Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols

I came home from the Old Boy event to find out that Amy Winehouse died of – should I tell you after all that consumption of &quoth there? Later on some silly newspaper here had compared her to Kurt Cobain, cause they both died when 27. Sacrilege I say, she was not a patch on ol Kurt. Idiots. Major *beep*holes in the time-space continuum. People who write these have never listened to Nirvana, or Joy Division (Ian Curtis committed suicide too – Deb wrote Love will tear us apart on his headstone). Never mind the goolie-less, here's the Sex Pistols. No they haven't heard them either. And these idiots are the entertainment column writers here. You need a slem gun to blast them out of existence, or better still hand them over to Martians to carry out some bizarre experiments to figure out how life on Earth should not be.... Now that's what I call public service.

This is so trite, so I let Amy find her way in the other world and opened the email (it was 2.20 AM it was “Need to Do” basis). A good news. We are winning a case at UK Immigration & Asylum Tribunal. Perhaps its time to send a reminder to William of Twelve Pints a Day, about the complaint I lodged with him. This guy is nowhere compared to William of Orange (he was crowned), he is not even anything like William the Silent (who was not crowned – yet won the war), this one is William of York. York, of places for a William to come forth. School kids will rejoice, Robert (William if you rename a colour) of York gave battle in vain.... Yet I have a lot of respect for this guy and have huge faith in this guy, and if you asked me in person, I would forsake my namesake (OK, after some adjustments with spellings and meaning!) and name him The Best PM We Never Had. Except he still got some time to be otherwise if he plays his cards right.

Playing his cards like sending some Prozac to Deputy High Commission outfit in Chennai for an example. By the way the William who was crowned was William iii, I don't want you kids to get your history wrong. And I'd rather if we all could leave that twelve pint incident where it belongs. Behind that is. Watch out for Tony Blair with you that side kids, he is known to..... nevermind.

Its been a week since, and MTV has turned 30 today. A writer on Not the York William is from Daily News laments: MTV's record on women isn't much better. With the emergence of macho hair metal, videos routinely featured women who were portrayed as little more than strippers- what else are those utter talent vacuums except mere strippers I ask. They are only good for one thing, and we all know it. They know it too. Kudos to MTV for getting it right. If you want talent look at Pat Benatar or Chrissie Hynde. If you want more try Ella Fitzgerald, you'd find out what talent is. Not of the York.. writer goes on further to state Now, we're left with an MTV that no longer has "Music Television" as part of its logo, and for good reason - it hardly plays any music... and then go onto describe Snooki. Son, they don't play any music anymore cause there isn't any to play. They show Snooki because she is also a cheap stripper like the women singers of MTV. Fits the bill, and Birds of a feather flock together... like Amy Winehouse. Too much wine in da house can do you lot of harm kiddies, remember that.

My apologies to all those people who complained this has gotten to look like the alcoholics music entertainment bulletin. I know. My sincere apologies. A thousand apologies. As for those who say its trite, a thousand apologies, again.

Next time we will talk about going to USA and visa problems. And, again with apologies, I can't help it being stale. The blog is not supposed to be an intellectual gateway into anywhere. Average time span to write – 30 minutes flat. Average editing number – 01.

With figures like that, you can hardly expect elephants. But to spice it up I'd like to tell you more about the God of Arsenic Poisoning Counterculture here, but guess you are sick of reading about imbeciles by now. So its got to be US visa next time around. For a change. 

Amen 

The Old Boy(s)

Well I finally went to that Old Boy meeting – it’s a great English tradition after all, yet strange for a school which was singularly set up to take the very Englishness away from the masses. Its not Eaton or Marlborough you know. Its funny when you come to think of it. A schoolboy yesterday – sitting at a classroom taking in the lessons, and today you wake up to find yourself an Old Boy there nearing retirement age in the outside world. And it all never crossed my mind when I was sitting on that bench, one day I’d come here as a mature “nevermind who” with a glass in hand….. Life is a bitch.

So how did it go? Well, some fellers there I never met since I left the school confines. There was one who used to sit next to me and I did not even recognise him. Someone uttered his name and I was filled with a deep sense of shame, I mean we used to sit next to each other, share lunch, take the same bus – yet did not recognise him… I was never the one to remember faces. No kidding, if I were to take the time tunnel I’d not recognise myself 20 years ago. Who the f*** is this obnoxious bastard, I’d ask about myself. You need to go to Oedipus to see worse consequences of not recognising people…

Our boys seem to have done justice for themselves, wondering aimlessly among Lawyers, Medical Directors, Surgeons, Company Directors, Corporate Managers, and whatnot, exchanging greetings and groping desperately to name each face, there was another internal struggle within me. Not recognising them is one thing – there is always some means or an excuse. But introducing myself! What do I say I am now to the company director with a beautiful secretary draped around him? Life is indeed a Bitch.B capital.

