A Male Identifying As Female Dominates Girls In A 200 m race.

Don't bother watching this video for more than 30 seconds. Those first 30 seconds tells you everything about how ridiculous the current 'trans' sports regulations have become.

OK, many sports are taking action against congenital males taking part in female sports, but it still happens, and this trans-woman is a perfect example.

His/her name is Aayden Gallagher, and he/she has the cheek to enter into female athletics sports. It doesn't take a sports expert to see that this is just plain stupid.

I know I've been going-on about this for years, but it really should have been stopped by now.

Simply get a trans-male (i.e. female to male) to enter into an all-male athletic race, and you'll soon see how silly it is! 

Duffy - Warwick Avenue

Whatever happened to Duffy? I haven't heard her name mentioned for years.

I liked her voice, and most of her songs were good. I particularly like this one because it reminds me of my time spent in London, regularly moving from flat to flat; not a care in the world. It obviously meant a lot to her too as she actually begins to cry as she sings.

In case you don't know where Warwick Ave is, it's in a part of London known for bed-sits, and an ever changing young-ish population. It's also affordable. You'll find it between Maida Vale and Paddington; central, but not too up-market.

p.s. I have now looked on Wiki to see what happened to Duffy. It was all pretty horrendous, involving a nasty kidnapping, and other strange events. I believe she has since become something of a recluse. Poor girl.

 

Mr. Natural Does The Dishes

Sometimes, no always, I feel just like Mr Natural. In this house I like to wash dishes by hand, whereas Lady M uses the washing-up machine (which I have no idea how to operate).

Here is my favourite cartoonist of all time, Robert Crumb, illustrating perfectly how both Mr Natural and I go about things.

Restorative Breakfast.

As regular readers may already know, I have a strange relationship with 'breakfast'. I eat alone at 5 am, and my choice of dishes goes from Squid in ink, to fried egg and haggis, to Octopus in garlic flavoured oil. It is the one meal of the day where my choice seems endless, often strange, but always very personal.

I have two favourite 'morning-after' breakfasts, if I'm in France it's a litre bottle of ice cold Orangina, and if in the UK it's anchovies on toast.

I haven't really had a serious 'morning-after' feeling for decades, but I do occasionally wake feeling in need of a pick-me-up, and both the Orangina and the anchovies do the job for that too.

Yesterday morning I felt a bit listless; a bit tired, and there was only one thing for it; a couple of slices of buttered wholemeal toast with a mini jar of anchovies. You can instantly feel them lifting the spirits.

Anchovies are interesting little fish. As with most of what we eat, quality goes from bog-standard to heavenly. I always think it's worth having a variety of tins or jars of anchovies in the cupboard. I usually have a few of those tiny long tins in olive oil, they are pleasant enough, and are perfect for pasta dishes that require a little oomph. I also buy medium quality of jars of anchovies either in oil (as I consumed yesterday, above) or in salt. Occasionally I buy the very best cans of perfectly prepared anchovies; Ortiz is a favourite.

Anchovies are a bit like Marmite; you either love or hate them. As you might imagine, I am a big fan.

Crusade.

 

It's Sunday, and I'm heading off up into the loft.

I need to buff-up and sharpen my metre-long sabre, polish the buttons on my be-meddled Cavalry Officer's tunic, and fill my campaign trunk with a few Western essentials. I'm off to Tehran to have a word with Ali Khamemei.

I shall arrange an interview, and give him a jolly good talking-to. The man is a menace, and for someone who claims to be 'religious', he is a disgrace. I may even quote the Koran to him, if I can find any passages that talk of Islam being peaceful.

When I have him by himself, I shall grab one of his ears and twist it until he promises not to be so bellicose. If he squeals I'll grab his beard, and threaten to cut it off with my sabre. That should calm him and get him to abide by my demands. 

Once I've dealt with Ali, I shall head for Moscow. I shall invite Putin to Tea somewhere nice; and show him how people behave in the democratic West. I have a feeling that after a scone or two, thickly spread with Raspberry jam and Devon clotted cream, and a cup of Lapsang, he will apologise for his recent actions, and promise to make repairs. I shall of course give him a time-table, and if all is not repaired before a certain date; I SHALL RETURN, and I will not be responsible for my actions.. 

Hopefully I'll be home again before nightfall, and shall reward myself with a slice of Pork Pie, and a glass of Harvey's rejuvenating Sussex ale, before heading off to Bedfordshire! 

A job well done.

p.s. The above photo shows Ali enjoying 'blissful ecstasy' with his 72 virgins; but here on earth rather than waiting to ascend to heaven.

More flars

The Daffs, Narcissi, and Tulips are still just about hanging-on, but they are being quickly replaced by Bluebells, flowering Cherry, and Daisies.

I really do find a thick swathe of Daisies a wonderful sight. One day there is nothing, and the next there is a carpet of white dots. 

I wonder if anyone remembers the photo I once posted of a perfect circle of Daisies? I must have mowed a couple of days before, then the plant flowered again from its perimeter, leaving a perfect circle of white flowers.

These Daisies are 'mine'; they live on our small communal lawn beside the house. No doubt the executioner (gardener) will come along before long, and take their heads off.

And I'm very pleased to see that the newly planted Fig tree, in the dog-walking garden, has survived and is sprouting leaves. 

The Death of a Magpie

Often wild, and/or domestic, animals seem indifferent to the death of a fellow species family member. I do remember being shocked at the total indifference by our dog Bok to the death of his best friend Monty. Even though Bok had attended Monty's funeral, he showed no emotion whatsoever.

So, to see these Magpies obviously mourning the death of (I imagine) a family member is very heartening. They are upset, and occasionally try to revive him/her, without success.

I like Magpies; I see them as exotic, Parrot-like, creatures. And, of course, if I encounter a lone bird I always salute, and say 'Bonjour Monsieur Pie'. 

Doesn't everyone?