skip to main |
skip to sidebar
I was in Dublin for an overnight from Tuesday to Wednesday afternoon, and guess what I found out? Turns out that Irish children, much like their American or British counterparts, have a weight problem. At least according to the Tuesday night edition of the RTE newscast, they do.
The reporter said that a healthy, normal waistline for a 12-year-old boy is 26 inches, which is true. My own waist was only 25 or 26 inches at that age. She then related that school clothes for boys are currently being sold in the 30 to 42 inch range alongside the normal-sized clothing. Similar-sized school uniforms are also being manufactured for girls.
The reporter—a slim, gym-toned woman herself, it is definitely worth noting—then dared to suggest: "It is, however, not necessarily the parents' fault as there can be other factors." OK, granted, there certainly could be other factors, such as a genetic or other bodily problem such as a thyroid disorder or abnormally slow metabolism. But how many little Oompa-Loompas were there even just a generation ago, in Ireland (or Britain)? Certainly not enough to merit a special line of school clothes with only 26-inch lengths but 42-inch waists.
In other words, how the hell can your 12-year-old child have a 42-inch waist and you be absolved of any responsibility?! At what point would you deem it necessary that the little bastard stopped having three bowls of Frosted Flakes for breakfast, six cupcakes for lunch and McCrap or a large pizza for dinner? At what point do you think you'd consider it to Paddy Jr.'s advantage to start getting some actual physical exercise when it takes him ten sloth-like minutes to climb upstairs to bed? Mary have mercy!
But, then again, it's very much in-keeping with the politically correct notion that children and their parents are never at fault for anything. It's that old goon society's fault. These yout's are clearly not getting enough self-esteem at school, so how many more history, English or math classes can we cut to make way for even more hippy indoctrination? So little Johnny O'Farty weighs more than a newborn sperm whale—let's not let that stand in the way of his precious self-esteem, even if hospital visits become routine in his life by the age of 25 and he dies before 50.
If this "parents aren't to blame" malarkey is the attitude we're expected to have, then we as a society will never tackle the obesity epidemic.
If you want a great example of why the thugs control Britain, you could do worse than the condemnation of the "Class Wars" short on YouTube (note: this particular vid has been modified, with commentary by the holier-than-thou BBC.) The video shows upper-class young people assembling for what is assumed to be a fox hunt. Instead, the hunters go after chavs, running them down, shooting them and beating them.
A "chav," for those who don't live in Britain and are unfamiliar with the term, is an abbreviation for "Council House and Violence (or Vulgar)." Chavs are young people who live in ghettos or substandard housing, are aggressive and usually white ("wiggers"), aspire to a life of crime, and are less educated than a second-grade pupil, making Anna Nicole Smith look like a scholar by comparison. They always wear the same thing: NY Yankees baseball caps—or any caps that are "loud"—usually worn sideways, nylon jogging pants (sometimes stuffed into tube socks), Nike, Reebok or Umbro sneakers, and a "hoodie," that is, a hooded sweatshirt. They also tend to wear quite a lot of jewellery, most of it cheap, though there's always a good chance that they're wearing high-quality—hence, stolen—goods. Chavs can be either male or female; female chavs are often called "chavettes." You get the point, dear reader. They are a bloody nuisance. No normal, law-abiding, hard-working person who lose a moment's sleep if they all disappeared tomorrow.
However, political correctness dictates that we accept these morons. The warden of Glenalmond College, where the film-makers were once educated, stated that he "strongly" disapproved of the video and found it "deeply offensive." The Scottish National Party attacked the video as well. One SNP politican said, "Doubtless, it is intended as humour and irony but it comes across as brash, crass and arrogant."
Arrogant, eh? Deeply offensive? What I find arrogant and deeply offensive is the idea that no-one can apparantly take a joke anymore. Because some former students of a posh school decided to have a little fun and film a harmless spoof video where fox hunters chase after and run down a few nogoodnick hoodlums, everyone in Scotland seems to be bending over backwards to declare, "How awful! 'Class wars,' my God! What will people think?"
The title of the video was a spoof as well. It is not about picking on the poor or underprivileged or putting down the "lower" class as a whole. The video's ethos seems to reflect what most non-Chav Britons have long dreamt of: a group of hunters who really would rid us of this imbecilic menace. That such an otherwise harmless short would become so popular—and so despised by airy-fairy, Guardian-reading officials—speaks volumes about how chavs are regarded. No-one takes pleasure in people being underprivileged, but neither do most people think being poor is a valid excuse to look, sound and act like an idiot. Being poor was always one thing, but revelling in it is quite another.
