Usually something has been done or said at some point in the last seven days to pique my interest or attract my vitriolic comment - my sniping, as it was once called by the woman who encouraged me to write these things in the first place, although not specifically for a website. Her name was Hilary - as fine a person as ever walked on this sorry rock we call planet earth. Actually, there is nothing wrong with the planet, it's a wonderful place. It's the pricks who live on it who cause the difficulties, and I am probably one of them.
So, when asked how I come up with things, my answer is, "I don't know!" I don't plan anything and never rewrite anything. I do not fine-tune my words. (I don't think they are worth the effort of fine-tuning - they are generally the ramblings of a grumpy old man.)
From time to time that fickle ould whore Lady Luck takes a hand and gives me something to comment on but (and I tempt her by saying this) she seems to be having a bit of a break lately. Well, it's either that or she has found somebody else she likes to kick better than she likes kicking me. Maybe the fun has gone out of it for her seeing as it no longer hurts so much. I have become inured to her violent attacks. Where is the fun? When she puts on her best boots and kicks me as hard as she can in the testacularities, I just stand there, stoically hiding the pain, and say, "That didn't hurt." So perhaps she has buggered off to pick on someone else and if that is the case - good luck mate, whoever you are.
Another thing said to me this week was a sort of accusation, in its own way. I was told that I never give much of myself and I never tell anyone anything. There could be a certain amount of truth in that. However, in my own defence I would like to narrate a wee tale, a parable if you will, a morality tale similar to those of Chaucer, only not as clever.
Once upon a time, in the dead of a bitter winter, there was a little sparrow sitting on a twig and slowly freezing to death, shivering like a dog shitting bones. He had seen the adverts for Spain and sunny climes and he thought to himself, "Sod this, I've had enough. I'm going to a nicer place where the sun shines all day and my feet are not frozen to the bloody twigs!"
So off he set, little wings beating like the very clappers of the bells of hell, faster and faster as he flew enthusiastically south.
Then disaster struck. He flew into a snow storm and no matter how hard he flapped his little wings he slowly froze up until finally he could barely move and came crashing down to the hard, frosty earth below. Fortunately he landed not on the hard ground but crashed into a pile of fresh, new-laid cow dung.
The little sparrow was delighted - nice and warm, lovely. He wiggled and squiggled and got really comfy in his new, hot little nest of wet crap. He felt so good that he started to whistle and sing.
At that very moment a farmyard cat was passing and it regarded the pile of whistling crap with interest. It had never heard a pile of crap whistle before. (Cats never listen to Roger Whittaker.) So, curiosity engaged, the cat began to dig about in the shit and found the little sparrow.
"Magic!" cried the cat. "Hot food!" - and promptly ate the bird.
So now we come to the morals of that story - not one, not two but three.
- Moral one - just because we are in the shit does not mean that someone doesn't like us.
- Moral two - just because somebody digs us out of the shit does not mean that they do like us.
- Moral three -when you are in the shit, keep your mouth shut.
The Voice In The Wilderness
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