The Greek government was ruled or manipulated many years ago by royals from Denmark. These royals were also deeply involved with Nazi Germany and Great Britain. Eventually, Prince Philip went to the UK and married Queen Elizabeth before she was coronated. Philip has had a long standing score to settle with Greece for exiling his father and humiliating the Danish monarchy.
Thus, there are clearly historic forces who want to humble Greece for its temerity in dealing with Germans and Danes without showing humility at the feet of the old European royal families.
There is a conflagration coming the day the Greek people rise up and thrash the powers and leave the EU. They will cancel their debt to the EU, thus ending the slavery Germany, France, and the UK have put them under.
The end of this will be that the center of activity will move toward Jerusalem, and Greece is closer than the UK and Germany. This is the Bible prophecy path of movement in the End Times. If you do not believe the Bible is the final authority, this will make you laugh. But, one day I will have the last laugh. Not because I am so clever, but because God has revealed the end game to his people.
The days ahead will be an agnostic's nightmare, for Atheists and agnostics have no hope, and no revelation to show the direction of world affairs ahead.
As to Greece and default, and as to Greece being extorted into taking out horrendous loans as they default, this is the destiny of the USA. Only when we are forced to put our great grandchildren into slavery, it will be BRICS-- Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa-- that cracks the whip.
Sounds like a mad dog prediction, I admit, but the way of Greece and Italy tells me that those to whom we owe the most now will call the shots as we go down into Egypt into bondage. In this case, Egypt should be spelled "Beijing."
You in the UK must wonder what happened. We may never know. I have a very close friend from college days, just as Professor Rawlings did. We have kept in contact for over 40 years. I cannot imagine any circumstance in which he or I would want to murder one another. Over many years most of us have the wisdom to abandon a friendship with any signs of such consequences.
What disturbs me is the efficiency (?) with which the authorities have concluded that murder is the most obvious conclusion, and they have probably destroyed the career of Rawlings' friend, no matter where the matter ends. It is typical of the modern nature of Anglo-Saxon insanity, and that includes my own brand here in the USA, that our clever top cop cannot beat half of the terrorists to the trigger, but they can make a criminal of the most harmless child in a flash.
We must all be very thoughtful about our mind set. This event could make us all terrified of our best friends, at least terrified of any friendships with people who have any physical defects of weaknesses. We might soon demand the new contacts go around to hospital and get a lab test, EKG, and echogram to determine if they might die while in our company. We might also call the authorities and report any of our friends who have such weaknesses just to cover ourselves.
Finking is everywhere, and the police are fanning the fires of terror more than the Arabs in this case.
Actually, I have considered tracking all of you who read here in order to learn if you are perfectly well. Those who fail my test would be blocked so that I am not under suspicion is you have an epileptic fit while reading here. Of course, than it occurred to me that if you did have a fit while reading here, you could use my weird editorial as an excuse to get some added medical attention, hard to get in the UK I gather.
So, I will do my part and keep the weird stuff coming all the way from Texas.
Here is Handel, who was German and the court musician to the King of England, writing a piece about The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba from Ethiopia, which was in south Arabia but is now in the Horn of Africa, played by students of Jean Batiste Sunsil University in Seoul, Korea.
India, with the help or Mahatma Gandhi, wrested its freedom from the white skinned Anglo-Saxons long ago. Now, they are trying to look like Anglo-Saxons. This may seem like an admission that lighter races are superior, but it is actually a pathetic testimony to the ongoing dissatisfaction of humanity with their predestination.
Watch:
What is a real laugh is that Anglo and American women are just the same-- dissatisfied with the way God made them. These Anglo twinks lay in the sun and tan themselves darker. In Tennessee, USA, the ladies go to tanning salons and roast themselves a deep well done tan.
So, how is an expatriate Wog supposed to be a responsible racist anyway. These modern women are messing up the whole world social structure. I propose the United Nations pass a Treaty of skin. This treaty would be followed by all member nations shipping white women to countries where white women are to live, and they ship dark woman to places where dark people live.
This way, they could still tan themselves or bleach themselves, but at least we could all do a better job of practicing intelligent discrimination.
Now, I want you to think about Big Nanny in the UK, the USA, and the world.
The elite and rulers of the world are in the process of defining us all as dangerous, as offensive, and as a threat to world peace..... IF we stand for something strongly, such as our faith, our nation, and free thought.
So, as you watch this, think about your national leader, your local police, and you minister at your church. What would they answer to these questions?
Do your children and grandchildren remember history because you made sure they never forget the evil empire, and they never forget the sacrifice you and your neighbors made to keep your freedom and keep them free?
More importantly, have you taught your children that abortion is murder? If YOU believe the Nazi Holocaust was murder at its worst, do you also believe abortion is exactly the same?
James 1:5 If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.
6 But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.
7 For let not that man think that he shall receive any thing of the Lord.
8 A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.
An old hymn of Empire, of Britannia, and the favorite hymn of Queen Elizabeth, at least at one time:
Irrelevant you say?
Well, I would invite my readers to tell us what the favorite hymn of other world leaders is:
Barak Obama- "The church's one foundation is now the Muslim sword"?
