A Question Of Priorities

No sooner had Britain’s new world heavyweight boxing champion commented on sexual perversion than some moron had started a petition to remove his name from the shortlist for the Sports Personality Of The Year. Tyson Fury provoked outrage with a common sense if undiplomatic triple observation about homosexuality, paedophilia, and the right to life; his exact words were reported as: “before the devil comes home” three things are needed, “One of them is homosexuality being legal in countries, one of them is abortion and the other is paedophilia. Who would have thought in the 50s and 60s that those first two would be legalised?”

I prefer to capitalise the word Devil, it is a proper noun, after all, but as a lifelong atheist I find nothing objectionable in that sentiment. Most fire and brimstone Christians, Orthodox Jews and all Moslems would agree with it. It is also true that in less than two generations, as far as homosexuality is concerned, three and a half thousand years of Judeo-Christian morality has been thrown out of the window. Yeah, I know, argumentum ad antiquitatem, but by the same token, argumentum ad novitatem.

In less than two days, the moron’s petition had attracted well over a hundred thousand signatures. Not only that, another moron, at least one of them, had reported Fury to the police for committing a hate crime, I kid you not. One of his objections was that Fury had compared homosexuality with paedophilia. Well, yes, but he also compared it with abortion, and might well have compared it with road traffic accidents or the current flooding in the North of England. All are undesirable, and that was the point he was making.

On May 27 this year, I started a petition for debt-free money; to date, six people have signed it, including me. This is arguably the most important issue of our times, yet it has been totally ignored. Some people might argue that in view of this and many other things, Western Man doesn’t deserve to survive, and that the Islamist lunatics behind last month’s Paris atrocity should murder us all. Frankly, at this point in time I wouldn’t much care if they did. As long as they started with Manchester’s Gay Village.

What’s The Matter With Kids Today?

As the song goes. What indeed? I was walking home today, minding my own business as I always do, when on the other side of the road I saw a young, fair-haired boy throwing a hissy fit. I am a terrible judge of ages, but he couldn’t have been much more than ten years old. The woman with whom he was arguing looked young but was almost certainly his mother. There was another one, possible two, kids present, but this one was arguing vociferously, and obviously didn’t want to get in the car. He called her a pig, and used the word bloody, directed at her.

When I was growing up in the 60s – the 1960s, not the 1860s – the word bloody was not taboo even for the young, though it was frowned upon when used as a swear word, but any kid, boy or girl, who called his mother a pig would have been dealt summary justice. As things were, after some more protesting, he got in the car and they drove off. Is it really any surprise they’re now murdering their teachers?

Penge Anomaly

A strange thing happened to me today. It was around 11.30am or just after, and I was crossing the road in Penge having finished my shopping when a driver paused in the queue some distance from the lights motioned to me. He was holding something in his hand which as I approached him I saw to be a £10 note. He was a young black guy who I think was in the passenger seat, if that was the case then the black car, which had an American look to it, had a left hand drive.

When I reached him, he held the money out to me. I said something, and he nodded, I took it, and the car drove off. I attempted to memorise the licence plate then thought better of it. I don’t know who he was, though he had a moustache and looked slightly disreputable, but I have a beard and am extremely disreputable! Obviously he didn’t think I was dealing drugs, maybe he thought I was a tramp; as I always dress down, that is a distinct possibility. Maybe he’d just won the lottery. I don’t know what moral to draw from this, but I think we should all try to be a bit kinder, especially to strangers, including people to whom we would not normally give the time of day.

Real Victims And Head Cases

Here is how you tell real victims from head cases. The attractive young woman at the top is Elizabeth Smart. In June 2002 when she was 14 years old, she was kidnapped from her bed at knifepoint by a religious fanatic and his equally mad wife.

She was raped repeatedly over a period of months. She is now married and the mother of a daughter.

The not so young woman claims when she was 7 or perhaps 8 years old, Rolf Harris indecently assaulted her briefly, in a matter of seconds. She has never recovered from it.

The real victims get on with their lives, often in stellar fashion. The head cases never move on, including from assaults that never happened.

Schrödinger’s Rapist — Even Feminazis Aren’t Wrong About Everything

In this case they are right, but for the wrong reasons. Here is the proposition seen from a male perspective, albeit a not particularly bright one:

Several years ago, I came across a woman standing on a street corner at night, obviously lost. She asked where the nearest train station was and I told her – about 20 minutes walk away. I offered to drive her to the station but she refused, saying she’d catch a cab instead.

