Month: December 2014

PIGS –

AN ULSTER CHILDHOOD – LYNN C. DOYLE

PIGS

I never became really friendly with a pig.

Pigs collectively I liked, just as I liked hens and geese and sheep ; but I never singled out any individual as a special object of affection, as I have sometimes done with all the other species of animals on my uncle’s farm. I never knew a pig by name. Yet pigs rightly considered are attractive animals.

Common report deals hardly with them. To say that a man is as dirty as a pig is to insult the pig. For a pig is a clean animal when his master will permit him to be so. He does not dwell in his moist, insanitary piggery from choice, but loves sweet, dry straw, and spends much of his time perambulating the dunghill to which he is condemned, in search of such a bed. We misapprehend his efforts to attain personal purity, and hold him up to obloquy v/here we should rather approve.

The sow that returned to her wallowings in the mire was really seeking cleanliness. A fallible being will fail somewhere, Doctor  Johnson has pithily said. The sacred writer, inspired only about heavenly things, in the matter of pigs was little better than one of the foolish.

Nor have profane writers dealt more happily with them. There was an old copy of the Essays of Elia in our lumber-room, when I was ji boy. Even then I was a devoted Elian, but I could never quite forgive Lamb for his callous attitude towards sucking pigs. His heartless conceit about the roasted youngsters’ jellied eyes was to me disgusting. It was not worthy of the gentle Elia. He would not have been guilty of it had he ever stood, as I have done many a day for half-an-hour at a time, watching the engaging gambols of a young litter, seen best when fresh straw had been thrown them. There is no more charming picture of animal infancy. Here a roguish eye appears, there a moist shining disk of nose working anticipatively in the hope of provender that your coming has aroused. One sportive little chap seizes a long straw in his mouth and frisks off with it, champing his jaws in pretended relish, another shakes his head till his neck smacks with the long, silken ears, then parades round rakish, with one ear turned inside out. This moment they are all fun and gambol, one jumping over another, or two or three butting a comrade down and nosing him playfully ; the next they form a group before the door, eyeing you with inquiring gravity, then in a sudden impulse scatter diverse through the straw again, squealing in affected panic. There was better matter and more akin to the mild spirit of Elia in such a sight than in the horrid spectacle of a roasted innocent. He might have given us a chapter on tails, and shown us with infinite adornment of fancy how that little embellishment of one end of a pig can modify the character of the other end of him ; how the accident of a straight tail can throw a subtle suggestion of melancholy over a snub and cheerful coun- tenance, or a curly tail bestow a certain archness on a long, serious snout.

To an Irish boy Lamb’s transports over the flavour of sucking pig seemed unnatural and ghoulish. We Irish have a repugnance to immature meats. We do not reckon sucking pig among our dishes. I would as soon think of eating a baby.

But Charles was punished for his repulsive preference. He never knew pig at its best. He does not seem to have known the incom- parable lusciousness (he would have called it sapor) of stuffed pork fillets. From his remark about ” the rank bacon ” he can have enjoyed no breakfast dallyings with mild-cured Irish such as my Cousin Joseph — esteemed a connoisseur — used to deal out to me some morning after I had been storm-stayed at his house, accompanying the generous helping with his time-honoured joke that ” there was something better than Shakespeare.”

Yet it was bacon that prevented my ever having a pig for my friend. The butcher’s  knife hung suspended over the most captivating youngster of our rearing. ■ I could not bear to embark on a friendship of which the end must, inevitably be tragedy. I knew too well the warnings of doom, the straw scattered in the yard, the cauldron of boiling water, the beam in winter laid along the rafters of the barn, in summer resting on two branches of the great ash tree — ^the sledge hammer and cord. Already I saw the carcasses hideously suspended. It was no mere porcine tragedy that my imagination bodied forth. Romance and history swelled the scene. Perhaps the Great Marquis had met his pitiful fate ; or I was in the Middle Ages, and Villon and his associates hung pendent from the gallows.