Nicolas Sarcozy- "I am the One I love the most"
Angela Merkal- "Roll out the barrel"?
Vladimir Putin- "Pass me not on my Harley Davidson"?
Wen Jiabao- "When I hear my name in heaven, I will buy stock"?
Robert Mugabe- "I'll be a killer for Jesus"?
The Royal Family may be a bit of a disappointment in recent year, what with wandering libidos etc, but it seems quite clear the they are still much more salted than the other choices.
One day, after the nations have wearied themselves by thrashing one another, a King will come and rule the whole earth from Jerusalem:
Revelation 21:22 And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it. 23 And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. 24 And the nations of them which are saved shall walk in the light of it: and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour into it.
Of all the world leaders, I suspect Queen Elizabeth would be the least confused by that empire.
Here is the mind of those who want to nanny the Internet. Bob Parsons, CEO of GoDaddy web registration service went to Zimbabwe to shoot elephants. He chose the most corrupt African nation that is easy to bribe for anything he wants. He displaced the African game wardens who usually shoot rogue elephants. And, he got his "bag" of elephants.
Earlier this year, GoDaddy CEO Bob Parsons made news after taking a trip to Africa.
Was he there working with impoverished African children or supporting an important charity.
Again, Bob Parsons and GoDaddy have made news, this time for announcing their support for the Internet Censorship bill SOPA, which experts have said would destroy the Internet as we know it, adopting a system of government censorship similar to that of Iran and China.
GoDaddy had stated previously that it believed SOPA was "a welcome step in the right direction",oice support for the controversial bill.
GoDaddy goes on to condemn the ease with which people can conduct illegal activity like selling fake drugs and sharing copyrighted material on the Internet today and dismisses concerns about the potential drawbacks of SOPA and the Protect IP Act.
So, the hypocrite condemns law breakers. I wonder if he would allow the possibility to bribe one's way into the Internet via Zimbabwe and destroy the big Internet Elephants who trample the little people.
See the whole article at the link above:
African proverb:
When the elephants fight, only the grass gets hurt.
Parsons is typical of the crass elite in high places who want the world to bow to their lusts while the little people below obey the law.
Rudyard Kipling was an amazing writer. Poetry and prose and anything that he could think of came flowing from him. But, what was he all about?
Kipling was a product of the British Empire. His days in India made him very fond of the Indian people, but he clearly was a full participant in the Raj mind set. Now, lest you think that is hypocrisy, consider the German, Itaniam, French, and Belgian colonialists.
Germans were brutes and did nothing to improve the lot of their subjects except to teach them to be good slaves or get the "kiboko" the whip. Italians went back and forth from beating the natives to marrying them. They were classically pragmatic toward their subjects. The Belgians did not mix with the natives, claiming they did not want to spoil them. So, when the Belgians left the Congo, the natives had not preparation for "independance" and they came to the missionaries still in Congo with empty baskets asking for their "independance". Pathetic.
To the British rule India is the witness. Though they had to agitate for their freedom in the end, India today is the largest parliamentary government in the world, and they have taken the heritage the British have left them and added red tape and pompous procedures that any member of the House of Lords should be proud of.
So, let us see Kipling at his schizophrenic best, or worst, in poetic form. I say "worst" not about his form, which is fantastic. Rather, "worst" in regard to the way the British could not decide whether to hug a Hindu of flog him, so they fawned over them as they wished they had been,,,,,,,,,,,
GUNGA DIN
You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery ~hitherao~!
Water, get it! ~Panee lao~!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some ~juldee~ in it
Or I'll ~marrow~ you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"
'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is ~mussick~ on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead, An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
This is an article on my journal, Blessed Quietness. I discuss the abandonment of the Reformation heritage in favor of Empire building. This then is used as a model for what we may expect in the USA if we continue on the course we are now on.
Kenya does not need GMOs. The article below does not discuss what happens if economic panic and collapse takes place After Kenya farmers are committed, and after their heirloom seed is corrupted by the GMOs.
The seed companies have only one motive-- to force Kenyan farmers to buy seed every year from them, and this spells big trouble. Aside from the price of the seed, the seed companies have no regulatory measure over them to follow ethical guidelines.
One possibility that is never discussed is that a seed company can enter many Developing Nations, get them addicted to GMOs and hybrids, and then they can claim all the crosses with heirlooms as theirs. This has happened in the USA, and farmers have had to plow crops under or give them to the seed company as if the farmer were a criminal.
Add to this the possibility that the seed companies WANT Kenya and other nations to become addicted to GMOs and hybrid seed, and then they will withdraw for some concocted reason. This would create even more starvation as farmers had no heirloom seed left to plant. This would give the ruling nations of the earth to feed the starving and, in effect, make them slaves to the Western World.
The included article simply shows how the collusion between Kenya, and other African, politicians is causing an ongoing crisis to mushroom into a total disaster. As far as I am concerned, this is de facto colonialism. The difference in the neo-colonial era is the there is no one on the ground, as in the old British Empire, to make sure the "natives" benefit from the intrusion of the mother lands (seed companies) into Africa.