Wondering in the wilderness of my blog, written in an informal free style, you’d surely say just tell them who you are, a visa consultant – what’s the complex you got. Another one of you might say Why, is being a visa consultant such a lowly menial job?, Would your girlfriend run off with a better if you said it? Well, its not that bad really, and I could hold my own in any crowd with it, spare the uber-academic. But there is another issue. I never felt comfortable with anything I did, and though I lion it out here on the blog, within such close quarters I’d rather have it they just took me for whoever they painted me out to be. Even a porcupine would do just fine, but what I really am, ah that is a no no. Why? Cause I belong to the Nevermind School, unless there is a professional reason to know otherwise, such as them having a gorgeous kid sister or a sister-in-law for an example…. And in that place, there was little reason to suspect anybody being in possession of either of above two important factors in the edible variety..

All in all, the event went just fine, we had a good time and, yes, I did meet Soosthiya, and a few others too. They have done themselves good, and I pretended to be an oil importer throughout. Relax kids, I know that trade, and I am a fast talker, quick on the draw, cross examining me on oil importing is a re-enactment of Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, with me played by Wyatt Earp.

As you know, I rarely go to these meetings, and I shun crowds. So it was something of a treat for me to be there. And it was of course good to meet so many of my colleagues after all these years, strange experience in the sense I have only seen them in school uniforms whole my life – that is before this day. It was no good talking old things, for I rarely wallow in nostalgia. Besides, there was the nectar of Eden in plenty, Girls? Who needs girls? asked Pinocchio after being treated for that splinter issue, and after a few fillings of l'eau des dieux, I was singing, nostalgia? who the – ok nevermind the other bit – wants it? Fill in the blanks according to your own taste; I am a libertarian, if you please.

And before I sign off, you know I was very young when I was at school, and being in the company of all those school mates indeed did me some good. I felt 20 years young again, and my vision had improved so much, I started to see everything doubled till my next morning shower. The effect of course was very short lived, but it tells me I need to get on more often with these guys if I want my vision improved to that level. Only hindrance to the plan is the routine occurrence of pigs on unexpected points of public highways. I am no Dick Turpin you know, but with some more of that l'eau des dieux and some other stuff which was available, home run at the end of that fine evening had been a highway robbery alright. 

Did I tell you I am good at riding too? Well, make it a point, I just told you. But I rather if you don't try this at home kiddies. I am bit of a lucky devil, sometimes.

Sacred Plant Uncovered

It had been a long night and I slept like a log, dreaming profusely, until the phone rang. A wake up call from an Old Boy from college asking me to join a social event. And he mentioned “Soosthiya” (Pot-Smoker) in passing. So you wake up from a dream adventure into a world of drug induced reality. How is that for starters? Whether Soosthiya actually ever tried pot is a matter of debatable nature, he may have tried it (who hasn’t), but to justify that nickname? No, I guess not. Besides who cares, he is now a prominent doctor around here.

Get dressed, sort out perennial cat issues, come to office. Just a routine operation. But pot smoking is high on my mind. Came here and asked my beautiful secretary to type out something I had written. This is not Sinhalese, I cant read it, she complains. So what does it look like to you, Ethiopian? I retort, yet in my heart I knew she was right, right in the fact that I could never write legibly, not at school, not now, not ever.

And while all that going on I went through a Sinhala SMS, which was equally Amharic to me, despite of legibility of writing. Eureka, pot-smoking, illegible writing resembling Amharic, my dream adventure, and they all fit in! I did not know till I read the SMS. Just like in Philip K. Dick’s story The Builder, where a man builds a boat, at the cost of almost compromising his job, his family life, and his social relations. But he did not know WHY he is building it. He has no idea what it was for. And it rained, a few drops, and he knew. See, a Eureka moment.

Idiots in today’s Sri Lanka associate Bob Marley with ganja. They know jack about what Rastafarianism is all about. Well, if they put an iota of effort spent on looking for ganja at a local library… Bob Marley T-shirt idiots are more deluded unstoned than stoned out Bob Marley ever was.

