Author: Andrew Gold

“The Sound of the Siren Split the Silence”

Andrew Gold Short Stories

The following two 500 word stories were responses to writing group homework set against the above title.

Siren Sound # 1

 “I’m asleep when it starts, I think.

WAH WAH WAH.

I’m awake now, but confused like.  I can’t remember what room I’m in, even what house.

WAH WAH WAH.

My eyes won’t focus but there’s light shining round the edges of the blinds and I see the clock.  It’s half-past three. I’ve been waiting for it to happen, dreading it.  I try to shake my wife awake, but she’s been sleeping badly so she’s had a couple of drinks; she’s snoring.  I can’t rouse her.

WAH WAH WAH.

I try to put my slippers on but get them on the wrong feet and I fall against the chest of drawers, banging my head. I swear and that wakes my wife.

She says “What’s that siren?” Is it a fire?”

I’m really angry.  I think I say “It’s the baby, that’s what it is. I can’t take much more of this”, something like that anyway.  Maybe I just think it.  I have to get up for work in three hours but she’s sleeping through everything.  She mumbles “What baby, I haven’t got a baby”, then rolls over and snores again.

The next thing I know I’m standing over the cot holding the baby really tight and she’s not crying any more, so I put her down again and go back to bed.

Then the alarm goes off and I get up, put the kettle on and go into the bathroom, like I usually do.  Then my wife gets up and looks in on the baby.  She calls down that there’s something wrong with her and to ‘phone for the doctor.

Then I’m in the police station, and they’re saying what about the bruises and that I killed our baby.  That’s it.  But I didn’t do it did I?”

“No, you didn’t.  It’s not unusual to have such dreams, especially with a baby that’s crying a lot.  It’s just frustration.  How long has this been going on?”

“Well, let’s see.  She was very colicky as a small baby, and a difficult feeder, up three or four times a night we were.  Then there was the teething, what a nightmare that was, and then the terrible twos; I suppose nearly three years, so far.”

“That amount of sleep loss would stress anyone, but don’t worry they are just dreams: you won’t kill your baby, but you do need more rest.  I’ll give you a prescription for something to help you sleep; perhaps I should see your wife too.”

WAH WAH WAH.

I was already awake.  I couldn’t get back to sleep.  I was annoyed, it wasn’t my turn, see, but my husband had taken a pill so he didn’t wake up.  I was at my wits end, so tired, so tired, and the neighbours were complaining too.  I only put my hand on her mouth, to shut her up a bit, you know, it was just a short while, to quieten her down.  Oh God. I didn’t mean it.

 

496 Words

Andrew Gold ©

06 May 2014

Siren Sound #2

Kevin and Georghe are sitting in the dark, at the foot of the rectory garden wall.  The tinkling of the van’s engine cooling down clicked off the minutes while they wait to be sure it is all clear.  Then the van’s back door creaks on a rusted hinge, sounding like the massive oak door to the sacristy adjacent, and they unload.

“Right, we’re in.  Hold the ladder, will yer Gheorghe?”

“I holding ladder already”.

“Not there, you Bulgarian berk, hold the bottom while I climb up.”

“I not Bulgarian. I told you Romanian, RO-MAY-NIAN”

“Okay, Romanian, Bulgarian, whatever, but shut up and let me get on the ladder, will yers.”

“You not very nice mans, Kevin.  I thought Irishes very nice mans.  You not nice”.

“Alright, I’m not nice, but this isn’t a popularity contest.  Now pass me up the crowbar.”

“What is crowbar?”

The crowbar, the long bit of metal with a bent end”

“Can let go of ladder?”

“What for?”

“Crowbar in bag.  Bag in van”.

“Holy Mary, mother of Jaysus. Why didn’t yer bring it over the wall with yer?”

“You not say bring bag, you say bring ladder.”

“Never mind, you Balkan eejit, I’ll get it meeself”

“Infaci au!”

“SSHHHHH.  What now?”

“You stand on my fingres”

“Well, move yer feckin fingers out of the way”.

“I can’t”.

Why not?

“You still on my hand”.

“I’ll kill him.  There, is that better?”