Food Crisis as Kenya Opens its Doors to GMOs
Kenya - 03 Nov 11
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
The horn of Africa is undergoing the most severe food crisis over the last 60 years. To address the growing number of people suffering from hunger, Kenya has decided to officially authorize the importation of genetically modified organisms (GMOs), becoming the fourth African country to open its doors to GM crops, together with South Africa, Egypt and Burkina Faso.
The new regulations were strongly opposed by environmentalist associations, a number of parliament delegates and local food producers, who are worried that the introduction of GM seeds will cause contamination of locally grown crops.
“When millions of people seem condemned to death by starvation, the rich local and international well-connected cartels (including industrial multinationals) are even hungrier”, says John Kariuki, vice-president of Slow Food International, working on the ground in his home country of Kenya. “With their excessive influence over many aspects of global economic, political and social life, they have lured some African governments into allowing the importation of GMOs.”
“The move is also allowing imported foodstuffs at the expense of locally produced alternatives,” continued Kariuki. “In many African countries what has been selected, saved, shared and withstood the test of time though surviving harsh climatic conditions is now no longer regarded as seed. Only dealers are allowed to sell seeds and in most cases they are sterilized deliberately so that farmers must go back to the shops every planting season.”
The real problem facing Kenyan agriculture, in fact, is drought. The genetically modified varieties which will be used are resistant to some kind of pesticides and produce toxins to be immune from some pests, but currently there is no plant genetically modified to resist to prolonged drought. In a nutshell, GMOs in the Horn of Africa are useless.
In addition, even if GMOs could grant higher yields (which is still to be verified) the problem would not be solved, as it is mostly due to inadequate distribution channels. In fact, as Kenyan media has repeatedly shown, farms in some parts of the country experience a large cereal surplus, which, unable to be transported to markets and sold to people, is used to feed cattle.
Ah yes, the guard is changing at Buckingham Palace, but no one puts on a show like this:
Now, we here in Texas, USA, and our neighbors in Mexico, might take notice. I would drive all the way to the border if I could see a show like this. Mariachi music included.
In the hills of Appalachia in North Carolina and Tennessee, when they find the coffee of tea too hot, they pour most of the cup full into the saucer and blow on it. Then they pour the tea back into the cup from the saucer, and it all takes about twenty times as long to do it as it took you to read this paragraph.
Now, this is much too slow for the "poor munited Hindu" of India. He certainly does "the best he kin do."
If you missed the tea hanging in mid air, play it until you do.
If you fail your exam in this driving test, you end up in hospital or worse.
I once saw one only motorcycle in a metal wire ball doing this at a circus in Kentucky, USA. But, all these guys up there together, and TAKING AN OFFERING.
You know, if Benny Hinn, the fake healing evangelist, did this sort of show I might hang over the edge with a ten dollar bill for him.
If you or your grandfather had a mongoose for a watch dog, I know you were living in India.
There is a moral here I think. Possibly, it is that you do not have to be poisonous to be deadly and efficient at destroying the enemy. We must all learn the virtue of moving fast and hanging on.
He would be considered dangerous by Australian authorities today. If he were not their national symbol of the past, the government agents would sock him away in prison.
When someone shows too much individuality, he must be watched. He may well be a terrorist or illegal immigrant. The USA Homeland Security also watches anyone who is a bit weird.
In past days in Texas, Arizona, and the Outback or Australia, life was spiced up and made colorful by these odd fellows.
In Australia, it was the Swagman.
A swagman, also called a swaggie, sundowner or tussocker, is an old Australian and New Zealand term describing an underclass of transient temporary workers, who travelled by foot from farm to farm carrying the traditional swag (bedroll). Also characteristic of swagman attire was a hat strung with corks to ward off flies.
Particularly during the Depression of the 1890s and the Great Depression of the 1930s, unemployed men travelled the rural areas of Australia on foot, their few meagre possessions rolled up and carried in their swag. Typically, they would seek work in farms and towns they travelled through, and in many cases the farmers, if no permanent work was available, would provide food and shelter in return for some menial task.
Another form of the swagman was the "pack horse bagman" who rode a horse and led one or two pack horses in his travels, typically in the Northern Territory. The pack horse bagman called in at stations where he would work shoeing horses, mustering, repairing bores, etc.
In the USA the same exact era produced the Ho Bo. He did the same thing. In the 1970s I pastored a small church in the California desert on the Union Pacific Railroad. Our town station was a shift change point, so all trains stopped for a while. Ho Bo's would get off the train, and ours was the only church in town where the parsonage was occupied all the time. So, I had many visits.
Most of the men "riding the rails" were not Ho Bo's anymore. They were basically down and out beggars. But, I knew a genuine Ho Bo because they would always insist on working before I fed them. It has always been a point of honor in that profession. You must give the Swagman of Australia and the Ho Bo or the USA high credit today for not accepting entitlement. They had an ethic that many millionaires don't have.
