‘Tailcalled’ is the name by which a particularly nasty form of internet lowlife goes. He brought himself to my attention again recently, this time by challenging me on Twitter, with his bogus theorising. I ran his ass off my YouTube a couple of years ago for doing the same thing.
The funny thing is, we don’t even know if ‘Tailcalled’ is male or female. Looking at the image he uses of himself, I’d hazard that either he is actually a female with a weird identity fetish or that is not his picture.
‘Tailcalled’ likes to make up phoney ‘surveys’ with no credible methodology at all and then pretend that this makes him (her) an authority of the stature of Blanchard, Bailey, Lawrence and others. (Note that I do not include myself; I am merely a reporter.) In fact, ‘Tailcalled’ is not an authority of any kind, but it is clear, since he does have sycophants, that the weak-minded do not realise this.
‘Tailcalled’; purports to be a ‘fan of psychometry’ without, apparently, realising that psychometry, a dubious discipline in any case, depends entirely on the quality and context of both the questions and the samples.
Sniff! She died. She’s been with me these last five years, and she’d been around a good few years before we met. She was like a female character out of a Springsteen lyric, kinda worn and raggedy, but she stuck with me through thick and thin. I don’t know how many films or repeats of TV series I’ve watched with her, or how many words I wrote with her, but I do know the paint was gone from most of her keys at the end…I did explain it was my old laptop that died, didn’t I?
My neighbour was given this with a load of other bits and bobs. She thought it was a toy, but closer examination made me disagree. For a start, it was quite clearly a gun of some order, but it didn’t have any kind of handle. There wasn’t a conventional trigger either.
It might have been a toy cannon, but it didn’t have a carriage. Yet opening it up revealed that it was chambered to take a real twelve-bore shotgun cartridge. Plus it’s made of very heavy cast iron. It’s just not like a child’s toy at all.
Surely it is a nasty, dirty, smelly procedure best consigned to the bucket of history? Surely digital is cheaper, easier, faster, more modern? And worst of all, film is analogue—well that’s just not right.
Tomato plants? Well, spring in France this year was the worst I can remember, and so far summer has not been much better. By this time I should be on first-name terms with the community of lizards that live in my courtyard, but this year, hardly a hello. They’re all still hiding.
Mind you, it’s not been so bad for all the critters in the yard. My pet hate, les limaces, our delightful Burgundian slugs, are positively thriving. I mean, these ones are not shy, they don’t even try to hide, and they’re bright orange anyway. Maybe it’s a warning that they taste disgusting. I’ll let someone else find out. What I do know is they like my tomato plants. Continue reading “Slugs and Snails and Tomato Plants?”
It is now over twenty years since the fall of the Berlin Wall; for many young people, the Cold War, of which it was the most compelling symbol, is no more than a history lesson. In my desk here I have a small piece of concrete, with paint on, which was recovered from that wall and sold as a tourist trinket. It is perhaps the most telling one I have.
Our children do not, as those of my generation did, live in daily fear of being blown to pieces by atomic bombs or dying an agonising death from radiation sickness. They do not walk into their schools to find posters saying “Better Dead Than Red” on the walls, nor do they crowd around flickering television sets alongside their anguished parents, watching as Kennedy drew his line in the ocean, and curled his finger around the trigger of nuclear Armageddon. And for this we should all be very, very thankful indeed. No child should have to live with nightmares like those. Continue reading “The Realpolitik of Islamism”
This week has seen the United States lose all the international credibility and influence it once had. We are right back to the period immediately after the Fall of Saigon, when an incompetent – and unelected — President, Gerald Ford, oversaw the shameful debacle of the US Embassy being evacuated by helicopter.
Only a few years later, the US did it again, this time with another incompetent’s hand on the tiller, Jimmy Carter’s. That got them eight years of a truly great President, Ronald Reagan and four years of Bush the Elder, before the proto-wokos sneaked Clinton in. They managed to wing it through the catastrophic era post-Yugoslavia and even to pretend that, in completely destroying both Iraq and Libya and rendering Syria a war zone, they had served the cause of global peace.
Not this time, though. The corruption and incompetence of the present US Administration can no longer be hidden. It’s a busted flush – if it ever were flush in the first place; he who would cheat an election, after all…
Poaching the River is back on the shelves, both physical and virtual, so I have been addressing the next issue.
Poaching the River was written only partly in English, or at least the Scottish version of it, and all the dialogue is in authentic Mearns Doric. That is my native tongue of course, although I didn’t really know it until I was at school.
The book was written as a homage to that culture, but it is a sad fact that there are few of us left who understand Doric, or can speak it. Ever since Poaching was first published I have had requests to translate it into English, something I have always resisted, for a number of reasons.
Fertile women cycle until they are around fifty years old, at which point a phenomenon called menopause occurs, when a woman ceases to produce eggs for fertilisation. Millions of ova develop within the female unborn baby, far more than the 450 or so that are ever used, so why has this cut-off point evolved?