But had I been transported back to a sterner century, I could never have made one of the jeering crowd at a gallow’s foot. When our dog Keeper’s furious baying told me that Pat D -, the pig-sticker, was at hand, I fled to my bedroom and remained there with muffled ears till the execution was over in all its grisly details. I only once emerged from my retreat before the carcasses were cleaned and hung up ; it was because I wished to know exactly what happened to Vich Ian Vohr and Evan Maccombich after they drove off from Waverley on the hurdle ; and I wish I hadn’t done it. Ever afterward Pat D was to me ” a horrid fellow as beseemed his trade.” He perceived my distaste for him ; and being a kindly man, as I know now, and fond of children, used to propitiate me with bladders. But a pig’s bladder makes a lopsided football, with no accuracy of flight. I had little pleasui-e in Pat’s gifts, and wasn’t softened towards him. My emotions of horror were transient. Before nightfall I was looking forward eagerly to next morning’s drive to the pork-market ; that is, if I had obtained permission to accom- pany old Tom Brogan, who as a steady, faithful retainer of thirty years standing and more was generally trusted to sell our pork. The best market was nine miles away. To arrive in time it was necessary in winter that the cart should leave our house about five o’clock. It was the only early rising that was ever pleasant to me. But everything connected with it was full of novelty and charm. On such a morning a little boy might wash in the most perfunctory fashion un- reproved. Then there was the delight of having breakfast in the kitchen with Tom Brogan, and mopping up my bacon-gravy with crusts, and cooling my tea in the saucer, just as he did. For our maid-servants were always too sleepy to reprove my breaches of table manners, and my aunt, conscious of the undress beneath her shawl, issued her in- structions to Tom in a series of hoverings round the kitchen door, but never ventured in. I had my tea strong those mornings and ate twice as much breakfast as usual, and in half my usual time, the latter part of the meal degenerating into mere cramming as my uncle’s muffled roars from upstairs became more insistent. When I had gulped down the last possible mouthful of tea — the hottest one— I was pounced upon by our maid and wrapped in such superfluity of mufflers that it became necessary to shake the breath half out of my body before my overcoat would button. Then I mounted the box-seat of the stage-coach — for I was generally Tom Brown going to Rugby on such occasions — and off we went.

I shall never forget those early morning drives, though I cannot recall the details of any one of them. They are all compounded into a single experience. There is the sen- sation of darkness and intense cold. The lantern shadows wheel slowly on the trees as our yard boy lights us down the avenue. The lantern hangs in the air without human agency as I look behind me and call good-bye. The ice crashes under our wheels ; our horse snorts and clatters as he mounts the hill, fearful of the frozen road. We emerge from the trees, and there a pale moon is hanging strangely in the west. Presently we settle down to a steady jog. A phantasmagoria of tree and hedge shapes passes sleepily before my eyes. Across the fields sounds the rattle of another cart, bound as I know, on a like errand with ourselves. Another and another is heard as we draw near the four roads. The countryside is filled with the soothing murmur of innumerable carts, all going to D pork-market. I am lying on the straw and Tom Brogan is covering me with a rug. I peer drowsily over the edge of the cart ; we are one of a long procession of carts. Trees and houses are taking on colour ; here and there a lighted window gleams warmly in the pallid dawn. I close my eyes ; and next moment I am staggering on numbed feet in the pork-market of D , and Tom Brogan is peering into my face and asking me if I am sure I am awake.

Row upon row of carts fill up the market square. I scamper in and out, and am dis- concerted to find that our pigs are not the wonders of the pork world I thought them. I hurry back to warn Tom. He is surrounded by several sharp -faced men with pencils and note-books. They are pork- buyers, city men ; the name of a great bacon- curing firm in Belfast is mentioned. I feel myself a country boy, and am abashed before them, and forbear to warn Tom. But I fume with anxiety when he refuses the offered price, and know in my heart he is making a mistake, and that we shall return home ignominious with our pigs unsold. I cannot bear the strain, but go off again among the carts, and am diverted from my anxiety by observing, rather to my disgust, sundry ol boys from our school enjoying a holiday pork-market day. I return to our cart. ‘ pigs* are sold. I am delighted with success ; but feel that Tom took great ri and wonder at his nerve.

Then Tom and I go to what he calls eating-house, and I have steak and oni( and strong tea again, and fresh bread thicker slices than I had ever seen bef( and do not die of it all as I should now, hurry off to buy sweets with the sixpe that Tom has been authorised to give i and to watch the roulette table, and the n with three thimbles and a pea. I perct that this last is a simple fellow, and am sc I have spent my sixpence, and suggest a 1 from Tom ; but he tells me such men h the Black Art, and that I would only 1 my money ; so I press him no more, avoid evil, and pass on to the Aunt Sally

But my early rising begins to tell on i My appetite for pleasure is dulled soo than usual. I begin to have a curii sensation that all the movement around is happening in a dream. Besides, I anxious to get home again, to tell everyb( how well Tom and I have sped in i marketing. So when the cart is ready I cli in willingly enough. I feel a little sad on homeward journey. It is probably the st and onions ; but I do not know that, I think I am sorry about the dead pigs. When I have had my supper, I go to look at the empty piggery, and feel really sorry when I remember its departed occupants, their tumultuous rush to the gate when they heard my footsteps, their cheerful upraised snouts and interrogative gruntiftgs, their luxurious submission to my scratching of their backs with the handle of the yard shovel. These were the nearest approaches to friendship I ever made with our pigs. On the evening of pork-market days I was always sorry I had gone so far.

Advertisements

Dipendenza, Chat,chat,chat

facebook
recent_press_hm_thumb-150x150 [1]Il pensiero può fare molte persone rabbrividire, ma come gli alcolisti, solo una bevanda apre un vaso di Pandora, e un solo testo superfluo e la valanga inizia.