The following discussion of the Swagman is uncanny, for it describes the American Ho Bo in all details. There must be some sort of quirk in human social behavior which produces these odd fellows. The following is from Wikipedia:
Swagmen were often victims of circumstance who had found themselves homeless. Others were rovers by choice, or else they were on the run from police (bushrangers). Many were European or Asian migrants seeking fortune on the goldfields. One such swagman was Welshman Joseph Jenkins, who travelled throughout Victoria between 1869 and 1894, documenting his experiences in daily diary entries and through poetry.[11] Swagmen ranged in age from teenagers to the elderly. Socialist leaderJohn A. Lee's time as a swagman while a teenager informed his political writing,[12] and also featured directly in some of his other books. Novelist Donald Stuart also began his life as a swagman at age 14. Several of his novels follow the lives of swagmen and aborigines in the Kimbereley and Pilbara regions of Western Australia. Many swagmen interacted with aborigines along their travels; bushwear designer R.M. Williams spent his latter teen years as a swagman travelling across the Nullarbor Plain, picking up bushcraft and survival skills from local aboriginal tribes such as cutting mulga, tracking kangaroos and finding water.
At times they would have been seen in and around urban areas looking for work or a handout. Most eyewitness descriptions of swagmen were written during the period when the country was 'riding on the sheep's back'. At this time, rovers were offered rations at police stations as an early form of the dole payment. They roamed the countryside finding work as sheep shearers or as farm hands. Not all were hard workers. Some swagmen known as sundowners would arrive at homesteads or stations at sundown when it was too late to work, taking in a meal and disappearing before work started the next morning. The New Zealand equivalent of a sundowner was known as a tussocker.[8]
Most existed with few possessions as they were limited by what they could carry. Generally they had a swag (canvas bedroll), a tucker bag (bag for carrying food) and some cooking implements which may have included a billy can (tea pot or stewing pot). They carried flour for making damper and sometimes some meat for a stew. They traveled with fellow 'swaggies' for periods, walking where they had to go, hitch hiking or stowing aboard cargo trains to get around. They slept on the ground next to a campfire, in hollowed out trees or under bridges.
And, we could not leave this topic without giving you the most famous literary story about a Swagman.
Waltzing Matilda.
Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me"
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me"
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me".
Down came a jumbuck to drink at that billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me".
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me"
And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me".
Up rode the squatter, mounted on his thoroughbred,
Down came the troopers, one, two, three,
"Where's that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag?"
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me".
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me"
"Where's that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag?",
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me".
Up jumped the swagman and sprang into the billabong,
"You'll never take me alive", said he,
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me".
Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me"
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
"You'll come a-Waltzing Matilda, with me."
And Rolf Harris captures it all:
Have any of our readers known a Swagman from long ago? Also, what is the equivalent of a Swagman in your corner of the Empire? Leave comments please.
Having lived at the epicenter of the Mau Mau during the 1950s, as well as in Eastleigh in the 70s, I see the Kenya Government having a very similar problem. Somalis who fled Somalia to escape Al-Shabaab are elbow to elbow with Al-Shabaab terrorists who also fled to Nairobi to find safe haven and stir the pot of hatred.
So, like the Kikuyu in Kiambu in the 1950s, like the Kikuyu chiefs, there are mixed loyalties. The Kenya police, military, and navy suffer the consequences, and the tourist trade is down. Same issues, only this time it is in the name of Allah and the bondage of Sharia Law, not freedom.
The word "Wog" has been badly used over the years. It came to be a slur on the "natives" in much of the British Empire. Winston Churchill once said, "The Wogs begin at Dover." This was taken as a subtle slur on Europe, which was out of character for Churchill. So, he must have had another meaning.
Perhaps Churchill used Wog the way many of us used it. The African or Indian was a potential faithful friend, servant, and nuisance. It all depended on what sort of relationship you and the Wog had.
When I was in secondary school in Kenya I one day opened an old dictionary from England to see if they included the word "Wog". They did, and the only definition given was "Worthy Oriental Gentleman". Revisionists today on the Web have come up with several other definitions which make it very clear that they are young hot heads who love to make up facts as they go along.
In my era in Kenya, the word Wog was used by the sons of British colonial staff and missionaries as a form of recognition of status. If a kid had grown up playing with Africans, learned Swahili or a tribal language fluently, and if he really felt partial to the Wogs in his life, the rest of us noted that, and we would call him a Wog. It was a mark of one having reached a rite of passage.
I remember as a kid in Rift Valley Academy being told I was a Wog. I really felt like I had arrived. To this was added the affection I felt and received by several of the African Kikuyu workers around the school and in the kitchen. I liked Africa, it was home, and certain Africans were close to my heart. In fact, I did not feel much distinction at all over racial issues.
Even today, when I meet a long lost friend from the past in Kenya, he may say, "How are you doing, you old Wog?" This sucks me at once back in time to sweet memories of good days.
So, you now know who we are talking about at this blog. If you are a younger African from the post-colonial era, you may have been taught that the word Wog was a racial slur. Sometimes it was, but other times it had nothing to do with race or status.
The Title of the Blog tells you what an expatriate is, and if you add the two words together, you have the idea. Now, not wanting to be a snob, I want to make it quite clear that any "native" of the British Empire is as worthy of being called a Wog as the best of us expatriates.
So, I do welcome you. But do remember that there is no place here for preaching and complaining about the past. Nor do I tolerate revisionist history. Many nations in the Commonwealth remade their history to make heroes of despicable characters, and many worthy "natives" were cast away because they thrived under colonialism by using it as an opportunity.