Why Amharic & Ethiopia? Because my secretary thinks my script is like theirs, secondly because the pot-smoking Rastafarian movement started there. Ras Tafari (Duke Tafari) was the name of HRH Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia. Except they were not the original owners of ganja (a word of Sanskrit origin), or smoking it (Sadhus of India and Sufi of Arab smoked it, in that order, before the Ethiopians found out this lovely experience).   

Lets make things more surreal by looking at how boyhood of Serveus Snape was described in the last Harry Potter book. After all, we are all in a drug induced reality world now, are we not? No, better still, lets transform it to a whole new scenario.

It was a lovely morning in the shire of Bosporus, crispy morning, and three men of different walks of life were gathered near a large playground next to a special seat of education. The Man who smoked pot with the famous & not so famous, wore a grim expression on his face, yet seemed to take things in his stride, and severe looks could not hide the jovial man underneath. The Stocky Man was keeping a close scrutiny over the The Man who smoked pot with the famous & not so famous. He did not seem to bear any ill will, just as well, for The Stocky Man was as strong as an ox. He would effortlessly take two grown sheep under his arms and carry them up the hill, singing to himself all the way. One had not seen him to break any sweat over the daily toil which was quite physically demanding. The Third Man, a man of considerable build, stroked his dark hair which was blowing in the crispy wind. Beautiful morning sun was illuminating the green fields above, beyond that the large park was coming to a new life with beautiful school girls in short(ish) skirts chattering away on their way to school. A blackbird was looking pensively at the gathering. The men looked serious, yet they were not worried. It seemed the matter in hand had some forbearing upon them, but their withers seem to be too high.

So, what had he done to receive a bomb in the first place? I mean we don’t get bombs in post like that, you know, asks The Third Man. Oh, animal testing and all that. I used to go to his lab to clean up the cages you know, says The Stocky Man. The Man who smoked pot with the famous & not so famous presented a tentative smile, it seemed he had a lot to say about these incidents. He looked a bit torn, a struggle within him trying to decide who is right. So, what happened? The Third Man asks. Well they came out and x-rayed it, and the feller said it looked like a tape recorder, not a bomb. What? Quips The Man who smoked pot with the famous & not so famous, this time not being able to hide his surprise and joy that things were back to normal. Yes, he sent it for repairs, and idiots posted it without much mention. We had a Class 01 alert for nothing, says The Stocky Man.  

The men seemed to be satisfied with the way things turned out, they were now more or less settling to do other things, The Man who smoked pot with the famous & not so famous lit a cigarette, he said his dues to his friends, and took a brisk walk up towards his station. And on the way, he paused near the old coiled electrical hulk laying next to a building. Laid to waste, its azure paintwork peeling, and rust has started to appear here and there. The Man who smoked pot with the famous & not so famous did not actually know what it was, but he just used to call it Magnetron – though he well knew it to be anything but. He looked up at the clear skies with birds flying merrily above, and turned towards the building where his work was due. Another day of toil which will go waste.

The skies were bright & clear, a crispy day, yet over the woods in the park, there was a sense of doom in the distant horizon. Dark clouds were forming briskly, and he knew, just like it was day, the dark night will follow. In times like those, when things call for deep contemplation and dissociation from impending peril, a bit of weed could certainly help.

I may not be able to write legibly, and my writing may look like beautiful script of Amharic, and I may or may not have tried the weed. Yet, looking from above the skies, I think I could empathise with The Man who smoked pot with the famous & not so famous.  

Undercover World - unclothed

There has not been much feedback on my last post, Sleeping With The Enemy. We live in a land where Drug Lords are parliamentarians, Prostitutes are popular actresses, Swindlers are TV anchors, and most damning of all, Economic Hitmen are rulers & policy advisers! Someone once said the major shortcoming of democracy is that “Ze rulerz reflect their constituents”. How true.

In the novel 1984, in the land of Oceania, Ministry of Truth is concerned with spreading lies and adjusted history, Ministry of Peace is conducting War, and so on. Pretty depressing if you read it. I was fortunate – only watched the film version and there was one fit bird in that too. Definitely worth it..

Does that mean that many people around us are of duplicitous nature? Surely if drug lords are policy makers who pass laws against drugs, and ministry of truth is really making lies, how about people we meet in everyday life? Could they be really some others, you know. Isaac Asimov wrote a compelling short story titled The Hostess covering a similar theme. They seem to be everywhere, so the situation looks grim form the very outset. Maybe things are better in UK, I am sure, since many people want to go there to claim asylum. Lets see.