Tank you, yes.  Can let go of ladder now.”

There is a muffled exclamation, a thud and a resigned sigh.

“Why you fall in bush, make lot of noise? You say I not make noise.”

“Well, here’s the thing, I think you may have let go of the ladder a touch too soon.  Help me up, and mind them prickles. Oh Jaysus  Oh, look at the state of me.  Now wait here, an’ be quiet.  Don’t be touchin’ anything alright?  I’ll go over and get the bag.”

Still muttering about being landed with a linguistically, as well as criminally, challenged accomplice, Kevin re-joins Gheorghe at the foot of the ladder.

“Right.  We’ll start again.  Now, hold the ladder, an’ when I get to the top pass me up the bag. Okay?  Have yer got that?

“I take crowbar out of bag first?”

“Oh help me God!  Why did we ever let them in the feckin EU?  No, Georghe.  Leave the feckin crowbar in the feckin bag and pass it all up at the same time.  Eejit.”

But, his bulk once more perched at the top, face buried in ivy, Kevin makes another discovery.

“Shit”

“What matter, Kevin”

“It’s the wrong window.  This one has shutters.”

But, before they can regroup, the sound of a siren splits the silence.

“Oh jayz.  Watch out I’m comin’ down.  Hold the ladder steady for us, Gheorghe.  Gheorghe?  Are ye there Gheorghe?”   But it isn’t Georghe at the bottom.

 

“Good evening, sir, can I hold the ladder for you.”

 

 

Andrew Gold©

13 May 2014

497 words

 

 

The Nine Loves of Henrietta the Great (and six other stories)

Andrew Gold Micro Fiction

This leading story is one of eight I submitted to a Reader’s Digest 100 Word Story competition.  The stories had to be EXACTLY 100 words. It was published on their website – I suppose a sort-of commendation.  If you like it, six others are added below.

The 9 Loves of Henrietta the Great

Anthony was mooning, tentative, and no match for a captain of netball: he gave her mumps. 

Hardeep, life after A levels already mapped by his parents, gave her self-determination.

At University, Viktor was exciting and dangerous: he gave her causes.

Alan, unsure of his sexuality, and Nigel (sure enough to become Nigella) gave her self-awareness, but dear Daniel (dearest, it transpired, to Mary) gave her anorexia.

Johnny, challenging – especially to his probation officer – and Pierre, charming, sophisticated, and married, gave her resilience.

But Lionel, who knew the art of compromise, just gave and, in return, Henrietta finally gave herself.

A small thing

It was just a bent coin, prized from a slot machine by a boy with his penknife.  He paid for chocolate with it. The newsagent passed it to  a commuter in too much of a hurry to check his change.  At lunchtime it helped pay for his chicken baguette and passed, again in change, to Veronica.  Homeward bound, she jammed the only ticket machine in the station: the surging crowd baulked, then backed up into the street, toppling Mr Jenner under the 49 bus.

“Good day?” Dylan’s mum asked.  “Nah, Nothing special. Found some money though. Got some cheap sweets.”

Flight of Fancy

Ellen flicked toast crumbs off her nightdress as she read the engagement notices.  Of course he had a fiancée.  “Pity,” she sighed.

The idea had taken root long before she noticed: a seed drifting through her autumn garden.  It was just a thought.  She had not encouraged it, but neither did she uproot it; she liked the way it teased.  It wasn’t a weed, just something unexpected: a bit of welcome chaos in the ordered rows.  She had never even met him.

Later, admiring earrings she pretended he had bought for her, she thought “Still, I’m not bad for fifty.”

Click

He counted every grain the scorpion flicked against his eyelid.  It was drinking his sweat.  Moving, to check that his rifle was still concealed, startled the visitor and it scuttled away. How he hated desert training: searing days, freezing nights, flies, snakes and scorpions, but especially scorpions.  Along the wadi an engine coughed and camels growled good morning.  His target would be coming soon. Sand dribbled again; his visitor was back.  The cold hard metal pressed behind his ear signalled otherwise.  “You plonker,” he thought.  “Sorry Sarge,” he said.”  But, looking up, it was not Sarge.  “Allah hu akbar.”  Click.