Those of us who were there know the times when Britain behaved badly, and we know when the "natives" behaved badly. It is pointless for any of us to try to put a good face on the bad. It is equally wicked to toss out the good done by Great Britain simply because it makes national leaders look bigger than life.
In fact, there have been many discussions of the various colonial masters, and Great Britain is always seen as the most self-conscious master. That is, the English usually realized that they ought to lift up the level of life in a possession before they set up shop in that nation to do business. The Raj in India had its warts for sure, but if one notes the flow of order in India today, one sees "Great Britain" everywhere.
I trust you will send in your experiences and stories. There is much to learn in such an exercise.
It is the rather arrogant assumption of most Aryans (especially Anglo-Saxons) that our Western cultures are superior to that of Africa. Anyone living along the equator of the world is looked on as someone in need, perhaps backward, often pitied. How sad. The following is meant to be in good humor, but in about 1955, and even today in some parts of Africa, this is the secret observation of many Africans.
Are we indeed as advanced as we imagine?
YOUR TOOTH BRUSH
When an African leaves his home in the morning, he has not brushed his teeth. This is planned on purpose, for along the way he will find several varieties of bushes growing which are known as tooth brush trees. Each tree or bush will give a different flavor from the wood.
This African will break off a piece of the bush, cut it blunt with a knife or machete, and start chewing it. After a while, the end will be all worked to a pulp, and the effect is that he now has a brush with which to brush his teeth. Once he is finished with it, he will toss it into the bushes and go on about his day.
Now, the White man has a much better plan. He pays a lot of money at the store for some very special paste packaged in a collapsing tube. There are at least 50 choices of flavors, chemicals, whiteners, and brighteners designed to gag anyone. These various tooth pastes are often rather deadly and one dare not swallow them, but on the side of the tube there is a little message telling you that nine out of ten dentists think each brand is the only thing on earth that will keep your teeth from falling out of your head. Others promise to make your girl friend swoon as she smells the remains of these chemicals on your breath.
After paying extortionist prices for tooth paste which is 90% talc, a kind of rock in the ground, you will buy a tooth brush which is ergonomically designed to fit your hand perfectly and turn into a disgusting bird's nest within six days. You may buy this toy in various designs which give the impression they belong on the dash of a Ferrari. This brush then hangs in a holder or vase in the bathroom and mysteriously coats everything near it in a scum of paste and mold between uses.
The African, that is, who lives in the bush, wears no shoes. How sad. His feet also develop heavy callouses over the years, and he even has to scrub them off with a rock at times. When an African walks down a path, he steps on a pebble from time to time, and he walks on. He only steps on any given pebble one time in his life.
The Anglo Saxons wear shoes. How advanced and civilized this is. These shoes are designed so that as the Anglo walks around all day, from time to time, he also steps on a pebble. These shoes are mysteriously designed to flip pebbles into the shoes of the wearer. The Anglo then walks on the pebble in his shoe for some time, and eventually starts saying things which we cannot include in this story. Anglo Saxons are the only advanced culture in the world who talk to rocks in their shoes. Once they have convinced the pebble in their shoe how wicked and rude it is, they stop, balance on one foot, take their shoe off, shake the pebble out on the ground, and fall over before getting the shoe back on.
Certainly, no one would imagine that the African in the bush would have a better plan.
YOUR HANDKERCHIEF
The White Race is most genteel. They do many things to deal with their body needs in public in such a way to give dignity to various primal bodily acts. The African deals with life's issues suddenly, and walks on, and there is not much to think about later.
The African walks down the path, and when his nose seems full, he places the index finder against one nostril, turns his head, and blasts the other nostril empty on a nearby bush. No one pays any notice except the bush which may feel a bit overwhelmed. A little later, the other nostril will get the same treatment.
The Anglo Saxon is so much more advanced in this art. He puts a clean white cloth into his back pocket in the morning in preparation for the cleansing of the nose. The ladies carry a lovely cloth made of flowered print to honor their nostril's deposit.
The cloth is removed several times a day to deposit loads of snot into it while hiding behind a post or the fat lady in the check out line at the grocery store. Then the cloth full of snot is carried around in the pocket of purse all day, eventually dampening the man's trousers, giving a warm impression that snot is forever, and calling for his wife to say, "Dear, you have a damp spot on your trousers."
This cloth then needs laundering regularly, and over time, the cloth becomes yellowed and dingy and must be hidden in the hands while in use so people don't think you are a beggar and have holes in your socks as well (from pebbles in your shoes).
Again, we can see the advantage of culture and White Race attention to detail which the bush African lacks.
YOUR TOILET
I am told that one can purchase a toilet in Japan for $40,000. The Anglo Saxons, and Asians, have mastered the art of making a royal lounge of the place where they defecate. They have porcelain thrones, while Caesar had gold thrones. The Western custom is to have this toilet inside the home near the rest of the activity areas so that the aroma of human leavings can be shared with the guests at a dinner party.
This toilet is connected to some very involved plumbing which includes other fixtures for hand washing and laundering cloths. This system of pipes and traps is made so that, from time to time, the things that should flow along and be sent to the city sewer system clog instead and stop the flow. This then gives the observer the opportunity to see water run uphill as the toilet overflows. This practical arrangement provides a whole range of employment opportunities for men who specialize in moving the suspended movement on to its destination.