In UK, you just can't leave out Mr. Kim and the Cambridge spy ring, can you. Since that happened when I was in senior college, things may have improved a bit by now. Alas, love's labour lost. Good old Blighty hasn't done much better if you believe the news print up there. Ex-wife of police spy tells how she fell in love and had children with him, cries out The Guardian. As we all know, this is taking things one step too far from simply hiding a homing device in your car. This time they have taken matters to WW2 SOE level by sending infiltrators into protest activist groups. Infiltrators themselves have later gone one step too far, like their superiors, and have had sexual relations with their “targets”, started to sympathise with the very cause they went to sabotage, gave evidence at courts to make previous activist convictions unsafe, and so on. Stockholm Syndrome, cries The Guardian. But I could hear Carlton Koon laughing in his grave. I am laughing too, not because Koon is laughing, but because the women involved have now resorted to playing the all too familiar victim card.

Poor girl, a member of Reclaim the Streets (a bunch of idiots who block traffic including ambulances and nice guys like me on the way to meeting television actresses) sat next to someone she thought was nice Mr Jim Sutton at Cock Tavern pub in Euston during an activist meeting. That is, they were preparing the blue print of stopping me from getting to see the actress girl. In short, they met, had a chat, dated, loved, and then got married and had kids too. Both parents being bastards, wonder what the kids will turn out to be when they grow up. Scares the hell out of me. What she did not know was that Jim Sutton was really officer Jim Boyling, a policeman living undercover among eco-activists.

They had some fine times it seems. Yet she now repents, saying things like she felt like a prostitute; just an unknowing and unpaid one. What's there to complain? You should feel bad if you ever felt like a television actress in Sri Lanka, a known & paid prostitute, yet purporting to be a dignified person. This is what Mrs Sutton (sorry, Mrs Boyling) has to say about the fallout: These surveillance operations wreck lives; I was reading stories that this was happening to so many other women who were at risk of falling for their lies; I'd been suffering post traumatic stress for a long time; I wasn't even able to recognise my face in the mirror.

Having read her story, even I am getting to feel sorry for her. No, I have not forgiven you for that traffic incident. How much do you think I suffered not being able to meet the television actress? Things really took a vicious turn when Mr "Sutton" suddenly declared he is going to Turkey, hoping to hitchhike from there to South Africa.

Hitchhike to South Africa? Madam, you wouldn't be in this mire if you simply had the sense to ask the bastard to buy an air ticket. Well, it was not as she was entirely in the dark throughout. She did notice some little things that struck her as a bit odd. Specially for an environmental campaigner. But who would suspect her husband to be an undercover special operations officer! Specially since she admits that for the most part while he was undercover we had a blissfully in-love relationship, poor thing.

Again, in short, after his so called visit to Turkey, the guy simply vanished. She then spent over a year trying to track him down. She tried to locate his family members – people who, it transpired, did not exist – and then travelled to South Africa. He no longer existed in physical presence or on paper, she says. I didn't know what to think or what to do. Just imagine the horror of finding your husband had vanished without a trace from the face of Earth, and worse still, he never existed. Looks exactly like the plot of Asimov's The Hostess. If you are rather into dumb scare genre, you can watch Flightplan (2005, with Jodie Foster).

Well she eventually met him again, purely by chance just like in their very first meeting. Odd for good Mr Sutton, I am not sure if that was really a chance meeting. But we are not into technicalities here you know. Well, they reconciled, he told her the truth, eventually went as far as pointing out other police infiltrators in the activist group, which turned out to be almost everyone in it, and then after a few years they separated, leaving her with two kids who will grow upto be undercover inter-galactic traffic stoppers, purporting to be pilots. Now this is turning to be like the Star Wars' Anakin Skywalkers boyhood plot.

Another undercover police informer, officer Mark Kennedy had taken a similar path and screwd up his superiors big time. He went as far as taking activists in another such group to a power station to shut it down, and promptly got arrested by his fellow officers who were unaware of his true identity! What juice bits are there in his memoirs (with actress kind), I do not yet know. But he too gave away a female undercover officer, Lynn Watson posing as an environmental activist for five years, claiming to be a care worker living in Bournemouth. Was there anyone in these groups who were really environmentalists? I am beginning to think that “the others” are working for some other operational entity, faking it to look like duped innocents, entirely under the nose of Met super brains. Serves them right.

Talking about being served, it has come to my attention that His Holiness The Dalai Lama refused to judge the food on MasterChef, a TV programme in Australia. That was because As a Buddhist monk it is not right to prefer this food or that food, according to His Holiness. This was after him accepting to partake as a judge in the first place. What on earth is going on here? Is everyone around us not really what they say they are? Since the Dalai Lama does not recommend any food, we will have to wait till that Mark Kennedy feller publishes his book for the tasty juicy bits.