Oops

 Holed by bad decisions, failed marriages, and plain bad luck, John’s life had run aground. 

He grasped the idea of disappearance with uncharacteristic energy, scanning the news for opportunities.  And then it came: a storm had sunk a ferry only 10 miles up the coast, and a suitcase containing some personal items, if found on the shore, would identify him as one of the lost.  Then he could start again.

Returning home to complete his plan he found the storm had cut the power.  He struck a match but, in his haste to disappear, he had left the gas on.

Food for thought

The birds systematically emptying the nut feeders were suddenly absent.  Speculating where they had gone Steve thought out loud, “I expect they’ve knocked off for lunch.”  Elaine laughed at the absurdity, but at two o’clock exactly back they came.  He wondered.

That evening, following the chattering chaffinches into the woods, he found thousands of them queuing by a “Global Bird Foods” van collecting, exchanging, tiny packets of seed.  In the morning they found his bloodstained clothes, shredded, pecked: nothing else.  Think about it next time you’re buying fat balls: what are they made of exactly? After all, it’s big business. 

98, 99, Coming

 “They’ll never find me here, in the dark” she thought.  She could hear them coming, giggling, scuffling.  “I’ll sit still as a statue.”  The door creaked open and two small faces peeped in.

“Ready or not, here we come.  Are you in here, mummy?” and then triumphantly “Got you!”  Soft skin pressed up against hers, smooth arms that smelled of chocolate and marzipan.  “Tell us a story.”   But she was tired. “Not now, off you go and play some more”. 

Outside, matron comforted them.  “Don’t upset yourselves.  She’s happy, but doesn’t really know you’re here: it takes some like that.”

The Best Holiday

Andrew Gold Writing

The writing group was set the task to write 500 words, or less, on the above titled topic.  I wrote two (only presenting one).  Here they are.

The Best Holiday #1

 I am in the departure lounge, though anything less lounge-like is hard to imagine: this is no place for indolent relaxation.  I stand because, for someone of my shape and size, there is nowhere to sit.  Even room for standing is in a patchwork of spaces between flight cases, reclining figures attached to devices, discarded food wrappers and unidentifiable spills of fluid.  It is a stale ratatouille with nothing to recommend it but the transience of my part in it.

My wife and our disaffected offspring wander aimlessly through sales aisles of overpowering scent and pointless gadgetry; things that they cannot use at home, things they neither need, nor really want, but neither do they resist, as if satisfying the urge to treat themselves, to anything, is their just reward for enduring the journey. Me?  I drink.

I notice that they are noticed, we are noticed, by others.  People observe, especially when there is little else to do.  They stare casually, without actually looking.  I watch them, watching us over the tops of their screens and drinks cups, reading their curiosity, their judgement and, for some, disgust.  It is quite subtle but I can sense it, even from the back; it is something to do with their body language, nudges, nodding heads and flicking eyes.  Of course we try to blend in wherever we travel but, no matter what outward appearance we adopt, what clothes we wear, what languages we speak, people like us are easily marked as outsiders and unwelcome, even here among others who, like us, do not belong and are just passing through.

When we booked the agent had said “It’s our best summer holiday, and most popular. We send lots of people there, especially families”.  Liar.  We needn’t have come this far at all. I’m going to complain when we get back, and post on Trip Adviser.  It’s all very well sending us to a planet with two suns, but how the hell are you supposed to get a decent tan when the hotel is on the dark side? 

Andrew Gold©

343 Words

26 April 2014

The Best Holiday #2

 

I suppose that what defines a “Best” holiday will be different for everyone, in every place and in every time.  For those who are deprived of opportunity, like my grandparents were, any kind of holiday would have been the best: perhaps a day trip to Whitby, and a chance to wear a hat for a reason other than a wedding or funeral, would do it for them.

My parents, mostly because of better education, aspired to more ambitious holidays but, while I was growing up, even they were restricted by uncertain income. In the early part of my life the near “Continent”, as it was then called, was their available playground: Calais, Le Touquet, Paris; all places then recently ravaged by war.

