Handmaiden

Handmaiden

Our MP Justine is one, the Tories great hope in Scotland Ruth also, we know several, in Hollywood its the way  to go. Queen Victoria may not have had a clue, but as the slogan states “Lesbians are  fucking everywhere.”

So with  a bid  to widen my bigoted horizons I went with my child bride to see the Korean lesbian flick Handmaiden.(see link) Based on a story by English sapphist Sarah Waters. Call me old fashioned but I do get aroused by the sight of well made ladies  going down on each other. While men may fear throat cancer from similar     acts these babes were without fear. But  unlike most porn movies there were not only production values, great scenes and a story which would have confused  even Tarantino.

Basically in the movie  the men are into porn,they sit  around in dinner jackets listening to girls reading out dirty bits. Now in the  pc world, porn is foul and degrading so    those  who walk  in its vile undergrowth receive no mercy. The girls on the other  hand who discover the joys of lesbian sex which is approved  of in the pc canon, triumph.

In the mean time there is a convoluted story. Koreans pretend to be Japanese and live in English country houses. A  handsome con man seems to be at different times  using one or other of the girls for an old fashioned spot the lady, three card hustle. All under the auspices of the man with the greatest collection of antique porn. The Guardian critic along with many gave the film four stars and said “Its an outrageous thriller drenched in eroticism.”

Vivien thought the film too long(no lesbian she), I thought the sex scenes were great  and the film just about worked as an adult fable.

The next day at the YMCA pool two young  Far Eastern ladies were in the shallow end giggling and stroking each other. I took off my goggles  and watched.  Were they handmaidens or mere nymphs? Give me a break, I was in my speedos. I rushed to the changing room. There  I saw a man with pierced nipples. Its not getting any easier.

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Not for Wimps

Not for wimps.

Old age is not for wimps.

Sheila, an 88 year old neighbour , after two strokes had not been out the house except in an ambulance for two years. I offered to carry her the 100 yards to the river for a change of scenery but she was so anxious  about falling over she refused. Her house was organised so that at every step there was a support. But the inevitable happened six weeks ago, she fell and broke her wrist and damaged a vertebrae.

We meet most weeks and she  would very much like to drift off  in her sleep. Her son and daughter although living  in Bristol keep an eye on her, the son comes up every week to do her  shopping. After a month in hospital she recovered enough to go home, Where she  immediately fell again. Now she is back at home this time with a full time carer. I saw her briefly, she looked even thinner, was breathless but somehow we struggled through half an hour.

Last week 94 year old George complained of the flu. He could barely keep his eyes open ,our usual conversation compote of football, weather, family news, gardening, memories and hospital  appointments was not enough. I cut our usual hour short. A few hours after I left  he was admitted to hospital as his heart had started “to play up”. He was released after four days. When I phoned this week he said not to come “as I won’t be good company”. I said I would come and hold his hand anyway. We laughed. The hour we had  went quickly as it often does. As I left he said,”You mind yourself on that bike.”

I have had the prostate cancer, the heart problem. Yesterday I had an Xray on my hip which I hope will be the first step to an operation. The sun still shines but dark clouds are ahead.

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Class War

Class War

Like a salmon returning home, when Arsenal play the big games I leave South of River for the red and white heartlands. Failing a ticket to the match the pain and passion of watching with other Gooners is worth the trip. So it was on Sunday that I was in the  Steam Passage pub , Angel, Islington High Street .

The semi final of the Cup.Our poor team devoid of form, at odds with the long serving manager was for the slaughter. The first minutes went that way but somehow the boys ,got lucky,remembered their duties as well as their salaries and a famous result was ground out. High flying Chelsea in the Final,after this,who knows?

But there was drama elsewhere. I was wearing a very smart red  linen jacket which I picked up in Oxfam a couple of years ago. It was the only jacket in the pub,most were in jeans and tshirts,some were in the Arsenal strip. Sitting opposite me was a Liverpudlian. Broad and whiney. We got talking.