Chat, chat e più la chat, il mondo è pieno di chiacchierata elettronica, cellulari e computer. Persone trascorrono ore e ore condividere tutto dall’attività più semplice per il segreto più profondo. La necessità per la chat travolge alcune persone, e si ritrovano coinvolti in dipendenza di chat. Lentamente vita ruota intorno chiacchierata con ogni momento di veglia possibile focalizzata sul testo successivo o chat.

Sembra folle ad alcune persone e agli altri la chat è un importante attività di vita. I seguenti sette segni della chiacchierata dipendenza può aiutare a esaminare il vostro bisogno per la chat e il tempo speso su online o sms. La vita è piena di scelte, ma hai scelto di trascorrere la vostra vita catturati nel flusso della comunicazione elettronica?

1. Ridi dicendo LOL invece di risate reale. Credo che questo non può accadere, beh, la gente ha confessato a dire effettivamente LOL perché spendono così tanto tempo a chiacchierare elettronicamente.

2. L’ortografia sembra pad di uno stenografo riempito con gr8, imho, rflmao, u2 e mille altre scorciatoie.

3. Non si può ricordare l’ultima volta che si sedeva con un amico e aveva una chat vocale, ma avete trascorso le ultime tre settimane on-line o sul tuo sms telefono cellulare per una moltitudine di amici e amici degli amici.

4. Sapete di più su vostre star preferite, e le loro attività quotidiane tramite  Twitter  e altri chat online che ne sai sulla tua famiglia e gli amici. Queste persone hanno più influenza di quanto la famiglia e gli amici sul comportamento sociale accettabile e azioni.

5. Il computer non è mai disconnesso o il telefono cellulare non è mai più di pochi centimetri di distanza e sempre, “just in case”. Lei costantemente prende in mano il telefono certo il segnale funzionava male.

6. Si va a cena con un amico o un familiare, ma spende il pasto intero sms a qualcuno e indietro.In qualche modo il godimento del momento si perde tra i pensieri casuali condivisi avanti e indietro. Non è possibile spegnere il telefono cellulare per paura vi perdete un testo importante, o sedersi al tavolo distratto perché ti chiedi cosa ti manca non essere in linea.

7. Rispondete testi casuali o disguidati a sconosciuti, perché non si può resistere avendo una conversazione, ogni conversazione che viene il vostro senso. Tu sei la chat compulsivo, e il pensiero di lasciare questo testo o chat su Internet senza risposta ti fa ansioso.

Chat dipendenza è una dipendenza quando la necessità per la chat è più grande di qualsiasi altra attività nella vostra vita. Certo che sei andato al cinema, ma hai passato tutto il tempo che texting sul film, i tuoi pensieri, o qualsiasi altra cosa viene in mente. In qualche modo, l’esperienza complessiva è perso come focus è sul quel piccolo schermo di fronte a voi.

Molte persone dipendenti per chattare hanno lasciato la loro vita andare in attesa mentre ottengono la loro dose quotidiana. Bisogna essere preoccupati se una persona è in linea più ore di quanto non in linea con la famiglia e la vita. A volte il modo migliore per conquistare questa dipendenza è smettere di chiacchierare, tranne per le emergenze familiari o legate al lavoro. Il pensiero può fare molte persone rabbrividire, ma come gli alcolisti, solo una bevanda apre un vaso di Pandora, e un solo testo superfluo e la valanga inizia.

GAY MONARCHS of the UNITED KINGDOM

Just stumbled upon

So over here in the UK, everybody has gone bat-shit crazy over William and Kate Middleton getting married. I kind of missed the Royal wedding myself I’m actually quite ashamed to admit, I was in bed until 4pm with a stinking hangover (kind of regret that now)

Anyway this is just a tenuous link to what I actually am going to blather about in this post – the side of the British Royals that isn’t often talked about, the Kings and Queens that were (alleged to be) homosexual.

There are generally seven British monarchs that are believed by (at least some) credible historians to be gay (one of which is definite), but which is your favourite, all are interesting in their own way (except perhaps death-by-gout-such-an-unglamourous-way-to-die Queen Anne) :

King William Rufus (1087 – 1110)

Son of William the Conqueror, and openly gay. William Rufus was not a popular king. He is…

View original post 922 more words

Question and Answer Time

Taken from a Scottish Football Forum

Q: Is it true that “King” Billy was gay?

A: Thought Billy Jean King was gay not King Billy…..

A: If so…………………. It gives a whole new meaning to “Billy Boys”

A: I have no idea…….I’ve heard he was but who the hell cares.

A: Apparently his wife didnt know which way to turn

A: Ask Jock Stein, I hear he knows!

