Dinner Time

I was awoken this morning by the someone on the radio talking about an investigation into how British schoolboy could possibly have been eaten by a polar bear. No doubt the investigation will be conducted with suitable gravitas by a thoroughly credible and competent Norwegian administration, but I’ll tell you now that the correct answer will not be forthcoming. There’ll be talk of better training for the guides on trips such as this, improved security, more accessible communications and so forth. But the real answer is simple.

What happened was a group of kids ventured onto the turf of the world’s largest land predator.

The problem is the human race is arrogant. Deeply assured of its own magnificence and excellence. We think we’re the pinnacle of evolution. We’re not. Oh sure, we’re the most intelligent, the best communicators, the most inventive. But top of the tree? Not even close.

We’re not the best in the Arctic, those polar bears survive and thrive in an environment where we need specialist kit to make sure we don’t freeze to death.

We’re certainly not the best in the sea. Get into a fight with a great white shark in his back yard and there will be just one winner.

In the jungles of India a Tiger can rip your throat out before you’ve even realised he’s close.

The African savannah plays host to the lion. Mr Lion is a huge beast who can finish you off in a heartbeat, his wife is even more deadly, and they’ll hunt you in packs.

The human lives in an environment that it has a degree of control over. We have to, we’re actually quite puny. Even our close cousins the chimpanzee, orang-utan and gorilla would beat seven bells out of us in short order. When lesser creatures encroach on ‘our’ territory we chase them down. Yet, we’re not even particularly good at that. Rats and other vermin abound.

No, we’re not the super-beings we imagine ourselves to be.

Yet the cry goes up, ‘bad polar bear! How dare you kill one of us? Now you must die!’ You see the same off the Australian coast when someone gets chomped by a great white. Granted the shark spits you out, having discovered you aren’t nearly as tasty as you looked. The boats will leave port, bent on killing the beast that so offended us. ‘He’s a killer!’ they’ll cry. Well, of course he’s a killer, he’s a bloody shark.

And therein lies the hint, a great white shark doesn’t need a boat and a rifle to do its killing. It just swims up and bites. Human arrogance attributes fault at the door of the animal. No, the animal is doing what is meant to do, what it lives to do, the only thing it knows how to do.

If you go into a part of the world which is ruled by fecking enormous predators, then you run the risk of meeting them. They may not be pleased to see you. Don’t take it personally, it is just business. They don’t answer to politicians and committees. There is no moral and ethical debate about their actions. Policemen and the law are unknown to them. Except the oldest law of all; I’m bigger and better than you.

If you don’t want to run into a polar bear, lion, tiger or shark then stay in Berkshire. If a polar bear walks down the street in Windsor, knocks on your door and punches you in the face, you may have cause for complaint.

This planet doesn’t belong to the human race, and that means that sometimes you have to give up centre stage and deal with the fact that you aren’t number one.

It doesn’t make what happened any less tragic, but it is the way the world is.

Also available at thesnowolf.com

Did I do the right thing?

A few days ago I set out my thinking about jumping ship from LPUK to UKIP. Well, my membership card arrived on Monday. That means I can now register for the UKIP forum and read about what is going on in the UKIP world.

I'm not sure how I feel about the UKIP forums being available to registered members only. Posting, probably fair enough, reading? I don't know. One of the strengths of the Libertarian cyber-movement is the ability to access material without trouble, what also sets the Libertarian set apart is the willingness to allow unmoderated comment on party and personal blogs, something most other parties would run a mile from.

Although as we'll see, this isn't without its down sides.

Still, we'll see. I went and visited the old house this morning, to see what has been going on over at the LPUK site. Since I left, it appears that the place has continued to fall apart, although I don't think the two are linked, it was heading that way anyway, that's why I left.

The whole thing is dominated by truth, half-truth, spun-truth, conspiracy theory and complete fantasy. It made it impossible for me to have any faith in any of the people involved. It is a complete bun-fight, and I should imagine to an outside observer it is very, very funny.

There are three news stories over at the LPUK site, where the same old people go on and throw the same old accusations, with the same old people issuing the same old rebuttals, and the same old people running the same old smear campaigns. The comments on these articles really are most . . . interesting? Enlightening? Entertaining? I don't know. But when articles start referencing a forum run by David Icke, you have to wonder who and what is involved in the party.