Having seen it for myself, I can report that the video is hilarious. You can imagine Monty Python's Flying Circus containing a skit just like this. (Though I must say, given the Python crew's penchant for liberalism, they probably would have sided with the "deeply offended" over this.) Just forget the whole "class wars" junk and take it for the joke it was meant to be and laugh at it.
But that's just the problem. We're not allowed to laugh anymore. Our politically correct overlords don't approve. We must spend every waking minute of every day agonizing over the problems of the world's underprivileged criminals instead. Then, with practice, we can became as dull, dour and humorless as them.
What a life.
Canada and Belgium are currently battling it out in front of the World Trade Organization. Belgium banned all Canadian seal products, to which Ottawa has taken umbrage. I have mixed feelings about this, but there's no doubt with whom my sympathies and support lie.
Canada is America's neighbor and usually a trustworthy ally. Canadians fought and died in World War II (on behalf of Belgians as well as the French and other Europeans), and they have been instrumental in helping to fight the Taliban since NATO's invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001. Belgium, meanwhile, rolled its eyes, sighed and pretended not to know. Belgium's capital city, Brussels, is the home of the dreary, soulless, socialist-fascist Eurocracy. More often than not, just the very mention of the name "Brussels" can cause hairs to stand up on British backs.
However, the annual harp seal hunt, which Canada not only supports but bankrolls, is barbaric. It's not solely about controlling numbers of seals; Canada is complicit in the fur trade. It has nothing to do with protecting the Inuit way of life. Newfoundland isn't known as an Inuit stronghold, yet it's Newfoundlander fishermen who commit the slaughter.
The U.S. has banned Canadian seal products since 1972, and thousands of American seafood retailers and restaurants have banned Canadian seafood. We are not only trade partners with Canada through the WTO but NAFTA as well. Yet you haven't heard about Canada threatening us, have you? Far easier to pick on little ol' Belgium. This is awfully strange behavior for a nation that prides itself on not being seen as a bully on the world stage!
But Canada is frightened. Germany, too, could impose a ban on seal products, and Belgium is very influential in the European Union—and the Canadians know it. If the EU as a whole bans Canadian seal products, that will be a severe blow for the Canadian fur/fishing industry.
That, however, is exactly the point. In order to try to end this yearly slaughter, it is incumbent upon us—Americans, British and Europeans alike—to twist Canada's arm to the point of breaking it. Luckily, that appears to already be happening, and in ever greater numbers. The surest way to end the Canadian seal-killing spree is to not purchase any Canadian seafood nor give patronage to any restaurant that still purchases Canadian seafood. In fact, don't even go to Canada; don't contribute to their economy at all. Canada is being stubborn, so they've got to be hit where it really hurts.
So, having said that, there's really only one thing left for me to say here:
Go Belgium.
Could there possibly be a more revolting item of clothing than low-rise jeans?
Sunday afternoon, while traveling about, I spotted a woman in front of me with about three inches of pasty white ass sticking above the waistband of her jeans. She didn't exactly have a becoming figure, but even if she had the body of Kate Moss, it would still be disturbing.
Since when did women decide that "builder's bum"—the sort of thing normal people used to laugh at and be disgusted by at the same time—was fashionable or sexy? Again, I don't care how much of a babe you are—approach me wearing low-rise jeans and I'll run and hide from you. Guaranteed.
Why not just cut out the middleman and prance around in a thong? At least that would be sexier. Exhibitionist, to be sure, but sexy. However, a few inches of asscrack suspended above dungarees is not sexy nor alluring. It's a turn-off of immense proportions.
Of course, the fun doesn't end with women. Some men have jumped on the ass parade as well. I'll never forget the time I was standing in line for a train ticket from the machines at King's Cross station. A twentysomething man wearing low-rise jeans bent over to collect his ticket. Mere words cannot convey how ill I suddenly felt.
I'd faint with embarassment if I was informed that I was showing even the slightest hint of bum. I'd rather be a Simon Cowell-like "Priest of High Trousers" than wear my jeans or shorts too low.
I can't help thinking that the sort of people who wear low-rise jeans are either not very intelligent or that they (wrongly) assume that the rest of us share their obvious rear-end fetish.
It's just disturbing that what used to be the hallmark of less-than-slim people sitting or crouching in distressed pairs of pants has now become fashionable to the point where no-one seems to blink an eye at it. Except for me, that is. I not only blink, but keep them firmly shut.
STAR!
She won Pet of the Month: February 2007 by 53 percent. She now automatically goes into the "pet-off" for Pet of the Year later on. Again, this is great PR for rats (well, that, and Disney's Ratatouille).
