Picture Perfect

"Only mad dogs and Englishmen stay out in the noonday sun" - so the saying goes. It's not surprising the Aussies call Brits "pommies" (a reference to sunburn most Brits sport on themselves).  It's only because there's such bad weather in England, that Brits everywhere will stay out in the hottest and most unbearable sun, simply because it is sun. If there's ever anyone on the beach at 12:00pm, it's an Englishman.

I'm glad to say I don't have this attitude of "there's sun, let's sit in it, even if it means we'll roast." But I did enjoy being in a place where the sun shines freely most days of the year. I have a theory that people are happier in places where there's more sun. Indeed, statistically, there's more suicides the further north one gets - as it's light for less time the further north one travels.

English people are also known, not only for the willingness to be baked by the sun, but also for being the people who are most likely to speak in the native tongue, when abroad. Of course, when the rest of the world is comprised of Americans, who don't seem to recognise the existance of other nations and peoples, or the French, who feel everyone in the world should speak their language, this is hardly surprising. Of course, whilst in Israel, I attempted to speak Hebrew. But, mistakes were made - and probably still are. Some words are so similar to each other, I sometimes get confused, and say the wrong word. To make things more complicated, some words in biblical Hebrew mean slightly different things in modern Hebrew.

Hence, when I wanted to tell a salesperson "I live in England," I actually said "I sit in England" which prompted the reply "do you sleep and eat in England too?"

 The word "open" and "apple" are quite similar, and I'm pretty sure I've asked people, instead of "this shop is open until when?" the following: "this shop is an apple until when?"

Of course, the same goes with "page" (as in, page of a book) and "standing" - hence "I've been standing here for a while" must have become "I've been a page here for a while."

And on and on it probably goes.

When all's said and done, the Hebrew language is quite cool. It's basically akin to Old English, thus phrases like "if it pleases my lord" are quite common, as is throwing in the word "master" every so often. It's also quite stylistic in the way Old English was. Here's part of an invitation to a wedding, translated from Hebrew:

"With much gratitude and thanks to the Lord God, and with a heart filled with complete happyness, we are delighted and honoured to invite our dear and beloved ones to our happy event, the wedding of our precious ones.....to be fulfilled, with the will of God, on the good hour and favourable time of such-and-such a date...."

The English reads: "Mr and Mrs X and Mr and Mrs Y are delighted to invite you to join them in celebrating the marriage of their dear children....(names are given, together with the time and place)"

The English one is missing a little something, isn't it? Of course, if someone came up to me in the street, and said in English, something like "My lord, hearken, for my heart is completely filled with happyness for our precious ones are soon to be unified" I wouldn't really be impressed.

A quick word on Americans. Some of them are massive: I only come up to the shoulders of a particularly tall guy (i'm over 6ft, for those who don't know me). Also, I'm importing an American from my college. The shipment should be arriving this evening, all being well. When he arrives, we shall be touring London with a few friends. Thus, cat, I can reveal that yes, I am in London.

On to responses!
--------------------

Cat: Yes, I'm in London. Why aren't I on MSN? A few reasons:
1) I don't really have an interest on spending loads of time - or even a little time - on MSN any longer. 'Tis a most evil thing which sucks up all your time, and what's more, you think it's fun when you're on it. But when you get over this addiction, you realise it was all false in the first instance.
2) The internet connection on my computer is fried, and I can't be bothered to fix it.

Now, which is the real reason I'm not on MSN? :p

Arty> Whilst I'm overjoyed and my heart is filled with complete happyness that you've undertaken to become more like me, the last few lines were actually intended for any insecure 13-year-olds who no doubt prowl blogspirit as they have nothing better to do, or are avoiding their schoolwork, in an attempt to assure them they can do better if they want to. I should have known you would be the first to take it to heart :p

As I have to send some certificates to the universities I applied to, to confirm that I actually got the grades in my A Levels (governmental high school graduation exams) which I claim I got, I decided it would be a good idea to do that ASAP. In scary KGB style, my parents keep a file on each of their dear, snot-nosed progeny and their achievements - or lack of them - over the years. These files contain anything official, in fact, which may include anything from school records, to health records, to school reports, awards, achievements, certificates and even pieces of art work and writing we may have produced (you know the sort - the picture of a crooked house and a large sun in the top right hand corner, with the appauling spikes coming out of the crooked yellow - perhaps smiling - circle. Although why that circle's smiling when it has about as many spikes as a porcupine sticking into it, I'll never know).