Maybe there is some grand conspiracy involving Common Purpose, the Illuminati, the Masons and lizards from outer space, I suppose we'll know when tin foil is banned. Up until that point and given the inability of governments to organise the simplest of tasks, I'll remain sceptical.

Have I done the right thing in joining UKIP? That remains to be seen, I do believe that the question of our EU membership is the biggest item on the agenda, arguing about anything else is a waste of time. It's like discussing what colour your new curtains will be while watching your house burn down. What you should be doing is calling the fire brigade. Let's sort the big one out and then worry about the other stuff, eh?

Have I done the right thing in leaving LPUK? Without doubt. I can't read the musings of those involved, the excuses, the accusations, see the smoke and mirrors and the rapidly swivelling eyes, and think that anyone would want to be involved with the party.

To those involved in the ridiculous arguments; well done, you've killed the party stone dead. A plague on both your houses.

The One That Is Calling For An Undertaker. . .

He is ill. Very ill indeed. I believe it to be terminal. There is no point in calling for a Doctor. There's nothing he can do now, anyhow, it is a Friday evening, there is no hope of persuading the man to make a housecall.

Calling NHS Direct proved fruitless. You see, when I called the surgery, they merely told me to call NHS Direct, the Doctors simply will not respond if one falls ill at the evenings or the weekend. After speaking to the young lady at NHS Direct, explaining the symptoms, she suggesting calling the Doctor. I told them I had tried, without success. I had best go to A&E then, was the advice.

Of course, the A&E department was closed three years ago, there is now just a minor injuries unit. The nearest A&E department is over twenty miles away. I'm not at all convinced the old man would survive the journey on the potholed road from here to there.

We'll have the dour man with the dark suit and the tape measure then.

Undertakers will always do housecalls. One of the conditions is that the object of their attentions is dead. To steal a phrase from Monty Python, 'he's not at all well.'

The Underaker is a busy man, but he acts with decorum and gravitas. 'What are the symptoms?' he asked, when I requested he wait for the death rattle.

My response was to tell him about the auto-immune condition, where the immune system, supposed to defend the body against harm, attacks perfectly healthy parts. Strange things, auto-immune conditions, always entertaining. The Undertaker was interested, and leaned forward in the chair he was sat on, outside the bedroom door, 'Oh yes, do tell.'

I explained how the defence system did its best to wound a part of the body that bore no threat to it whatsoever. It had done no wrong, yet is was punished all the same.

'Amazing' replied the Undertaker, 'is this common?' I explained that it was all too common, and whilst a small episode like this was not fatal, it was an indicator of bigger problems, a signpost which, if researched, could uncover things that the body was unaware of and were only seen if one looked very hard indeed.

The Undetaker later revealed to me, in a moment of explicit candour, that hs is no man of medicine, he informed me with a wave of the had and in a most self-depricating style, that he is more akin to a meat packer or a butcher. He knew, he said, which bit should go where, but had no understanding of the internal workings.

He pressed me on the bigger problems. I recounted how the first auto-immune condition was similar to the body having a slight falling out with itself, but the main, more hidden problem, was like all out war. The body was, in effect, using weapons of mass destruction on itself, in a catastrophic civil war.

The Undertaker gave a sigh. He told me how one of the certainties in his job was that he would make regular visits to the care homes in the area. It always seemed to him that either the body went, or the mind went. The nursing staff always seemed to display a sense of almost cruel relief when someone with a perfectly functioning mind, but trapped in a contrary body, departed. It was almost like a release from an inescapable prison.

I mused on the point, would it be better to have lost one's mind and be unaware of one's predicament, than to be imprisoned with no chance of parole? I came to the conclusion that it was.

However, the Undertaker was labouring under a mis-apprehension. Not only was the body at the end of a slow and attritional campaign of self-destruction, but it had also undergone this internal battle with a great and debilitating insanity.

Firstly, the ailing old man had descended into a psychopathic episode. Unaware to recognise the damage he had done to others, uncaring for those he had hurt; selfishness and disregard had become his mark.

