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Archive for the ‘England’ Category

I wrote the other day about a ghastly new law that allows Afghan husbands to starve wives that refuse sex … a story that garnered outrage and inspired an onslaught of “united condemning”, as utterly useless as that may be, from many corners of the world.

Fine.

Dandy.

Aren’t we in the developed world just oh-so-smug in our condemnation of those who trample on women? Or are we?

A couple of stories in today’s news slap back that idea a tad.

First, from the UK … and Gordon Brown was amongst the loud singers in the anti-Afghan choir … this little ditty on domestic abuse in that country and how they are just getting around to, and falling short of, protecting women from beatings.

The Home Office says conviction rates among those cases which make it to court have risen from 60% to 72% over four years. However, some charities have previously noted a rise in reports of domestic violence as a result of the economic downturn.

Refuge, a charity which helps victims of domestic violence, has welcomed the changes to the rules on restraining orders. But it says it is essential the government provides the courts and the police with the resources and training to implement the orders effectively.

Well, there’s a thought …

And from a society that considers itself very well behaved, this out of Japan:

… the world’s second-biggest economy ranked 54th in the world in terms of gender equality.

It was concerned over the low legal penalty for rape and the widespread availability in Japan of violent pornography …

Add this to a 6-month waiting period between marriages that applies only to women, “unequal laws on marriage, the treatment of women in the labour market and the low representation of women on elected bodies”, and other facts of life faced by women in Japan daily, and that modern culture can stop thumbing its nose.

I am in no way condoning what’s going on in Afghanistan, but shaking my head over … and my finger at … a gender gap that exists in 2009. And what is with that?

Come on, ladies … we outnumber them, so why do we still put up with this shit in huge numbers?

I’m as guilty as the next broad, I know, when it comes to buying into the “less-than” bullshit, and that pisses me off with me.

It dawned only recently that, contrary to what my ex rammed down my throat, I actually CAN speak Creole and drive at night … even at the same time when required. Go figure! Yes, he had me convinced that both were beyond my tiny capabilities and that I needed him to talk and drive for me.

BOLLOCKS … on a plate, chopped and salted …

Why did I buy this sack full of bogus and limiting shit? Ya got me, but I did, and for a long time.

So, slap me sideways and call me a pussy … and while you’re at it, wake the power within and help the world’s women to put on their big girl panties. We’ve been wimps for way too long.

And, you know what? Those men in charge? They’re nothing special …

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I was actually feeling rather festive this morning with it being Cinco de Mayo in Mexico still … Feliz de Cinco de Mayo! … starting off the day in a chipper enough mood, until I started trolling for blog fodder. (Yeah, I should know better.)

I had even managed to divert a bit of my horror and amuse myself in the reading of this report about child rape and murder in the UK.

Okay … it’s a terrible story of abuse of the worst kind involving a mother and her boyfriend and rape of a two-year-old and death and unimaginable savagery , but provided some some relief by pointing out that the “government’s expert on children’s services” is a guy named … get this … Lord Laming.

So, yes, already heading downhill mood-wise, I then come across this shit:

A court in Dubai has found a woman who lost her unborn child in a traffic accident guilty of manslaughter in what is said to be an unprecedented ruling.

The Lebanese woman, who was nine months pregnant at the time, was also ordered to pay blood money. She said she had not caused the accident.

Now, that just pisses me off.

This is, of course, a ruling based on Islamic law, or someone’s interpretation of that sees women as a vessel, a baby-growing container with no more right to a life of her own than a thermos jug.

Bottom-lining the thought process is this from the head of traffic prosecution:

… women in the third trimester of pregnancy should avoid driving altogether to protect their own and their foetuses’ lives.

Since … what? … men don’t get in accidents when pregnant wives are in the car? Or is the point really, with the prosecutors arguing that the sentence should “act as a deterrent,” that women should blady well just stay put until they pop?

Women in Saudi aren’t allowed to drive at all … I’m sure this case will be trotted out as justification for keeping chicks wheel-less … and in some Muslim nations anyone female out and about without a male relative of responsible years can be tossed in the clink, so a pregnant woman driving alone has trouble written all over her.

