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A Passage

Time cannot heal, but brings to kneel, that which might cause us pain
and so we feel, our fate to seal, we’ll never love again.
Where once we soared and felt adored so came the crushing fall,
our heart outpoured with lesions scored the brain a torrid squall.

What did we wrong to silence the song of happy ever after?
No more belong to hopeful throng suffused with love and laughter.
Remember well her sight and smell for such is lost to ether
try not to dwell, you cannot tell of the joy to lay beneath her.

Oh air be still, as wind blows ill and never is it sweeter
ne’er bitterer pill than dreams that still replay when you went to greet her.
If thus my lot it matters not how ably I may embrace it
but finding what might stop the rot is the only way to face it.

The months have passed but peace at last a quest to tame unreason
from succour fast see land from mast does take more than a season.
A cold sweat nightly, clinging tightly, never truly purges.
Though I try rightly to see more brightly with encouraging and urges.

Come what may, as all folks say, the calm will undo sorrow,
find some way if not today perhaps will come tomorrow.
I guess we’ll see just what will be as I will not repeal her
but as I’ve said, until you’re dead, time never is a healer

Song Of The Day ~ Foals – Mountain At My Gates

Ne Déranger Pas

Oh for that fabled sanctic place where smiled the maiden fair of face
The warmth of that which full of grace and reasoned over sea to place

In such who was the blessed child, who thought the world benign and mild
Of good intentions pastille betiled and stared with eyes of wonder wild

Hush wake her not with all your shouts that wear on sleeve your boundless doubts
Reveal your darkened whereabouts that hope and all adventure flouts

What right spoil you her pure naive, and callous swift take of you leave
what sanction would you right receive for thoughts of hope her to reprieve?

Begone internal creature weak whose world of grey of which to speak
where apathy cause love to creak and o’er the world such havoc wreak

By all my sense may I infer fate was not merely mine to err
though try I will to thus concur when all is done what’s lost is her

Song Of The Day ~ Vitalic – Trahison

Impromptu tear upon my cheek
What is your role, what do you seek
Elicited from memories deep
A world long gone you could not keep

As track you make sink dew to skin
Forlorn in hope new life begin
The manner that hint you of grief
illustrate that time brings no relief

Though fleeting be your silvery stain
Emotion whence you came remain
But soon retreats, once more be masked
as daily life more stoic tasked

Betwixt the conscious mundane fate
Flows deeper love through Traitors Gate
The heart beats not on axeman’s block
Through tear-filled eyes at twelve o’clock

Pause not too long beneath the blade
In fear observe the mess you made
Hold back the reemergent tear
Dwell not on now but yesteryear

 Song Of The Day ~ JJ Cale – Call The Doctor

They Still Haven’t Found What I’m Eligible For (to the tune of U2′ I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For)

I have climbed the highest staircase
I have jumped through the hoops
only to feed myself
only to feed myself
I’ve had to stand, had to crawl
I have filled in all the forms
all the forms
only to feed myself

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

I have kissed workplace arses
felt the loathing in the furtive glances
it burned like ire
with me deep in the mire
I’ve not heard any tongues of angels
but I have held my hand out to devils
it was cold in the night
I was kicked like a dog

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

I don’t believe the day will come
when right-wing bastards would bleed into one
bleed into one
But yes I’m still dreaming
You bought your bonds
Your private planes
You profited handsomely
and caused my shame
oh my shame
You know I can prove it

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for
But they still haven’t found
what I’m eligible for

Song Of The Day ~ U2 – I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For

Craig Murray was a diplomat and worked in a number of embassies, he has over the years published books and articles expounding some of the less savoury things that have gone on in parts of the world where news appears not to filter through to the mainstream.

I have, with his permission, agreed to circulate this, along with many others, so that the numerous attempts to hack his site which have taken place over the last 3 days do not smother what he is saying.  In fact they should be seen only as confirming this is something that is part of the British government’s policy in order to railroad through the “Snooper’s Charter” giving backdoor access to pretty much everything.  

This is not a hoax, this is not about national security as it affects the general public this is about control and who exercises it and how much they wish to do so.  Orwell couldn’t have drafted it all better himself.  But this is not fiction and that should chill anyone interested in liberty and justice.