The destination of this highly honored effluent is sometimes a septic tank. This is a large cement tank in the yard, deeply buried in a location that everyone has forgotten, and designed to digest what the White Race was unable to digest completely. The septic tank is also designed to not digest things that do not suit its finicky tastes. This results in the septic tank backing up and stopping its task of receiving contributions from the nice toilet in the house nearby. The septic tank is designed to do this at 5 o'clock just before your dinner party guests are to arrive.
This way, your guests will arrive just as the plumber is digging up the front yard, after five experimental failures to find the septic tank, and your guests will get to read that clever and disgusting slogan the idiot has printed on the back end of his big tank truck.
Perhaps the most amazing trick that is accomplished by toilets is that they are designed to reject the process of life if they are over worked. Thus, when some klutz uses an excess of paper to cleanse himself, the toilet automatically stops passing contents onward and cleverly deposits the contents of the toilet on the floor. This way you know that you need to "plunge" the thing and clean up the mess. Many a happy soul has been awakened to the howl of Johnny in the middle of the night, "Hey, Daddy, the toilet's running over."
The backward bush African, when out and about in the countryside, steps behind a tree, does what he was created to do with the left overs of last nights feast, and (avoiding the stinging nettles nearby) cleanses himself with leaves which God created for this purpose, and he walks home.
Back at the village, a corn stalk out house is built over a pit with a hole in the middle of a floor over the pit. There is no flushing as in modern Anglo-Saxonia, and the paper used for cleansing need not be biodegradable. A Sears and Roebuck catalog, or last year's corn cobs, will do just fine. When the pit is full, it is topped up with dirt, and the loo is moved over a new hole nearby. A papaya tree is planted over the old hole, providing the sweetest papayas on earth.
Just think of all the many modern advancements this bush African has missed by not participating in the civilized contortions of the White Race.
YOUR MOTOR CAR
Ah, the motor car. It sits there for days, phlegmatic and cool in the garage, waiting to carry you to the uttermost parts of the earth. It is loaded with features which pamper you with infinite consideration. It will tell you the outside and inside temperature, it will tell you when to add petrol, it will tell you how stupid you are to leave the door ajar, or the lights on after locking the door. My, My, and it will cool you when it is hot, or warm you when is it winter.
When the automobile is in the garage, it is ready, "good to go," it is the pinnacle of the White Race's creative motive invention. But, when you climb aboard, insert the key, and turn it, the lovely automobile simply says, "Garrrrump," and that is all you get for you effort and down payment. This means you indeed left the trunk open when you last used the car, and the trunk (boot) light has ever so gradually murdered the battery. Now, you must push the car out of the garage and beg your neighbor to bring his own car and jumper cables around, which all wise car owners have (except you). Your neighbor then starts your car for you and testily suggests that jumper cables are on sale at Wal-Mart.
The Masai warrior in Kenya wraps up his overnight needs in a bundle, hangs them on a stick, flips the stick over his shoulder, and walks twenty miles over the plains to visit his uncle in Sultan Hamed. How utterly primitive. Think of all the information your auto passes out as you travel over the city, information which the Masaai warrior never learns. Like, "low on fuel."
YOUR ABLUTIONS
The White race has perhaps no greater zeal to show creativity than in its ablutions. There are endless devices for this purpose. There is first the sink, which is found in the bath room, the kitchen, the breeze way, the garage, and in the back garden even. Sinks are so urgently part of Western life that no one ever throws them away. Discarded sinks are used as icons of progress as they sit propped against the back fence.
A well made sink must be thoughtfully and incessantly managed because it is designed to cover itself with water spots and scum whenever your back is turned. Some sinks can even grow mold right up out of the drain. Sinks also have a way of trapping hair in the drain so that one night, Johnny leaves the faucet dripping, and the sink fills with water and runs over. This gives you the opportunity to mop the floors in the middle of the night.
The White Race also has large tubs which they fill with hot and cold water in which they sink in reverie and cleanse themselves of the filth of life. They then sit in this filth which has been dissolved into the water, and wish for better things. The lingering odor of the filth that did not quite come off when they dried with the towel is then concealed by a variety expensive perfumed solutions. These solutions are marketed to make women more alluring and to make men more macho. Thus, the bath has been a success.
The alternative is the shower where the White men can wash all the filth down the drain without leaving any residue on himself, a much preferred plan. This is accomplished while his wife and daughter turn on the washing machine and the kitchen faucet and freeze his buns off. The civilized White man deals with this by roaring in rage and saying unspeakable things to the whole world. But, he is clean.
The last place of ablution is the laundry. This includes two devices, the washing machine, and the dryer. Much improvement has been engineered into these devices since the first primitive machines were invented long ago. The washing machine has all sorts of sensors now which detect the load size and carefully meter out just enough water to run over on the floor. This water is impossible for you to completely clean up because some is always under the machine which cannot be moved. This water keeps a lovely mold farm thriving under the washing machine.