A comment on The Guardian runs: Mr Llama was asked to appear on the UK version, but declined on the grounds that "that mr wallace fellow is a right twat"

Mr Llama should have reserved his adjective for describing the Met superiors. And, ah, do mind the spellings, no disrespect intended, by me or the OP.

Sleeping With The Enemy (1948 - Present)

Girls & Boys of Manchester, today I am (not) going to talk about the film, Sleeping With The Enemy, with Julia Roberts as the star vehicle (1991). It was a good romance film, albeit a bit unrealistic with stereotype characters etc. Yet, with a beer on the short table and a lovely girl draped around, well, with those things at your disposal....

Lets get to the point here. I never knew – before today, that is- being a visa consultant could be a job as tough as being on the front line of a war. Sometime back in this country there was a terrorist problem that had caused utmost grief to all its inhabitants. As is the case with all other wars, there were many who held questionable loyalties. Lord Haw-Haw, Irish Super-grass, and even recent Al- Quaida informants could be included if you make your blanket wide enough.

But the guy who came here today was certainly a strange sort of a bird. I mean, how could you go to the opposition camp when you fully know these are the same people who butchered small children? No I am not talking of Tony Blair, he ordered to butcher kids of other nations. Good old Cherry & Tony did not ask anyone to come here butcher English kids (well, they did not need to, their foreign policy accomplished that end without fail). Now this guy here is different. He volunteered to go among the people who took suckling infants off their mother's breasts and dashed them against walls – just as the Bible asked you to... (Kings 8:12-13; Luke 19:44; Isaiah 13:16, Lost count).

Well, the nice friends of this gentleman went a bit further than ripping open pregnant women. They kindly deposited infants on hot flat-pans (rotti-thatiya) on fire, so the infant will slowly roast to death. I am sure even some Old Testament prophets will be amazed by the deeds of these people. Now, some people, like Tony Blair, who rained missiles on whatever that moved, can find solace in the fact that these were other people's children. But your own?

OK nevermind the technicalities, as always. The courts have acquitted these people, authorities are satisfied, the police accepted facts, and so on. Simply, they are free. Well, living in a civilised age, I am not the one to lead a lynch mob to “put things right”, and if the courts acquit, hell with it, I concur!

People outside of X might say that is a strange sort of justice, specially considering the reputation of justice system of the country X. Well, I say you are all wrong. Country X has a very strong and very faire judicial system. Good citizens of X send drug dealers into their parliament, send people openly involved in protection rackets to local government councils, have tolerated opposing voices being tortured in prisons on trumped up charges, their religious leaders openly bless those who openly steal public monies, they send police to beat women workers in trade zones with sticks, have given grand applause when parliamentary representatives switch sides, have approved and encouraged murderers to get seats in the parliament, and so on.

No they do not stop there. Yes, I know you are saying, please, this is enough. Not for the denizens of X, who have elected leaders who have taken part in killing their own children! I am serious here, in that country, the Country X, top order is made up of those who actually liaised with the gentlemen who put infants on hot flat-pans to roast to death.

When their leaders are such, could you blame citizens for sleeping with the enemy?

When corruption, deception, and glorification of barbarity is the norm, average citizen loses his moral compass. Like those Jews who supported Hitler, or like those went to war to “protect” the empire which took their land & killed parents, average citizen becomes a zombie who cant tell right from wrong.

And what do they do?

They send their young daughters to sleep with the enemy. And when that does not suffice, they take daughters away and go sleep themselves (with the enemy!).

The moral of the story: Throw away your moral compass, or you won't fit in here.

Poor Citizens of X. Ah, by the way, I still got mine in good working order. How about you?

Hit me baby one more time

OK I got a new printer, another HP piece of shit – mainly because they are cheap, secondly since HP has invested serious technologies to make sure you won't be using it for too long. The ink cartridges come with chips to tell you they are out of ink before they actually run dry, making you buy new ones when the old ones still have life in them. Before I forget, they come with a soak pit to collect force drained ink, when the pit is full your printer is screwed. I found out some more info on how to get even with the HP suckers – last one I used for two odd years done enough with home refilled cartridges, and its going to repair shop. Listen here you bastards at HP, I am getting even. Its a consumable arms race and I am evolving too.

Now HP has not been like this always, in my impoverished student days, they sold some good workhorse printers which went on for ever. And I still hot-wired them. Did you hear that you French-polishing rollos at HP? Yes, screw you, I am going to hot-wire this one too if I can.