Of course, the “blood money” version of punitive damages really grates my cheese. As if this woman hasn’t paid in blood already! And I can’t help but wonder if the fetus had been a boy if the father wouldn’t be suing her, as well.

We really need to stop putting up with this crap, girls.

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When sitting down to compose a new blog post, I sift through a variety of sources. From personal experiences to global events, there’s almost always something that strikes whatever part of my body could be referred to as my “fancy” and gets me typing.

Today, however, I’m spoiled for choice, so rather than pick one topic, I’m bouncing from one to the other like a barefoot tourist on hot sand.

Starting with news from the world of medicine, this story on the potential viability of a contraceptive for men has me hoping that they work out the bugs and that men will actually line up to take responsibility for reproduction.

I worry, however, that big doses of hey-you-ain’t-touchin’-my-sperm may come into play, and that may be happening already.

Despite the injection having no serious side effects, almost a third of the 1,045 men in the two-and-a-half year trial did not complete it and no reason was given for this.

Moving right along, and sticking to the body … or not, as the case may be … this possible revelation has me all ears …

Vincent van Gogh did not cut off his own ear but lost it in a fight with fellow artist Paul Gauguin in a row outside a brothel, it has been claimed.

It has long been accepted that the mentally ill Dutch painter cut off his own ear with a razor after the row in Arles, southern France, in 1888.

But a new book, based on the original police investigation, claims Gauguin swiped Van Gogh’s ear with a sword.

No shit? That’s a tug at the old lobe, now, isn’t it?

Moving from medicine to law, here’s a story that’s so nuts I can’t begin to follow it. (Sorry about that … )

And speaking of nuts, for contenders for the title see this.

They’re well known because of these pickets which they’ve been doing for at least 15 years now. The pickets weren’t always of soldiers’ funerals, but it got more extreme as it went on. Originally it started as pickets of places where gay people congregated – a local park becoming a cruising area which they objected to, and then when Aids came along they said it was punishment for homosexuality and they began picketing Gay Pride parades and marches and also then the funerals of people who died of Aids. And they didn’t originally use offensive words like “fag”. They would say “homosexuality”, but then it just escalated.

Great. And they’re getting press in the UK where they LOVE watching American loonies … and there never seems to be any shortage of good-value-for-money fodder across the pond

And while they’re at it, the Brits have published their “least wanted” list of nuts they don’t want in their country.

The names of some of the people barred from entering the UK for fostering extremism or hatred have been published for the first time.

Islamic extremists, white supremacists and a US radio host are among the 16 of 22 excluded in the five months to March to have been named by the Home Office.

Please. Please. Don’t let the radio host be Rush. I’ve been wishing for more twenty years … way back when he was selling diet plans on Sacramento television — yes, he’s been fat for that long … that he’d move to Wigan and drive a milk float.

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I am so completely awash with thoughts as I start this post that finding a jumping-of point is gluing my fingers to my keyboard as my brain attempts to sort out a beginning, a middle and an end.

Ah … screw it … Dive, dive …

First, an admission: I have never seen an “Idol” show. Not since Arthur Godfrey’s Amateur Hour have I watched hopeful performers set themselves up on television to take the hits that standing metaphorically naked in front of the world can bring. I know who Simon Cowell is only because I own the Shrek DVD that has him as a special feature, but have no idea who others are who sit in judgement.

So …

I’m confused.

Postings on facebook today included many people linking to a vid from a program called “Britains Got Talent” … is there supposed to be an apostrophe there somewhere? … that shows a woman singing.

The “hook” here seems to be that she’s not a babe. Susan Boyle is a 47-year-old rather plain looking person from Scotland who has obviously managed to avoid being styled. She has bushy eyebrows, a double chin and a bit of extra weight under her matronly dress. Her hair is thinning, her accent billboards her roots, and her manner, although confident enough considering the cameras and the crowd, hints of self-deprication.

Since this is a program featuring talent, not a beauty pageant, I am having a hard time understanding why eyes are rolling in the audience and judges barely cover smirks as she introduces herself … much less the stunned reaction when she opens her mouth and belts out a perfect version of the difficult “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables.

