The Veggie Big Meal Deal

Boiled Basmati, and yellow daal doused in butter, in a way only Sonya can do. With Paneer bhurji which I am full bossy on. Some stir fried alloo with red peppers, and a spoonfull of mango achar.

Proper feast.

Coke is it! Coca Cola is it! Not.

I'd like to meet the cretin that came up with this brilliant idea.

When I do, I'd like to surgically embed his/her debit card into his/her forehead.

Just so he/she can bang his/her head each time anyone else that has to deal with this completely unnecessary abomination.

Please, go. Just go. Go and invent something remotely useful.

The first thing I do when confronted by this is, cut the umbilical cord. I free the top from the bottle, so I can recap the bottle knowing fully well there will be no pool of Coca Cola sullying my fridge, bathing it in Merchandise X and 30 tonnes of sugar.

So, dear Coke Inc., you got this wrong. Do you REALLY think plastic Coke Bottles and their caps end up in separate bins?

Worst gimmick ever.

Sverige 🇸🇪😕

Sweden was once known for its beautiful landscape and safety.

It used to be a country with beautiful people and economically strong - a global leader in innovation and a significant player in the tech industry with a highly skilled workforce.

It was home to top world-ranking industries and businesses like Volvo, SAAB, Ericsson, H&M, Electrolux, Alfa Laval, Scania, Spotify, Skanska, Securitas, and IKEA to name a few, AND the home of of the Nobel prizes. And ABBA, Roxette, Europe, Ace of Base, Dr Alban, and The Cardigans. And Björn Borg.

With only a 7.5 million population, it straddled the world. That's nearly 2 million fewer people that live within London's M25.

Now Sweden has become the bomb and rape capital of Europe.

The country’s safety ranking has significantly declined, from being consistently in the top three for many years to 15th place in 2024.

What happened?

🇸🇪🤔

My shortest blogpost ever...

I get 140K+ people read my blog. Let it be known that I would like @KemiBadenoch to be my Prime Minister.

Global warming won't kill us off; global whining will.

Global warming won't kill us off; global whining will.

There are people seeking out new worlds, and there are people seeking to make our current world a better place. Both are doing right. 

So go on Elon, let's do this: I'll fight Cohaagen for you. Mars or bust! 🤘🖖

Climate change is inevitable, and none of it is anthropogenic. It's a hill I'm okay to die on. Wanna argue? I'm game. Just BYOKleenex. It won't end well.

As for plastic and such, I agree. We waste more than we consume. We are filthy and messy. Dirty streets, lawns cluttered with plastic bags and broken plastic clothes' pegs, clogged drains, fish choking in the sea and rivers, the oceans throwing up our waste it can't digest onto what used to be pristine beaches - you get the gist. We're collectively the butt-scratching, bogey-flicking, flea-invested stereotypical bums. That's all we need to change.

And carbon-di-oxide? Some more of it will be welcome. The dominant life form on the planet, on which we depend for our sustenance will be grateful for it:

Plants, trees, grass, bamboo, plankton, cacti, wheat, rice, NEED CO².

No plants, no carbs, no plants, no livestock, no plants, no chicken. No plants, no furniture, no doors, no windows, unless you use PVC, which the disciples of St Greta of Thunberg are so against the production of. Not so much the usage, just the production.

And finally, no plants, no bacon. That for me, is the final straw.

Notice me

Lately I've been noticing,
I'm always bringing winter's spring
I'm always here to summon warmth
To hearts grown cold with frigid sting
I turn grey skies to blue
So no-one thinks that I am blue
It's like they've forgotten that I am a human
With more emotions that I know to do with
I've got no-one to spew them to
Or at least that's how it feels like sometimes
Who knows if it's the truth, but
Lately, I've been noticing
I'll light the paths before their feet
I'll let the shadows fall on me
It it only means that they can see
And this is who I want to be
Be there for anyone in need, but
Often times, I'm just a stepping-stone
When they find out where they're going
Their destination isn't me.
 
So, it feels like their life's on been on a lock
And I'm just the key, but
I'm here for myself at the end of the day
I've had to adapt to be this way
I need validation too, but
I'll have to be the one to say
That regardless of what life has in store
I'll always be okay
I'll always choose to see the rainbows bend
Even when I'm dripping, drenched in rain
I'll always look up to admire the stars
And learn them all by name
And I'll know that someone's looking down
And wants to know me, just the same
And knowing this, is comforting, because
Lately I've been noticing
No one seems to notice me.
 
Notice me.

~ Ellen Everett

The Lionesses

I'm not a football fan. Never have been. I see it like I see the WWE - staged. There's way too much money in it for it not to be. My eyes glaze over and my head looks for a different kind of Zen-Zone when people start talking about their favourite clubs and who 'bought' who and for how much. I just don't care. Football bores me.

That said, I watched the Lionesses play today. I watched them lose, and I saw their sullen, teary faces after the game. From where I'm looking, these girls did good. I am hugely proud of them. That's my team, that's my club. From now on, I will follow nothing else but the England Women's Squad.

It's a natural fit. They're Lionesses. 

And my name is Singh.

God's Army

If your sentiments can be hurt by something someone says, writes, or agrees with - then you are a complete wuss. A coward.

The one speaking, writing, or engaging in conflicting conversation isn't the one holding a machine gun or wielding a knife, mowing down and chopping up people. 

YOU are.

You're prepared to kill for something you can simply and easily walk away from, not listen to, not read about, and not engage with. It's called being the bigger man, something you'll never be.

A benevolent God, if there is one, couldn't possibly want YOU to kill, unless in self-defence. You don't just kill people. You're not the T-1000, whose AI algorithms had better sense than you.

Either you've understood your God wrong, or you've got the wrong God.

Think on it.

ADDENDUM

This is about Salman Rusdhie.

He has had a death-threat on his head since he wrote 'The Satanic Verses' in 1988 proclaimed by the then Ayatollah of Iran. He has been in hiding and protection ever since.

He was attacked in NYC this week, by a 24-year-old fanatic, attempting to carry out a Fatwa from 1988. I won't name him - I want no part in making him famous. The pathetic sprog wasn't even born when the book was written.

Sir Ahmed Salman Rushdie CH FRSL stands to lose one eye, his arm, and his liver has been punctured several times due to multiple stab wounds. He is currently on a ventilator and there's a chance the dude won't make it.