A bi-polar condition had also taken hold. With the old man consistently acting against his own counsel, suffering delusional states of self-perception where one has acheived the impossible, arguing with his better nature, miserly one minute, surrendering his childrens' inheritance, gratis, the next.

The poor old man now lies in bed, coughing and spluttering, his compexion as grey as the weather outside his window. He decries his body as a traitor. He insulted the doctors who had tried to minister to his needs as charlatans and snake oil salesmen and has damned his descendents to penury.

Not many will mourn his passing. I think back to the Undertaker's account of the response of the nurses at the care home and think to myself, perhaps it is for the best.

The Undertaker sits in his wheel-back chair on the landing, the slow ticking of the clock marking the old man's last few moments. He has reached into the inside pocket of his frock coat and is reading a small volume he obviously carries for inescapable delays. This is a man used to waiting.

He waits tonight, and with the trace of a tear in the corner of his eye, he remembers what a grand, proud and respected man Mr. Britain used to be.

Sir Bobby Robson. 18 February 1933 - 31 July 2009

A departure from the normal format this evening.

I love football. However not as much as I used to, and a little less today.

I've not commented on the recent deaths of the two WW1 veterans, not that I don't care, I have boundless respect for them and their actions, but I knew nothing about them personally.

Bobby Robson's death today has left me feeling genuinely very sad. His Ipswich side were in their pomp when I was first exposed to football, and his England side were the first side I was old enough to follow with any sense of understanding during the '86 World Cup. The fact he managed to keep hold of his job after the disastrous '88 European Championships in the face of some shocking treatment from the media and then took the side to the semi finals in the Italian World Cup of 1990 stand as a testament to his determination.

Whenever a public figure dies the tributes come 'pouring in' and Robson is no different. What is different is the almost tangible feeling of admiration, affection and respect that these tributes betray. Here was a man who was held in the highest regard, the reactions of Ipswich Town and Newcastle United and their supporters are touching, but not surprising, given his long associations with both clubs. What is just as touching have been the reactions of PSV Eindhoven, Barcelona, FC Porto and Sporting CP Lisbon where he spent less time but left just as big an impression.

Robson played a big part in the development of figures such as Jose Mourinho, Ronaldo (Luís Nazário de Lima) and current Barcelona head coach Pep Guardiola. His influence in the European game is not perhaps as well understood in England, being overshadowed by his success in Italia '90.

In an era where unprecedented sums of money are changing hands for players who act in a fashion which would see them given ASBOs if they were 'normal people', Robson stands as a reminder of the virtues of quiet industry and respectful behaviour.

The game is a deal poorer for his loss.

The One That Bloody Hopes She Isn't. . .

Former home secretary Jacqui Smith has admitted she quit the cabinet partly because of the expenses row over pornography watched by her husband.

Well, there's a surprise.

Ms Smith, MP for Redditch, said: "It's part of the reason I resigned." She added: "You become a person who is associated with these things."

Well, that's the end of the porn industry. Who wants her to be associated with anything, let alone *artistic* photomagraphs?

The One That Feels For The Scapegoat. . .

Can you hear that dripping sound? Listen carefully, that is the sound of my heart bleeding.

Poor old Rose Gibb, I blogged yesterday about this horrible woman, well she's started her case in court today, and you know what, it just isn't fair.

I might have got her wrong.

According to her testimony, the Healthcare Commission's report into the state of hygeine in Maidstone & Tunbridge Wells NHS was 'full of inaccuracies, innuendo and unfounded criticisms' and that she disagreed with the findings. She has also said that she resigned as she 'understood that this [her treatment] was a reaction to the impending HCC report to manage the public and any fallout. I was to be the scapegoat.'

Scapegoat? You were the Chief Executive of an almost criminally dirty hospital, indeed if memory serves correct, Al-Beeb made an undercover report into conditions in another hospital in M&TW NHS Trust.

Damn right you carry the can, you were getting paid £150k per annum, so you'd better take fucking responsibility. How I long for a job where I can get that amount (and probably a tasty bonus as well) and then absolve myself of any fault if it all goes tits up.

I hope you lose your house, AND contract an illness which requires you get treatment in a hospital as filthy as the one you ran.