Thanks again to all who voted—and will continue to vote—for her. We very much appreciate it. Especially the gentle, pink-eyed rattie at the center of this!
Our little girl Star was named "Pet of the Day" in The London Paper back in February. The newspaper is now looking to crown a "Pet of the Month" for February, and Squirrel and I would be delighted if Star won. Although I loathe the idea of saying that one animal is more deserving than another, it would be wonderful if Star won the "pet of the month" award, not only because she's our special darling, but it's good press for domesticated rats. Most people remain ignorant about just how intelligent, cognizant, loyal and loving they are. It's high time perceptions about rats started to change. If Star wins, it's one small step in the right direction.
Star is currently winning, but we still need all the votes we can muster up.
Please cast your vote for Star. If she wins, she would then be in the running for Pet of the Year! Trust me, you have never met a more gentle animal than our Star; she deserves this award.
■ Prime Minister Gordon Brown is wasting no time in undoing many Blair-era policies. Brown intends to reclassify cannabis as a Class B drug, ruled out the construction of a supercasino in Manchester, promises to review 24-hour drinking laws with the possible intent of overturning them, and pledges to tighten border control and kick out 4,000 foreign criminals. So far, so very good. But we can only hope that action, not mere words, will be Brown's biggest policy. We had plenty of words under Blair and his Labour cohorts, but never much action.
■ Recently, Al-Qaeda mastermind Dhiren Barot was attacked by other inmates with boiling water in Frankland Prison, in the northeast of England. The result? He spent five days recuperating in hospital and received round-the-clock police protection while there. Isn't that heartwarming? We allow terrorists constant police protection while hard-working people living in rough areas receive none. If this country had any fortitude at all, we'd have thrown Barot into solitary confinement for five days and let him recuperate there—and if he died, he died. But no, we waste money and medical resources on this vile piece of crap. No wonder Al-Qaeda sees the West as weak and vulnerable to attack. I'd never thought I'd have reson to say something like this but kudos to the prisoners of Frankland Prison and jeers to the police and the Government. It's slightly worrying that jailbirds have a better idea how to deal with terrorists than the people in power.
■ What a difference a year makes: This time last year, we were having temperatures way up into the 90s (F) and groundwater, aquifer and reservoir levels were so depleted that Thames Water instituted water restrictions. People were actually doing rain dances. Now there's not a single person in Britain who wouldn't give their left arm in order to ensure that it didn't rain a single drop again for the rest of the year. I certainly wouldn't mind if I never saw slick pavement or a puddle again for the rest of my life. Apparently, our pathetic summer is being caused by an unusually low trough in the jet stream. Whereas it normally levels out across northern Scandanavia during the summer, this year it has dipped all the way across Britain and into the English Channel. Hence, our horribly cool and wet summer. In other words, this is the mother of all low pressure systems.
■ I was wrong about Shambo, the sacred bull cow of the Skanda Vale Temple in Wales. Although a High Court judge originally granted a reprieve to Shambo, another judge overturned the decision and the slaughter notice was re-instated. The judge who re-instated the decision to kill the bull said it was justified even though Shambo's slaughter would be considered by the community as a sacrilegious act and "a very grave and serious interference with their religious rights." After all, Shambo was so wildly contagious that, as the Temple notes on its website, "[n]one of the officials took any meaningful biosecurity measures. No gloves were worn, no disinfectant was used when entering or leaving the pen and a trail of straw was left littering the ground outside Shambo's pen." The real loser, of course, is not Shambo, but the Temple and the Hindu Community which worships there. The Temple also wrote on their page: "The Welsh Assembly Government have committed the most violent and ignorant act of sacrilege against our Religion and desecration of our Temple in destroying an innocent and sacred life. What a sad day to see our government behaving with such gross ignorance." While some British police concerned themselves with the fate of boiled jihadic madman, others dragged away Hindu worshippers forming a human chain around Shambo's pen. What a country!
■ It's no wonder that pitcher Curt Schilling commands such respect given his work ethic. But if his blood-soaked socks from the 2004 playoffs and World Series aren't testament enough to that, his condemnation of drug-abusing cheaters is. Schilling spoke out against Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Jose Canseco, Raphael Palmeiro and other cheaters, saying their refusals to address accusations of steroids equalled guilt. "If someone wrote that stuff about me and I didn't sue their [butt] off, am I not admitting that there's some legitimacy to it?" Schilling rhetorically asked sportscaster Bob Costas. Schilling also said that nothing Canseco or Palmeiro did during their playing career should count. This needed to be said and Schilling was the right man to say it. You can also count on Curt Schilling to hold everyone's feet to the fire. The man is the soul of baseball.