An all-powerfull God has sanctioned this, apparently.

He is 75, and one of the world's finest and most influential British-Indian writers. His prose is so beautifully written, I envy his skills.

And I have to confess, I have only ever read Midnight's Chldren. I never dared to get hold of 'The Satanic Verses' for fear of being blocked everywhere. In India, it was banned. I saw a hard-copy in a charity shop, but I thought, "I might be ending up saying  something. Something that could end me." So I didn't. 

That was when I decided my posts will always be ambiguous. I don't have the time nor the inclination to explain.

He happens to be a Muslim. Not devout, but an obvious Muslim nonetheless . He sees the faith in a way most don't.

His seminal work, 'Midnight's Children' - a book about what happened at midnight on the 15th of August,1947, when India gained independence from Britain is his best work.

He won a Knighthood despite being hugely critical of the Empire.

So yeah, it's a thing for me.

Lynx

This is Lynx. Bengal/Tabby hybrid. My daughter got her a year ago, despite my protestations.

Things between us have always been prickly. I'm not one for pets. In the beginning she looked at me like she's plotting something, maybe gouging my eyes out in my sleep, but of late she's kind of warmed up to me, and me to her.

She just sashays up to me and offers her neck to be stroked. Slinky, sassy and so nonchalant, I have no idea what goes on in her head. I hate her, and I love her.

That said, I prefer Anne Hathaway. If you know, you know.

Charmed Life

Okay, something amazing happened to me last week.

A colleague at work asked me to give her away at her wedding.

Of all the sinners on this planet, and this utterly devout, gentle soul chose me!

I had no clue of the protocol, I had no idea of the significance, or gravity of what it all meant. Thankfully, the people at the Gurudwara guided me through it all.

She showed up late, as is her perogative, and while the groom and I waited, and caught up on each other's love stories, my thoughts were, WTF am I doing here? HTF does she deem me worthy of this?

Giving away a bride is a big, big deal in my culture. The thought of what I have been honoured with is still a surreal feeling.

Strike #365

"Commuters are set to face more transport misery in London on the 21st of June when a planned strike takes place on the Tube and the country's railways."

Has there been a single year that they have NOT had a strike? What do they want this time?

We ALL paid, and are still paying for the lockdowns, which incidently, the unions STILL want. What makes THEM special?

A lot of people depend on me to guide them through depressing periods of long unemployment. I couldn't DREAM of downing tools for any reason. Heck, I skip lunch 4 days a week. People need me. I choose to do this, and trust me, it is NOT a gravy train. Yours is. My pay and pension, if I live long enough, is a pittance compared to someone who essentially drives stick.

Don't do it. Please.

https://news.sky.com/story/transport-services-in-london-set-to-suffer-more-disruption-on-the-first-of-three-days-of-rail-and-tube-strikes-12630180

The Margaret Thatcher Statue

Turns out, Thatcher's statue was pelted with eggs within hours of being installed.

It's a chunk of bronze. It can't feel a thing, but a few grocers made a mint out of selling eggs to some infantalised morons.

I can assure you, Maggie didn't feel a thing. Even if her soul resided in that effigy.

No one did. You probably got off on it, but that's a week's breakfast you lobbed on to a statue. So much for the cost of living crisis. 

Food bank, anyone?

"Why are you hungry?"

"I just chucked 7 days' breakfast on a statue of a person who died before my kids were born. She stole their milk. Before they were born. Actually, someone who was Prime Minister even before I was born."

And I'll bet the grocers are celebrating the grocer's daughter, as am I. As I am sure Maggie is, wherever she is. A fool and his money are soon parted.

Fucking idiots.

The Comedy Just Writes Itself

Labour are turning away members from voting in the Wakefield candidate hustings due to a lack of Photo ID.

Irony just got owned.

🙄

I'm Too Good For This

You know this thing, about parents and educators telling their kids they can be anything they want to be? Well, most can't. Hell, I wanted to work in advertising. Ogilvy & Mather stuff. It didn't happen. It probably won't ever happen, despite the fact that I am supremely confident that I can come up with a killer slogan. I still can; this post, and everything else I write is proof of that.

Truth be told, no one can be what they want to be. They've gotta put something on the table. Stuff someone wants to pay for. That said, what they CAN be is themselves, or maybe an extension of themselves. Another topic, another time.

Teach them to be who and what they are. Most successful people focus on what they can do, as opposed to striving for something they can't. Not yet anyway. There's a skills-set they yet have to acquire and hone, skills they will find in the unlikeliest of places.

A lot of the time, flipping burgers at McDonald's or slicing braised and minced meat off at a doner kebab thingamagig/thingamabob or slogging away in an Amazon workhouse, could get them somewhere.

Face customers, face the abuse you sometimes get; get used to crazy hours, being on your feet all day, working to deadlines and targets, and you know what? Master that, and THEN, you can be what you want to be. If you can't hold a job that entails "Just the burger, or would you like a meal deal? I can throw in a drink and chips for an additional £1.50", or some easy sell like that, you're not ready for anything. For employment, for dating, for real life, or a cushy job where your biggest challenge is facing the 'no jeans or trainers policy' of the blue chips you want to be working for.

You are more attractive to any would-be employer if you're gainfully employed and holding down a job that pushes you mentally and physically than if you are biding time until the 'right opportunity' comes along. Tell me, please pray tell me if you think a job is beneath you, and I will tell you that you are beneath ANY job under the sun.

Biding time won't help. It just won't. You'll end up having nothing to show for yourself if and when it does. Biding time is NOT the grifter any employer is looking for. That ethic died a long time ago.Your snobbery killed it.

It needs to come back to life.

Read this again, and then read it some more.

Loooong Covid

I'm an employment adviser.

Someone I have been working with for some time has just been fired from a job she started a mere week ago - for refusing to take the 2nd & 3rd jab.

This was her first job since March 2020. Suffering from the trauma of long term unemployment and severe low esteem, she'd come a long way since I started to help her.

She phoned me with squeals of utter joy when she was offered the job. She is only 22, with no qualifications, and an intelligence quotient at 22 that I would be envious of when I was 40.

Her confidence right now is at rock bottom. Far worse than it was when I first met her.

We're both gutted. The virus didn't break us. Our response to it did. And it continues to do so.