Five Reasons the MI6 Story is a Lie

by craig on June 14, 2015 10:06 am

The Sunday Times has a story claiming that Snowden’s revelations have caused danger to MI6 and disrupted their operations. Here are five reasons it is a lie.

1) The alleged Downing Street source is quoted directly in italics. Yet the schoolboy mistake is made of confusing officers and agents. MI6 is staffed by officers. Their informants are agents. In real life, James Bond would not be a secret agent. He would be an MI6 officer. Those whose knowledge comes from fiction frequently confuse the two. Nobody really working with the intelligence services would do so, as the Sunday Times source does. The story is a lie.

2) The argument that MI6 officers are at danger of being killed by the Russians or Chinese is a nonsense. No MI6 officer has been killed by the Russians or Chinese for 50 years. The worst that could happen is they would be sent home. Agents’ – generally local people, as opposed to MI6 officers – identities would not be revealed in the Snowden documents. Rule No.1 in both the CIA and MI6 is that agents’ identities are never, ever written down, neither their names nor a description that would allow them to be identified. I once got very, very severely carpeted for adding an agents’ name to my copy of an intelligence report in handwriting, suggesting he was a useless gossip and MI6 should not be wasting their money on bribing him. And that was in post communist Poland, not a high risk situation.

3) MI6 officers work under diplomatic cover 99% of the time. Their alias is as members of the British Embassy, or other diplomatic status mission. A portion are declared to the host country. The truth is that Embassies of different powers very quickly identify who are the spies in other missions. MI6 have huge dossiers on the members of the Russian security services – I have seen and handled them. The Russians have the same. In past mass expulsions, the British government has expelled 20 or 30 spies from the Russian Embassy in London. The Russians retaliated by expelling the same number of British diplomats from Moscow, all of whom were not spies! As a third of our “diplomats” in Russia are spies, this was not coincidence. This was deliberate to send the message that they knew precisely who the spies were, and they did not fear them.

4) This anti Snowden non-story – even the Sunday Times admits there is no evidence anybody has been harmed – is timed precisely to coincide with the government’s new Snooper’s Charter act, enabling the security services to access all our internet activity. Remember that GCHQ already has an archive of 800,000 perfectly innocent British people engaged in sex chats online.

5) The paper publishing the story is owned by Rupert Murdoch. It is sourced to the people who brought you the dossier on Iraqi Weapons of Mass Destruction, every single “fact” in which proved to be a fabrication. Why would you believe the liars now?

There you have five reasons the story is a lie.


Binky got up from the chair in the sitting room and swaggered into the kitchen.  There can have been few more inappropriate pet names than the one that adorned the large marmalade coloured blob that then squawked demandingly at Martin.  The latter attempting, unsuccessfully, to eat his cornflakes quietly so as not to enrage the church bell that seemed to be going off in his head.  Binky had been so named by Bonnie, Martin’s daughter before she had been taken away by her mother to live with Steve the plumber.

Bonnie loved the cat and the cat reciprocated.  She had constantly wandered around the house with Binky in her arms affixed like a ridiculously oversized brooch.  The animal had always been a little standoffish with other people but when Bonnie had left it had acquired a genuinely malevolent temper.  This had manifested itself in amongst other things lacerating Martin’s toes should they stick out of the bed, or lurking near the top of the stairs and feigning affection in an attempt to send Martin headlong down.  People had told Martin not to be so stupid when he had said that the cat was looking for revenge, but he knew, and Binky knew he knew.

It wasn’t that Binky expressly disliked Martin but his little friend had gone and someone had to bear the brunt of his anger.  Martin was now the only one in the house and was thus subjected to whichever of the random acts of violence the ginger fiend felt like mooting out.  Martin who had previously felt he was hanging on to at least some semblance of control over things when Bonnie and her mother were around had entirely lost it when it became clear that he was now below even the cat in the pecking order.  Both man and cat had been forced to adapt to a new way of life that had been in neither of their interests nor very much cared for.  The cat’s answer had been to acquire considerable rancour and the consequential menacing behaviour.  Martin’s had been to acquire large quantities of drink and the consequential hangovers, as evidenced today.