And so, after I located my relevant file and the documents I need to procure, I proceeded to look through my file (which I have never, ever done in my life. These files are guarded well, and we were always forbidden from so much as touching them). What I found was years of under-achievement.



First off, my history dictates that I am a complete and total bum. My school reports are littered with "he really needs to put more effort into his work," "if he put more effort into this subject, he could convert potential into attainment," "he has a frequency to day-dream in class," and, in grade 9, "his participation is reticent, but invariably accurate and well informed" - I guess because I never felt the need to volunteer information (and still don't) and would therefore only participate when no one else could. I never thought much of the competition to see who could wave their hand the longest in the air, in front of the teacher's face, just to be called on.



Much of my early life was characterised as "lacking confidence" and "shy" ("shy" has been true until fairly recently, although I supposed "reserved" is more apt of the last 3 years, excluding this year). But things get interesting when I reached grade 6. I was taken out the lessons and given extra help in maths, as my standard was deemed to be too low to merit sitting in class. My teacher records this was also true for English: "his standard is below that of the national average of 11 year olds in speaking and listening. His comprehension and spelling are also weak. Only his writing is average, although it lacks proper spacing; he also doesn't always use joined-up writing" - which, if arty looks at some of those letters I sent her, will find is true. But then again, I was always taught never to connect the "s" appearing at the end of the word to the second last letter. But there are other letters I don't join up, I don't really know why.



The above unbeknownst to me, until this very day, I remember asking this teacher if I could take the higher English paper in the governmental-check-up-exams. I haven't forgotten her reply to this day: "I'll be happy if you get Level-4 (the standard an 11 year old should actually be at. I was classed at Level-3 for most things in this paper) in the ordinary paper, let alone the higher one."
I got a Level-5 (the standard a 12-13 year old should be on) in that paper. Old cow.



My highschool grades were not that much better. In fact, many of them were worse. My reports are littered with C's and D's for many subjects, through all my 7 years in highschool, with the possible exception of 4. with 2 reports a year for 7 years, we're looking at 10 very bad reports here. My exam results were reflected in the poor grades: I once attained the grand mark of 19%, despite the fact that the test questions were handed out by the teacher a week before the exam.


The secret to this failure is, of course, doing absolutely no revision whatsoever, ever. I do not believe there is one exam or weekly test I revised for, and if I did revise, it was 5 minutes before the test on the day OF the test.
There was one year where I did particularly well, in one of the lessons. It was in year 9, when I actually enjoyed one of the classes, and actually listened. I still didn't revise for weekly tests, but relied on my memory. I was consistantly hitting marks above 90%. I think my lowest mark that year was a dissapointing 75%. My highest was 98%. The next year, it was back to the story of under achievement.



I got low marks so consistnantly, in everything, that one of my teachers started to believe I was a low achiever. In year 10, he wrote "I'm pleased with his progress this year, and his exam result reflects much effort in his revision. Well done!" My exam result was 35% that year. Dear teacher. It was the lack of effort which procured the result.



The only time I ever revised for any exam, was during my GCSE (government exams usually taken when one is 16) and AS and A Levels (ages 17-18). Even then, I only did as much as I could get away with, aside from some short bursts of worried effort, where I worked for longer than usual. But much of my time was wasted on the internet, playing computer games, watching films, or playing tennis with my friend. I can say that even during the year, before the exam period, I was taking more subjects than anyone most people (4, instead of 2 or 3) but working the least. I had engineered my two last years of high-school, so that I would be taking 3 subjects in my first year, which is normal, and two in my second, which is not. As such, I had more free periods than most, and used it to go home and mess around. My results were not bad (I got accepted unconditionally into the 3rd best university in this country. The Times and Guardian table goes: Cambridge, Oxford, LSE. I'm second and third to only Cambridge and Oxford - I can accept that) - but regardless of all this, I could have done much better. My friend, who worked much harder than me, more consistantly, and for many, many more hours, got exactly the same grades as me (we took 2 subjects which were the same, and he took another 1 subject in addition to those). He decided to re-do a coursework module and try and improve one of his grades.



Considering my history, I am astounded that I got accepted to LSE, and hope no-one from the LSE body sees this post.



Ironically, I did the worst at the subjects I took for A Levels.