I told him my greatest day as a fan was being at Anfield when Arsenal won 0-2 in 1969. He replied with that famous Scouse wit,if Liverpool beat Arsenal again they get to keep the club. Game on. He followed up,where did you get that jacket,Butlins?(attendants at the holiday camps wear red jackets.)

Dont you like the jacket? No I’d rather be naked. Well  I haven’t come straight from the gym, and  Ok. Yes I did  get the jacket working at Butlins but at least I had a job.  Do you know what that is? And where do you learn to talk like that,watching Brookside? Well at least I have an accent, Mr Style.

A moment,it could have gone either way. He made to laugh. I winked. And then as a sign of truce he started to show me porn which he had stored on his iphone.WTF.

He left early to go and watch his team elsewhere. I cannot tell you how happy I was when I learnt that Crystal Palace had   beaten Liverpool,they had recently also thrashed Arsenal. I left the pub with “They’re by far the greatest team the world  has ever seen”, still bellowing out. Happy Day.

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Hocus Pocus?

Hocus Pocus?

On Easter Sunday I couldn’t be bothered to take communion. The symbolism of becoming part of the Holy Spirit had become less than wafer thin.(pun intended). The popular Protestant derivation of hocus pocus(hoc est me corpus meum) is one I enjoy. Seeing the queues of Anglicans  shuffling up out of duty rather than devotion or deep faith was a welcome sight after the manic shows of  various faiths we had seen in India.

Then came the news that Arkansas had reintroduced the death penalty for the macabre reason that in a few days its lethal drugs will have past their “sell by” date. Lendell Lee who had been on death row  since 1993,protested his innocence to the end. He had no last word or meal. He simply asked for holy communion. Because alcohol is banned in prisons he was served grape juice instead of the normal.

Suddenly holy communion of which I had been so dismissive, seemed very real. I remember  when I was first confirmed thinking that communion would bring change. I do hope Lendell went into those last ten minutes believing he was full of something more important than those tacky surrounds.

The condemned man is a   riveting subject. What he says and what he eats. Lets roll, just do it,Go Cowboys. Billy Wayne Woods who went down for raping and killing a 12  year old achieved his five minutes  of fame by ordering -2steaks,2 chicken breatsts,3 pork chops,2 hamburgers,1/2lb of fried potatoes,onion rings,chocolate cake and two pints of milk. Texas got so fed up with big meal orders that the dead man did not eat that they stopped the custom In the 1980s Pizza Hut briefly ran an ad showing them preparing a last meal. Yo!

Every last meal and statement is recorded and its all on line.

 

https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=last+meals+on+death+row&&view=detail&mid=91C6C7B6662ECB463BF991C6C7B6662ECB463BF9&rvsmid=6680A5529E05F448032E6680A5529E05F448032E&fsscr=0&FORM=VDFSRV

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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We Must Talk About Manny

We Must Talk About Manny.

For the suburban Englishman French politicians are a source of constant pleasure. Their secret families, the multiple partners,the mothers of their children they never marry but employ,the wives they pay from government funds, dressing up as dispatch riders to visit their lovers, falling for pop stars,it goes on. Vive la difference. And then we come to Emmanuel Macron the presidential front  runner. He,as you do, married his school teacher. Of course he is a bit of swat.always top the class,”mais c’est ridicule”. For now he is forty and she the chosen one,the  premier dame presumptive is 57.

Now I am seventy if my bride was 17 years older she would be 87. I am not sure how our recent three week trip across Southern India would have gone. And  whether  adult pleasures would still be on the sheets. Peut etre non. So although one tries to be broad minded I’m not sure how this marrying your mother works. Marrying your father ,is different and another subject.

The Macrons have been together twenty years which in French political circles is the best since De Gaulle .Marriage sans age frontiers has a chance if your mum is as  good looking and sexy as  Brigitte Macron. (see link ) She could pass for at least ten years younger.

They met when the lad was 15 and she was his drama(naturalement) teacher. Now all teenage boys have a hard spot for a lively and attractive  drama  teacher. Its a phase. But this was more.As she so charmingly said “he was not like the others.”. But she was married and he of tender years. He went to Paris but couldnt  wash that girl out of his hair so, despite family opposition(you can imagine!), when he was eighteen they married. So far so good.Though the mischievous press have been sniding that  she is a “beard” and his real sexual interest lie elsewhere.