In the so-called developed world, the baby-boomers, my generation, have been the first for whom holidays became synonymous with travelling. The availability of relatively cheap mass travel coincided with a notion that one should travel, it was almost an obligation.  Not to travel, or to not have a desire to, was a social impediment so even if you couldn’t afford travel, as it was the “Live now pay later” 60’s, people bought 2 weeks abroad on HP.  Eventually to have not travelled was to be regarded as indicating a certain lack of character when applying for a job or a place in University.

My experience and appreciation of independent travel, as an adult, has been built on all of those factors: increasing income, better education, aspiration, a desire to see and do because I could. What is common to the appreciation of these holiday experiences, across the generations, is how memorable they were, and remain, and with whom they were shared.  I remember, when sent to Bradford while Mum and Dad went to France for a week, sitting with my pinafored grandmother at her oil-cloth covered kitchen table and drawing with thick black crayons on white paper.  I remember, later, playing with my brother among the fortifications and discarded shell cases on beaches in Normandy, and then mackerel fishing with my Dad off the beach in Beer.  Newlywed, I hitchhiked across Europe: six weeks from Ostend to the Black Sea and three hours back on a charter flight. Post-divorce, there were imagined holiday romances; cross-generational holidays in Spain with my parents, my new wife and my children.  These remain, in their memories and mine, as good times. Cruising the Norfolk Broads, moonlight on the Bosphorus, the vastness of the Australian interior, the velvet softness of Tuscan evenings, driving the west coast of highland Scotland, sailing down the Thames as a proper, but London born, tourist: though each would probably be remembered, and judged, differently by others who were there, they are each, in their own ways, the Best Holiday to me.

Andrew Gold©

24 April 2014

463 Words

 

 

Riding the Buses #1 & #2

Andrew Gold Short Stories

It seems strange after a few years of being, first, in a group based at Eden Court Theatre (Inverness) and then a founder member of what is now, rather grandly, called  The Highland Literary Salon (HLS) to be moving on.  That should not be taken to infer anything other than support and respect for the HLS, and I still receive their splendid newsletter every month.  More power to their collective  elbows.  The thing is that I have moved to a new part of the country and I’ve finally been obliged to join a new writing group.   My first meeting, attended by only two other men in an otherwise female and, it has to be said, “older” group, had been set a task to write up to 500 words on the topic “Riding the Buses”.  I wrote two – here they are.

Riding the Buses (#1)

It had been a year already; a year of avoiding spaces where Danny had been.  A year in which Maureen still half-expected to tidy up things he’d lost interest in or plain forgotten about: a year of making allowances for a presence no longer there; a year of an absence tangible as a presence. 

Most of all he was absent from the No 52, one of the buses they took to the start of their country walks which, despite his inexorable terminal decline, he enjoyed with enthusiasm. Almost to the end he had insisted on dragging himself to the top deck, and right to the front, from where he could see the world as if he owned it, clinging to the possibility he could, would, still do anything he chose.  A denial, of course.  In that last winter she had even had to wipe the condensation from the window, so that the breath from his open, dribbling, mouth did not obscure the view.  Some other passengers, who did not see his innocence and childlike pleasure in the journey, were repelled.  She even heard them say, in hushed tones calculated to be overheard, “they oughtn’t allow them on buses in that condition”. They did not have a Danny in their lives.

Alone she still walked, mostly to please her doctor, but his loss had made travelling by bus almost unbearable.  For a long time Maureen had shunned buses completely, often arranging lifts with friends, even if it meant walking somewhere she disliked, or taking shorter routes, but when that was impossible she chose walks served only by single-deckers.  Then she would sit at the back, and in a window seat, though even that felt odd as if it were really his by right.  But slowly, almost imperceptibly, this new view of the world, less lofty, less detached, brought her back; she saw the view herself, not obstructed by Danny’s matted black hair and head pressed against the glass.

Over the following months Maureen was able to look on others walking together, with less pain and more fondness until, one summers day, stepping off the bus she suddenly knew she was ready to move on: perhaps not a big dog like Danny, when fit he was almost too much for her.  Perhaps a spaniel?  Yes, a spaniel.  Then she would ride the top deck again.