Computing: every single year, except in year 8, I did terribly all the way through in this subject. I never achieved higher than a C for attainment, and even for effort a B was hard come by. I was predicted as a D in my computing A Levels initally, although after I hit "A" in the first group of tests I took when I was 17, my IT teacher changed it to a C. I got a B overall, in the end. His basic analysis of my work was: "his theory is weak, although he does well in the coursework modules." Indeed, computing theory was the hardest thing I've ever encountered, whilst the coursework was one of the most fun and satisfying sections of all.



History: I did quite well throughout school here. I still didn't learn for any exams, but started to hit 70% mid-high school.



English: I was achieving the 50-65% mark throughout my highschool career. There were many times I was given a C for this subject.



Religious Studies: I was predicted for a B, and got an A. This subject was a new one.



Ironically, I always thought I was doing rather well in school. Perhaps that's what motivated me to want to do well in government exams too. Well, it certainly paid off. But then, I always considered myself average. Average in intellect, intelligence, in everything, really. And I always assumed everyone else knew at least everything I knew. I used to be quite naive, yes. When I 17, I expected everyone to speak French, because I did (I learnt this language in literally, a few months before my GCSEs. I came home everyday at 6:00, sat down until 8:00, doing French, had dinner, and worked from about 8:30 to 10:30, doing more French. I did this every day for 3 months. Other work I finished in school during my lunch hour). I expected everyone to have working knowledge of geography (everyone knows where Swaziland is, right?) and of history, too. My geography teacher used to be big on history, and used to ask us random questions, like, "who said: "I hold in my hand a piece of paper?" ' no one really knew the answers besides me.



This impression was thrown off when someone told me that everyone does not, in fact, speak French. The first time I was ever told I was better than below-average, or average, was a complete stranger who told me, after a discussion, "you're quite smart for your age, young man." I was 16, almost 17, at the time. It was only 2 years ago.



I'm told I'm clever. People tell me I speak well and confidently in crowds (although I am not at all confident). I'm told I'm good at languages. I'm also told I'm logical, as well as too analytical. My basic point is: look at my appauling history. I was considered under average for most of my life, and I considered - and still do consider - myself average. If average DJ can do it, so can you. It just requires effort.

I am happy to report several things.


Let's take it all one at a time:


I decided to take a two-pronged course of action. The first, was to probe and assess the situation, by carrying on as if nothing had happened. This worked a charm. I was able to learn that it was thought that I was in a general bad mood and didn't want to be disturbed.

As to the veracity of this information, I'm undecided. As I mentioned to someone, I invited people out constantly, all invitations were refused by my two room mates, so why should I have wanted to be left alone? I also asked if one of my "roomies" (gah, Americanisms) honestly thought any sane person would not want to be spoken to by the two people they spend much of their free time around (if only for the fact that we're shoved into a room together), for 3 entire days. I also asked what bad-mood signs were given by me to them. None were forthcoming, aside from the vague and frankly lame, "just stuff" explanation.

Therefore, whilst this seems like a plausible reason, I am unconvinced.
However, I'll take the advice of Ecclesiastes: "Do not enquire after your name, for you will certainly find people speak bad of you" and thus I'm just going to proceed as if nothing has happened.


It was once suggested to me by a close friend, who certainly had a mind greater than my own, that I analyse things too much for my own good. As this has been suggested to me many times, by many different people, I have to conceed that they are right. I am far too analytical. But how do I stop analysing things? I can hardly help it. It just pops into my mind.


And on to another subject, for this is boring even myself.
Flying. I've been doing a lot of it this year, and will continue to be doing a fair amount of it this year. I don't know why, but my flights are never totally uneventful. Take my last trip, for example....



As I walked into the airport in Tel-Aviv, Israel, I was appraoched by two security personnel.
"Can I have your passport please, sir?"
"Umm...ok" was the intelligent response.
They proceeded to ask me a few questions, "Is this your first time in Israel?"
"No" I answered "I've been here before." Any other response would probably have had me arrested on the spot, considering my passport and baggage were all covered in Israeli security stickers. Of course, it's not the answers they're after, it's my reaction. I know this. I always knew this. And yet I messed up badly in the coming questions.