This sucks.

😪😡

😪😡

Elon Musk

My current favourite thing these days is that the richest man in the world is an African-American immigrant.

And the best thing about that is that the soya-lattè set is now rooting FOR Saudi Arabia, Wall Street, Vanguard / Blackrock and AGAINST free speech, liberty and the dude who makes electric cars and is going to Mars.

Go on, Elon, give 'em hell.

Emma

It totally gladdens my heart every time I see a post about Emma Raducanu and a picture of her beaming with sheer joy.

She'll go places, this little girl. Hell, she already is going places.

Seven blessings and all, Emma. You have an entire nation behind you.

🖖🥰

The Valueable Time of Maturity

I counted my years and realized that I have less time to live by, than I have lived so far.

I have more past than future.

I feel like that boy who got a bowl of cherries:

At first, he gobbled them, but when he realized there were only few left, he began to taste them intensely.

I no longer have time to deal with mediocrity.

I do not want to be in meetings where flamed egos parade.

I am bothered by the envious, who seek to discredit the most able, to usurp their places, coveting their seats, talent, achievements and luck.

I do not have time for endless conversations, useless to discuss about the lives of others who are not part of mine.

I no longer have the time to manage sensitivities of people who despite their chronological age, are immature.

I hate to confront those that struggle for power, those that do not debate content, just the labels; my time has become scarce to debate labels, I want the essence.

My soul is in a hurry... not many cherries in my bowl;

I want to live close to human people, very human, who laugh off their own stumbles, and away from those turned smug and overconfident with their triumphs, away from those filled with self-importance.

The essential is what makes life worthwhile and for me, the essentials are enough!

Yes, I’m in a hurry; I’m in a hurry to live with the intensity that only maturity can give.

I do not intend to waste any of the remaining cherries.

I am sure they will be exquisite, much more than those eaten so far.

My goal is to reach the end satisfied and at peace with my loved ones and my conscience.

And as Confucius said, as he always rightly did, “We have two lives and the second begins when you realize you only have one.”

~ Mário de Andrade | The Valuable Time of Maturity.

I am Djokovic

Novak Djokovic does not have Covid. This could be and should have been tested and proved in the space of a few hours.

Novak Djokovic is not some shady terrorist or a danger to Australian society. He isn't planning on claiming asylum or be a drain on public resources. He's there to play a bit of tennis and then he'll go back home. The Australian Open will be all the richer for it. Australia would be all the richer for it. The world of tennis would be richer for it.

Novak Djokovic (or the people who manage his admin) got the visa application wrong. They forgot to cross a "T" or dot an "i" somewhere, but hey, some bureaucrat on a power trip is getting off on this. Nothing new here.

Everyone knows why Novak Djokovic is in Australia. He's not there to snog the locals. He's there to hit a ball with a racquet.

Australia's lost the plot.

#IAmDjokovic.

Parenting Done Badly

My friend the Bartman opines... and I agree.

"I see the other side are spreading a meme with words from Anthony Huber’s parents condemning the verdict. They say that the verdict allows armed men to travel to places to incite violence and kill people. 

This would be somewhat more convincing if Anthony Huber hadn’t been the one who travelled to a place to start violence. If Anthony Huber hadn’t been the one who started violence. The fact that his violence was met by a better armed person was the direct consequence of the months of violence Anthony Huber supported and probably participated in prior to the night he died. 

Ordinarily I’d say there can be nothing worse than losing a child. 

In this case I’d say that those describing this verdict as sickening, are themselves sickening. Including Anthony Huber’s parents. 

He died because you didn’t do your fucking job as parents. Because you didn’t teach him right from wrong. Because you failed. Because you raised an entitled Antifa shitbag who thought that he could rob, steal, burn, beat people up as a form of play akin to LARPing or a paintball session. And he did this with friends who included a multiple child rapist. 

You raised a fucking communist and the world was improved by his death. That’s on you, shitty parents, not Kyle. Kyle just refused to let your son beat and kick him to death. How many people had your son hurt before this? How many people would have been better off if you were stricter, or firmer, or more decent yourselves when your son first showed signs of becoming a worthless man? 

My son and my daughter are everything. If either of them grow up to be an Anthony Huber, I’ll know I did a shit job and I won’t blame the guy who defended himself when they were trying to kill him. I’d blame myself. 

But that’s something leftists never do. They can’t teach responsibility and decency because they never take responsibility themselves. They live in a world without consequence, a world of inverted morality, a world where simple and basic truths like rioting is bad and defending yourself from violent criminals is understandable just don’t apply. It’s always somebody else’s fault. It’s always systemic, or waycist, or fucking colonialism, or some absurd justification. It’s never them making the worst moral choices you can and then running up against a brick wall called Reality. 

Fuck Anthony Huber, and fuck his parents too. It’s on you. You have more responsibility for that night than Kyle has. The guilt is your sons, and yours, and every equally shitty deluded person who was on the side of a child rapist and on the side of burning down neighbourhoods."

You've Changed

"You've changed."

Well, fuck me! Of course I have. It's called evolution. It's called growing up. It's called learning and adapting from lived experiences. So hell yes, I've changed.

You're never the same person you were yesterday, why should you be? HOW could you be?

You get burned and lauded, browbeaten and egged on, encouraged and disenheartend, cursed and blessed, praised and vilified in the space of a single day, on a regular basis. And you think that doesn't rewire the circuits of anyone's mind?

Yes. I have changed. I'll keep changing. And you, dear reader of this post midnight post, are in all probability, one of the reasons why.

Chew on that.

Emma Raducanu

Anyone that brings up Emma Raducanu's ethnicity in any discussion is a complete tool.

She grew up in Bromley. You can't get more British than that! 

Bromley loves her. As does now the rest of the nation. Somewhere in Bromley, there ought to be a post box painted red, white and blue. With glitter. In perpetuity.

You're dredging your bigoted phlegm and you know it. I despise the lot of you.

Any well-integrated immigrant is a Briton through and through. She is far more British than she is Romanian, Chinese or Canadian.

Please, enjoy the win for a fantastically talented girl, whose face was a picture of joy when 'Sweet Caroline' filled the air. Just stop embarrassing her and her family. Just stop. 

Get yourself a drink and calm the fuck down.

INTEGRATED. Read that word again. Look it up. It does not mean assimilated, or converted, or compromised. Or a coconut.