Since when did someone have to look pretty … in some canned-for-mass- consumption sort of way … to sing beautifully?

Since the advent of music vids, perhaps? Are we no longer able to hear the magic without seeing the performer, and the explanation of just exactly what it is we’re listening to?

Many are referring to this moment in British TV as inspirational. Why? Because a dowdy lass of some years can sing?

Sorry, but I just find the shock and awe of it all disturbing.

Congratulations, Susan Boyle. You were beautiful before you opened your mouth.

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I know I’m coasting here, posting vids instead of writing, but, believe me, my work sucks these days with all the crap swirling in my head … plus, I need all the music and laughs I can get out of every hour.

That being the case, I’m sticking a couple of YouTube contributions up here that had me wetting myself, and anything that can crack me up this much today deserves to be passed along. (Thanks, Jane)

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Kim (South Africa), Sam (Cambodia/Seychelles/UK), Calina (France) ... all together on my couch.

Kim (South Africa), Sam (Cambodia/Seychelles/UK), Calina (France) ... all together on my couch.

As seen in yesterday’s post, we celebrated Sam’s 6th birthday with a party on my veranda. I’m prompted by the event to wax on about life in the greater world … the world that includes other countries, cultures and concepts.

Not only did we have people from Seychelles, Cambodia, the US, the UK, Norway and Australia here, Sam also received birthday greetings … via Skype, facebook and emails from a whole bunch of folks in America, Sis … New Zealand-born, now living near Portland, OR … Sas and Miss B … born in India … in Luxembourg, Liv-Synnove in Norway, Calum in Kenya, Nadiera in Sri Lanka, Mervyn in China, Clint in Lebanon, Oscar in Finland, and friends living here from France, South Africa, and so on.

The fact that the world is small should be an easy one for all to take onboard, but one that appears to elude far too many on this tiny, interconnected planet. Our differences pale in comparison to our similarities, yet seem to get most of the focus outside social networks like facebook and myspace, and blogs, where people tend to go to look for like-minded folks to share with.

We’re a simple species, apparently, and although we can conceive the most amazing ideas and birth creatures that bring us together in ways unimaginable just a few years ago, we tend to lose the plot more than we follow.

I can only hope that the closeness that happens when people from so many different places and backgrounds communicate … I’m not talking about the pinheaded fools who try to turn chat to porn every chance they get — boring, stupid gits, they are — but those who build bridges and lifelong friendships with people they never would have had a chance to know before the world shrunk … will eventually make a huge difference for the positive and lead us away from our base nature and move us into a new realm where we are happier to share hugs than lob grenades.

And send birthday wishes to a little boy in Seychelles.

Cool.

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Skyping Sis at the party ... A hoot and a half!

Skyping Sis at the party ... A hoot and a half!

The kids are with Mark this week, so not only do I not have to spend four hours a day driving to hell town and back … twice … I also get to stay up late and hang out with consenting adults.

More often that probably happens in the real world, this can result in spontaneous parties breaking out on my veranda. Last night was typical …

We went do dinner at Julian’s down on the beach to meet up with Nic, a former Brit Army Major, who was spending her last day in the country at Anse Soleil. Dinner was lovely, when she finally dragged her sand-covered ass up to the café, but didn’t last long enough.

A few others had joined us, so it ended up being eight of us … me, Stan, Andy, Clare, Nic, Christopher, Kim and Calina … trotting up to my place with beers and wine and the willingness to yack our heads off and laugh our asses off.

And, boy!, did we.

We showed each other our tattoos … Calina gets the prize !!! … swapped outrageous tales, kvetched about rising prices, sung the praises of tropical living, and a good time was had by all.

No few countries were represented … America, England, India, Germany, France, South Africa and Seychelles (Norway was missed, though, because Magnar is ill, poor baby.) … so it was, indeed, an international affair as most on this island are.

The scope broadened considerably when my skype rang and at the other end, and from the other side of the planet, my sister, Jo, joined the party. (She’s a Kiwi living in Washington, so another country heard from.)

Video skyping is always cool, and when the result of this whizzy techno-stuff is another guest at a party … well, it was amazing.

