Brendan

Louisa Wrote: ------------------------------------------------------- > How on earth can this story warrant a thread? > Ridiculous. The Swastika isnt just a symbol of > 1930s political unrest in Germany, it is also an > ancient Hindu symbol and was used in sub-saharan > African tribes in the 17th and 18th century as a > form of fertility right. If all we have to worry > about in 21st century London is a few swastikas on > a dustbin, when we have crime taxation and > transport worries then god help us. > > Louisa. I agree. They could have been intended to mean just about anything. Possibly just the remnants of the African fertility rights that go on in the evenings around here. What with the Eat Dulwich Swazi quarter in the Barry Road triangle and the Kalahari Bushmen collective who live around Goose Green.

Or just generally driving like a tit.

lozzyloz Wrote: ------------------------------------------------------- > Britain's banks are forecast to report bumper > profits of more than ?42bn for 2007 despite being > forced to stomach losses caused by the credit > crunch, yet many homeowners will only have > repossession of their family home to look forward > to. Along the same lines: http://www.thedailymash.co.uk/news/business/consumers-to-link-oil-company-profits-and-petrol-prices-any-day-now-20080429910/

It could be that you are more likely to notice drivers of big flashy cars because of their big flashy cars.

For whom the bell tolls - (I have this one on my ipod) Make his fight on the hill in the early day Constant chill deep inside Shouting gun, on they run through the endless gray On they fight, for they're right, yes, but who's to say? For a hill, men would kill. Why? They do not know Stiffened wounds test their pride Men of five, still alive through the raging glow Gone insane from the pain that they surely know Take a look to the sky just before you die It's the last time you will. Blackened roar, massive roar, fills the crumbling sky Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry Stranger now are his eyes to this mystery Hears the silence so loud Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be Now they see what will be, blinded eyes do see For whom the bell tolls Time marches on For whom the bell tolls - Metallica

What! Nobody told me anything about throwing, catching and hitting! Sounds dangerous.

I voted by post a few days ago. then that stupid website told me I had voted for the wrong people. :-S

But do you think that Borris really gives a toss about the poor in a city that has 3rd world levels of social inequality?

You obviously dont know her sister.

Not really a word but I have noticed that I have started to begin a great deal of sentences with the words and or but. My high school English teacher would have my hide (the dirty fecker) but I don?t see anything wrong with it.

Sean as always, I am not to be taken 100% seriously.

On what Bob said earlier. Have you ever been dumped? It hits you like a freight train. The world of certainties you have fabricated is ripped apart around you like a paper raft in a violent maelstrom. And as you feel yourself being pulled inevitably down amongst your life's wreckage all you can think is, ?I should have bloody well slept with her cousin when I had the chance!?

Yeah no, sorry. Everything in London is just fine. It is running perfectly smoothly after 8 years of glorious leadership from Ken Livingston. And just because I am critical of him doesn?t for a moment mean that I support that Johnson tit. But I suppose that is assumed because of the lie of the 2 party democracy that proliferates in Britain.

I am sure you are right Sean. Although I warn you now that no matter how eloquently and intelligently you challenge my prejudices I shall stick with hard-jawed belligerence to my dislike of that smug, squeaky voiced crook. Coincidentally, there are currently 16 PFI projects in the UK, 8 of which are in London.

PFI/PPP Sean

Sorry I just realised I went and did that seffrikan thing of starting a positive answer with the word, no. Anyway back on topic. Borris has little sympathy for any but his own upper class ilk and Ken is labour leader so therefore knows not how to do anything other than, spend, spend, spend and pass the cost on to the tax payers. Some of the others have better intentions but do they have the backup in place to run the city?

No you're right it doesn't but you could just say 3 stops instead. And what's wrong with Plaistow? Or are we working on the assumption that people are further from sanity in the afternoon on their way out of London than in the mornings?

You know I?ve always wondered about that. Surely it?s, two stops short of Becontree.

While we're on the beat poets lamenting life: Bowery Blues The story of man Makes me sick Inside, outside, I don't know why Something so conditional And all talk Should hurt me so. I am hurt I am scared I want to live I want to die I don't know Where to turn In the Void And when To cut Out For no Church told me No Guru holds me No advice Just stone Of New York And on the cafeteria We hear The saxophone O dead Ruby Died of Shot In Thirty Two, Sounding like old times And de bombed Empty decapitated Murder by the clock. And I see Shadows Dancing into Doom In love, holding TIght the lovely asses Of the little girls In love with sex Showing themselves In white undergarments At elevated windows Hoping for the Worst. I can't take it Anymore If I can't hold My little behind To me in my room Then it's goodbye Sangsara For me Besides Girls aren't as good As they look And Samadhi Is better Than you think When it starts in Hitting your head In with Buzz Of glittergold Heaven's Angels Wailing Saying We've been waiting for you Since Morning, Jack Why were you so long Dallying in the sooty room? This transcendental Brilliance Is the better part (of Nothingness I sing) Okay. Quit. Mad. Stop. Kerouac Jack

I suppose it is easy for me to be flippant about this, I didn?t live in Swindon for nearly 3 years.

1. Going to? no no, after the swelling went down I met a girl because of that. 2. Never having? oh no, not actually, that thing ended up falling over and killing all those people. 3. Taking all that? come to think of it no, not at all, that was actually tremendous fun however unpleasant the consequences were. Although I know what you mean about the creative thingy there Mac.

It did indeed. I for one first learnt how to bowl over-arm in order to avoid getting the ball tangled up in my petticoats.

I just found out it is a bank holiday on Monday! Fucking result!

I just read bignumber5?s post of An Irish Airman Foresees His Death. That poem always reminds me of this one by Wilfred Owen also about the 1st world war. Dulce et Decorum est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! ? An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori. Both very clich?d I know and poems that everyone does to death at school. So therefore not ?cool? in the eyes of people who are ?into? poetry. But be this as it may they are still beautifully real in my opinion and complimentary of one another. Although my all-time favourite bit of verse is this: The Owl and the Pussy-cat Edward Lear The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, 'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!' Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?' They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. 'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.' So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

So who's bringing the flounce? I like a bit of flounce me.