Last night had been especially savage, Martin had stayed in the pub until gone 2am and was now going to have to pay the penalty of too little sleep and too much beer.  To make matters worse he had awoken to find Binky sat on his windpipe at stupid o’clock in the morning and the matter had traumatised him sufficiently to not find sleep as restful as before.  This was of course not the first time Binky had attempted to kill him, there had been the aforementioned stairs incident, which had taken some explaining at the hospital.  He had only fallen down 3 steps to the point on the stairs where they turned ninety degrees but he had clattered his head into the wall and when he came to had gone to A&E to ensure he wasn’t suffering from concussion.  After that failed attempt the cat had appeared to curtail operations or at least became more covert and long-term in their planning and subsequent implementation.  Martin couldn’t be sure he hadn’t merely been lucky to have woken up on this particular occasion, Binky indeed seemed livid to be flung about in the flailing of arms of Martin’s panic and clung to the duvet like an angry mongoose, tail fluffed and spiked like a bottlebrush, ears pinned back and eyes as wide as saucers.

Binky for his part had been hungry and food had not been forthcoming in the kitchen from the slovenly idiot in the darkened stench-ridden bedroom.  His attempts at awakening the thing nicely had not worked, he had tried but impending starvation necessitated desperate measures and it was throat or danglies, he figured the former would be the kinder first port of call.  The cat did not understand why the man seemed to look considerably worse after sleeping than he had done prior to doing so.  He let out another yowl, an impeaching sound with the faintest hint of malice, that there would be trouble were it not heeded.  Martin got up and went to the kitchen, focusing on trying to figure out how he might survive the day.

The beleaguered figure at the table turned abruptly and shouted at the animal, banging his fists on the table as he did so before wincing.  Binky shot out of the room into the hallway where he sat with his back to Martin who had resumed his slouch over his cereal.  Both parties knew that Martin would pay for this, the cat took offence at being the scapegoat for the man’s hangover and Martin who was not at heart a cruel man recognised that Binky was not at fault for his predicament, not on this occasion.

Martin decided that as a piece offering he would put down a nice piece of fish.  He also needed to tackle the litter tray to clean things up, a job he had been trying to avoid for some days.  Binky had earlier decided that a dirty protest was in order and as well as the stench that pervaded the kitchen there had been some offerings near the entry to the hatch of the covered loo.  Martin had been in a state of disrepair when he had returned that night and staggered around with his face buried in his jacket to mitigate the appalling odour whilst he fumbled for some air freshener.  He had no intention of changing the mog bog again whilst battered.  It had taken over an hour to purge up the mess of the last well-meaning attempt and Binky had not taken kindly to the lack of facilities whilst Martin crawled around on his hands and knees bleaching the floor.

Martin took another handful of painkillers which had been prescribed for his chronic toothache some time ago and slugged them down with his coffee.  The doorbell rang.  He went to answer it and saw his daughter standing the other side of the frosted glass.  Martin had not realised the time and immediately stood up straighter and combed his hair back with his fingers.  He opened the door and there was Bonnie, a crooked smile on her face that suggested she knew exactly the dichotomy of her parental state and wished to please both camps.  Sarah shouted from the car parked right outside the gate.  “Don’t be long Bon-Bon remember we’re off for Laser Bowl and Pizza.”  That was low Martin thought, the bitch, Bonnie loved laser bowl, Martin had taken her there when she was seven and they’d had a wonderful father daughter afternoon returning flushed from laughing and bonded.  Sarah had sulked when they had got back all smiles and had insisted joining them the next time.  As far as Martin was concerned the woman was able to suck the very life out of a room, she could turn vibrant colour into monochrome and rosy cheeks to pasty-faced.  The  next laser bowl had been considerably flatter and they had been seldom since despite Bonnie’s pleading.

Bonnie came into the house, she was as pleased to see her father as she was the cat who ran down the stairs on recognition of her voice.  Binky’s countenance had changed immediately, Martin had largely forgotten that the cat could purr, he had not heard it for some time save for the rare moments of tenderness when the cat’s depression seemed to reluctantly require some comfort.  Now here he was winding himself in and out of Bonnie’s legs and raising himself to his hind legs so as to rub against her outstretched hand.  He froze briefly when he saw the cat basket.  That had meant trouble before, that had meant visiting that wanker who was obsessed with his arse and sticking needles into him, not to mention the subsequent poisoning of his food for weeks with those disgusting white tablets which he had to spit out when no-one was looking.  Binky had learnt the hard way not to do so when anyone was on hand as the first time they had wrapped him in a towel and rammed the thing down his gullet, it had been an experience the whole family wished to forget.  Bonnie had cried, Sarah barked at Martin to stop pissing about and get on with it and Binky had spat and hissed as if he were being violently abused, which from his perspective he had.  He had then shot up the stairs and under Bonnie’s bed where she had spent the next half an hour trying to coax him out.