"Where are you coming from?"
"Yerushalayim" I stupidly gave the Hebrew name for Jerusalem.
"Do you speak Hebrew?"
For simplicities sake, anyone who doesn't live in Israel or doesn't hold an Israeli passport, should always, always say "no" in response to this question. Otherwise it gets pretty intense, as you'll see. Of course, stupid me says, in Hebrew, "a little, yes."
"Where did you learn it from?" came the concerned reply, in Hebrew this time.
"Here" I responded. I knew Hebrew before I came to Israel, of course, but a terrorist is the sort of person who learns the language of the country they go to overseas, so they can speak it once they get to the target country. Of course, my modern Hebrew had improved vastly since I arrived in Israel. Although modern and ancient Hebrew are very similar (there are only a few words which mean different things in ancient and modern Hebrew), it's not as if we can turn to Exodus 32:16 and find it written "And God spoke to Moses saying: 'What's the quickest way to get to the central bus station from here?' (17) And Moses replied: 'I think it's the 23 bus, boss'" and such other things like "bank" and "restraunt" or "taxi." As such, it was the honest truth that I learnt "ivrit" - i.e. modern hebrew - in Israel, as opposed to Lashon Hakodesh - the term used to refer to biblical Hebrew.


"Did you take lessons in Hebrew in England?"
"No."
"Do you have any relatives here?"
"Yes"
"Who?" was the swift reply. And here, I hesitated.
"Cousins."
"What are their names?"
"Umm. Err...I, um..."
By this time, they were looking at me in an odd way, especially as I had started to shift my weight to one leg only and fidget with the trolley my luggage was on. I decided I had to say SOMETHING if I wanted to make the flight.
"The eldest is ..." and I managed to spurt out a name, as well as two others. There are actually a few more names which should have been mentioned, but it's not as if they know who my cousins are and exactly how many of them there are. I decided not to venture any information further than I had to, considering my bad show during this security check.


"One moment please sir." At this point they left me and conferred amongst themselves. I was actually thinking I wasn't going to make the plane at this point. This has never happened to me before. Eventually they came back.
"What are you doing in Israel?" was the first question upon their return.
"Studying"
"And where are you studying?"
I gave the name of the establishment.
"And what are you studying?"
I gave the name of the texts I was studying.
"And which chapter are you studying?" one of the security officials asked, still in Hebrew.
"The entire book" I replied, again, in Hebrew.
"And which chapter are you studying currently?"
"The last one"
"What number is that?"
"9, I think" this time in English. But again, a silly move. I think? WHAT?! It was picked up on immediately.
"You THINK? You think or you know?"
"look, I'm a bit ill..."
"Oh, ok. I hope you have a complete recovery" he said in Hebrew, "you can go through now to baggage security, sir" was in English. This was after the other person he was with asked if I had anything dangerous, any weapons, illegal substances, or anything which looked like a weapon with me or in my bags, as well as questioning me to who packed my bags, and where my bags were since they've been packed.

Of course, I was relieved to be able to go through. Of course, there was nothing suspect in my bags, so I was able to go straight through to check in my baggage. It was all smooth sailing right up until I sat in my designated seat on the plane.


After stashing my hand luggage in the overhead compartment, I took my seat.
You know how on the plane, you hope, hope against hope, that the person sitting next to you isn't some weirdo? Well, it turns out I was that weirdo. But it took some time to get to that conclusion.


I decided that I didn't want to talk to the person who sat next to me. He wasn't Jewish, and had a Canadian accent, so wasn't Israeli either - which meant he spoke no Hebrew whatsoever. Perfect. I whipped out a notebook which I had in a plastic bag still with me (along with a drink and some crisps) which contained reams and reams of Hebrew writing, and drew out a pen (you never know when you need pens. As such, I always take one with me when I go on trips) and scribbled nonsense in Hebrew. I made sure he saw that my notes were in Hebrew, and I was writing in Hebrew. I also pulled out the magazine the plane gives you, and turned to the Hebrew section, making sure he saw that I was reading the Hebrew. Because I was wearing a skull-cap, the stewardesess addressed me in Hebrew, and I replied in Hebrew, thus enhancing my cover in my great efforts to not talk for the entire flight. My reason for not talking was that I was actually ill, and found it difficult to speak at all.


However, everything started to unravel about 3 hours into my 5 and-a-half hour flight, when I started to fulfil the role of the weirdo no-one wants to sit next to. I was gripped with a rather loud coughing fit. Knowing I was about to vomit, I threw the food in the plastic bag on the floor, and held it open, at the ready. I started making loud vomiting noises into the bag. Nothing actually came out, and for the past few days I had only been vomiting flem (which is absolutely disgusting. Flem the size of my fist just pops out in one go) not actual solids. All this, of course, the man couldn't know. Thus, from the man's perspective, there was someone a few centimetres away from him violently vomitting into a bag (with a hole in it, actually). Certainly, these things were running through this guy's mind:


"Why did *I* have to end up next to this guy?"
"I really don't want to be here" and finally,
"Disgusting! What a weirdo!"