Morons. Fucking race-baiting morons everywhere. I've had enough of you.

A Few Masked Men

Senator Paul: 

"I want the truth!"

Dr. Fauci:

"You can't handle the truth!

Son, we live in a world that has viruses, and those viruses have to be guarded by people with PhDs. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Senator Graham? I have a greater responsibility than you can *possibly* fathom.

You weep for the 4 million dead and you curse the NIH. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know -- that their deaths, while tragic, probably saved grants; and my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves grants.

You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me in Wuhan -- you *need* me in Wuhan.

We use words like "research," "funding," "gain-of-function." We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something.

You use them as a punch line.

I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who takes the experimental medicines I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide them.

I would rather you just said "thank you" and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a face mask and stand six feet away. Either way, I don't give a DAMN what you think you're entitled to!"

Paul: 

"Did you fund the gain-of-function research?"

Fauci: 

"I did the job..."

Paul: 

"Did you fund the gain-of-function research?"

Fauci: 

"YOU'RE GOD DAMNED RIGHT I DID!"

A Jab At The Hijab

Hijab, Niqab, same thing, same thing, innit? Well no, but I know what people mean. I've just come out of a debate calling for a ban on it. Suspend the splitting of hairs for now, and know that each time I say Hijab or Burqa, I mean Niqab. They're not the same thing, but in many ways they are. What follows below is what I said:

I don't think we should ban any kind of clothing or means of self-expression - that's not who we are. This is not the Jedi way. I wear a turban, and I've never faced any problems of discrimination, or singling out, ever. I've waltzed through half a dozen of international airports with and without my turban, even though the picture on my passport is of me WITH turban, as is with most Sikhs. Any comparisons with helmets and balaclavas when you fill up with petrol or go into Barclays is tenuous and far-fetched. They're not the same thing.

Having said that, my problem with the burqa or the full-face veil has nothing to do with tolerance - it's to do with the tolerance of intolerance. It is true that the burqa or hijab is NOT mandated in Islam, and that it is a cultural overhang - a male-centric tribal fetish, if you will. My own faith is riddled with similar idiots.

Our fight ('our Jihad'?) mustn't be with the women who wear it willingly, they have every right to do so. Our fight ('our Crusade'?) mustn't be with the women who HAVE to wear it because of the men that mandate it, enforce it, and demand of women to comply with their misogynistic, patriarchal attitudes. The former are champions of self-expression, while the latter are victims. They need our help, your revulsion of them isn't helping them, or you. Or common decency.

Banning something doesn't work - all it does is push the problem underground - below the radar of free and public discourse and scrutiny - like insanely high taxes push businesses into the grey market. It never really goes away, and it obligates otherwise moderate people into falling in with the aforementioned tribal constructs - reinforcing the 'us and them' narrative, that fundamentalists thrive on and incubate head-lopping slave trading pimps in.

So what IS the proper response then? How do we help our fellow citizens break free from the shackles that bind them? How can we set people free? Women's rights are enshrined in British Law. So is tolerance. Where the law fails, is it's inability to break through impenetrable social barriers which oddly enough, draw strength from very same laws. This puts us, and the unfortunate women forced into purdah-compliance in a pickle.

Here are three suggestions:

1. Make coercion illegal: Treat it on par with child abuse and spousal abuse. Any complaint must be dealt with swiftly and as publicly as possible. This could result in shaming a lot of people - the irony being, shame is what they're trying to hide behind. Good. Ensure and guarantee that those who speak out are protected. Don't do a Rotherham on them. Lobby your political masters. Labour won't do it for fear of losing votes, the LibDems will, and the Conservatives already have.

2. Education: Stop it with the indoctrination of young minds with tolerance of intolerance. Education in the UK is no longer a place where minds and norms are challenged - instead we're raising clones. No, stop telling them "What", try telling them "Why", and get them to ask "Why not?" I have very little respect for the 'blob'. Gove failed to neutralize it, Morgan isn't going to have much more luck than he did. I have very little hope. The blob has to die for our children to be more than Stormtroopers. Perhaps you can help in your local school as a parent governor? Do it.

3. Hug A Hijabi: Well actually, don't. I don't mean it literally. But many of them need our help. We must (a) understand the social constrictions and fear they live under (b) be kind in light of that knowledge and NOT target them, they're victims and they're hurting (c) campaign to ensure they KNOW that the full force of the law is on their side, not on the side of their parents or brothers or husbands who would subjugate them, and (d) invite your childrens' friends over, let them see the other side.

I'll come clean and state that I have no friends that wear the full face veil, but then I've never interacted with one... I avert my gaze when I see a pair of eyes looking at me - after all, that is the point of the garb anyway, isn't it? I do have many very close friends and dozens of acquaintances that somewhat adhere to some form of facial and head coverings, and they're lovely people. No malice, no hatred, just the calm serenity you would find in a nun - and the real world pragmatism you would find in an Indian accountant.

30 People To Cry Over My Corpse

I think wokery has just peaked.

I could be wrong though, but they just keep surpassing themselves with each passing day.

Even if I'm restricted to 300, nay 3,000, let alone 30 people attending the lamentation (or celebration) of my passing, I suspect each and every one of them will be of the same funny tinge as me; you know that sexy brown, perma-tanned look, yeah, that one. Some of us brown folk are hot. I so totally am.

And when I do croak it, it's not like I'll be giving a shit at that point anyway. Toss my corpse into a skip for all I care. I'll just be glad to be rid of most of you.

I mean, Prince Philip has significantly more immediate family members than the magical number of 30 that would NEED to be at his funeral - even the most defunct families do, and yet, here we are: asking about including some to the exclusion of significant others, just so we can tick a wokey box.

And you thought Charlie Hebdo was 'edgy'.

Locked Down At Home, and Homesick

Growing up in a boarding school, and then ending up leaving the land of my birth to foreign shores, I know how homesick feels. I've been homesick for 35 years.

Over the past year, I've discovered a new kind of homesick; you can get homesick for people too. I miss people I've never even liked!

I've survived the worst days of my life - and there have been many; I'm sure I'll get through this too.

Or so I keep kidding myself.

#Melancholic

I Stand With Farmers. Lol.

Remember what I said 10 or 15 years ago about the European Union and the bankruptcies and suicides amongst Indian and African Farmers?