Andrew Gold©

March 2014

393 words

 

Riding the Buses (#2)

 

It wasn’t an entirely routine accident, but Superintendent Nelson still didn’t bother to look up; “You’re the detective, Fry, so detect. But hurry up, we need the road re-opened for the school run, and take young Nixon with you.” 

Sergeant John Fry stood in the half-dawn, unwrapped a toffee and sucked.  He stared at the road, the bridge, the dark stain under the arch, and thought “detect what?  This is for traffic division, or uniform, not C.I.D.”

But the young body had suffered a massive head injury, yet there was no sign of an accident: no skid marks, no broken glass or plastic, no oil or water, no soil from under the crumpled wing of a car – nothing.  All the damage was above the waist; if he’d been hit by a car he would have had leg injuries but even the trainers had been unmarked.

“Well, Nixon, it appears it’s not one for traffic after all.  The ‘super’ said “Detect”, so let’s detect.  Tell me how a kid gets killed at 4 in the morning on a quiet suburban road, leaving no trace, and nobody hears anything?  There must have been a helluva bang.”

“I don’t know guv. Could he have jumped off the bridge, do you think?”

“Suicide? Why? Poor kid was clean, well dressed, obviously cared for, money in his pocket.  He was wearing school uniform, apart from the trainers – his proper school shoes were in a back pack with books and a sandwich; it’s as if he was running to school, but 4 hours early.  Anyhow, he was at St. Joseph’s, a catholic, so not likely a suicide.”

“Pushed?”

“What, from a railway bridge, by who?”  

“OK, thrown from a train, then?”

“Maybe.  I don’t really see that, though: he’d have to have gone clean over the parapet and come down head first.  You can check the times of trains later, but start on the blue tape and re-open the road. Oh, and see if you can find his phone; you’re all glued to ‘phones these days but we didn’t find one on him.  I’m going up on the bridge.”

By the parapet, with the smell of diesel drifting in the cold wind, Fry unwrapped another toffee and looked down at the street, his foot unconsciously probing at trackside rubbish.  The first house lights were coming on, other families were getting up, other kids packing their school lunches. What was he doing here?  Judging by his address, it wasn’t even on the route to his school, so why here?  His toe moved something solid. “Well, someone’s been up here, several someone’s by the looks, and recently”.  Amongst the pile of crisp packets, juice bottles and cans he found a mobile ‘phone, still on. It was the boy’s and it had been recording video: happy, mischievous, conspiratorial ‘selfies’, normal teen stuff – except the last one.  Presumably taken by his friends, it was of a boy surfing the roof of the first bus of the day.

Andrew Gold ©

500 Words

29 March 2014

SO…

Andrew Gold Rant

What is it that is behind the latest affectation, the addition of a conjunction, SO, at the beginning of a sentence?  This is a purely verbal affliction at the moment, and almost exclusively in answer to a direct question e.g. “What do you think of..”, answer “So, …

It’s a sort of punctuation device, but it somehow is meant to impart a level of expertise in the respondent – and often it seems the context of some scientific / quasi scientific topic.

GRR

Update 16 May 2014

Surprise, surprise: BBC Breakfast today ran an item on this very topic, including an interview / contribution from an “expert”.  Maybe I’m not so curmudgeonly after all,

Mis-speaking is rife – why?

Andrew Gold Rant

I find myself increasingly challenged to keep silent when I hear (not here), apparently educated, people ‘mis-speak’.  The majority of these linguistic errors go un-noticed because there is no verbal or audible difference – it is only context that clarifies the meaning.  For example ‘their’, ‘there’ and ‘they’re’ all sound the same, but are completely different in written usage and meaning.  Yet, worryingly, these words seem to be interchangeable in there (ha ha) written expression; even more worrying is that these errors go un-noticed in published documents, advertising, or on web-sites, that ought to be, and probably are, proof read by somebody who clearly doesn’t know either.

