New Phrases For An Old Dog

The prolificity of the English language never ceases to amaze me. In the last three, perhaps two, days, I have heard two phrases which to the best of my knowledge I have never heard before. They are Indian giver and thirst trap.

The Indian concerned is an Injun, ie Native American rather than someone from the subcontinent. The term dates from the Eighteenth Century and means (or can mean) someone who gives you something, ostensibly as a gift, then wants it back.

Of thirst trap, I will say only that this is something of a sexual nature and let you imagine the rest, if you are not familiar with it already.

Something else that never ceases to amaze me is that so many people who speak English as a second language are ultra-fluent while I am still discovering it in my sixty-seventh year.

The Fall Of Phillip Schofield

It wasn’t that long ago this bloke was a popular host on morning TV. Now, suddenly he is poison. True, he did come out as a homo in February 2020. He married in 1993, but Elton John went down the same perverted route and didn’t attract unwarranted criticism for it. More recently it was claimed he and his co-presenter Holly Willoughby jumped the queue at the Queen’s lying-in-state, hardly a hanging offence. Then his brother was given a heavy sentence for child sexual offences – sins of the siblings? And now he is gone from his morning television programme and possibly from TV period.

None of that is surprising, disappointing undoubtedly, but suddenly we are told he is a narcissist, a thug, if not in the literal sense then a verbal bully, and a few other unpleasant things besides. Why would any woman want to sit next to him on the sofa?

Now take a gander at the photograph below. The woman with the scarred face is Naomi Oni. Those scars were caused by acid. In December 2012, she was attacked by a work colleague and former friend in a well-publicised incident. Mary Konye received a twelve year sentence for that attack, not a day too long. Although plastic surgery has repaired some of the damage, Naomi is clearly serving a life sentence. She appeared on Schofield’s morning TV programme less than six weeks after the attack, and broke down visibly distressed. He doesn’t look quite such a monster here, does he?

What will people say about you after you fall from grace, or when you are dead?

Last Night In Trafalgar Square

New Year’s Eve was an improvement on last year, sort of. People were allowed in Trafalgar Square again and there was water in the fountains, but they and the centre were totally sealed off by the police and security. That was as good as it got. There was no big screen with music and live broadcasting, even worse the toilets were closed and I don’t think there were toilets anywhere except in restaurants and the like. Does it make sense when countless thousands of people are expected to flood the area – including families with at times very young kids – to close all the public toilets? This led to men urinating discreetly in corners after the event. And women?

There was the usual firework display over by the Thames which was visible over the tall buildings, but there were two additional mini-displays as well: one by Pret A Manger and another, shortly after or during the end of the main display in the north-east corner of the Square itself. I left shortly after these to carry out my annual ritual, the one I have performed since New Year’s Day 1999, then made my way home by a somewhat circuitous route via Clock House and my local kebab shop.

The Lunatics Have Killed Trafalgar Square

Last year was bad enough, the Square was fenced off and I saw in New Year’s Day standing under a statue just south of it; the dude’s name escapes me at the moment. This year I couldn’t even do that. I left home around 9pm and caught a bus, which I expected to be slow, certainly slower than the trains that weren’t running to London Bridge, but I was still there in more than good time.

Again, it was entirely boarded up and then some. I spent a good deal of time wandering around; best not to mention the copper who thought I was urinating outside Embankment Station – I was struggling with the seal on a flapjack packet – or the idiot who thought I was his Algerian uncle spouting nonsense as one of his female companions threw up over the westbound platform.

I saw in the New Year in Leicester Square then made my way towards Covent Garden to do my annual good deeds; I stopped at two rather than the usual six, wanting to get home, but the time the bus took to get from Charing Cross Road to Duncannon Street, I could have walked there and dispensed another four.

2022 and Al is still here. No one is more amazed than me.

Poor, Brainwashed Rosie Duffield

This Labour MP was hanging out with Graham Linehan and friends on YouTube yesterday. She had recently made some “transphobic” comments, ie implying that men are not women. At least one left wing moron has demanded she lose the whip.

So what does Rosie say on this hangout? She complains we are “losing out language” and is so concerned about “the words we use”. And she says she grew up knowing about “gay rights” and attended Pride lots of times. Yeah, she calls homosexuality gay. And Pride - seriously?

Not only that, she refers to illegal immigrants as asylum seekers. And this is the woman who says we are losing our language? Give me a break.

The Descartes’ Demon Of On-Line Poker Strikes Again

I first tackled this subject a decade ago, and have witnessed many strange things at the poker table since - including me winning on occasion! Nevertheless, what happened in the $300 Freeroll tonight was something special.

I was coasting, then a short stack went all-in and the dude in front of me called. I had pocket jacks, and followed. The all-in had jacks too, and the other guy had queens. I thought I was as good as out so shortly went all-in with suited connectors against a minimum raise. And flopped the nut straight.

Three of us in the pot, the diamond on the turn didn’t bother me particularly, but I called “deuce of clubs” all the same. And it came. I cashed, then again short stacked I was all-in with almost the same suited connectors. When the ace flopped I knew I was doomed, then the seven hit the turn, and I called “Six!”

Amazing or what? The straight saw me through to the next level. Give it a shot. Even if you are an atheist like me.

Dreams Are Junk

I was on my way home in the dark, although it wasn’t so dark I couldn’t see the gun. There was a car parked near my house, and sitting in it were four young black dudes: two in the front, two in the back. One in the back was holding the gun, it was silver or silvery. I feared for a moment he was going to shoot the other guy, but he was simply showing it to him.

I can’t remember if I spoke to them, but I do remember taking out a pen and writing down the car registration number: B77 3701.

The next thing I remember, I was in the hall and four men were walking up the short path. They were all white, one was my neighbour of 26 years, the other three were drinking buddies, they were carrying bottles of beer. Nothing unusual about that, I thought. I went upstairs, and the door to my apartment was ajar, the living room light on. I pushed the door open and confronted the low table, it was bare; someone had broken in and stolen my computer. It was then I realised my apartment doesn’t look like this, for one thing I don’t enter it by the living room door. Then I woke up.

I’ve had vivid or fairly vivid dreams like this before. The last one I had was of a plane crashing into a building 9/11 fashion. And?

I ran B77 3701 through Google. I realised it wasn’t a real vehicle registration number; I found out it was something for sale on eBay, something to do with fishing rods.

Dreams are junk. We have them all the time. Some we remember, most we forget. Let them go, the only dreams that mean anything are those you can chase in the real world.

August 13, 2021