The cat basket had been drugged accordingly and the scent of catnip wafting enticingly drew Binky trance-like toward it.  Bonnie put the front grill on whilst the cat rolled around on the floor of it covering himself in little green seeds.  She watched him for a few moments before turning back to her father.  “Are you ok Daddy?” she asked “do you miss me?” she had added quickly.  Martin nearly welled up, he couldn’t really tell her that without his daughter his life lacked any meaning or direction, that the pain of losing her had robbed him of the very reason for being, that he would rather not be at all if the alternative was not being with her.  It wouldn’t be fair he thought, she couldn’t understand.  Bonnie had a comfortable home now, he hated Sarah but on the whole he did not doubt her maternal instincts, and Steve the plumber had seemed a pleasant bloke in the week he had known him before he became the adulterous git that had been the final nail in the coffin for him and his wife.  Bonnie was best off out of it, this area was full of half feral kids anyway, thieving little swines, and the local school was just a haven for their criminal activities.  He had always wanted to protect Bonnie from that and the irony of the fact that the removing her from him had done just that was not lost on him.  “I’m fine sweetie, don’t you worry., and of course I miss you, you know that.”  He hoped she’d accept the platitude.  “How’s your new school?” he asked “Have you made friends?”  Bonnie nodded brightly.  The car outside honked. “I have to go Daddy, Mummy will get cross if I don’t, will I see you soon?” “I’m always with you my love, you know that, even when you can’t see me I’m watching over you and I always will be don’t you worry about that” Martin embraced the girl tightly.  He knew there was no chance in Sarah agreeing to let him see Bonnie with any regularity without a court battle which he could not afford.  The cow had told him that if he handed over the house she might consent to some visitation but agreeing would leave him homeless and her with the house which she’d never even liked and she already had Steve’s nice 3 bedroom semi in the far more salubrious Malton 50 miles away.  Sarah held all the cards and Martin’s only bargaining chip to coax Sarah into letting Bonnie return now and again had been the creature now in the box ready to depart.

Bonnie had recently implored him to let Binky come and live with her because she missed him so much and he could not refuse.  He had never been able to, she had wound him round her little finger when she was a day old and not unwound him since.  Sarah didn’t even like bloody cats but she knew what Binky meant as well as he did.  Bonnie picked up the basket and asked her father if he wanted to say goodbye.  Martin knelt down and looked in as Binky’s paw came through the grate and waggled around looking for something to claw.  Martin felt it was an appropriate parting, his claws had not even been properly out, more of a friendly attempt to wound for old times sake, Martin smiled, the little bastard, be strange not to have him around.

A sudden wave of melancholy hit him which he desperately stifled as Bonnie kissed him and walked out of the front door.  Waving goodbye he kept the smile from the gravitational pull of the sadness and nausea inside.  He wanted Bonnie to remember him as he was not what he had been becoming.  Shutting the door and going to the sitting room he slumped into the sofa.  It was beginning, he could feel the narcosis, not long now.  He picked up the small bottle of barbiturates on the coffee table next to him, looked at the label briefly and took the thirteen that remained.

Song Of The Day ~ Phoenix 23 – It’s a Blast


It’s been so long I can’t recall when I last saw your face
But I know that for it to have been the last it was neither time nor place
As your features fade to me and I lose the depths of your brown eyes
A little piece inside my heart tears itself and then it cries.

