Blood Diamonds and De Beers

A couple of nights back I caught a documentary on TV. It was about the trade of diamonds in Africa for military hardware. Particularly Sierra Leone, where diamonds are taken and sold on for guns, bullets, tanks etc. The program deliberated on how miners had became slaves to the waring factions, how innocent peoples of the country would be killed and how demand in the west for jewels through De Beers had made the situation worse. Even today the program makers pointed out how De Beers still bought these blood diamonds. By purchasing them indirectly from a neighbouring counties to Sierra Leone. The countries they do purchase them from are known not to actually have such deposits of diamonds. So De Beers are guilty of perpetuating the trade in these diamonds. Though they have tried not to get their already sullied name more sullied. I for one will never purchase diamonds from them.

Everybody suffered in the wars, there was horrific torture of miners and innocents. Miners would be watched over by guards. They were barely given enough foot to live on and if they tried to escape they'd be killed. For the public politicians were rife with corruption. One method of punishing opposition voters and miners suspected of thieving diamonds is to cut their hands off. Which is not only barbaric it is inhuman to say the least.

At lunch I sat down and ordered a Mexican hat plate sized of Singapore rice. Not good for my waste line but tasty. After 10 minutes of reading my magazine and eating the rice a short black man came and sat directly opposite me. I took no notice and carried on. But I saw as he moved the menu on the table. The blatant and obvious. Where there should of been hands, there were stubs. I looked up and it seemed he wanted acknowledgement so I said "hi" and he smiled the most wonderful gentle smile. We got chatting about my rice because he seemed to like the look of it and he then placed his order for a plate. He struck me as a nice bloke and I refused in myself to accept him anything other than a genuinely nice person. In the back of my mind I thought of what he had gone through. Possibly in Sierra Leone or the Democratic Republic of Congo or one of those other closely situated waring states. And i thought I would run away from my own country if such atrocities happened. Immigration has a place and unfortunately is very necessary in some cases.

I walked out having re evaluated how lucky I was to live in the UK. How even if I didn't like some aspects of my life at least I was complete bodily wise. I don't know about upstairs, but then the most interesting people I find are usually a little bit nuts.

On the Cognac with a Russian Hat

I sit here writing my intrepid blog of life experience and guess what? Yes, you got it, I'm wearing my wonderful Russian hat. It brings me inspiration. Makes my head warm and a little itchy. But if you can't wear a funny Russian hat in doors with no one watching where can you? With the company of a bottle of cognac. French. When in fact it should be Vodka. Russian. Yet I'm not too fond on of the taste of Voddy. Then again it might not be so bad when the hat is on. I could even acquire a taste for it. Swig. Nope the cognac will do fine.

I could go on to moan and groan about my day at work. Which is as non eventful as I can make it. However, unfortunately it was predicated by the work disastrous duo, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. I managed to get time off agreed to see the ever so wonderful Sparkling Eyes for a week just before Chrimbo. Swig. Yet, another swig. And now I cast my mind back. Though not completely over my shoulder to recall last night when Fat Boy from Dundee gave me a load of verbal abuse on MSN. I of course would not expect anything else. And must admit it always makes me smile, he's a big soft lump who has mastered the art of what he calls "the stare." It's an expression he puts on when facing recalcitrant teenagers. Unfortunately my version of "the stare" does not work. Rock Chick always warns me to be aware when Fat Boy isn't around. Swig. Boy am I glad she's now got a boyfriend, I owe him a pat on the back.

Presently England are playing Croatia on the box. And bollocks Croatia have scored in the first 7 minutes. Sparkling Eyes is not watching it as a protest. But if she was she'd be screaming for Croatia. I can support Scotland but she could never support England. The rivalry between England and Scotland in football is a chasm. Hell, there goes the national anthem, something I really detest, because it is demeaning for ordinary working class English people, but the poor idiots who sing it don't understand. Great we've had 2 close tries at goal and missed each time. Looks like our players need a map. And some of them a few lessons in how to read it. Catastrophe, I can not believe it now 13 minutes gone and Croatia have scored again. Bloody ell, think England now need white sticks to go with their map reading course.

Swig. Rang Sparkling Eyes with the news, she yelled out in support of Croatia. Swig. She wants me to ring her if Croatia score again. Think I'll just watch the first half then concentrate on something more interesting. Oh yes, here's some knitting I did earlier, now what can I make to match my hat?

Russian Hat at home

I was in Camden Market on Sunday past and bought a traditional looking Russian hat. It's even got the little red star badge on the front. Made I guess from some simulated fur. Or should I say cheap artificial fur. And it's in a lovely grey. I actually like it. Though maybe the fur could be on the inside. But it's good. There's two ear flaps tied up on the top which can drop down and keep my ears warm. It has a very practical use and is something anyone would die for in a time when snow and ice are around.

