THAR HE BLOWS!

A new addition to my collection of "Spot the Porn in the Classics", this is another from Moby Dick, which I've returned to after a long period of reading Portuguese lit. Aside from the numerous references to barrels of sperm and sperm here there and everywhere, referring to the sperm whale oil and I'm not at all sure if old Herman wrote in all innocence, Our narrator, Ishmael is quite the gay sailor boy, as we've already seen; given the task of manipulating the oil which begins to crystallize, he gets rather carried away with himself into a joyous rapture:

Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers' hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say, - Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.
Would that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever!

Jolly good show, nothing much to say after that really!

ILMATAR

I was treated to a spectacular air show at sundown yesterday; after a 10 km run (yes I'm up to 10 km now, I'll be doing a bloody marathon next if I'm not careful), I was sitting in the cage and thinking a few cold beers would go down very nicely indeed and help recuperate essential biological substances lost during the process of physical exertion . Upon investigation I discovered my fridge was indeed stocked with the necessary liquid formulae. I sat and quaffed, quaffed and sat. And as I quaffed and sat, I observed that a number of small birdie creatures were preforming some pretty damn fine aerobatic maneuvers, I henceforth opened the cage and set my instrument of posterior repose upon the terrace and there commenced to be astounded, indeed timberlyshiverated, by the continuing antics of aforementioned birdie creatures as they plunged, dived, swooped and swerved about my cranial member, apparently, as I perceived later, in a wild hunt of tiny winged blattodea life forms.

MPISHI ANAPIGA MUCHAWI !

MPISHI ANAPIGA MUCHAWI!

ON THIS DAY in 1879.

A British expeditionary column of 2000 men were slaughtered almost outright by a powerful Zuli impi because of the incompetence of a pompous English git, one Lord Chelmsford, making yet another military fuckup, one of many in the History of the Great (fuckedup) British Empire. Isandlhwana was the place. Chelmsford had previously said at the outbreak of war: 'I shall strive to be in a position to show them how hopelessly inferior they are to us in fighting power, although numerically stronger.', yeah, what an arsehole.

FOUR THOUSAND of the 20,000 strong impi marched on to Rorke's Drift, a small outpost and temporary hospital for sick British soldiers, loosely defended by a skeleton force of some 150 men who just happened to be there at the time. 140 against 4000, helluva fight! Anyway this was Holywoodized in Zulu with Michael Caine and Stanley Baker. There must be something in my Welsh blood and a past life calling to me, because I posted THIS a few days ago just on a whim. The 140 were mostly from a Welsh regiment (fighting the English bloody wars for them!).

There are two scenes which actually bring tears to my eyes, one is when the Zulus are in full voice, one of the soldiers at the front says something like, "Do you think the Welsh can do better than that, Owen?" Owen replies with, "Well, they've got a very good bass section, mind, but no top tenors, that's for sure", and they proceed with Men of Harlech. The other is when the Zulus are singing in beautiful melodic harmony, thousands of deep baritone voices, the lads are preparing for the final assault, when they would probably be sliced open by the assegai, when one of the older ones recognizes the Zulu song and begins to laugh hysterically, he's finally flipped the others reckon. No, he says, they are giving us a salute to brave warriors and withdrawing.

Pass the freaking hankies again! sniff.

izimpondo zankomo

Ye bunch o' pervies!

Taking a squint at my feedjit reveals loads of hits on "I'm a jiggly tits man", I googled "jiggly tits" and found my blog 6th on the list after a whole bunch of youtube videos (presumably featuring jiggly tits), and a classic first on the list being "juicy tits and jiggly boobs" with the url of www.jugglyjugs.com, oh how beautifully rich the English language is!

This morning I wuz listening to Rush, Moving Pictures, one track, Xanadu, is based on the poem Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I snatched up my The Oxford Library of English Poetry (vol. II, Addison to Young, through Keats, Shelley and Wordsworth, bunch of bloody drunkards and druggies if ever there were) to read over it again, not one mention of jiggly tits or juggly jugs, I was a little disappointed;

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

shit, it's fucking ace like (blast me for a fried pumpkin, I'll never make a literary critic, imagine "review of latest Nobel Prize winner's work: fucking doo dah man, read it!"). Also by STC is The Rime (sic) of the Ancient Mariner which runs on for 18 pages of TOLoEP:

It is an ancient mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

Old Sam was totally blasted on opium of course when he wrote that stuff. A story goes that once when he awoke from an opium induced dream he began writing Xanadu, still stoned as a turnip, when there was a knock on the door and the dreamy vision of that deep romantic chasm which slanted down the green hill athward a cedarn cover, just went POOF to frikkin' smitheries. The Man from Porlock, who came a-knocking on the door, was apparently an innocent insurance salesman who unwittingly fucked up a great classic.

How many times have we been visited by that person from Porlock?

WELSHMEN WILL NOT YIELD!

Men of Harlech stop your dreaming
Can't you see their spear points gleaming
See their warrior pennants streaming
To this battlefield
Men of Harlech stand ye steady
It cannot be ever said ye
For the battle were not ready
Stand and never yield
From the hills rebounding
Let this song be sounding
Summon all at Cambria's call
The mighty force surrounding
Men of Harlech on to glory
This will ever be your story
Keep these burning words before ye

WELSHMEN WILL NOT YIELD!

Sniff! Pass the tissues!
Enough patriotism for today.

We've yielded to the saeson language, I'm bloody teaching the damdest thing (earns me quite good dosh actually), so if you've been following my new blog, follow it again because I've changed the name and the URL.

LIFE

No matter how much you sweep the floor, you will never entirely get rid of those fuggin' cupim wings.

Count Fosco's a Bastard, don't believe him

Will Ladislaw in Middlemarch has been labelled as "An Italian with white mice", I'm wondering, is it a reference to Count Fosco of Wilkie Collins' The Women in White? Answers on a postcard please...
By the way yous may want to check out my new BLOG, blast me for a freeking' pumpkin' if I ain't got time to maintain THIS one let alone my other 2 about Porto Alegre, and now a NEW one! What?! I mean bloody hell! Anyway, I'll try and like I says in the info, I've been teaching English here in Brazil for more than 16 years, s'bout time I wrote some crap about it. What the fuck is Present Perfect again?

Unidentifiable Slinky Things

Emotions, blasted things, are something I'm crap at, they fuck around with me like any other person course, but I can never seem to understand feelings or talk about, let alone write them on this blog. Since Christmas I've gone from way low - deep sadness I think it's called, with lots of uncertainty bunged in - to way high, soaring on the wings of them wossname, thingummy flying things.

Well that's enough of emotions (told you I was crap at 'em), in the words of Monty Python: And now for something completely different,

A man with three buttocks.

No sorry, that wasn't it. THIS is it; a mysterious cylindrical container type object, 51 ft long, washed up on a Scottish island shore, the bbc had a follow up story (which they seemed to have pulled now) which claimes to have solved the mystery by identifying the object as a beer fermentation tank from Coors brewery USA. Yeah right! Mystery solved then! - What the fuck is a million gallon beer fermentation tank doing on a Scottish island beach?