Common errors are confusing complimentary with complementary.  The tickets are complementary (wrong).  It’s a complimentary therapy (wrong). How about sight and site (he was a pitiful site – wrong) , slither and sliver (‘I’ll have a slither of cake’ – wrong), home and hone (I’ll hone in on a solution – wrong). The ship floundered on the rocks (wrong – should be foundered).  He was the font of all knowledge (wrong).  What about the difference between affect and effect?  Is Brexit going to effect my income (wrong)?  I know english is littered with opportunities for confusion when the words sound identical, such as cache and  cash, but there is no excuse for not knowing the difference in writing.

I’m not apologetic for blaming educationalists (as opposed to teachers) who decided that it was better to encourage expression at the expense of correctness or correction.  It is almost as if English is now being taught (or should that be tort) in schools as if it were a foreign language.  It doesn’t matter if it is correct as long as you are understood.  I don’t believe it really serves the long-term interests of the educationally challenged (whether for reasons of age, opportunity, ethnicity or intellectual capacity) to abandon correct grammar or English usage.  Don’t they realise that, eventually, these mistakes will mark people out as poorly educated and, consequently, limit they’re (ha ha) opportunities  anyway?

The rise of abbreviated “text-speak” in more general written communication, and acceptance of American, or advertising gimmick language as correct usage, is part of the problem.  Why, for example, when we mean ‘light’ is it clearer / better / more acceptable to use ‘lite’?  I know people who text “Yeah” rather than  “Yes” even tho it’s 1 mo lttr.

Recently (19 January) I saw a  short TV discussion, about an English council’s decision to drop apostrophes from road signs.  The protagonists were well selected, perhaps subliminally signalling the BBC editor’s position: a crusty old academic representing the case for retention and a thrusting young educationalist arguing for the general irrelevance of apostrophes.  I’d like to know how he would feel if the terms and conditions of his next internet purchase (or his contract of employment) were ambiguous because of punctuation error?  Of course, that’s a bit simplistic – presumably nobody would  seriously argue for less than clear grammar, vocabulary, or punctuation in communication of legal significance – but the foundation of being able to safely relax or ‘play with’ our language is knowing what the rools are and being abel to ewes them.  BAA

“We’re experiencing high customer demand…”

Andrew Gold Rant

There’s nothing so annoying, for a customer, as being blamed by an organisation for its failure to deliver a sevice.  When telephoning, and this applies especially to banks, more and more often I get a looped recorded message saying something like “We are sorry for the delay in answering.  You are moving forward in the queue (of unspecified length or time by the way)”. “We are experiencing high call volumes” or “We are experiencing high customer demand”.  What they mean is there aren’t enough staff to deal with customers trying to reach them.  And why is it there is so much demand?  Could it be there are an increasing number of customers unhappy with the service they are getting, trying to correct a mistake or complain?

I recently received an e-mail from my bank inviting me to join a debit card-use loyalty programme.  I didn’t want to join but there was only an ‘opt out’ link, not an ‘opt in’ – so I chose to opt out.  This took me to a second page which clearly implied that I was already joined to the programme and asking for my card details.  Now this had all the classic signs of a phishing scam so I rang the bank.  15 minutes of recorded crocodile tear apologies later I embarked on a conversation that lasted a further 10 minutes, I succeded in getting myself removed from the system.  25 minutes on the ‘phone at a premium rate.  Within a week we had two more e-mails, so the complaint appears to have fallen on deaf ears. It’s time to change banks.

UPDATE

Despite all, including having now switched banks, we are still getting both e-mails and text messages from Royal Bank of Scotland exhorting us to take advantage of their “Debit Card Cash Back – our way of saying thank you” promotion.  Is it any wonder that RBS is in such a mess?

