“They are invading our British province without our consent

To overcome our Christian culture and make us dispossessed

in our own land. People say we’re not native, but we were settled

here by God’s will to control the Catholics, so our natural mettle

is to resist the stranger especially one whose culture promotes

beheading your enemy rather than the traditional gunshot

in the back of the head. The Sudanese man who attacked an

innocent guest of our community must be punished but his clan

must be extirpated from this territory, all of it, and no mercy

for women and children. The media will describe this as a frenzy

of hatred but that is quite mistaken. Firstly, we’re perfectly rational:

all over Europe white people are being replaced by other nationals

mainly Arab and Moslem. What we are defending is civilisational.

Jesus said he had come not to bring peace but a sword. Woke

Clergy make him into a weakling, but he was a Jewish bloke

Who knew how to fight, as they do still. Secondly, we are the peacemakers

Who brought about the Good Friday Agreement by taking

One Catholic life for every Prod they killed, which stuck the Armed

Struggle up their arse. They say these immigrants would be harmed

In their own countries, but did we emigrate to Africa during the troubles?

No, we can’t have our citizens murdered by foreigners, this point is subtle,

because our birthright is to be killed only by each other. Eh, law of the jungle.

 

 

 

 Oh, I was lucky to get a ticket for the blessing of the cross by

The Pope, from the bishop, although it was only right seeing I

Got him one for the world cup semi. Anyway, there I was, off

To the side but near the front next to a man in dungarees and rough

Hands, and a woman wearing something by Dior, maybe. I was near

The crossing so I could look upwards into the dizzying atmospheres

Of the towers. There was a lot of ceremony, choirs and the like -I’m not

Religious- and the Pope chuntered on, piously in Spanish and I thought

My report for the Guardian needed some facts, so I said to my neighbour

“It’s about 500 feet high, yes?” “560 feet” he answered. “That’s now they’ve laid

This cross on top, it’s around 50?” “56 feet” he confirmed. The Pope was doing

the blessing, finger in the air. Then I said, “You seem to know it well,” Chewing

his gum, he nodded. “So, let me ask you: do you like crosses? I mean I know

it’s a Christian symbol, but it’s also an instrument of torture devised by Romans

for rebels and riffraff.”  “It’s quite a bit older than Rome,” he said. “Used in Babylon

and Egypt and very much in Persia.But the Romans standardised it” “Nab you, then

scourge you, then nail you up, then you can’t take a breath because your weight

pulls you down.” “The other way round,” he told me. “The pressure is so great

on your chest you can manage intake but not out-breath, unless you push

with your feet, which would be agony. When you couldn’t manage that, you

suffocated.” “The big cross up there with its viewing platform will be too

comfy, from your perspective,” I suggested. He nodded. I was hoping to get

a photo of him for the article, but there was a huge explosion overhead

and outside, of celebratory fireworks, and by the time I recollected

my job, the knowledgeable man had disappeared. That was the finish.

I went home to write, without the man to whom I had been glad to listen

 

When Cuchulainn arrives at his Ulster court threatening violence

King Conchobar “orders his women to intercept him, naked” A tense

Moment, but the women are happy to oblige, and the hero is “delayed,”

Until he can be cooled off in a succession of baths. In order to dissuade

Him from killing on another occasion the ladies at court uncover

Their breasts. Indeed, the Ulster women are shown to have a tougher

Sexuality than is common in most heroic literature, their lust readily

Aroused by seeing a tasty man. Modern scholars of the Irish sagas see

This depiction as part of the patriarchal viewpoint of the male

Writers, this is how men would like women to be, up for it, all

The time, all of them, except their own women who will do what

They are told. Patriarchy is not absent, but I think it could not

Create these lovely women and their honest sexual display,

Which matches what I know of women’s sly humour, their way

Of hinting that male desire is weak compared with theirs

And much too boastful. Their grace is not to control nature

But to express it in restraint or shared enjoyment with a chosen

partner. Cassius Dio, in the 3^rd century, tells of a Roman

Empress who criticised the lax morality of Celtic women

To a Celtic noblewoman, her guest. “We are honest,” she replied

“In how we deal with natural desires. We consort openly, bride

Or lover, with the best of men, while you are debauched in secret

By the vilest.” And Scotland now? A society that cannot even speak it

Without sniggers has much to learn from one that lived its sexuality

With humour and honour, led by women, in the light of day.

Because I spent some time in my youth on yachts

I was used to the poetry of the BBC Fishing Forecast

“Malin, Hebrides, Bailey…. South West 4 , storm later.

Fair, occasionally poor.”  No use now to fishers with state of

The art onboard communications and today I go the internet

For the daily weather. Various apps provide razzmatazz but the Met

Office is elegantly sober offering hour by hour symbols plus

Temperature plus percentage probability of rain (remember this

Is the UK) plus wind speed and direction. When I see the sun

Symbol uncluttered by clouds I am already anticipating a run

On the local beach avoiding dogs and children next to the blue

Water under the blue sky, as often happens. But there are the few

Times the forecast is wrong. The other day it promised a burst

Of heavy rain at midnight. Intrigued I waited and checked. First

Thing I noticed was it was not raining. It was warm, windless, and moist.

 A lumpy moon hung above, I could hear the hedgehog having its choice

Of slugs and everywhere a quiet ache at the absence of rain. I wonder

When I expect a clear dawn, but turn out to be one of that night’s number

Of sudden deaths, will the morning that lights my garden and the hedgehog

As it slopes off to sleep, feel any ache at my absence from the weather?