Some 130,000 people read that particular blogpost at the time.

None of them are the people posting the #IStandWithFarmers hashtag and associated memes.

The ones who are doing the fashionable thing, know nothing of what it is on ground zero. I was. You have no idea.

I told you then, I told you way back then. But why listen to little old me?

I hate being right.

And no, I won't be posting a link to what I wrote. Go look for it yourself. It's out there. It has been for a decade and a half.

Je Suis Adele

Adele has done nothing wrong. I think she looks great sporting the look she's sporting.

She's not 'appropriating' anything, she's endorsing it, appreciating it, and living it. She's not undermining your culture, she's propagating it; something you ought to be happy about.

I love it when non-Punjabi people show up at our family events in a sari or a sherwani, and hey - a turban! And they've made the effort to pick up some Bhangra steps - I love them for it!

No one has ever pulled me up for jazzing up the scene in a double-breasted blazer and worsted trousers, or a tie, or a shirt with collars and cufflinks, a necktie or bow I can tie in 15 seconds without a mirror. Hell, I pull off the 007-esque, privately educated posh kid look with lazy ease! (Heehee! That's because I am a privately educated posh kid, and lazy ease is my thing - but that's besides the point).

In the picture below I see an amazing songstress, a vocal powerhouse that I have admired for years, a little girl just a tad older than my boy, announcing her victory of a personal battle with her weight.

And you see what?

You're all idiots. This is why Trump won. This is why he will win again - because you're stupider than he is.

Da Yoof

It’s amazing how many times things other than their own actions ruin the lives of young people isn’t it? 

Voting for Trump ruined their lives. Voting for Brexit ruined their lives. You being older than them and still alive ruined their lives. Driving them to school in a 4x4 ruined their lives. 

It’s interesting that pretty much every worthwhile culture there has ever been includes two forms of respect that are largely absent now. Respect for the innocence and vulnerability of children, their need for protection and guidance, and respect for the elderly, for the wisdom they have acquired and the experiences they have endured. And by extension respect for our ancestors, for the things they achieved and built and passed on to us. 

Our society inverts these normal and decent principles of respect. The elderly are there to be mocked or ignored. Children are given undue attention and spoilt as if their political opinions can be equal to those who are adults, but at the same time they are denied the fundamental protections that really matter. We listen to them screaming on climate change but ignore them screaming when they are raped and abused. We allow a level of disgusting perversion towards children in our society which almost defies comprehension, with little or no comment. But god forbid actually stopping a child acting in an antisocial manner or teaching them manners. We sell Playboy labelled bags to kids as if that’s normal. We’ve created wonderful new technological means by which perverts can hunt for children or communicate their sick desires with each other. 

At the same time as our society sexualises children it infantilises adults. Rather than growing up, we remain suspended in a permanent floating womb of dependency via the all encroaching power of the State. People prefer cosseting to liberty, and a heroin drip of welfare to individual responsibility. The State is the ultimate bad parent, as are corporations and multinational bodies, always talking about how much they care but voraciously acquiring power and control for their own purposes. Where once instruction was informal and familial,coming from close knit families and communities in a shared, instinctive manner, now it is official and planned and nearly always teaching the opposite of good lessons. 

Men in their fifties dress and think and talk like teenagers, whilst teenagers increasingly act like three year olds throwing a tantrum. The worst kind of teenager is now the arbiter of our society, the judge of what is good and bad, the stage of life to be envied and copied. You know, when they are old enough to cause havoc but too bloody stupid and ill informed to know it. The point where hormones are out of control and the frontal lobes aren’t fully formed. Yep, let’s give them the vote. We are going to hell anyway. Let’s do it faster. 

You didn’t get the results you wanted. Things were fucked up by coronavirus. Estimates were made based on the work you did complete. So is none of that down to you? Is you screaming that your life is ruined in the least bit rational? Every single one of these fuckers thinks that an A star should just be handed to them. It’s my right. I was there. No, no, what are you doing? It’s MINE. It sort of defeats the entire object of having grades doesn’t it, if everyone assumes that the highest grade should be handed to them no matter what? 

All decent morality requires personal responsibility. But in every sphere we are destroying that concept. Black criminals aren’t responsible for their actions. Kids aren’t responsible for their grades. Adults don’t have to behave like adults. We remake the entire world in accordance with the views of those who scream the longest and the loudest and contribute the least. We apply responsibility in bulk, deferring the whole of it to government or the State or to groups we are allowed to be prejudiced towards, primarily older people, white people, and anyone who thinks for themselves. We actively reward the screaming, the selfish, and the feckless whilst sneering at the adult, the responsible, and the wise. 

This is an age of absurdity because it is ruled by teenagers. Many of them are fifty years old and CEOs or world leaders. But they are still teenagers.

By Bartholomew Chiaroscuro

Dear Soyboy

DISCLAIMER: I’m writing this as a male, you know, one of those 'cis-male' creatures we usually refer to as ‘blokes’.

I pride myself in my command of the English language, but then I did my ICSEs (GCSEs) some 35 years ago, so forgive me if I find navigating around a more ‘inclusive’ genderspeak a bit of a struggle. Feel free to substitute your preferred pronouns as you go along. It could render the grammar completely incoherent, but then we’re not big on coherence these days, are we? Gobbledegook is so in right now. I can sense Adlous Huxley’s ghost having a quiet orgasm over this. Brave New World indeed.

I’m afraid that’s about all the apology you’re going to get. Let’s not be a dick about it, okay? I don’t need no education, I don’t need no thought control. Delete me if this burns your haemorrhoids.

So, who am I addressing? Well, well dear reader, have a browse, and if the shoe fits, feel free to lace it up. You know who you are.

Moving on…

I never thought I’d ever use this particular tool of the new-fangled indentitarian Newspeak, but ‘speaking as a brown man’, I submit the following:

White guilt, like public piety, is nothing but an ego trip. Something like what George Michael crooned some years ago when he said “And charity, is a coat you wear twice a year.”

I have a looooong list of people being systematically killed, exterminated even, all around the world, that you currently don’t give a shit about – because hey, it’s not very fashionable right now, is it?

So very selective, this white saviour complex is. The dark side it is. Strong in the hypocrisy of it all you are.

