Life! It's no fun.

However, the question which really bothers me is: how does a tyre manage to think thoughts? Technically I am an inanimate object and, as inanimate objects cannot think, they cannot be. So although initially tempted to say something like I am not here because I am not and therefore do not exist, it might be possible to say that I am here because I exist as an imagining in an imagination. That imagination is imagining me and therefore I am. I exist. But if I exist in the imagination which imagines me, what purpose do I have in that imagination? What is the meaning of existing as an imagining? Why is that imagination imagining me? The next question of course is: how did that imagination come to imagine something like me? Why me, a motor car tyre and not some other 'thing'? Do I have a purpose in that imagination's imaginings and if I have, did I grow out of another imagining? For example, do I, in that imagination, have a history? And, if so, what is it? Has that imagination imagined some kind of starting point for me like a rubber tree and, from there to a factory which made me? Does that imagination also have to imagine all the other things in the factory its imagination created so it could imagine my coming into existence? In fact, if we take the machine which pressed me into shape, did the imagination which had to create it so it could create me also imbue that machine with the power to think? Is that machine now at this moment thinking thoughts similar to mine? In fact, are all the machines associated with my creation also, in the imagination which imagined them, capable of thought? If they cannot think, then surely they cannot be.

But before allowing ourselves to get bogged down in the multiplicities involved in pursuing this direction, we should ask why the imagination which imagined me actually imagined me? And, why did it imagine me, a tyre and then imagine me as a tyre which could think? Supposing I stood by the realistic fact that because I am an inanimate object I cannot think and because I cannot think I therefore cannot be? What is the imagination which imagined me into existence going to do then? It has imagined me as a tyre which can think but because I can think I can know that I am inanimate and therefore cannot think and, because I cannot think, I am not. I do not exist. That means that I also have to point out to this imagination that because I am not, I cannot be a product of its imagination and must therefore be a delusion.

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Knock. Knock.

"Who's there?"

"O. J."

"O. J. Who?"

"Congratulations. You're on the jury!"

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Dark clouds gather overhead,
And fill my heart with dread.
What a pain,
It's going to rain,
And as my umbrella I forgot,
This my day does blot.
For England's plan by morning sun was cloaked,
And now I'll soon be soaked.

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Earlier this year the White House issued National Security Presidential
Directive 51 and the media never said a word.

The president can now decide that something is a 'catastrophic emergency' and then he is allowed to do whatever he considers necessary to deal with the emergency. He can cancel imminent elections, suspend the sacred constitution, and also launch a nuclear attack on anyone he considers an enemy.

Worse, two of the clauses in this directive are so secret that even members of Congress are not allowed to know them. In fact, no one but the president and his cronies know what they are.

So where is the alcoholic taking us?

Just because someone gives up the booze, it doesn't mean he's given up
the inclinations which drove him to booze. Power, you might say, gives a bigger hit than alcohol and is therefore more desirable.

See this week's The Week, Issue 638, page 15, for more details.

An elderly lady not deluded,
But who chose a life secluded,
Had a history bare,
As she'd not been anywhere,
Yet though mostly out of touch,
It worried her not much.

Then one day to town,
Came a circus of renown,
But an elephant escaped,
And this lady's garden raped,
By eating up her plants,
In search of nutrients.

The lady was apalled,
So the police she called,
Speaking of a beast quite strange,
Which her garden did derange.
And did himself avail,
Of her plants, with his tail!!!!

'With his tail!' The policeman said,
His voice quite full of dread.
Then he asked, 'With his tail, once he takes your plant,
So fragnant,
What could he with it do,
As things they must be few.'

'Young man!' The lady cried,
'I to my house am tied,
But still would like to see,
Some decency.
So though some may think this all a farce,
Descriptive words for me are sparse,
And if I would this you tell,
The world would not of me think well.'

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House of Fools.

Eat your heart out Hollywood.

When people want to meet really great film makers they no longer
go to Hollywood, they go to Moscow.

When people want to meet really great actors and actresses
they no longer go to Hollywood, they go to Moscow.

House of Fools is the film which marks the death of Hollywood; a
town which may contain plenty of nickel and dime eye-candy but
precious little else.

In our globalised world, Russia is quickly becoming the centre of
culture and art. Artists may still sell their works in New York,
but they will get their inspiration from Moscow.

After all, in America, what lies beneath the surface?

What, other than spiritual and cultural emptiness, lies beneath
the sacred dollar?

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If you'd in laughter like to roll,
You should read The Scroll,
The Bible in a tabloid form,
Which old ways does scorn,
For the stories all are Bible true,
And told in ways quite new,
So many would I'm sure agree,
You genius here will see,
So it's strange Nick Page,
Is in churches not a rage.

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