The modern washing machines now have the ability to balance the load in the event that you load it unevenly. This assures that the machine balances the load in such a way to allow the machine to bang bang bang its way clear across the room before you can get there to shut it off. Woe to the idiot who sets the washing machine running and goes to bed. This is when it always goes into hip hop mod
It is always exciting for a young man to learn to use the washing machine for the first time. It is a rite of passage which is usually learned in the laundry room at the college he attends. His first venture in this skill will result in a wardrobe enhancement when he puts his new red shirt in with his underwear and ends up with ladylike pink Fruit of the Loom jockey shorts. My, how the lads will compliment him on this innovation.
The dryer is a great invention in its own right. It is designed with all sorts of settings for every conceivable kind of clothing so that you don't over heat your undies and turn them into doll clothes which only Barbie could wear. The nice thing is that dryers are capable of figuring this out for you, and when you come to empty the dryer, the clothes are still dripping wet. This is troubling, but at least they never shrink this way.
Dryers also have a stealth feature by which they extract many of the threads in the clothing, bit by bit, and deposit them in the most obscure places in the dryer and down the tube to the outdoors. This allows the owner to periodically play a hide and seek game with light gray lint. Dryers are also very good at turning Johnny's crayons into lovely decorations in your new white frock. And they can extract the ink from the most dried up ball point pen and deposit it in Daddy's dress slacks.
Both the washer and dryer are wisely designed to break one week after the warrantee runs out.
The bush African lady, the poor abject, picks up her load of laundry, walks to the lake, and washes herself as she washes her laundry, and dries the clothes on the nearby bushes. Her pots and pans are scrubbed at the edge of the village using water and ashes from the fire, which is a mild antiseptic. Think of all the variety of activity she misses by living in the bush in Africa? Why, there are African women who have never had to mop up the floor under a washer in their whole life. So primitive!!
THE MODERN AFRICAN
As you can see, we have clearly distinguished the bush African from the city African. The bush African has simply not come along into modern life as he should have.
The modern African, such as the business man and politician in Nairobi or Lagos, have abandoned the bush life of course. They are now almost as advanced as any Anglo Saxon in Frankfurt of Boston. They buy Chinese washing machines, which have incomprehensible speak a make small place, add soap, turn around large knob, make go half fast, and close upper door now.
They also can buy Italian, Russian, British, and American machines and automobiles which all have different sorts of bolt and nut sizes, thus giving them the opportunity to buy four times as many tools as Anglo Saxons who stayed home in Boston or London and bought locally.
Furthermore; the plumbing in African cities is modern indeed, for it stops up much more often then in Anglo Saxon countries, thus providing many more jobs for the unemployed as miles of drains are regularly dug up clear down the street and under the President's palace. Signs of progress are everywhere in African cites where one can easily fall into sewer excavations as many as three times a day. Also, much fellowship is enhanced as African city dwellers are forced to borrow the loo of their neighbors on a regular basis. This gives opportunity to speak freely and fondly about the appointed official who manages the drains of the city.
So, you can see that the bush African, the man who lingers in the back woods of the "Developing World," is lagging farther and farther behind the modern Anglo Saxons and the down town Africans.
"Say, do you have a plunger? We are having a small problem over here."
Saturday, November 5, 2011
"THIS IS LONDON"
There was a day quite a few years ago when millions of people, whether subjects of the British Empire, or simply people far from civilization, sat down to listen to the evening news from London. The BBC was the virtual anchor that held the empire together as a community.
From Simla to Singapore, from the Bahamas to Halifax, they were all present for the golden Oxford plum-on-your-tongue mellow cooing of the announcer. And, when the reigning sovereign of Great Britain wanted to call a family gathering, he or she could use the BBC and know that their subjects were hanging on every word.
Some will disagree with the above assumptions, but I have lived it, and I still long for those evenings gathered in the sitting room of the mission guest house to listen to the news from London. Some of your poor beggars haven't a clue what I am talking about because the empire is gone and replaced by a mongrel community called the EU. How very dull.
Some listeners were British civil servants stationed in the Empire in distant places where they ruled an area the size of Texas with maybe twenty British soldiers and clerks. These people lead a lonely existence, for they seldom saw any other Anglo-Saxons for months at a time.
They would never think of coming down to the level of an ordinary Australian or American if they were back with their Oxford set in the UK, but being "in the bush," they welcomed anyone from civilization eagerly. Entertainment would be offered, and it was grossly rude to decline to stay at least overnight. All the formal teas, tiffins, and a five course meal would be included, as well as the help of house boys in the guest house to run the bath water and bring morning tea in bed.
But, one ritual was always anticipated above every other. After the evening meal, everyone retired to the "sitting room" of the presiding official or the guest house. Coffee would be served, and possibly special cheese and crackers. Then, everyone would sit down, the short-wave radio was turned on and tuned to the BBC call sign, and silence fell as the announcer spoke, "This is London," and the bagpipes played the theme music. As the six blips sounded, some would quietly reset their watches, for this was the world's official time- Greenwich, England, Anglo-Saxon time.
Any of you who were missionaries in the past era will recall that we all did the same thing, as an absolutely essential end to the day, in the living room of the mission guest house in the central city, or out sitting under the fly of a tent in the bush.