I took a couple of pics of me wearing my hat and put them on my msn messenger. Little did I know Sparkling Eyes was not going to like it. In reality, why go out of your own house and laughed at by strangers when you can sit in your nice warm room, with your lovely Russian hat at home and be poked fun at in private as well. I was advised not to bring the hat when I next go up to Scotland. I could be stoned by people in the street. And there I was thinking society had become a bit more liberal. Young lads can walk down the street with their jeans half way down their backsides and wear oversized baseball caps that look like babies should be wearing them and it's called fashion. Whilst a 40 something male wearing a very practical useful, head warming hat could be ridiculed.

Well come on winter, that's all I say. Come on snow. The more the merrier, I'm waiting for you. I'll be in the rafters looking up, at the ready. And when it comes and the world is covered in a white freeze my hat is coming out. I wonder if those kids with jeans half way round their arses will still be flashing their boxer shorts?

Classic Female Film Stars

What is it about classic female film stars, they have a sprinkling of fairy dust, an aura of sexuality and sensuality quite lacking from today's Stars. Audrey Hepburn, Kim Novac, Grace Kelly and my recent personal discovery of Lana Turner. The thing is they were hot, very hot. But unfortunately they are no longer around. It can be a bit sad to lust after the by gone days when women were so different. Yet it can not be helped, movies were both conservative and exciting then. Forunately their memory lives on in celluloid, for the world to view and contemplate the rest of eternity. More so than the rest of us mortals. Providing the films are not lost or decayed in some forgotten vault. They should be treasured. So another uprising of fans in future generations can take notice. These actresses had a sense of the demur, the fragile and so subtly bewitching. The lack of nudity didn't detract from their on screen presence, it just enhanced it, and this in turn meant many of these actresses went on to have longer careers in film than today's actresses. For example Lana Turner in Bachelor in Paradise was 40 years old at the time. Yet the film though comedic and light does have a tantalising edge to it. Bob hope a brilliant set of off-the-cuff retorts, to the point I wonder if he wrote those parts himself or ad libbed during the filming.

Whereas today's female stars just don't get the written script to keep you tantalised. Or on the edge of your seat. The old films weren't allowed to be as explicit as they are now so they had to make up for it in other ways. Acting ability and the ability of brilliant script writers, not forgetting classic great sound tracks. I can think of few contemporary films where sound tracks are so riveting, except maybe Signs directed by Night Sahliman. A Sunday with North By North West is a Sunday in heaven made because of it's excellent combination of wit, sarcasm, beautiful sound track and on-the-edge-of-your-seat suspense. Today's film stars are being sold down the river, if they have any acting ability it is secondary to their looks. Looks don't last. Maybe it's the film makers? All doing their best to get the biggest audience they can, make their films so full of action there is not a moment to think and reflect, there's not a moment to inhale and be intoxicated by a long spoken scene which you become part of as a viewer. As Abe Lincoln said "you can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time." Unfortunately in their rush to gain audiences many films end up on the edge of mediocrity, made for a society who prefers dumbing-down rather than walking out of a cinema having felt their life is all the better having seen the most recent squash buckling adventure, with violence and sex all over the place. It's not that I have anything against sex or violence in films, just they'd be better with the correct proportions.

Anyway, had my rant and reflection. Oh Lana Turner wherefore art though Lana? Oh yes, no longer here and no equivalent to replace you, there's no chance of a snog when you're born in a different era. Well at least Sparkling Eyes wont get jealous.

45 Days to Chrimbo

The 3 muskateers hit a shopping centre somewhere in the South East of England. With intrepid realisation they walk amongst crowds. For soon, very soon, will decend upon us the season of shock, horror and discontent. Crimbo is round the corner. It will sneak up with the latest new gadgets to hit the scene, the iphone, magical hovering displays of re-charged self powered toy helicopters, corners occupied by artificial trees and twinkling lights. All this amongst a throng of people, flowing like independent tributaries. Following thier own track. Many with no game plan. Eyes darting from store to store, taking in every shop front, checking out the pace of people walking infront, to the side and those intent on just standing in the middle of a pedestrian lane to chat in semi oblivian. Walk round the obstacles. Don't get too dizzy. However, I was lost. Feeling queezy. Within ten minutes of entering this centre of confusion, this harrowing daunting place. I felt sea-sick. Yet 45 days remain. The clock counts down. Crimbo is coming. You better watch out, because now the pressure is on, Crimbo is coming. An old man in grey beard and red suit doesn't dispence wrapped up parcels. No. It's the parents, the uncles, aunts, friends and aquaintances who do. They are the ones who do the leg work.

I can not be the only person who hates shopping amongst crowds. It's claustophobic. Perhaps it's old age. Maybe it calls for a visit to the GP, get some prescription tranquilisers, valium. That might do it. Valium to cope. Chill. Ride the wave. Before I make a list. Write names down and what their parcels of happiness will be. All I want for Crimbo is a good book and of course a long hug from Sparkling Eyes. But as for the others. Oh at a time like this how come there are so many more to consider. How about a giant cake. A set time and place. I'll send out invites and then they can all come and help themselves. Take a piece of cake. No it's not going to work. I got to just tackle each person one at a time. Centre. Focus. Now what would they like? Sparkling Eyes has said nothing. It's the worse thing to do. 45 days to concentrate. To think of something. What? I don't know. But I'm sure it will come to me. Concentrate now.