Sardonic self-deprecation done well, is a finely tuned, highly advanced art form, but self-flagellation to the point where you're reduced to a sorry little puddle of obsequious cowering on your knees is taking your fetish to a crazed level of extreme. Maybe it’s me, but I think it’s mighty strange, what some of you guys get off on: you’re uploading videos of you kissing people’s boots as penance. What next? Videos of you being publicly spanked outside Canary Wharf tube station? Kneel. Take picture. Post. Racism given a body-blow. Yay.

How and who is this helping? What makes you believe this is righting any present wrong, let alone wrongs of some centuries ago? What convoluted mind-job got you to this place?

You think I think you're showing humility. You need to know that I know you are not. You're not doing it for me; you're doing it for you. You’re doing it to chase some kind of redemption you think you’re owed. Redemption doesn't come from snorting a few lines and pissing on a national monument or burning a book. Redemption doesn’t come from me either.

Maybe your great-great-great granddad beat up my great-great-great granddad. I don’t care! I don’t know you from Adam, and you don’t know me from, well Adam. All I know is someone a long time ago worked hard, and slogged and used whatever means necessary to be able to give you the life you now have. Had MY great-great-great granddad beaten up yours we'd be in the same place we are today with switched sides, except, I wouldn't be carrying his baggage. It wouldn't be my cross to bear. I'm not Christ. And neither are you. Stop crucifying yourself. That was a one-time event.

You’d be far more believable if you gave it all up and bummed it like the people you pretend to be saving and standing in ‘solidarity’ with.

Speaking of Christ, Libby Purves said it better than I ever could: “Jesus said unto him, If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast and give to the poor. But when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions. So he went on Twitter instead and called Michael Gove a ‘vile reptilian evil Tory scumbag’, and linked to a cartoon of Iain Duncan Smith stealing a paralysed woman’s wheelchair. And lo, he felt better and went for a £3.50 caramel macchiato with some mates from the BBC.”

You know what you can do with your sanctimony. You can stuff it. You know where, since you appear so keen to be pegged.

You think I’m impressed by your overtures; someone needs to tell you that limp-wristed grown men impress no one, least of all people you refuse to look in the eye and speak your mind lest you ‘offend’ them. We’re made of tougher stuff, us melanin-blessed folk. Last thing I want is some soy-boy-yahoo deciding what I can and cannot put up with. After all, a hurty-shouty Tweet or a postage stamp sized Whatsapped video from half a world away is probably the worst you’ve ever seen. Picking off bits of bone and wiping off entrails from my clothes following a bomb blast and clearing away corpses from the driveway it quite ain’t. Wet and wimp doesn’t quite cut it with me. Please, show more mettle than signalling your virtue on inanimate statues and monuments or trampling on graves that can’t repel your feigned bravado. Square up to me. Be a man. And please, please, only breed when and if you develop a vertebral column.

And finally, here’s the thing: Most of us came to Britain and adopted it as our home because of what it stood for and the opportunities and freedoms it guaranteed.

I for one am not going to stand by and let you turn it into the hell-hole I left behind. Maybe you should go there and immerse yourself into some 'culture'.

Yep, this is an immigrant telling a soyboy trust-fund prat to go back to where I came from.

As a previously much celebrated, now much maligned children's author might say, "Idioto Effoffimus!"

Curried Aubergine Mash a.k.a. Baingan ka Bhartha

This is one my favourite vegetarian dishes and is perfectly suitable for vegans too. Aubergines are high in fibre and fairly low in carbohydrates. They are said to be good for diabetics as they prevent blood glucose levels from rising, so it's a great one to include in any dietary plan.

STEP 1: 

Roasting

With a sharp knife, make 5 or 6 skin-deep slits along the length of the aubergines. This will prevent them from exploding in the oven and will make it easier to peel.

Fire up the oven (with fan) to 200℃ and place them on the middle shelf for 20-25 minutes or until the skin wrinkles up and the slits you made open up. While they're roasting, turn them a couple of times to ensure all sides are done. When finished, remove them from the oven and peel them.

Once peeled dice them up into tiny pieces while still hot, making sure you do not lose any of the juices. 

Leave aside for STEP 3.

STEP 2: 

The Base Sauce 

While the aubergines are a-roasting, you can prepare the sauce. I call this 'The Gloop'

Chop up one large onion, about 4-5 tomatoes, a few green chillies, 4-5 cloves of garlic, and a golf ball sized chunk of ginger. Brown up the onions in a non-stick wok using about 2-3 table spoons of olive oil. 

Add salt, red chilli powder, ground coriander, a pinch of cumin seeds, a teaspoon of amchoor powder, a couple of bay leaves and the tomatoes, chillies, garlic and ginger and cook until it turns into a red mush.

STEP 3: 

Putting it together

To the mixture in the wok, add the mashed aubergine and cook for a good 5-minutes on medium heat, mashing them several times while they're cooking together.

Garnish with some chopped fresh coriander leaves and serve with chapatis or rotis and fresh yogurt.

You can learn more about aubergines here.

Rope-A-Dope

So, while we're all distracted and hyper-ventilating over the Dominic Cummings non-story and the semantics of it, while we chuckle over Specsavers and Highway Code memes, the Extension to Brexit Bill has already had a reading in parliament; another is due soon.

Quietly in the background, the Remain camp in cahoots with EU mandarins are doing their damnedest to prolong our exit from the European Union. Ergo, we continue paying billions into the coffers of the European Project in the hope that Brexit could be scuppered altogether. 

We'd thought deep-sixing the golden-starred ring into Mount Doom on that fateful 23rd day of June a scant 4 years ago was the end, we simply fooled ourselves into a false sense of victory, forgetting that many horcruxes remain insidiously woven into the very DNA of those who would decide our fates and control our destinies.

These are YOUR elected leaders, and they're selling you out. Nay, they have sold you out. This is rope-a-dope, if you look hard enough. This is a political class looking after itself. These are the pigs at the table. This is a new aristocracy and landed gentry in the making. Look out for new and emerging houses waving kumbaya-esque sigils oozing out of the putrid mulch that is every section of British polity. The game of thrones is passe, this is the game of drones.

Follow the money, count the pieces of silver, for fallen, the shroud of the Dark Side has. The Farce is strong with them.

Those who have been reading my unlessoned and unschooled ramblings over the past decade will remember the EU Bingo game I came up with.