While the press do have a fascination for older lady romance it usually boils down to callow youths who like the direct, no nonsense, confidence of older professional and still physically fit women in their forties and fifties. When 18 marries 35 it may say something about the older woman’s previous, the younger partner’s vigour, it may be a marriage made in heaven, it may end in him visiting an people’s home or claiming a carer’s allowance. Alors,vive la difference.

https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=q3GwBEsJ&id=E237838641628832416842749077B650B911E4E6&thid=OIP.q3GwBEsJiVDq-G7UrN2WaAEsD6&q=macron+wife&simid=608028123420561377&selectedIndex=0&ajaxhist=0

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India Calling

India Calling

India like many countries is going through a nationalist populist phase. The long ruling dynastic Congress party has been dished and is in disarray and the proto Hindu BJP rules the roost. But this being India, that has certain consequences. Gangs of zealots roam the land beating up and even lynching those they feel are breaking the sacred cow laws. These of course are mainly Muslims  As are thr owners of the booze  shops which have been closed under the auspices of health and safety but everyone knows who the real target is. The BJP has run campaigns accusing its opponents “of insulting the sacred cow.”

When we were in India  before the Hindu parties wheeze was to burn Christian churches because so many low caste  Hindus realised that life was better with Jesus than Shiva.

In March a familiar twitter storm occurred when a group of African students were severely beaten by Indian youths. A media debate began to discuss whether this was  proof that Indians are racist. Up popped an MP who declared how could Indians be racist  as they lived with the Tamils who were almost black. Ouch. This really got tongues wagging especially in Tamil Nadu state where we were staying. Tamils have  also taken exception to the insistence that Hindi is taught in their schools. One of the reasons that English does well In India is that it is neutral among the 200 regional and 22 scheduled languages that exist in the sub continent.

Then there is always the  MP that exposes his real view of the plebs. In this case the Nationalist MP who when denied an upgrade on an economy only Air India flight beat the attendant repeatedly with his shoe. He was immediately banned from flying on any airline. He complained that it was a set up by the other parties. Fake news was invented in India. A week later the government owned Air India led the way and revoked the ban.

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How Labour Win

How Labour Win

Tories to win by landslide, Labour in melt down, roll up the map of politics you will not need it for twenty years. Maybe. Or maybe Labour has a  cunning plan. A device which will change the political landscape bring in the over sixties, the mentally handicapped, the female, the royalist and the immigrant vote Add them to the 20 per cent who will vote Labour because they think they will be letting down their daddies if they don’t and you have not a  Tory but a Labour landslide.

But what is this device. I’m surprised you havent heard. Its common news in Putney. Trump will be  twittering it tonight. Diane Abbott is going to marry Prince Harry. Of course    she is a lot older and has been round the block a few times,but hey this is 2017 and  what’s to stop an ageing , boring,single mum from Hackney with West Indian connections marrying into glamorous, charming, eligible royalty.

And now that Prince  Harry has been certified insane, its very sensible that he settles down with an older, experienced woman who may help the poor lad get over his Mum. He will no doubt be saying “I hope you can respect our privacy, Diane and I are very happy, she is a very special person, despite obvious differences, not least that she is twice my size, our feelings for each other are deep and love  always finds a way. I have    been with a lot of girls but now I have found a real woman.”

Ms Abbott will later be declaring,” This will come as a shock to many in the Labour Party but Harry is deep down a real socialist,  as soon as I met Harry at a charity do, I realised that he  was the toy boy for me. We have been dating in secret for some time. After years alone I  am once again a complete woman,age doesn’t  come into it. This is not a political stunt, I never thought at my age I would be thinking like a teenager again, we are both very happy, I could cry with joy. Jeremy will be giving me away.” Ding dong the bells are going to ring.

Syd and Doris Bonkers when they heard the news said,”this is wonderful, we will be giving Diane our votes as a wedding present.” As go the Bonkers so goes the country. You heard it first.

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