A stewardess came running and asked the man if he wanted to change seats.
"Aww, what the heck!" he said in rather loud tones "I've probably caught something by now anyway!" Of course, the only way he could have caught something is if he stuck his tongue into my mouth and ingested my spit - which he did NOT do, at any point on or off the flight. Besdies. He was married.


He stood up. "Yeah, I guess I'll change anyway! This guy's as sick as a dog!" he announced to the entire plane. Of course, he assumed I spoke no English.


This poor guy's troubles didn't stop there. After sitting in the seat next to his wife (they weren't placed together, but there turned out to be a seat next to her anyway, which was unoccupied) he was asked by the man behind him to not use a pillow, as he couldn't see the inflight movie (this Candian fellow was particularly tall).
"Oh, really?! Well, I'm so sorry!" his voice a tone or three louder than usual, he threw the pillow onto his old seat, which was only in the next isle. A minute after this, a steward came up to him and told him there was, in fact, a spare seat at the back, and it was this seat, in fact, which he had been asked to move to.


"Really? Well, I'm fine here. I said i'm fine sitting here."
The flight didn't go how he planned. He's probably somewhere in Canada right now, buying vitamins, convinced he's going to get avian flu, or something.


The stewardess had asked me if I wanted anything (in Hebrew) and I responded that I'd be greatful if there was a possibility of bringing me some tea. This was done. My cover was cind of blown when another stewardess delivered said tea, and asked me in English if I wanted sugar. Although I replied in Hebrew that I would, you obviously have to understand in order to reply. After she asked me if I wanted milk (I did) the Canadian fellow looked at me oddly; perhaps it was then he understood I spoke English.


When I got up later to go to the bathroom (I needed, in fact, to spit out excess flem and get more tissues. I decided it a good idea not to spit it out there, in my seat...) my entire side of the plane turned their heads and looked at me. I did not imagine it. It happened. They were all probably thinking "urgh! This is the weirdo who's probably going to vomit on me and ruin the flight. I hope he doesn't come near me!" However, I survived the trip. When I got there, I happened to bump into the air marshal. He spoke to me in Hebrew, until I could no longer reply in Hebrew and switched to English (I didn't know what "spit" was in Hebrew. In fact, I did. I actually have it written down in those Hebrew notes of mine. But I couldn't remember what the word was. I could hardly run back and look it up). The conversation ended with him taking down my name. For who or what I still don't know, but the air marshal of El-Al flight LY175 has it.


The rest of the flight was uneventful.
Finally, I landed in Heathrow.


After I claimed my luggage, and was walking through the "nothing to declare" in customs, a customs official appraoched me.


"Good afternoon, sir"
"'afternoon" was my hoarse reply.
"Where are you coming from now, sir?"
Although I would have liked to have said "baggage claim," I decided "Israel" was the better response.
"Are you aware of your customs rights, sir?"
"Umm. No."
"£175 worth of cigars and cigarettes and X bottles of alcohol" (I forget how many bottles).
"Err. Ok."
"Are you carrying any of these items with you, sir?"
"No." Of course, I wasn't. You'd have to be a fool to lie to a customs official, of course. They have the power to strip search you....
After several other questions ranging from, after the rhetoric had been taken out, were basically "are you carrying a bomb," "are you a drugs smuggler," and "are you a right-wing fanatic who's come here for terrorist activities?" I was free to go (the only terrorist activities I undertake is teasing my older brother; in defence, I assure you).


I had previously arranged for a mini-cab to pick me up. The guy turned out to be a Nigerian Christian, very pro-Israel as well as a bit of a genius. You know how you stick a ticket into the machine to get the barrier to go up for you when you exit a parking lot? You know how you first lower the window in order to do this? Well, yep, you guessed it. The guy smacked his hand into the window.


All in all, the guy turned out to be exactly like Tyrone, aside from origin and religion (Tyrone's character's not deep enough to have political affiliations...) Tyrone is, of course, a character out of a British made film called Snatch. He's a fat and particularly useless getaway driver, who can't drive properly. In the film, Tyrone attempts to exit the car. As he's so fat, it takes a while (it took my cab driver several tries to fit IN the car, hence my impression). One smalltime mobster then comments to the other "I though you said he's a get-away driver!" - "he is." - "well what can he get away from?!"