Someone complained I use too many dirty words on this blog lately. Relax, its just for fun. In Smells like teen spirit Kurt Cobain sings “she's overboard and self assured” and other references about teen spirit (though the words are not sung in the song), which was a perfume worn by ladies and some “other” ladies – was he actually referring to his ex? Or was this incoherent, meaningless song with words like “oh well, whatever, nevermind” all about very short attention span of the GenX – still better than Twitter? Now you know where the nevermind bits came from in the last few posts. Actually, really I was paying my respects to late Kurt Cobain.

You think I write dirty words? Listen to the song, Kurt sings “Oh, no, I know a dirty word”, “Hello, how low”, “with the lights out its less dangerous”, “I feel stupid and contagious”, “I found it hard, hard to find” - followed by that nevermind bit, “A denial” ten times.

And do you now know what I know a dirty word is? What do you think he is doing with Teen Spirit wearing girlfriend with the lights out, and how low it could be, its not that hard to find, specially if they are in denial afterwards and its not going to last too long. Just ask Bill Clinton, the expert, he will tell you all about it, or take one look at Hilary's face and you will know.

And you say I use dirty words! Bastards is not a dirty word, its clearly in law, in the bible, and is a term used to describe HP executives by their own mothers. Are these establishments dirty too?

And I did not invent Hit me baby one more time either, Britney Spears sang it, well she had first hand experience at the hands of her ex, a point which Eminem made only too clear in his Real Slim Shady, really he intended PamAm rather. I was just asking the HP fellows.... to hit me one more time with their cheap printers.

Weird way of putting things is it? Ah just go and read some Canada visa refusal letter and you will see what a really weird individual's writing is. Oh, no, not the old faithful UK deputy HC in Chennai, they are just plain stupid. That level of stupidity can only come from inheritance through some really weird practice. I wonder if they all look a bit, you know, alike.

But then again, having their kids named Pilot Inspektor (Jason Lee), Wednesday (nevermind who, there is a dozen), Apple (Gwyneth Poltrow), Kyd (David Duchovny), and Sage Moonblood (Sylvester Stallone), celebrities are the real weirdos, if not the ones with dirty minds.

As for me, I am living in the land of 1984 Oceania – where the sun never rises, gods throw arsenic in well water, ports where no ship calls, and power generation plants make no electricity...

Ah, I am just a fine guy you know. Just about perfect. Poor Kurt, you had the wrong thing blown this time, big time. 

Walkin on sunshine

It had been a hectic day for me. Firstly, the HP printer packed in and took my morning with it. Neither Mr Hewlett nor Mr Packard was anywhere I could find for a nice casual chat about birds, bees, and flowers. And you know that topic, specially when your whole morning is – OK nevermind, just add the words as you go by.

Then I came to office and the dreaded UK Visa form was waiting for me there. If your main reason for visiting the UK is to see family you must complete this form,it says on top. Now lets weigh things out. Are these guys going to meet family or to see the country? Oh maybe the daughter there – oh wait! She was here two months ago. They are going to see Wales! But they intend to tag their daughter along and she is sponsoring... Lets toss a coin on this, for this is beyond me.

Could the people behind this form be divinely inspired too? Cause I know the bunch at Chennai are prize winning “technical bastards”, and there is no way I could work out which form to fill, you know who on the other end will go nit picking and will write “I understand family visits are important.... But it strikes me that your main purpose of visit is tourism...”

And you tell me to work this out without inspiration. If you do, then you haven't dealt with UK Deputy High Commission in Chennai. Things were not going well, and my clients were getting impatient – they think I could divine things out without seeing any documentation. Anyway its resolved and they pay the fat fee and depart with hopes. Good luck mates.

Enter the people who think we are a 24/7 on call Samaritan help line. Can this day get any worse? Some quickie and they are off too. My poor secretary was sweating, me at the end of my tether, and here comes a call from a potential customer. It turns out he needs to go to Canada and has a business plan ready for us too. What is this business plan? Find him clients for a commission – “you could have customers interested in....” No we are sorry, we don't have customers interested in your services, besides we are not a job agency, says my PA. Off he goes, with some apologies. Things were not looking bright indeed.

Lets go for a fag and some coffee I think. And the mobile rings at the most inconvenient moment, fag in one hand and the coffee in the other I need a third hand to get the phone. “Here hold this for a moment, and don't stick your mouth in there for I don't know what was in it last night” I tell the person next to me for I need to free a hand to get the phone. “Hello, this is blah blah..” turns out some nice people with a nubile daughter interested in me as a potential scape goat to take over their karma. Lets be nice, though I cant be a million miles from being Mr Nice right now. “OK, OK, OK, thank you, sure I'll be there”. There goes my afternoon too.

