Thought For The Day No 15 - With The Rabbi Anders Weiss

..religious leader, psychologist, spiritual guru and arbiter of good taste.. .

"Men must be taught as if you taught them not, and things unknown proposed as things forgot".
Alexander Pope

Even He Gets Blanked Sometimes...

Nice post from my big brother Seth Godin, on being unintentionally snubbed by David Byrne from Talking Heads, and a response full of equanimity, largely unwarranted after that dancing when he moved his shoulders in a really odd fashion.

One of Our Boys Is Missing - Chapter 3, The Civvy in the Bivvy: Part 2

Charlie 'Terminal' Moraine is a former special forces soldier who served in the legendary (especially since it's now defunct, along with most of the legendary British Army regiments) 53 Assault Reconnaisance Squadron in some of the world's hot spots (well they were hotspots if you were a special forces operative anyway) including Northern Ireland, Oman, Columbia at the height of the drugs war, and Chelmsley Wood in the West Midlands. The Puumaja Crew is proud to present, in serial form, his new book, 'One Of Our Boys Is Missing', covering his life story and over 20 years in the front line of one of the deadliest units since the Ottoman Janissaries.

a recap from the end of the last part, our anti-hero has just passed out, and then, terrible news about one of his birds gives keeps us on course for the two to three tragedies per chapter quota.

Then I saw it...a local newspaper hoarding, the words seemed to scream at me 'Decapitation of Tragic Natalie: Pictures'. I knew it was going to be her even before I read the article; it turned out she'd been sucked into one of those giant hairdrying machines they used to have in hairdressers, whilst she was getting ready to come to the parade. Apparently her last word was 'Char...'. I just ran and ran in the pouring rain, not knowing where to go, until my feet literally dropped off.

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The situation in northern Ireland had been ever-present in the background when I was growing up. We had colour TV by the time the troubles started, so it was with this televisual wallpaper that we’d go about our daily business, eating breakfast, making packed lunch for school, doing homework, whilst the violence escalated. What had begun as a simple protest against British rule in the province grew very quickly into total war.

By the time I was a squaddie in the Calthrops we were into the era of carpet bombing, napalm and agent orange, mass global outrage and marches on the streets of major cities the world over. Catholic priests were committing self-immolation in protest against the regime, and the British Government was keen to spread the war further into the Republic of Ireland, or even further afield into Scotland, citing rebel activities there as their justification. British Army units tended to work on a rotational basis to give everyone a crack at 'em, and in June 1977 it was our turn. To me 'the province' had never been anything more than a far away country about which I knew nothing, and hadn't ever impinged on my life in any way. True, one of my grandparents had come from Ireland, but to my mind that hardly counted. I mean come on, imagine somenody English, maybe a sports person or something, claiming some sort of link with Ireland purely on the basis that their grandparents hailed from there. 

The first impression I got of Ireland was not that which was often portrayed by those most qualified to speak about Ireland, the English middle-classes, especially if they've never been near the place. I found that the stereotype we'd been fed, a barren, treeless land of awe-inspiring, ice-capped mountain ranges, glaciers, volcanoes and geysers, lonely farmsteads and fishing trawlers, was false. In fact it struck me, as I gazed out of the window of the C130 Hercules as we flew in, how similar it looked to my native Warwickshire. Then I realized it was my native Warwickshire - I'd been asleep, and losing all track of time, didn't know that the plane had just been circling for a few minutes following our takeoff from Brize Norton. Nevertheless, the real thing did indeed seem more familiar than expected, and as we looked out at the brooding Clannaghy Hills, there was one thought on our minds . Unfortunately as we were going to be patrolling in a Catholic area, that was all it was going to be, a thought, and we were going to have to put it to one side. I could fully understand why the people hated us there. I'd been pushed around myself in the past and I didn't like it much either. It was a no-win situation for us, and I came to feel that everyone was the victim of history, like some kind of mad game of musical chairs down the ages, with the music stopping in June 1977 with muggins here without a chair

