Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.
People sometimes say of poor deluded Donald Trump that he says what he feels rather than what he thinks.
He certainly hasn’t been thinking about this ‘wall’ idea of which we hear so much. It’s a lousy idea (for those who have been attending to more important things, US presidential candidate Trump suggested dealing with the infamous porosity of the US-Mexican border by building a wall along its length).
Of course he is thinking of Hadrian’s Wall or the Great Wall of China. Both of these were built wherever possible along natural, geologic formations. Also the people they were supposed to exclude (or in the Chinese case probably also include) weren’t likely to be packing a siege train.
Were Trump more of a scholar he might have heard of the Limes Germanicus, a 350-mile barrier built by the Romans to exclude the rude and boisterous Germans from decent Roman society. The Mexican border is more like 2000 miles, eight times the size, but then President Trump would be at least eight times the size of the emperor Hadrian.
Though I can find no equivalent online there is a fine line drawing of a section of the Limes in Kaufmann & Kaufmann: The medieval fortress [ISBN-13: 978-0306813580].
The modern equivalent would doubtless resemble sections of the Inner German Border during the Cold War.
Of course without some kind of naval precautions around the coastal ends of such a structure it wouldn’t be worth building. I don’t think he’s thought about that either.
The radio is reporting that two guys tried to abduct a member of the air force who was running round an airbase from which anti-Islamic State airstrikes have been carried out, and that the police say that terrorism ‘cannot be ruled out’.
Doubtless this is the famous English habit of weapons-grade understatement.
It also said that the air force had told its people to maintain a low profile and not to wear anything off the base which identifies them.
Doubtless this is the infamous English habit of absolutely refusing to face facts.
All I can say is, if it were my air force, they sure as hell would wear things which identified them when off the base, and they’d be sidearms at a minimum. Also I’d ban those MP3 players; you can’t hear yourself being snuck up on. And nobody gets to go off the base alone, including women and children. And some other stuff that I haven’t thought up yet.
No way would armed forces personnel ever be ordered to sneak around in their own country in what amounts to disguise, as though they had no right even to be there.
If there’s one thing worse than siege, it’s surrender!
Isn’t it cute how some things just happen to get an appropriate name?
I have just had to switch off the BBC again. I don’t know how anyone can bear it. It’s so much worse even than CNN. I guess it must be acclimatisation, the boiling frog thing.
Anyway, they were kissing serious ass. Isn’t it wonderful, they schmoozed, how President Erdogan (they never mentioned him without his title) managed to escape alive from the deadly coup attempt? Isn’t it convenient for him that he can now reinstitute the death penalty, massacre tens of thousands of opponents, then abolish the death penalty again just in time to be welcomed into the European Union? Aren’t we tolerant and inclusive, politely never mentioning Mustafa Kemal or the secular Turkish constitution?
I still maintain that the ‘coup’ was a trick to draw Erdogan’s opponents out of cover, and that it has almost certainly got the blessing of the European Union and its English mouthpiece, the BBC.
Why the nations of Europe have decided upon suicide-by-Islam is beyond me, but actively encouraging Erdogan to see himself as one of the contenders for ‘Leader of the Islamic World’ is certainly a logical and consistent step in that direction.
Maximum ballyhoo about the Russians’ apparent inability to take the rules of amateur sport seriously. I’m listening right now to the schoolmarmish BBC, clucking and tutting.
I call this whole thing bullshit, part of the Obama/European attempts to start Cold War II and keep their defense industries solvent.
Of course all the Olympic athletes cheat. Those from countries with governments (like Russia) cheat because the government tells them to, for the sake of the glory of the nation, while those from countries with corporations (like the USA) cheat because, if they can only win, their sports clothing endorsement deals are going to be worth more, or perhaps because people from countries with serious betting have made then an even more irresistible offer.
The only people in the world who seem genuinely to care about preserving the basic decency of amateur sport are of course the poor deluded English, who took more than 40 years to work out that they were also the only people to take seriously the millions of arbitrary ‘directives’ of the European Union.
Why in tarnation are the English obsessed with Meerkats?
It is not possible to go into a general store of any size here in England without encountering effigies of these little mongoose type creatures. The garden centers are the worst.
Meerkats sitting, standing, posing; meerkats wearing hats, pushing wheelbarrows, holding up solar powered lights; meerkats playing soccer. So far I haven’t seen one with a top hat smoking a cigar, nor yet one with dreadlocks smoking a joint, but I guess it’s only a matter of time.
There was a long-running TV ad here (for what, I never quite figured out) that involved some talking meerkats; for some reason, despite ‘allegedly’ coming from southern Africa, they spoke with what sounded like Polish accents, or maybe Estonian or something like that, but please don’t quote me. I still haven’t quite got alongside the fact that in England it’s easier to talk in English to someone from north-east India than it is to talk in English to someone from north-east England.
There’s still an ad on the radio with these distinctive voiceovers (Lithuanian, maybe? Latvian?) and I believe everyone’s just expected to understand that they’re supposed to be meerkats.
I just don’t get it. According to Wikipedia, they don’t even make good pets.
Vox Day on the orc invasions. He concludes.
That sound you hear in the distance is Charles Martel sharpening his sword.
But who is Charles Martel?
Not the politico-managerial élite. They caused all this, maybe forty or fifty years ago, and have doubled down ever since rather than admit that they were ever wrong.
Not the armed forces. They’re scattered round the planet, indulging in expensive, counterproductive theatrical performances scriptwritten by the politico-managerial élite.
Not the police. They’ve got problems of their own now.
Not the people, the dumbed-down, dependent, infantilised, scared , disarmed, defenceless people.
Who will save civilisation?
Perhaps it is Vox Day himself. He or his crew, in the original sense, the complement of the ship under his command.
No man yields who flies in my ship. [Sinfield: Karn Evil 9, Third Impression]
Perhaps, like the US 7th Cavalry, the ship will arrive in the nick of time.
I never ‘signed up’ to ‘social media’. I simply couldn’t see the point in organising everything that I did on a totally insecure website belonging to a sheep-looking individual who (‘allegedly’, as they always say here) started it up because it was the only way he could ever get a girlfriend.
Most of the time it’s like one of those old Twilight Zone-ish films in which the whole population of Earth, except me, has had their brains sucked by space aliens and are shambling about mindlessly, guided only by the crude mechanical devices implanted by the space aliens in the voids left by the sucked brains.
It was therefore satisfactory to find this.
I have successfully driven off those who attempt to psychologically manipulate me into sharing their mind-slavery with some psyops of my own. Varying in intensity with the degree of offence given by theirs.
“Not on Twitter? What are you trying to hide?”
“Well, I’m not telling you.”
“Why haven’t you got Facebook?”
“Because I have real friends.”
Nobody ever gives me any trouble, because somehow they know – just as a mugger can sense the presence of a concealed carry permit – that I could simply pluck their thinking-brain phone from their pudgy, nerveless fingers and, expertly curling the index finger of my master hand along the longer edge, skim it like a flat stone into the thickest part of the traffic. Leaving them to find their own way home, friendless, demented, and probably not even armed.