When I got home, I told my partner about the incident and how puzzled I was that the woman refuse my offer of a lift. My partner said “why would she get into a car with an unknown male. For all she knew, you may take her somewhere and rape her”. While I understood this, I was a little offended – “why would anyone think that”?

Okay, let me offer a counter anecdote, many years ago, sometime between about 1987 and early 1996, I was out running late-ish one night. (I gave up running on medical advice in September 1996, so this is about as far as I can narrow it down). On my way home I’d slowed to a walk when I was approached by a young German girl who was looking for the place she was staying. I think she was an exchange student or something. She spoke passable English, certainly it was a lot better than my German. Anyway, I said I had an A-Z at home, and I would go and get it for her, which I did. I left her waiting around the junction of Venner Road and Newlands Park, ran off home then returned; she was still there, we found where she was headed, she thanked me, and we went our separate ways. I suppose I should have offered to walk with her because earlier she had indicated she was willing to come back to my flat. I almost agreed because it was foggy and cold, but decided on balance that was not a good idea, just in case she was a loony and screamed rape. So you see, this works both ways.

Having said all that, I was amazed at her gullibility, but resisted the temptation to lecture her about men like Ted Bundy.

Schrödinger’s Rapist is paranoia, but for the wrong reasons. Okay, a girl who approaches a guy is less likely to put her life in danger than vice versa, but it has been known. When I was growing up in the 1960s, parents routinely warned their kids – boys as well as girls – not to go with strangers, not to take sweets from them, not to talk to them. Strange women as well as strange men, because this was the era of Brady and Hindley. Let us not forget that it was Hindley who lured their victims into the car, something Brady would most likely have been unable to do to a streetwise kid, so in some cases the female is deadlier than the male.

There is absolutely no need to become paranoid about rape, but one should always beware of strangers because contrary to feminist propaganda, the majority of rapes are indeed committed by strangers. Ultimately though any of us can be violated or murdered by someone we know and trust because ordinary people go gaga on occasion, and after 7/7 we will never know who we can trust and who we can’t. Ultimately all any of us can do is take reasonable precautions, and if for a woman that means being suspicious of strange men – including me – well, that’s the price we and indeed society will have to pay.

My Doctor Is A Santana Fan

She must be because as I walked out of the door after my appointment she said “I hope you’re feeling better”.

Seriously, I was feeling absolutely horrible yesterday morning; I crashed out and resolved to fast all day, but although I managed a 17 day hunger strike in November 1996, these days I can’t go four hours without taking a bite out of something. She was a locum by the way, hello she said, I’m Susan, one of the doctors. She probably said that because she hardly looked old enough to be doctor, and what a surprise she was too, smallish, bubbly, and with a nice albeit small set of jugs I could have avoided staring at but she would insist on sitting close to me and feeling me around the gills. Does this hurt, she asked? Seriously, much of the magic of medicine is in the laying on of hands, let’s face it, an attractive young woman touching your neck and face softly like that never made anyone feel bad, man or woman.

Talking of bad though, the bad news is that she diagnosed me with nascent influenza – on the hottest day of the year! The really bad news is of course that I am at least a quarter of a century too late, though when I think of the last lady doctor who shared my bed, I don’t feel quite so disappointed, but that’s another story.

The Eclipse Of Women

Recently, the A List actress Sandra Bullock was declared the world’s most beautiful woman by People magazine, while the UK soap actress Michelle Keegan was declared the world’s sexiest woman by OK!magazine. Both are extremely attractive, and not just for a 50 year old in the case of Miss Bullock, but...

Which brings me to Eclipse, an Eighteenth Century racehorse. This stallion was raced eighteen times, and didn’t simply win every race but left the opposition standing. This led to the phrase “Eclipse first and the rest nowhere”. There is a woman who is to beautiful women what Eclipse was to other racehorses; her name is Candice Night. Mary Pickford, Michelle Pfeiffer, Lynsey de Paul, Kate Bush...were/are incredible, but also-rans.

Has there ever been any woman in history who came close to Candice Night in loveliness? Stunningly attractive in her youth, blue eyes, with that same long blonde hair today, she looked and looks like an angel. But it doesn’t stop there, she has the voice of an angel too, both her singing voice and her speaking voice. And the personality of an angel, a genuinely lovely human being. But wait, there is even more, brains too, poetess, lyricist, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, and together with Ritchie Blackmore the creator of a new genre of music. In short, the complete package, even lovelier today, her 44^th birthday, a mother of two, than she was the day I first saw her in an interview with her future husband way back in 1997.

Every time I see her, she leaves me speechless with delight. Happy birthday Candice, from one of your many, many admirers, male and female.