It's brilliant, go watch it.


After a while, I got home, thank God. I was so pleased to be back.


But enough of this nonsense, which I hope is slightly funny.
Back to relationships.


I really like my best friend. I don't really know why, but I do. Possibly because he's my best friend, I'm unclear as to how this works, exactly.
He doesn't understand me in the least, in my opinion, but he claims I understand him (I don't really. I just ask "what would I want?" and apply it to him). We've known each other for years and years, and been friends for fewer years, but I feel we're particularly close. It's an odd feeling neither of us are sure what to do with, but it results in getting through rough times in the relationship together: neither of us want to see the other walk away. And believe me, it's been pretty rough. The only person who could possibly be closer to me, who isn't related to me by blood, would be my wife. He wants me to be best man at his wedding, and I for sure intend to bestow this upon him at mine. I would go so far as to say I quite literally love him as I love myself, as the bible says. Of course, it's not a homosexual relationship, and don't get any such ideas into your minds! Weirdos.


But I feel this attachment we have for each other is bound to be broken, either through differences - which I hope won't be the defeat of the relationship - or distance and time, which is similarly a bad excuse to have a relationship end. However, it may happen.

A few things happened which made me very happy, however, and my friend very miserable. Meh heh heh heh.
I wouldn't call it revenge. I would say it was a "this is how you make me feel. Horrible, isn't it?" quest. A learning experience. It resulted in him not talking to anyone for a full 40 minutes, and also resulted in him pulling a blanket over his head for a full 15 minutes. Poor guy.

Nevertheless, I feel it was necessary. It's a mean and nasty thing to say, but we have to look beyond mean and nasty intentions and realise we have to get our principles in order. This is what happened. It was a short exchange.

Me: "I'm going away soon, why don't you guys go out with me this evening to see me off?"
Friend 1: "Yeah! I'd love to."
Bestest-ever-friend: I don't have the money right now, I'm trying to cut down on spening.
Me: Ok, sure, I understand.
-----
30 minutes later
--------
Bestest-ever-friend: So, are you coming to this place with me tonight?
Another friend: Yeah!
Me: I'm very dissapointed in you. You complain about being short on money but are prepared to spend 40 NIS (New Israeli Shekel) and hours in this place, and you can't give a friend 15 minutes of your time and 9NIS before he leaves the country?

Was I wrong? I don't think so. Was I sharp? Nor particularly by my standards, but maybe harsh. But he's my friend, and he complains of money problems and he goes and does something else for a longer time and more money! When I'm going!

This sort of thing is just unacceptable to me. I've taken him out on my tab before, when he's left a country, and I've made damn sure to say goodbye to him. He didn't even say goodbye personally to me. Oh no. He phoned a mutual friend to tell me he says "bye, and I love you."

Rubbish. Entirely.

My oh-so-unwelcome analysis, when all's said and done: we had a good run.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Responses:
----------------------------

Arty> Yes, it's poop. I hate it. But somehow we're going to make up, and then be at this nonsense again in a week. I'm not joined at the hip with him, I do have other friends, but as I say, he IS my bestest-ever-friend....

Nor> I did actually see Re'emim. Of course, they're supposed to be giant things with massive horns, but I saw some sort of mountain goat being passed off as re'emim. It was a dissapointment. I draw consolation from the hope that the zoo is wrong in their classification of re'emim.

As for the Leviathon - oh, come now, Nor. Obviously the Leviathon is a type of fish, and clearly not an animal, therefore not part of a zoo of animals, which are all types of land creatures...However, I'm sure that would make a particularly enthralling exhibit, if anyone ever found it, and hauled it back to the zoo :p

Due to popular demand, here's another post.


But first, responses, as I've been neglecting this corner-stone of blogging etiquette:

Catherine, Ahh, yes, indeed: I remember making this blog Catherine-safe many months ago. And thankfully, I succeeded.

Vindy, I'm afraid I can never return to blogging land permanentaly again. I've already made my way to the portal of "no returns" and am hanging around in the doorway, stuck, neither being completely in, or out....Such is my fate. I'm more out than in though... There will come a time when it will be the same for you, too, though that time seems so far off now...