I have often wondered what those early era African workers thought of this ritual. Some may have thought the missionary or British Sahib was listening to his gods. But, by the 1960s any civilized educated African and Indian had joined in. Indeed, many Africans in the bush and Indians in the Hill Country knew more about world affairs than the average American.
After the news, and the radio was switched off, there would be a lengthy discussion of the news and how it would affect life in the world. There were clues as to how reliable a news item was.
"From our correspondent in South Africa...." would be followed by a (sometimes live) quote from the correspondent. That was pure gold.
"Our correspondent reports that....." meant it was about 90% certain to be true.
"Reliable sources tell us that......" meant it was pretty sure news, but we better see what happens tomorrow.
"It has been reported that......." meant that it was pretty much a semi-reliable bit of international gossip and not something to count on too heavily.
What was dreaded was to hear: "We interrupt this program to bring you the following announcement...." To a District Officer in Gaita, Tanzania, or a magistrate in Madras, even to an African headmaster in Nigeria, those words chilled the bones. What followed was the death of the King, or a war had started, etc. Everyone held their breath and it was silent as a morgue in the sitting room.
British Empire civil servants, and missionaries, were people of the world, not just the nation they worked in. This is something the average Englishman and American today cannot understand. I find it a bit lonely as I am getting older, for I miss people who can talk about the world and not just the stupid Democrats or some famous quarterback.
I hope you will use this blog to amuse me a bit, and leave comments for your friends and children who don't have our memories.
After the BBC news and a lively discussion, some elder missionary would read the evening page for that date from the Daily Light, and prayer followed. In some lonely hill station in northern India, the visiting Anglican vicar was asked to read and pray.
Often, prayer went around the world because some news item made it very clear that missionaries, empire officials, or expatriates in some other corner of the globe were in trouble due to political unrest or some horrible weather event. Again, I miss having people around me who pray outside their little box, but who pray with full consciousness of the urgency of some need far away. I am not talking about that classic prayer, "God bless all the missionaries in the world."
The BBC was much more useful than the US version, the Voice of America. The VOA was classically a propaganda tool. The BBC, unlike today, was totally unaffected by politics. The staff at the BBC were fired if they got a divorce. They were to be absolutely proper all the time, at work and off duty. They spoke perfect Oxford English, and you could tell an African who learned English listening to the BBC English lessons. You could detect the Oxford pronunciations. The BBC today is not remotely close to the BBC or the 1950s professionally, and they are a propaganda tool for the British left all the way.
And, the rotters have dropped shortwave service to North America. Pray tell, where do they think we went. The only way I can pick up the BBC in Texas is to come round from the other side, which is a rare event with the ionosphere. It is just not the same to get the BBC on the internet. No static-- it just ain't right folks.
Also, long ago, the British Foreign Office used the BBC to inform all British subjects of what to do in an emergency. The Voice of America never did this because the US State Department were notorious for not informing Americans overseas of what was good for their health.
If the BBC news announcer said, "British subjects in Bombay are being told to avoid all unnecessary travel during the crisis........," that was the official instructions to British missionaries and government officials. It also meant, start thinking about where to go if the next night the news announcer says, "British subjects are being advised to move to points of departure and prepare to leave the country........" No other message need be sent from the British Embassy in the country. You had your orders to clear out at once.
We Americans listened to the news just as thoughtfully as our British friends, for the BBC was all the help we might get from the outside world. We basically did what our British friends did.
There was one program we just had to listen to from the Voice of America though, at least us boys in the dorm who had short-wave radios-- Willis Conover and the Jazz Hour. It is said that when Willis Conover traveled to other nations around the world, he drew larger crowds at the airport than kings and presidents. No one around the world knew what he looked like, but if they heard him talking in a hotel or restaurant in Hong Kong or Singapore, someone would come up and ask, "Are you Willis Conover?"
Every jazz program announcer in America during that era honed his voice to mimic Willis Conover. Also, there are many observers of recent American history that claim Willis Conover made more friends for America than any other single man. His show was almost never jammed by the Societ jamming stations.
You doubt that, don't you? Well, here is a RUSSIAN tribute concert to Willis Conover. Tell me, what President or Prime Minister has had his very own tribute concert?
Don't you love those KGB looking boys playing the trumpet and sax, and Kruschev's little brother on the piano. I love it. They cannot get along with us, and they cannot get along without us. Makes you feel good to be an American in an age when we are blamed for all the world's ills.
By the way, Vladamir Putin rides a big motorcycle-- a "Hog,"-- a Harley Davidson. Stay tuned folks for the next invasion by America into Russia, Iran, North Korea, and Cuba. It will be lead by Time Warner I would think, or maybe Wal-Mart.
The "A Train" sure got around the world.
So, America made its mark, but after the Jazz Hour, it was still the BBC that everyone on earth wanted to hear to get the unadulterated news. There used to be two things that said "British Empire"-- the BBC and the Rock or Gibralter. I sympathize with you folks in the UK. Times are not the same.
HERE ARE THE PECULIAR LYRICS TO THE BBC SIGNATURE TUNE:
The strange thing is that both tunes are based in resentment for British rule in the United Kingdom. I have not yet figured out why the tune was chosen by the BBC.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