The One That Wants You To Take A Good, Hard Look . . .

This, my friends, is what a total fucking bitch looks like.

Take a good hard look.

'Who is this contemptible non-entity?' I hear you ask.

Her name is Rose Gibb she was the Chief Exec of Maidstone and Tunbridge Wells NHS Trust. On her watch 90 people died of C.diff infection. That's 90. The hospital under her charge was so filthy that hygeine standards were revealed which would have caused concern in some fly-blown sub-Saharan hell hole hospital.

Health Sec, Alan Milburn did one of the few correct things this government has tried to do by attempting to prevent her receiving a pay-off. Bearing in mind this is a woman that walked away from a contract of employment having overseen the deaths of the better part of 100 people, just before a damning report into standards at the hospital were released.

Even though she'd failed to stop the death of 90 people, even though she'd walked away from her job, even though the Health Secretary had figured out it was a shocking waste of taxpayers' money to pay her off and asked the Trust not to do it, Maidstone and Tunbridge Wells NHS Trust, amazingly, negotiated a £250,000 pay-off but then witheld £175,000 of that following Milburn's little campaign.

Excuse me? What the fuck? She walked away from her job, where she had spectacularly failed in her job (how does it go? 'First do no harm' or something isn't it?) and actually expected a pay-off! Only in British Public Service would this happen.

But poor old Rose, obviously £75,000 isn't enough, oh no, she's taking the trust to the High Court now to demand the balance of the £250k. I suppose she's been advised she's got a decent case, or she wouldn't have taken this action. I can only hope the Judge tells her to fuck right off and saddles her with a huge costs bill.

Proof positive, public service at the high level in this country is dead. It isn't about doing the best by your country or your community, it is about as creaming as much of the taxpayers' money as possible and having no shame or self awareness.

Rose Gibb, in a country that is administered by the sociopathic, hubristic, avaricious, arrogant, incompetent and detestible, you truly are one of the stand-out candidates. You have been shown to be one of the biggest wastes of space in Kent. I hope you lose your house, bitch.

The One That Can Prove They Want Us Dead. . .

Problem.

You have a huge welfare budget and in the current climate you cannot afford to foot the bill.

You cannot cut the benefits you hand out, as to do so would be political suicide.

How to rationalise your outgoings? You cannot restrict the access for some targeted areas of society as you would be open to accusations of certain '-isms'.

Your research shows that your biggest drains on the public purse, beyond your 5-A-day officers and your Community Cohesion Empowerment Outreach Advisors are young single mothers, their pre-school children and the elderly.

You notice that all your biggest drains all do the same thing. They hang around the centre of town aimlessly milling around until they are allowed back into the B&B or the social pop-in day centre opens for its one afternoon that week.

I know, let's kill them! Let's kill them and make it look like we had nothing to do with it!

That is exactly what Ashford Borough Council has done with its introduction of shared space.

Shared space is public roads where there is no division of usage for motor-traffic, cycle traffic and pedestrian traffic. What could be a better idea?

I grew up in the borough of Ashford and have very strong links to the town, I am a fanatical supporter of the town's football team and have a number of friends who live there. I have yet to see this wonderful idea with my own eyes, but hope to rectify this on Saturday. The feedback I've received from everyone in the town is the same; 'madness, complete madness, somebody will die.'

But it will reduce the burden on the tax payer when these people are killed, plus you can also use this to continue your campaign of hate against motorists. 'Look! Look at the bad motorist who ploughed into this young woman of 14 and her three kids. His attention was probably diverted by the filthy cigarette he was smoking.'

Perhaps those at Ashford Borough Council had been down to Howletts Wildlife Park, one of the local attractions (and a very impressive one at that) where they have used the same theory of shared space between animals and visitors. Of course it should be pointed out that you are sharing space with a family of lemurs. I don't think there are any plans to tear down the very sturdy fences between guests and tigers just yet. Although this seems to be what Ashford Borough Council have done.

It is only a matter of time before lessons are learned.

As an aside, I've also been told by an Ashford resident that there is a plan for the fun-fair to come to town and for bumper cars, coconut shy and all to be set up for the enjoyment of all. . . in an underground car park.

World class!