Made a quick lunch, returned to office to type out the visa letter for our good customer who thinks we are Samaritan help line. Over with that too. Its 3.10, and need to be at the young lady's place soon. Lets get moving, and arrived there in the nick of time. Do I have a plan here? I mean what am I going to talk to them? Well its not going to be about birds and bees as I feared they might already know these things by now, besides I already had that conversation with Messrs Hewlett & Packard this morning, telling them what it feels like to be s****** early in the morning by a cheap printer.

They turned out to be a nice bunch despite of my initial misgivings. Girl was OK too, mind you. Just that I was past caring. Usually I am quite good at these situations, except I was not myself this day, after that accursed printer did my day in this morn. Where do I start? Nice Teddy bear you have there.. no that's a non-starter. What a nice dress you have on there – they might think I am a sex maniac, ogling all that even before things get rolling. Finally I settled on (Baruch) Spinoza, I know, but I just didn't know any better. It turned out the poor girl did not even know if Spinoza was vegetable or mineral. Shit.

Well there is a silver streak in every dark cloud – and you'd sure find it when the lightning strikes you. So I come home before 6.00, which was good. And what did I find there? The two cat bastards have ventured into the nearby bush and have to fetch them from there.

Change dress and off I go into the spotted viper infested bush to cajole them to come home for dinner. Guess what, they thought I was sport and had the time of their lives at my expense.

Once in a book titled That's Life, I read an article aptly titled Wilde East. It tells you all about train robberies and accident fatalities in India and advices you “next time when you wait on the platform and see that next from Clapham Junction is 5 minutes late, and curse, just thank gods you are not in India.” Valuable advice indeed, except I was waiting for the spotted viper to make a social call....

And you thought you had a bad day

In the shadows of gods

Its night here in Colombo and sleep angel seems to be nowhere near. Wondering in the wilderness of www, it struck me that my long suffering PA too is disapproved of my wordings in previous blog. My Apologies. Like Eminem, I am singing “sorry mama (PA), I never meant to hurt you – but tonight I am clearing up my closet...” Will she buy that? Nope, I think not. What to do, the world indeed is round. Or is it?

Its not the first time I had a finger in Girl's High School affairs down here. One feller out there predicted earthquakes – at least he wasn't divinely inspired; another found arsenic in, oh never mind. Its just so that these are the people who shape future academia in this country, and their quality is abysmal.

The question, the serious question some ask me is “what if there really is arsenic in those waters after all?” Look kiddies, care I not even if they found the holy grail in those wells in North Central province. Is that a good enough answer?

What I am concerned with is not if they found arsenic, neither if the whole bunch including that earthquake predictor at the other Girl's School went ahead and ate arsenic trioxide in cartloads, no sir, just go ahead and do it and see if I care. I am concerned with HOW they went about finding arsenic (and that no hope earthquake too).

In the (un)civilised societies of the West, whose science is false and culture is beneath that of our own (not my words, but those of the divinely inspired) DMS is currently under the microscope for their voting in of “borderline mental disorders”, whatever they are. I mean these people may have problems with their wives you know. This current bunch of idiots are also the butt of many jokes, and magnet of criticism for their voting in of mental diseases. Can you vote in to decide if someone has coronary heart disease, or cancer, or rabies for that matter? I mean you treat these people with medication you know, and you voted this in? Kids, I love to use some adjectives here, but my good PA will be much vexed if I did so. Here are some suggestions of potential disease candidates for them to consider in their next general election of mental diseases:

Text Autistic Syndrome: a mental illness consisting on being in a get-together with people who texts other people who are not in the same room.

Nasocomesonia: mental illness that refers to scratching your nose.

Challenged Facebook Mania: a mental illness deriving from feeling dared by people in the FB wall.

Attention on the Screen Superavit: a mental illness manifested by too much TV or computer screen attention time.

Twitter Span of Attention Disorder: the handicap of 140 characters to read and write every time even when writing reports or reading books.

Full list is at: http://www.hs.facebook.com/topic.php?uid=328306427659&topic=14434

Just stick around long enough to find out which ones will be elected... these guys do have wife problems, I am telling you. This is what happens when you marry the wrong person. You take it out on the rest of the world. Naughty words, where are thee?

So lets get back to our original discussion, if its still worth it. I am sure most of you got it by now. But among us there are (no, not aliens) those who went to the Girl's Schools taught by this bunch, and if you are one of them, here is my £0.02p you still did not get it.