ANOTHER EPISODE OF “BLAME THE CUSTOMER”

We recently visited a local town, and our business crossed over  a bank holiday Saturday lunchtime.  The economic centre of this town basically consists of a single high street, with alleyways off, where there are several places to eat.  We chose a high street wine bar where bistro-style food is available but 40 minutes after giving our order for two Panini we were still waiting and, concerned about expiry of our car park ticket, we enquired about progress: “it hasn’t started yet”.  We left, but not before the staff had the monumental cheek to say “All these people came in and we work in strict rotation in the kitchen”.  Well….there are a fixed number of covers, it’s a bank holliday weekend, the food we wanted wasn’t high end.  Either they are prepared for the customers or they are not.  If they haven’t the staff to cope when at full capacity they need to either get more staff  for predictable peak times or close off some of the covers and, whatever, tell customers when they order that there will be a delay.  It isn’t the customers’ fault for having the temerity to turn up. Hospitality industry, service industry, tourism, flatlining economy…join the dots.

 

“It wasn’t me, gov” Part 2

Andrew Gold Politics

I believe in the need for a right of the accused to get a fair hearing in front of a jury of their peers: this is fundamental to the delivery and function of a safe legal system and of democracy itself.  What I cannot understand is the use of such rights by an accused, who appears to have been caught “red handed”, to frustrate justice or to provide a platform for publicising some ideology, and at public expense. I write here about the case of two men who were alleged to have hacked to death an off-duty soldier in London, with knives and a butcher’s meat cleaver, having first run him down with a car, and all in broad daylight.  They were put on trial and pleaded “Not Guilty” despite having admitted the offence, on camera, at the scene.

Subsequently, before the inevitable verdict of guilty, the two killers took the opportunity to justify their heinous crime as “an act of war” against a “legitimate target” – a serving British soldier doing nothing more violent than go to the gym.  Disregarding the fact that ‘correct’ Islam does not advocate violence, nor endorse or promote extremism, they were allowed, by the mechanism of simply pleading ‘not guilty’, to propagate their chillingly insane rationale while, at the same time, subjecting the poor bereaved family to horrendous detail, including film, of the butchery of their loved one.

I simply ask how is it possible, how does it serve the ends of justice or democracy, to permit this distortion of due process?

 

 

 

Christmas Sentiment

Andrew Gold Random Thunks

Have you noticed that, especially at this time of year, there are many more charity advertisements plucking at our heart strings?  Only £2 or £3 a month will secure a free conscience.  Competing for our conscience pounds are cuddly animals, not so cuddly animals and even less cuddly people.  We can adopt a dog, cat, old person, homeless person, snow leopard, African child with terrible eye disease and so on.  Why not cut out the middle man and, for example, send the donkeys off to feed the snow leopards and use the saved money to eradicate eye disease?  Donkey burger anyone?

Seriously, though, I find it incredible that we are asked to support thousands of donkeys in so-called “sanctuaries” all over the place when, at the same time, our compassion is tested by The Salvation Army and homeless charities like Shelter.  It ought to be no contest, really, and yet the Donkey Sanctuary is a multi-million pound business employing hundreds of people in the UK alone.  Not only that, but the charity owns and, as far as I understand it, continues to buy many hundreds of acres of productive farm land on which to let these beasts gambol and frolic.  Don’t get me wrong, I love animals, and abhor cruelty and ill-treatment – but surely people come first?

Something wrong somewhere, or am I Donkey Hotay and tilting at windmills?

“It wasn’t me, gov”

Andrew Gold Politics

In 2010 the UK general election resulted in a minority party leading a coalition government.  Four years on we still hear, day and daily, that every ill that besets every facet of our national life is the fault of the previous government.  Don’t Cameron, Osborne and Co, realise how empty and fatuous it sounds to preface EVERY statement to the press and public with “We inherited (such a mess)…..” – in other words it’s not their fault.  Maybe they think that if they repeat it often enough it will stick in our collective mind as incontestible truth, just as the continual coupling of Sinn Fein and IRA by the Unionist politicians in Northern Ireland did.  Do they really think we are that stupid?  When do they propose to draw a line and say “that was then, and this is now: we did this (and it did or did not work)”.  They’ve had four years to own up; it’s only a year or so to the next general election so it seems like they could reasonably start now.

As a P.S. – I saw Osborne on the Andrew Marr Show today (Sunday 1st December) and AM asked him about the management’s new plan to roll back some ‘green’ levys on energy bills.  “Well, we inherited this system……..blah blah blah. Merchant Bankers, the lot of them.