My sis is funny. Really, really funny. (She is SO my sister!) So, when everyone ended up crowded around my computer and began to wet themselves laughing, I was not one bit surprised.

The only thing missing was music … I really need to find a roving band that does deliveries …

It was, again, a wonderful night, one that had me buzzing so much that I stayed up ’til 4:30 in the morning … Stan was a hammock lump by 1-ish, bless ‘im … IMing my heart out.

Ah … island life …

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Magnar and me

Magnar and me

This morning’s post is bound to ramble, as I’m foggier than San Francisco in a November due to a spontaneous Magnar-induced party that invaded my veranda at about 10 last night, then left him here … three sheets to the wind, maybe four … and wanting to show me photos of his dad’s sheep and read to me in Norwegian after the six people he brought along (Who were those guys?) moved on to their next venue.

I never complain about Magnar, and never will, as he kept me going through months of sheer torture and terror, and because there’s actually nothing to complain about … he is truly Mr. Wonderful in every way … plus I LOVE to hear the world news in his native language. (Stan fell asleep in a chair … but that was no problem. His snoring … he saws logs, while I simply purr when I sleep … was great background music.)

But … I was just getting ready to hit the sack, being well worn out from a full day in town, and all the happy dancing I did all day to the tune of President Elect Barak Obama, when he and a gaggle of Brits arrived equipped with wine and beers and great conversation. (One even bought a copy of my book, so it was an evening of fun AND profit.)

The kids were well asleep, and once they’re out, they’re out, so undisturbed by the hilarity created when perfect strangers meet and find they get on like a house afire.

One thing in the long list of things I love about island life is the tendency people develop here to not let personal connections pass without notice and appreciation for kindred souls casually encountered.

Mark has the kids this weekend, and now we have a party to attend tomorrow night … and that’s how the social calendar fills so very fast in such a small place.

On the election topic, my daughter, Jenn, forwarded an email this morning from one of her coworkers that offers a symmetry that deserves thought:

1. The modern conservative movement began with the crushing defeat of Arizona Sen. Barry Goldwater in the 1964 presidential race. The modern conservative movement ends with the crushing defeat of Arizona Sen. John McCain — who took Goldwater’s Senate seat upon his retirement — in the 2008 presidential race.

2. Modern liberalism began its implosion with riots in Chicago’sGrant Park at the 1968 Democratic Convention. Tonight, modern liberalism is reborn at Chicago’s Grant Park, where a black Chicago Democrat will celebrate winning the presidency.

Got out of my morning drive today thanks to another great friend. Andy was flying to Praslin today … another island about 15 minutes away by flying soapbox … and the timing worked out that dropping the kids at school was a favor he could provide. Yipee.

I was up at 5, as usual, but had only to walk Sam and Cj up the hill to catch their lift with him; then was back in bed by 6:30 and caught another couple of hours. What a treat!

I’m loving life these days, and so happy to be. Turns out, I’m a lucky bunny after all. Wow.

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No, I’m not talking about my husband’s middle age crisis and resulting fallout, even though one reader … someone called Chris something, and I’m guessing is male … sent me a snotty comment that said with all the compassion and eloquence one might expect from someone taking the time to post, “Gee Sandra. Whine much?” in response to my last post.

This is a different kettle of fish altogether.

A couple of Friday evenings ago, my phone rang. On the other end of the line was a British journalist/broadcaster/agent interested in my work, my story, my favorite flavor of ice cream … whatever … wanting to speak to me about the potential of working together to get something going professionally that would be to our mutual benefit.

Now, the last time I got a lit agent it took me over 100 query letters before I was signed, so having a call out of the blue seems a much less frustrating way to go about promoting my work off-island, and considering the price of postage from here, a screaming deal since he was paying for the call. His staff has been following my writing and he apparently feels there’s merit to my output. Goodie.

Now the “word gets around bit” that illustrates island life so well.

He’s in England, right? He knows I live in Seychelles and write on the Net, so Googles me and learns I used to work for Paradise FM radio, a division of SBC (Seychelles Broadcasting Company) … and, by the way, I may be going back there for a one-day-a-week show … so he phones SBC.