Well, it is time to pull out those Tombola cards again.

I was right.

Are You Special?

I'm just thinking out loud, so don't give me grief over this...

If you really don’t want to go back to work because you are terrified of coronavirus, don’t go back. You have every right not to. If you've been gaming the system all the while, it doesn't really make a jot of difference anyway, so no skin off your teeth there - no amout of other people's money will ever be enough. If you worked the grey market, well, I'm so terribly sorry for you - Karma can be quite the bitch.

Some of us old-school types feel a bit uncomfortable about not earning our keep. This is not misplaced machismo or toxic masculinity or whatever new-fangled monicker you metrosexuals are tossing about these days, it really isn't. It's about fulfillment instead of the 'just add water and stir pot-noodle self-gratification' ethos so many live by these days.

Thing is, all this time that you have been at home, other people have been working to keep the basic functions of society going.

Supermarket workers have been taking a risk for a salary much lower than yours, probably even lower than state benefits pay out, little shopkeepers have been putting in 18-hour days to stay stocked up, the police have been taking a risk keeping the peace  in the face of hostility they often encounter as usual, nurses and carers have been at the forefront, right in the trenches, actually looking the virus in the eye insulating the rest of us from what could be.

Similarly, firemen, bus drivers, lorry drivers, the people who keep water flowing from your taps and electricity flowing through the grid, engineers who work so your internet, your mobile phones and the nation's networks keep up, hell even the people who make sure your drains and sewers are free from all the results of your attempts at lockdown cooking, all have quietly been muddling along with nary a whimper. So don't think, even for a moment, that you or anyone in any sector of work are special. You aren't. None of us are.

UK Plc must get back to work. We cannot wait until there is no risk at all, risk begins the second you step out your front door, virus or no virus. After all, the national debt we are plunging into is not fictional. Debt will always have to be paid back. If you don't, someone, somewhere will have to work hard and pay it for you. People who worry about this are not wicked and evil. They think about this because it is real and it is true. Many of them don't have very long to live, so it's their children and grandchildren that will be doing the paying. That's who they're worrying for.

Right now, we are paying people not to work, and taxing people who are taking a risk and working. 

There's a flaw in there somewhere, don't you think?

Episode IX: The Demise of Skywalker

I just saw Episode IX.

Disney, being Disney, completely ruined it, spilling over 40 years of history down an exhaust vent.

Why weren't Darth Plagueis the Wise, Anakin, Luke, AND Rey the same person fighting Palpatine across four generations? It would have made more sense and linked (I, II, III) with (IV, V, VI) and (VII, VIII, IX) with a much better, far more fluid continuity. 

Also, Dameron was good, but did he HAVE to be a Solo tribute act? Another trick missed.

Lucas owes himself a major rethink. He certainly owes me a major remake. While I've privately uttered the choicest expletives under my Covid19 mask, which if broadcast would amount to a series of R2-D2esque bleeps, I've also sent George a strongly-worded letter C-3PO would be proud of.

Oh! If any of this has just whizzed way past your midi-chlorian-devoid head like the 2020-BX12, don't bother asking. I'd have to fill you in on a saga that began in 1977, with far more heart-rending complexities than you could possibly imagine. They don't make attention spans like they used to. 

Or epics, as it turns out.

Aash

Aash, the way I like to make mine

I tend to post a lot of pictures of the food I cook and often get asked to share my recipes. Most recipes are simple enough to write out in a couple of paragraphs, but this particular one, one of my all time favourites, is rather complicated. I hope I've been able to do it the justice it deserves.

It's called Aash, and to say it is very popular among Afghans, especially Afghan-Sikhs is a gross understatement. The making and serving of Aash in any Afghan home is a big deal, akin to a celebration of sorts and very often, a family social event.

I have tried to do some research into its origins and found that Aash and its variants are common and very popular in former Soviet Bloc countries like Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan that share a border with Afghanistan. Not surprisingly, I also found that is a traditional meal in many remote areas of western China, where I suspect it has originated from, travelling along the Silk Route into Afghanistan many centuries ago. The dumplings and noodles should have been a dead giveaway. As for why it's called Aash, I have no clue.

The making Aash is a labour of love and typically involves several people in its preparation, usually taking an entire day. Its ingredients are fairly simple and rudimentary, and therefore it is highly customisable to suit everyone's taste.

If anyone spots any errors or if I have missed out some vital information, please let me know in the comments below and I will fix it.

Anyway, the introduction done, let's crack on with the recipe. This is for about 6-8 servings.

Things you will need:
To make this, you're going to need medium flour, 2 large leeks, an entire bunch of spring onions, plenty of green chillies, fresh coriander (cilantro), garlic, onions, limes (or lemons), powdered mint, olive oil, natural set yogurt, salt and red chilli powder.

Some optional extras: cooked chicken mince, fresh pomegranate seeds, boiled red kidney beans (tinned ones will do just fine, just make sure you drain out the liquid they're in), white vinegar and any kind of tangy, sweet, or spicy sauce or chutney you prefer.


The Preparation:

Leeks, Spring Onions, Green Chillies, Coriander Leaves

First, the filling: Very finely chop up and mix the leeks, spring onions, 6-10 green chillies (you can use red chillies if you want, or a mixture of both) and a cupful of coriander (cilantro).

Add a couple of tablespoons of salt to the chopped mixture, kneading with your hands. Allow it to rest a bit; in about 10 minutes the salt will render the moisture out of the leeks and spring onions. Give it a cold water rinse in a colander and squeeze the mixture using a muslin cloth or your hands until all the juice has drained from it leaving behind a fairly dry mix. This will also drain out the excess salt.

Add red chilli powder to the mixture and set it aside for later.

Next, the dumplings: Knead a fairly dry and hard dough and set it aside to rest for about 20-30 minutes.

Using a pasta maker or a rolling pin, roll out the dough to about 1 mm thickness. See video above. Pasta makers are cheap to buy and very easy to maintain. Click here to see an example.

Homemade medium flour noodles

Cut out noodles using the pasta maker, spreading them out immediately over a surface lightly sprinkled with flour to prevent them from sticking. Noodles are purely optional - you can skip them altogether if you want. Try to keep the length of the noodles to less than 4 or 5 inches - Aash is not eaten with a fork.