Rock Chick will want as many as possible. Monster Boy anything to do with Dr Who or the hundreds of super-heros there are in the world. The Talkative boys, things again to keep them occupied, interested. But not educational. The less education the better. Little angel girl anything to do with Barbie. The remaining 2 muskateers they wont mind nothing or even a card they're easy. Big Mama, chocs or some other delicacy. To give is better to receive. Santa's sack had better be big. Not forgetting Santa's debit card. Ouch, ouch, ouch, odd, I thought he usually said Ho, Ho, Ho.

New Fish Counter

Well I've been moved to a new fish counter in the fish factory, though only a short distance from the one I used to sit at. Normally I sit industriously gutting the quota of sardines, but today was a bit of a wipe out. I'm seated closer to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They're nice enough but they have a different attitude on how to deal with fish gutting. Tweedle Dee most certainly does and it's as though, this is a part time job in which the fish can pile up to be dealt with as and when the moment in-between doing other stuff arrises. While Tweedle Dum, though not at all in any sense Dum, far from it, has a penance for talking dribble, and making jokes. Unfortunately this is all a bad influence on me. A very bad influence. Because now I find the naughty boy coming out, and from being an industrious fish gutter to becoming a laid back have a laugh and not do anything observer. I don't appreciate it.

I like getting focused on slicing open the bellies of Sardines, but as I said today was a wipe out. An utter and truly disappointingly non work productive wipe out. Someone will go without their tin of sardines next week. And because of my seated proximity the ear plugs don't work. They just are not up to the job. I may have to consider being moved again for my own sanity and productivity. Yes, I like the odd chat the little scive here and there, but not an entire day. Not 7 hours.

Long haired boy's birthday is coming up soon. He'll be 20 years old and so out of his teens. I can recall when Silly Sophia was in hospital about to give birth. She was a depressive first time mother and suffered from Post Natal Depression to boot. What a person to have as a mum! She cares for him and her other sprogs yes; but it seems so unfair in this world some people can have children and they are not grown up enough to look after themselves. They are unable to see everything they now do in their new family role doesn't just effect themselves it effects their children. If there were an exam for parenthood half the people in the world would fail it. Half the disturbed unhappy up bringings would never happen. Half the sad stories told would never be told. Then perhaps it is only through adverse childhoods some people become better people. We're all allowed to make our own mistakes, it's what being given a life is about. Would I have been who I am now if I had not had my experience of domestic disharmony? Maybe, maybe not. Unfortunately only a few can be royalty or born with wealthy parents. However, being rich in love is I believe more important than anything else.

I've also been thinking of Sparkling Eyes and miss her. Thinking of Rock Chick and how upset she get's when someone who should love her hurts her. Then I get angry. But Sparkling is a wonderful loving mother, a requirement for any growing up human being. Rock will get through these times, and the one person she will care and think of will be Sparkling Eyes. As do I.

Sunday meanderings

There reaches a time on Sunday evenings where I can find nothing to do, nothing to occupy my mind. Sitting looking through DVD's and not really wanting to commit myself to watching any of them. Whilst this morning I was brimming with ideas but no time to write them down. Ideas of writing a story. However, writing is a long term commitment, quite unlike doing the odd blog. Which most anyone can do. Sitting down and actually putting pen to paper for extended periods in one long piece of writing is hard work. Though I did manage it when I wrote a Thesis which I had researched a lot for. It ended up at about 24 thousand words. And I was then told my limitation had to be 17 thousand words. Now if there's a contortionist trick to cutting words down, it's one thing I did learn how to do. Which also took 3 weeks to complete. Snip here snip there everywhere a snip snip.

We have a stray cat who now visits us. He seems to do nothing but eat. He's one of those kitty cats. Not yet mature. But growing every day. Especially with the 3 meals he gets. He was rescued from the bottom of our garden. One leg was pushed right through his collar. He looked like he was starving. Having been trapped in a corner of a neighbours shed. How on earth he got in there is beyond me to fathom out. Just he was pretty happy to get let out. Then I think he must of forgotten or lost his way back to his own home. So now, he visits us and eats here. We are the free food cafe for a stray. I call him stinky. Because he smells. A mate of mine says he needs his bollocks snipped. He said it can be done with two bricks and only hurts if you get your fingers caught. He was joking. Not for real folks. I could see Sparkling Eyes coming at me with a couple of bricks if i were so callous enough to do it to a cat. The thought brings a shudder to me. A cold sweat, a tingling nerve. Better think about something else.

So goes the moment on a Sunday evening when I just can't find anything to do with myself. Stray thoughts, meanderings of a crazy man. Fortunately in a few hours it will be Monday. Oh tell me why I like Mondays.