They know me, yes, but no one he finds has my phone number. One person, however, happens to know that the kids and I regularly eat out Friday evenings at local cafe. He calls there and speaks to the owner, who after some fairly intense questioning decides to pass along my home number.

Five minutes later, my phone is ringing and our conversation begins.

Can you imagine this happening in any other country? Yes, it is a small world, but this island is still special in so many ways.

By the way, he’s still phoning and we’re talking, so there may be more to this story developing over time. Fingers crossed, please, that this is light at the end of one tunnel, not the headlight of an approaching train.

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nazimos0902_468x196.jpgAfter posting yesterday on Chinese-made choking hazards in the shape of toys in really, really, really bad taste, this story out of Britain provides another.

British Olympic chiefs are to force athletes to sign a contract promising not to speak out about China’s appalling human rights record – or face being banned from travelling to Beijing.

… The controversial clause has been inserted into athletes’ contracts for the first time and forbids them from making any political comment about countries staging the Olympic Games.

What the hell is it with China and the huge and hugely disturbing and disgusting pass it’s getting, especially around this whole Olympics hoo-haa?

The upcoming games … and can we remember that this is what it’s about — GAMES? … should be providing an opportunity for the world to focus on the host country, and not through filters but with the glaring light of global attention thrown in every representation of the often ugly face of real-life China that can be taken in by the hundreds of thousands of people traipsing through the place this summer.

The Chinese government signed on for this sort of inspection at the time they begged, borrowed and pleaded to get the games to run, swim, dive, shoot and so on on Chinese soil, and if those doing the running, swimming, diving, etc. happen to notice some of that soil as it collects under their fingernails while in the process of cheerfully competing under the banner of good sportsmanship, or whatever, they damned well should be able to talk about it.

Or whatever else they want to talk about, for that matter.

Since when does an ability to move quickly disqualify one from developing opinions, along with muscles, and speaking out?

Apparently, for British athletes, since the 1930s when the photo above was taken, the year the British soccer … okay, ‘football’ … team did the Fuehrer’s High Five … the Nazi salute … and were so shamefully captured on film doing so.

Personally, I have been a supporter of the movement to boycott the 2008 Beijing Olympics and have wished a large proportion of participants would simply opt out and make a big deal of exactly why China does not deserve the implied respect the games convey.

I was very pleased to see just minutes ago that Steven Speilberg has bowed out of his role as artistic advisor … his stated reason is Darfur, just one of the human rights issues China should be forced to account for … and hope others will do the same, and publicly, as the games draw near.

(Interestingly, his withdrawal comes on the heels of the British “gag order”, so this step may backfire. One can hope … )

I do understand how difficult it would be for an athlete to just say no to what must be a lifelong dream, but these games, the competition, the ceremonies, the venues, and the medals that will come from victories, are tainted.

They are tainted with the waste of opportunity to force change, the whorish rolling over of those who should be standing and pointing fingers and demanding China play by rules of better-worldsmanship, the pandering to money interests with advertising dollars, the good-ole-boy, slap on the back, wink-wink-nudge-nudge cronyism that is spinning the world down to a place where rich and poor are so far removed from each other that neither seems human in the eyes of the other.

An article in the CSM called “The Olympics in China: a moment for pride – and world scrutiny”, gives a look at how important it is to the Chinese to come through the games unscathed:

An unprecedented opportunity to shine in the international spotlight for an intense three weeks. The Chinese government is treating the Games as a symbolic end to 150 years of humiliation by outside powers and a confirmation of its status as a global power to be reckoned with.

But the problem is China should be scathed and scathed badly in ways that illustrate just why 150 years of humiliation was deserved and why its status as a global power needs to be carefully monitored. Carte blanche has not been earned.

And as for the Brits … well, gagging their own athletes is about as spineless and unhelpful a move as can be imagined under these circumstance, but since it’s not the first time it’s happened, it didn’t take much imagination to come up with it.

If only Monty Python were still around to take the piss out of this mess, or if Sid Vicious and the rest of the Sex Pistols could do a rousing rendition of something appropriately irreverent.

It would be good to give the Chinese something to choke on for a change.

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