A Welsh Guardsman returning from his tour as we were embarking on ours advised me that northern Ireland was 'a piece of cake mate. A piece of cake filled with broken glass and sulphuric acid, but cake nonetheless'. Our lack of experience – hell we were only just out of Thrushingfold – hardly counted in our favour. We were all so young as well. In world war two the average age of the combat soldier had apparently been somewhere in the mid twenties, but in northern Ireland he was twenty one. We were stationed in a maximum security base in South Armagh, an area known as bandit country owing to its proximity to the border with the Irish Republic, making it an area where the IRA was very active, and also due to the fact that many IRA members (known as 'players' in our parlance) were easily recognisable from the big sombreros, ponchos and drooping moustaches they sported.

Patrols were the bread and butter of life in the province. There was no getting away from them, particularly for the ordinary people who lived there, out and about on their everyday business, who had no connection with terrorism. It was always with a heavy heart that you had to step up to the next car at a VCP, not knowing who was going to be inside it or whether you were going to be greeted by the rattle of the Thomson gun. I felt like a chicken without doubt feels when it is about to be slaughtered.

Some of the local farmers were a laugh. They had been living with the troubles for some time now, and tried to go about their lives notwithstanding the unwanted attention from ourselves and the paramilitaries. Unless you've tried to build a house of cards on the deck of a yawing ship in a force sixer, you can't really understand the difficulty. Often the farmers' barns would be used by the players to store weapons, sometimes knowingly, usually not, and that was a job in itself, checking under the hay (not like in the films, with our bayonets) looking under any suspicious trapdoors for hidden weapons caches, some of which might have been there for decades.

It was also important to respect local people’s religion when carrying out these checks. We’d always offer rice or some sweets to the ubiquitous Buddha effigy that adorned seemingly every building we ever came across, and we’d take care not to drag our feet or trip over as we stepped through doorways (which, instead of being flush against the floor, had a small raised piece of wood along the bottom, ostensibly to keep out evil spirits). We were far from home. This, and also the sheer scale of what we were up against was brought home to me in one of the most horrific incidents I’ve ever experienced on active service, and I’m speaking as a man who’s seen someone fully defrangulated on a strat, whilst still breathing... 

To be furthered, or perhaps not..

 

Oh, the previous part is here.

On This Day 350 Years Ago...

28th April 1660

This morning sending a packet by Mr. Dunne to London. In the afternoon I played at ninepins with Mr Pickering, I and Mr Pett against him and Ted Osgood, and won a crown apiece of him. He had not money enough to pay me. After supper my Lord (Montague, Earl of Sandwich -ed.) exceeding merry, and he and I and W. Howe to sing, and so to bed.

...much the same as our day at the PMC really; minus the playing ninepins on a packet ship..or the gambling...or the making merry or the singing.

Don't You Dare Call Me Crap

Here's a good way to make a living of sorts; go round being  absolutely pants at something and then seek damages from anyone who points out that fact. Still, you need to be doing something which can be easily quantified; not sure it applies to the blogsphere.

The PMC Gets Its First Ever Complaint!

A reader who simply goes by the name of Mrs S., writes to us:

"I have taken the opportunity to view your blog, and can I just say that it is the most bizarre, hideous, ineptly written, ill conceived, poorly thought out, smug, obnoxious and mean spirited load of utter tosh that has ever offended my computer screen. You obviously have nothing better to do with your time than tapping out this utter sputum in the vain hope that someone will read it; and then what? Sleep with you? Offer you a publishing deal?
For the love of God, what you're doing is really quite baffling, and I only hope that you don't do any damage to anyone other than yourself.
I note that you are a former ESL teacher, so you could still have been imposing your version of the English language on fare paying customers, so things could have been worse. Marginally.
My children are aged 9 and 14 respectively and they can come up with better than this for their homework assignments when they've got the flu and the new series of 24 is on.
I showed this to my husband and he agreed. He actually would like to meet you for a fight! Are you up for it? He is ex paras so I would advise you to just walk away, walk away from that and from this half arsed repository of egregious dross - they used to rack people for less than this in earlier times.
Take a look at the blogs out there, and compare them with yours; I fail to see how you're contributing to anything of substance and am in fact raising it at the next Conservative committee meeting, with a view to bringing it to the attention of our local sitting MP (who was a Major in the SBS) so that he can get a private member's bill to amend the law to stop small, anaemic little weeds like you from offending right thinking, decent and proper people or wasting any more of anybody's time.
I can only hope and pray that you finally see your errors for what they are and do the honourable thing and commit cyber sepuku and take your grimy 'blog' with you"

Oh well, our critics are less kind then, eh?

A Kind of Press Freedom

I quite liked this story about a UK foreign office official paper which made a mockery of the Pope's forthcoming visit to the country, not because of the sentiment, which is offensive even to a non-catholic, catechumenate orthodox like myself (at least if you're gonna have a religious dig, make it witty, this was pathetic stuff).
No, what encourages me is the sheer and utter (is that an acceptable combination of adjectives?) ineptitude and incomptence of the department; makes me feel much better about the odd email that slips out pre-spell checker or without capitals in the right places.
 But this wasn't just an email, or someone filmed on a mobile down the pub, this was an OFFICIAL foreign office document. How the hell (pun not really intentional) did that happen, the document must have been printed, proofread by somebody, and put out there, wherever there is (actually looks like it was leaked to a broadsheet) before anyone twigged. Questions have to be asked - I guess it shows that the F.O. publications rival the PMC in terms of readership numbers.
Apparently the person responsible has been 'assigned to other duties'; I hope these are duties befitting the audacious success of what they did, maybe editor of the Catholic Herald would be a good start.

How to Manage Time the Patriotic Way

Canfield, Proctor, Nightingale, Zagler, Hill, Robbins, Tracy, Aaron... step aside please..there's a new success guru in town! Walt Gleeson is a highly successful, internationally renowned author of motivational books and CDs and other products. With a career spanning over half a decade, he has enthralled readers all over the world, from Alaska to Florida and from Hawaii to Rhode Island, with such titles as You Can Do It!, You Can Do It! Too, Literally Make Your House Work For You and Become a Billionaire Whilst On The Toilet, Walt is the Puumaja Crew's personal realization and fulfilment coach, whatever that is.   Today, Walt helps us truly understand the truth behind time management and spreads a little of his South Dakota charm along the way.

Some days ago one of the so-called contributors to this blog posted with his half baked ideas on time management.
He didn't even think to consult me, Walt Gleeson, on a subject which is so close to my heart (and therefore wallet).
I don't know this contributor but I can guess what he's like, so dope smoking, militant, activist, draft dodging limey greenhorn bum, no doubt, and I urge the PMC's good readership, both of them, to avoid what was written like the plague.
Since I didn't get to contribute to the movie 'how to do it', and it's accompanying boardgame, I think my cellphone must have been switched off or on silent when the call probably came through, and then probably deleted itself, I'll set the record straight and then you can waste no more time on this neo-liberal, pinko garbage and get on with getting rich:
Time CAN be managed, just ask anybody from Germany, a country in Eurasia which was one of the great post war economic success stories and, whilst no way as good as the US, was pretty god damned good, admittedly by odious, yellow-bellied european standards.
It simply has to be broken into units, and then smashed into smaller and yet smaller units until they're so small you could use them to season your corn grits in the morning, that's all. None of this ABCED listing baloney, or something about eating a raw crayfish for lunch, just straight, honest to goodness pragmatism and knuckle-headed guts.
Now, get outta here and get on with your day, 'cos if you don't, you're gonna be mighty sorry you didn't when the other fella gets in ahead of you, like he did me the other day, thanks to my phone being off.