So long were we apart and yet a part of me you’d remained
Too interwoven now my soul to simply be retrained
To lose as well the friendship from the one I held so dear
Seems the thousandth cut to kill me when not a word I hear

Is it here the story endeth now with fizzle where once was flame
Is it to be in fairy tales where I can solely speak your name
Will time perhaps afford that some love be requited
Albeit knowing from experience that what was once is not ignited

I’d sooner travel with you near me, if no longer at my side
I know without your sense around me I can scarcely take a stride
Perhaps I offer little to entice you as a worthy friend
But I had to let you know that I hope this will not be the end

Song Of The Day ~ That Petrol Emotion – Sweet Shiver Burn

Clichées are very often that because they are true for so many people in a variety of circumstances.  Or perhaps they are clichées because people say them so frequently whether they are true or not in order to say something when they cannot think of anything original, prefering instead to fall back on a hackneyed phrase or mantra that smacks of empathy without really ever putting themselves out on a limb.  No area is more cliché-ridden than that of love.

Most of us have been at the sharp end of the ‘L word’ more than once and to have been so requires us to have first experienced the very reason that makes us take the risk.  The alternative is the life of the comfortably numb.  Is it therefore a panacea that we seek to give the person newly joining the brother- or sisterhood of the lachrymose succour or is it in fact ourselves we wish to reassure that such things have ultimately a karmic balance that will result in the end all our dreams coming true and all our fears being quashed?  If by every emotional catastrophe of others we allow our own belief to be dented then from where can we draw our hope?

You may feel life has meaning and if so this may bring you a sense of order, of balance or at least of some reason.  You may feel that fate has its plans, that there is a reason for everything and a path we are all destined to walk down.  If, like me, you do not hold with any of those tenets then you have to look upon such events in life as being ones that do not resolve themselves and that we as humans are in fact naive to believe they will, not to mention rather self-indulgent in even thinking they should.

Time does not heal it merely clots the wound, allows a scab to form and eventually, after perhaps some picking at it or the metaphorical application of salt by life events and/or people, to be left with a scar that no longer causes physical pain but reminds us of a time when we once felt it and the reasons we were wounded in the first place.  If we are lucky it is scarred in a place that is not so often visible, if we are not then perhaps we will forever wince when something strays near the area, transporting us back to the spectre of what had caused us the pain the first time or maybe just the last time.  Do we stop undertaking the activity that caused it in the first place? That rather depends on how much we enjoyed it, or what enticement there may be to do so again, but we will never be the same innocent participant as we were before, we will have protective clothing and be watching for the blade that cut us.

I am wounded and the blood is yet to clot, the pain is duller now as my brain has become more used to its ache and it has sought to release some endorphins to help me to function at all.  I do not need platitudes I need morphine derivatives, anything else just seems either callous or patronising and neither of those are any more helpful than vacuous clichées!

Song Of The Day ~ Michael Kiwanuka – You’ve Got Nothing To Lose

What No More Will Be

Jack Vettriano, Graham Greene,
the number 6, hidden obscene
so much I saw and where I’ve been.
Venice, Oxford, Sydney too
always my dear entwined with you

Of course Australia’s icons clear,
could I never view again I fear,
without shedding more than just a tear.
For in every landmarks resting place
I cannot fail to see your face.

A country I visited for one sole reason,
to keep love alive not fall to treason
so mattered less the fickle season.
You know a year on soon we reach
since I kneeled before you on that beach.

I do not regret what there I said
nor will I ever afore I’m dead,
it came from heart and not from head.
That piece of me to you is twixt,
which now a point forever fixed.

I’d surprised myself with ardour bounding
which makes it all so magic sounding
explaining now the torrid hounding.
For now the only true recourse,
a grieving lifetime’s slow remorse.

Yet still I feel it’s not enough,
the pain of that weekend rebuff,
the seams it tore callously rough.
For then it wasn’t us to me,
I felt you had long gone, you see?

Advice oft sought so seldom came
just served to show I was to blame
and had traded love for cloak of shame.
Perhaps we drifted long apart,
but that didn’t come from in my heart.

For that I know I’ll always pay
in spite of what others may say.
I’ll miss you ’til my dying day.
I realised long since it was true
there’d never be another you.

Song Of The Day ~ Bombay Bicycle Club – What If?

Misery’s Child

Oh can there be more parlous sight
than a boy who can’t survive the night
a sorry figure who feels the sting
of a lowly, upturned Claddagh ring
not long since on finger proudly sat
what more sad a sign could be than that
staring down as enforced grieving
sees every little promise leaving
with it ebbs all sense of vigour
that cuts a broken listless figure
can there really be one more of sorrow
than knowing it’s the same tomorrow

Song Of The Day ~ Little Ann – Deep Shadows


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