We call these 'Tukkar'

Cut out little discs (about 3-4 cm in diameter) using a lid or a cookie cutter. Take care not to make too many at once or they will dry out and you will not be able to seal them shut when filling them.

We call these little discs 'Tukkar'

Pronunciation:
Took - Err


Form the little discs (tukkar) into tortellini-like dumplings, filling them with the leeks mixture. See video above. These are called 'Chashbiray' (singular: Chashbira).

Pronunciation:
Chash (as in Crush) - Bee - Ray
Singular: Chash - Bee - Ra

Chashbiray

Sprinkle some flour over a surface and spread the chashbiray and the noodles out to dry in a single layer, for about 7-8 hours. Turn them over after a few hours to make sure they're drying from all sides. Do not dry them in direct sunlight or near heating fixtures or the filling will start giving out moisture ruining your work. You can use a fan to help with the drying.

The Chashbira Battalions

The Garnishing

Once dry, they are ready to cook right away or be frozen to use another day. Make sure you do not cram them into the freezer or you'll end up with a coagulated lump of frozen dough. Use plastic boxes to keep the chashbiray separate and protect them from getting crushed. Remember, they still contain plenty of moisture.











Then, the toppings: Very finely chop an onion, you can use any type of onion you like, white, red, brown or pink. I prefer pink onions (sometimes called Bombay Onions), some green (or red) chillies, seeds and all, and some fresh garlic.

Cut up some limes or lemons, or you could use lime or lemon juice instead. Some people use vinegar.

Whisk some natural set yogurt to make it runny. If the yogurt is not sour or acidic enough, you can add a pinch of citric acid for an extra kick.

Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil in a little frying pan, turn the heat off, add a couple of teaspoons of dried mint powder while the oil is still hot and mix. Do not add the mint while the oil is heating or you will burn it.

Finally, the actual cooking: Add the chashbiray along with the noodles to boiling water, for about 10 minutes or so, longer if you're boiling from frozen (Note: If you are cooking from frozen, do NOT thaw them first or they'll collapse into a mush.)

When they take on a bit of a rubbery sheen, you're done!

Bowl of Aash

Putting it all together: Serve in a bowl, pouring in as much or as little of the soup you want. I prefer mine with very little water, like in the picture at the top.

Add a couple of tablespoons of the yogurt, a tablespoon of the mint-laced olive oil, add some of the chopped onions, chillies, and garlic. Add salt and red chilli powder to taste, squeeze in some lime (or lemon) or lime juice to taste. You can use vinegar if you like.

You can further embellish it by sprinkling over some boiled red kidney beans, loose chicken mince, pomegranate seeds, coriander & chilli chutney, chilli sauce, tamarind sauce, a few drops of Tabasco, hell, even Nandos, or pretty much anything that tickles your fancy.

Other variants:

There are other variants of this dish and one my favourites is called Aashak. Aashak is prepared in exactly the same way, but is traditionally served in shallow bowls or trays with very little of the soup. The chashbiras for Aashak are shaped like half moons using the same size of discs shown above. The filling in both Aash and Aashak can be replaced with cooked lamb or chicken mince instead of the leeks/spring onion mixture.

Another variant is a called Mantoo. These are steamed dumplings, very much like the Chinese Dim Sum, with an Afghani twist. Perhaps something to write about on another day.

Yet another variant (some would call the Pound-shop version) of Aash is called Macaroni (yeah, some some very lazy naming process involved there). Macaroni is a quick and easy Aash alternative which does away with the use of chashbiray altogether. Instead, these are replaced by normal shop-bought pasta (whatever shape you fancy), prepared and garnished in exactly the same way. This, from start to finish takes about 20 minutes, and is merely serves to quell Aash cravings. 

And before you ask, Aash cravings ARE a thing, ask any Afghan.

How Not To Ramzan

Of me, this you will already know: I'm no defender of the faith, a faith or any faith for that matter. I am convinced though, that whatever the Gods may be, they almost certainly don't have this constant thirst for appeasement and adulation. That would be Voldemort, or Sauron, don't you think? You do what is fair and just, you live, you let live and you help where you can. Everything else is just cosmetic fluff and dressage.

That said, I do understand the solace that benign, charitable and benovelent religious practices and traditions, steeped in millenia of human learning and experience bring to the soul for millions of people. I am after all, a conservative.

My disclaimer done, let me get to what I wanted to really say...

This latest thing, this annoying new pebble in my shoe, this so called 'Libdem Iftar' and the pronouncements from the odd rabble of Ed Davey, Layla Moran, Siobhan Benita, Ian Manning and assorted fruitcakes, and the one day, yeah, just the ONE measly day of fasting on the 25th of April is probably the loopiest idea I have ever heard of.

Trust me, I have had the abject misfortune of an audience with the exalted eminence of the Corbyn, Abbott & Chairman McMao troika - I know loopy down pat. But I digress. Sorry, as you were...

The observance of Ramzan (Ramadan) is a serious and sombre religious practice; a time of deep & humble (yes, humility is pretty much the central theme here) introspection. Millions of Muslims have done it for centuries, without any fanfare or making a song & dance about it.

Turning it into a farcical fad, a desperate signal of feigned virtue disguised as 'solidarity' in the typical colonial mindset wins you nothing but ridicule. Well in my opinion anyway.

Does anyone remember the oft misquoted and misrepresented 'picanninies and watermelon smiles' article by Boris Johnson? Of course you do. Everybody does. Well here's the thing: He was talking about you - you of the smug 'White Saviour' complex. The Ed Daveys, the Layla Morans and the Siobhan Benitas of this world. We know you don't mean it. You know we know you don't mean it. And we know you know we know you don't mean it, and yet here we stand, wondering what hell happened to British political discourse over the years. I distinctly remember it being a grown up thing instead of this infantalised 'me clever, you clever, we got bare GCSE, innit?' 8-bit video game.

The Tories have done everything they possibly could to look and be silly, Labour have been better at it and turned silly into a sublime art form. The Liberal Democrats, oh well, you guys just won gold 5 years in a row.

After all, as the silly sweepstakes go, nothing beats showing solidarity with your Muslim brethren than starting your very public holy fast with a belly full of bacon, complete with pictures to flood all social media showing terribly under-cooked pork on your plate. 

And you wonder why you're an irrelevant and spent force. Or farce, I forget which.

This is why.