Arty> In what seems the cruel will of fate, we keep missing each other. Whenever you're in England, I'm in Israel, and you always leave just before I arrive, and vice versa. Ah, well...one day...
--------------

And thus the responses have come to a rather sudden end, and I suppose it's time for me to cough up some actual content. Well, dear reader, I'm afraid I have little left to give.

But a quick word on Americans. They're not a bad type. The one's I object to are from New York. I object to all New-Yorkers. They're obviously a different breed of American. All in all, it is entirely possible to get along with Americans. They have done a lot of work over the years, bringing running water and even electricity to the colony there.

Of course, what usually pops up in a discussion with any American, is the so-called "great" revolution which took place in the late 1700's. As a result, my knowledge of American colonial history and post col. hist. has been greatly increased since I arrived here. To any Brit wishing to defeat an American in such a discussion, all one has to do is give mention of the 1812 Candia/British V U.S.A. war - where Washington DC was burned to the ground. All this nonsense about America never suffering a defeat on it's own soil after the revolution is an empty argument to the full: the Brits burned your capital city to the ground, white house included!

It does give me great satisfaction to mention this small fact when the usual drivel of "a bunch of farmers....mighty British machine..." is spewed out.

Most of my year has consisted of half drunkenly shouting "the Queen!" at sporadic intervals within any given day. But the year is almost coming to an end, and with it, these British-American debates. But what have I learned over the year, aside from not voting for the Republicans if I ever become an American citizen?
In what is the first bastion defended by the forces of common sense, I've learned the real basics, which regards socks:

If you stick your socks in the same wash as your roomates, you're liable to walk around sockless for at least 3 days.
I've also decided, once I'm married/have a place of my own/married and have a place of my own, I'm going to buy socks from the same shop, in the same size, colour, and style. Who cares about variety when it comes to socks? Not I. All I care about is putting on two socks without having to check if they match in colour and length. Of course, I ball up my socks, but it is so tedious. Ah, well.

(From Words of Wisdom: on socks, by DJ (c) 2006)

I've been unwell, my children, so very unwell.
I was told a few days ago, that if I didn't improve within 12 hours, to walk into an emergency clinic, checked out, and most likely be whisked away to a hospital, to be fed introvenously, due to a gastrointestinal tract infection.


Bugger those viruses. They're these tiny microscopic things which don't even have DNA (only RNA) and they cause so much bloody misery.


I'm off home for a month in about 12 days time. WOOO!
I'm bringing with an American, with whom London shall be toured. I'm sorry to say that gastrointestinal-thing-ma-bobs wasn't the only thing I caught. Meh heh heh heh heh. Ok. No. The Americans aren't that bad. Although sometimes some of them don't understand what I'm saying. Which brings me to my American accent: it's offically good enough to fool many Americans. My American self was born in Gary, Indiana, has lived there all his life and will attend Gary College.



Quick Politics:
take a look at this site, by the way: http://www.geocities.com/mid_east_truth1
Hamas have become a political organisation, eh? Why?
No doubt the IDF's policy in the past year of picking off the leadership forced them to make this move. Now, if the IDF picks off Hamas leadership, they'll be hitting the likes of the internal affairs minister, or the minister of trade, and the like, which, of course, is simply unpolitical to do, and possibly considered a war crime.
But this is a victory for Israel. Previously, Israel had no one to blame for the terrorists, but the terrorists themselves, and the supposed peace talks were stuck into a vicious circle of:


Israel: Get the terrorists.
PA: Ok.
Terrorists: You can't catch me!


But now, the terrorists ARE the government. Therefore, any acts of terror is essentially an act of war between two countries, and therefore will be reciprocated as such. In theory.
I believe the Palestinian minister of agriculture was shot dead by the IDF whilst he was placing a bomb at the gaza-Israel border. There's no doubt, of course, all these people are terrorists.


Peace plans:
There is no such thing.
I refuse to believe for an instant, that any American politician, lacking in political cunning and skill though they may be, thinks that peace is possible. Think about it: two peoples (one of which is not even a peoples, but never mind), stuck in a tiny tract of land, with the exact opposite ideological views to the other - and one of them doesn't believe in the right of the other to exist. What chance is there of peace?

By giving the Palestinians a state of their own, all which is being done, is giving them a base from which to attack Israel proper: which is exactly what's happening. In today's Politically Correct world, the word "war" is not acceptable. But to the average Israeli, neither is "terror."


Solutions:
There are two. In both of them, the USA *needs* to stop meddling (of course they won't: middle east arms sales is a very agreeable trade).