My point is, if we used divine intervention in detecting arsenic in well water or piss water in some god forsaken place out there, what would we be doing after? Will we use divine intervention in deciding who the culprits are in a murder trial? Or in a rape case? How about next elections, surely gods are better judges than we are, so why not seek their intervention in deciding who goes to that awful parliament in this tiny third world country living on foreign loans? How about choosing whom you marry? Surely gods' choice is the best. There is even a phrase on this “made for each other”, to hell (now that is NOT a naughty word) with Thalassemia testing and incest laws. Lets get the gods to decide on that marital matter in detail too. I can only hope DMS fellows followed suite, would have saved us some enormous hassle had they done that.. It cuts out the Kapuwa's commission too! Oh I almost forgot, CDC says some people died while they were sitting on the toilet seat – never mind what they were upto – so lets check it out with gods when we go in for a call of nature too.

You see, this god mania is something like Pringles, once you start there is no stopping, and if an independent body confirms arsenic in water out there, by this time next year, you'd be speaking French before going into toilet.

Cussin on the blog

OK Kiddies, today Uncle Don is going to tell you something about swear words and their usage. OK kidding, but its a topic worth a word or two (or more) – firstly as I recently pointed a few young ladies to this blog, and one of them called back to voice her displeasure, secondly an academic friend was annoyed with my wordings over that arsenic idiot bunch.

Harlan Ellison, the guy behind The Terminator movie concept, swore profusely on print. In that particular script he writes “ Smash those Metal Motherf***rs!!” , and on the preface to a collection of short stories, he writes “I don't write for Mamma's boys” with some fine adjective in the middle, starting with f* again if I recall correct. Now I think he was perfectly within his senses when he penned those naughty words, as they were essential to the plot, I mean do you want to hear (or read for that matter) a dialogue like “Kindly Sir, it would not be proper manners to insert that pointy protruding thingy without consent as it may be frowned upon by the good civilised gentlemen of....” in a groping in the dark alleys scene (unconsented, of course)? Surely you wouldn't be putting them in the mouths of the wicked aliens even. Just to keep it simple, you do need naughty words sometimes.

Now, recently on a local newspaper an academic had had a real go at someone who wrote a poem hoping for an Adolf Hitler to come in the guise of president in this country to line everyone on the road to the gas chamber (though the writer actually wrote gas uduna-ta – meaning 'to the gas oven'). Never mind the technicalities, the writer just intended to express his utmost hatred towards the benighted masses of idiots (his words) making up the populace of this country. In my opinion this type of writing stems from utter disillusionment and anger within the person who writes.

As for me, my writing is rather Harlan Ellison type, I use naughty words not because I am angry with anyone, but merely because I need to drive a point home and when civilised language simply wouldn't do. Let me explain:

Recent article on the net had named the prettiest British women since, since whenever. As you could well guess I clicked the link and saw they have sacrileg(ed) Vivien Leigh, had Belgian born Audrey Hepburn at No: 01 spot (which was OK), Keeley Someone in middle (not a patch on Keeley Hazell) & that Darling Bud of May (sheep s******'s daughter) on 4 and so on. The list also had some of the ugliest bitches I have ever seen on certain spots – who voted them in do not know I. Yet they were there. Fortunately they had the good sense enough to avoid horseface Kate (not a patch on Di, far by far). Now tell me how else am I to write this without inserting the B word. Oh I could say it also had some refined ladies of rather modest beauty compared to other ladies.. but who do you think would have given a F*** if I did write that?

To make you all happy here is the corrected version of my blog:

The learned gentlemen and refined ladies involved in detecting arsenic through divine intervention have not conducted their good affairs within the rules of science, but have resorted to the practices of refined and compassionate gentlemen who are members of the esteemed clans we commonly refer to as tribes, such as those found in Papua New Guinea. Also, considering the tolerant attitude the refined divinely inspired arsenic detection tribe display towards dissenting voices (as was graciously reported on Raavaya 03-June), as well as by their own modest admission (The Island) I have the pleasure of inferring they would keenly follow the most compassionate and most humane practices of Korowai tribe, albeit so far being restricted by law of the land that has been forced upon us by the gentlemen of White races, who have done so by utilising their inadequate science & technology which of course are far below the prowesses of those possessed by the fine people of divinely inspired faculty at Kelaniya university.

I have just one question: Could these f*****s and their super science come up with any medicine to alleviate the suffering of the affected masses in North Central province?