06-29-2013, 10:03 AM
My favorite, Right-wing flavoured journal, the 'Daily Telegraph', reports that 'civil servants' have introduced int our same-sex bill, provisions that men may be wives, and women may be husbands - or shall be, I should say.
This is where we are at. A civil union gave everyone whatever they wanted, in terms of equality. But no. The word, which demonstrably has hitherto referred to man/woman -marriage -must also be seized. It is, in every sense, bollocks, and a heap of cock.
Where were millions baying for this reform? No-where. Who pushed it? Why have I kept seeing an intelligent, thoughtful promoter, put up against a religious oaf? Could it be that the media really are run....no, best not say the words.
It betrays something rather sad about my countrymen: the old independent yeoman spirit is dead -- you could stamp on their bloody heads and they would not react, or, worse, they would say they thought it a great idea. Sir Francis Hastings Doyle must be revolving in his grave. It is not a question of jingoistic fascism. It is a question of a people, or nation, having any 'go' in them. Thus:
The Private of the Buffs (The Royal East Kents)
LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff’d, and swore:
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never look’d before.
To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown, 5
He stands in Elgin’s place,
Ambassador from Britain’s crown,
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, lowborn, untaught,
Bewilder’d, and alone, 10
A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame:
He only knows, that not through him 15
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem’d,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam’d,
One sheet of living snow; 20
The smoke, above his father’s door,
In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom’d by himself, so young?
Yes, honor calls!—with strength like steel 25
He put the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent, 30
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram’d;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untam’d, 35
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring—
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,
Because his soul was great. 4
Now, where's that wretched blond boy?
AND If I listen to much more of the Glastonbury stuff, and see any more young men with the stupid hats on back-wards, I'll go nuts. There is currently a rather portly one who gets roars of applause from the simpletons watching, every time he says 'fucking'. At least the band I have a reason to follow are upfront: their name is Fuck Buttons....Gah!
This is where we are at. A civil union gave everyone whatever they wanted, in terms of equality. But no. The word, which demonstrably has hitherto referred to man/woman -marriage -must also be seized. It is, in every sense, bollocks, and a heap of cock.
Where were millions baying for this reform? No-where. Who pushed it? Why have I kept seeing an intelligent, thoughtful promoter, put up against a religious oaf? Could it be that the media really are run....no, best not say the words.
It betrays something rather sad about my countrymen: the old independent yeoman spirit is dead -- you could stamp on their bloody heads and they would not react, or, worse, they would say they thought it a great idea. Sir Francis Hastings Doyle must be revolving in his grave. It is not a question of jingoistic fascism. It is a question of a people, or nation, having any 'go' in them. Thus:
The Private of the Buffs (The Royal East Kents)
LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff’d, and swore:
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never look’d before.
To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown, 5
He stands in Elgin’s place,
Ambassador from Britain’s crown,
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, lowborn, untaught,
Bewilder’d, and alone, 10
A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame:
He only knows, that not through him 15
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem’d,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam’d,
One sheet of living snow; 20
The smoke, above his father’s door,
In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom’d by himself, so young?
Yes, honor calls!—with strength like steel 25
He put the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent, 30
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram’d;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untam’d, 35
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring—
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,
Because his soul was great. 4
Now, where's that wretched blond boy?
AND If I listen to much more of the Glastonbury stuff, and see any more young men with the stupid hats on back-wards, I'll go nuts. There is currently a rather portly one who gets roars of applause from the simpletons watching, every time he says 'fucking'. At least the band I have a reason to follow are upfront: their name is Fuck Buttons....Gah!