Solution 1: The Palestinians win their war of terror. The Israelis are driven into the sea, their cities destroyed, their fields sown with salt.


Solution 2: The Israeli's win. There are many ways which constitute an Israeli "win."

a) The Palestinians are originally from neighbouring Jordan. They go back there (of course, Jordan doesn't want them, which is why they're not there).

b) All the "west-bank" Palestinians are transferred to Gaza. This would be my ideal solution, and what I'd do if I were the Israeli Prime Minister.

Why this move? Sounds mean, doesn't it? Let's go through possible objections:

Q - How can you uproot people from their homes?!
A: Their homes constitute temporary refugee camps which are 50 years old. Therefore, it would be an improvement. As to the Palestinians in towns and villages (this does not refer to Israeli-Arabs, who hold Israeli citizenship; if one holds Israeli citizenship, s/he should be able to choose if they move or not. If they choose to move, they must renounce their Israeli citizenship) their homes too are squalid settlements built in ancient towns with narrow streets such as Bethlehem, which begs for modernisation. A move to newly built Gazan homes would also be a good move.

Q - How can you squash loads of people from the West Bank to Gaza?
A - There are, relatively, not that many in the West Bank, and there would be room in Gaza for them. How can you fit 5 million Israelis into a tiny country where the bottom half is desert and the top peak a mountain range? Yet it works. It would bring the population of Gaza to about 2 or 3 million.

Q - Is it moral for a Jewish state to do this, considering the recent past of the Holocaust?
A - This is the one question which upsets me the most. If someone ever asked me this in person about any issue in reference to the Palestinians, I would either break down and cry, or else yell at them.
The answer here is obvious and simple: The Jews didn't blow up German caffe's full of innocents, or school busses of children, nor snipe at the babe-in-arms, nor blow up the cinemas and clubs full of teenagers. Nor did they clash openly with German soldiers or police, often killing them.
And this plan doesn't include moving them to a ghetto, but to their own state, nor does it constitute the use of concentration camps, cattle carts, or the like.
In short, there never was, and never shall be a parallel between the holocaust and any move the Israeli government will ever make against the Palestinians.




Any other objections, I can't think of right now. Do bring them up.

Of course, the above is mere fantasy. It won't happen. I do fear Israel will be destroyed, for guerilla warfare always has, historically, won against the biggest and most fantastic armies.
If only the short sighted politicians here would remove the burden of American support and therefore gain autonomy over their own decisions.

Me: Where'd you get that piece of wood from?
Friend: I found it.
Me: You just happened to stumble across a 6 foot by 4 foot plank of wood?
Friend: Yes.
Me: What are you doing with it?
Friend: I need to hide it.
Me: *raises eyebrows*

Me: Would you let me marry your sister?
Friend: I watched a film where this guy's best friend married his sister. He kills him. I never understood that. Now I understand it perfectly.

Friend 1: Wow, look at that guy. He's pretty ugly.
Friend 2: Yeah.
Friend 1: If I were a girl, I'd have to rate him 0/10.
Friend 2: Don't be so harsh. I'd give him a 3/10.
Friend 1: A 3?
Friend 2: Yeah. One for his mom, one for his dad, and one for God.

Friend: Yeah, and that actress is messed up. Her lips are so big.
Friend 2: Why?
Me: Probably took fat from her bum and stuck it in her lips to make 'em look bigger. Gives new meaning to "talking our your arse."

Friend: Some dude dressed up as a fairylast year.
Me: *laughs* what do you want to dress up as this year?
Friend: A tiger.

American: What happened to your pet hamster?
Me: The college took it away. Probably killed it.
American: Serves you right. This is no place for animals.
Me: So what're you doing here then?

And so ends the comical lines and conversations. My friend never did find a tiger costume. He did, however, find a full sized bunny outfit. WAIT! Hold it. Just before you comment how cute that is, this thing was scary. It looked like it just walked out of Danny Darko (which features a large scary rabbit).

For this years fancy dress thinggy, in which people generally dress up, and collect cash for charities, I WAS going to give a go at Harry Potter, but decided not to be privvy to the American titters of glee...For them, I already am the original Harry Potter. From England, wearing glasses most of the time these days, and complete with black hair, I've suffered their name callings long enough. How unforunate it is my other English friend is a red-head.

Ok, it's not that bad.
Anyway, I really have to get going. It's been fun. Take care, and all.