A: No; King William III(King Billy) was actually joint monarch with his Wife Mary.However William IV (William Rufus)
was reported to be gay

A: William III’s Jacobite enemies certainly accused him of being so, and he seems to have had a close relationship with his Dutch favourites like Bentinck. At the same time, he seems to have been fond of his wife, and also had a mistress,
Elizabeth Villiers.
So, not exclusively so, though of course we’ll never know for sure.

A: King Billy (William of Orange) was openly bisexual, but in those days who wasnt!!

A: We used to have a lad at school. his name was Billy King of course, the school registers showed his surname first… and the nickname stuck.

A: Urban legend
There was also a story going about that he was a catholic and went to visit the pope

A: Aye as bent as the back road to Cloughmills

A: He was in a position to indulge all his tastes.

A: Yes, She came out years ago.

Spargi la parola

Il popolo segreto

 http://thesecretpeople.wordpress.com/about/

The Secret People è una poesia di GK Chesterton su chi non ha voce e trascurato gente comune d’Inghilterra ed è l’ispirazione per la denominazione di questo blog.

e trascurato gente comune anche in Italia………………………

I draghi

Le fiabe dicono più che la verità.
E non solo perché raccontano che i draghi esistono,
ma perché affermano che si possono sconfiggere.

 

 

Per troppo tempo, forse per sempre, la gente di questo paese sono stati molto tranquillo quando si tratta di coloro che presumibilmente ci rappresenta. Nel prendere in parola nel rappresentare noi e lasciando loro di “andare avanti con lui”, siamo dove siamo oggi.

Allora, chi sono le persone segreto?

Ci sono, naturalmente, e ora dobbiamo parlare, agire e mettere le cose a posto …

NOTA: Tutte le lettere / templates / scripts postato qui da me può essere utilizzato liberamente da chiunque senza chiedere il permesso. Chiunque li utilizzano a scopo di lucro ma improvvisamente sente bene e morire di una morte orribile … e così sarà la vostra famiglia e gli animali domestici! … Quindi pensa su.

> <((((º> <°))))> <

 00:00
00:00

The Secret persone :
sorridono a noi, noi pagare, noi passare; ma non del tutto dimenticare.
Per noi siamo il popolo inglese, che non hanno ancora parlato.
C’è più di un contadino grasso che beve meno allegramente,
c’è più di un contadino francese libero che è più ricco e più triste di noi.
Non ci sono popolari . in tutto il mondo in modo impotente o così saggio
c’è la fame nelle nostre pance, si ride ai nostri occhi;
Si ride di noi e ci ami, sia tazze e gli occhi sono umidi:
Solo tu non ci conoscete. Per non abbiamo ancora parlato.

……………………….

 

The Secret People:
SMILE at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget.
For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.
There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.
There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.
There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;
You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:
Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.

The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.
We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.
The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;
There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.
And the eyes of the King’s Servants turned terribly every way,
And the gold of the King’s Servants rose higher every day.
They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind.
Till there was not bed in a monk’s house, nor food that man could find.
The inns of God where no main paid, that were the wall of the weak,
The King’s Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.

And the face of the King’s Servants grew greater than the King:
He tricked them, and they trapped him, and stood round him in a ring.
The new grave lords closed round him, that had eaten the abbey’s fruits,
And the men of the new religion, with their bibles in their boots,
We saw their shoulders moving, to menace or discuss,
And some were pure and some were vile, but none took heed of us.
We saw the King as they killed him, and his face was proud and pale;
And a few men talked of freedom, while England talked of ale.

A war that we understood not came over the world and woke
Americans, Frenchmen, Irish; but we knew not the things they spoke.
They talked about rights and nature and peace and the people’s reign:
And the squires, our masters, bade us fight; and never scorned us again.
Weak if we be for ever, could none condemn us then;
Men called us serfs and drudges; men knew that were were men.
In foam and flame at Trafalgar, on Albeura plains,
We did and died like lions, to keep ouselves in chains.
We lay in living ruins; firing and fearing not
The strange face of the Frenchman who know for what they fought,
And the man who seemed to be more than man we strained against and broke;
And we broke our own right with him. And still we never spoke.

Our patch of glory ended; we never heard guns again.
But the squire seemed struck in the saddle; he was foolish, as if in pain.
He leaned on a staggering lawyer, he clutched a cringing Jew,
He was stricken; it may be, after all, he was stricken at Waterloo.
Or perhaps the shades of the shaven men, whose spoil is in his house,
Come back in shining shapes at last to spil his last carouse:
We only know the last sad squires ride slowly towards the sea,
And a new people takes the land: and still it is not we.

They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lords,
Lords without anger and honour, who dare not carry their swords.
They fight by shuffling papers; they have bright dead alien eyes;
They look at our labour and laughter as a tired man looks at flies.
And the load of their loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
Their doors are shut in the evening; and they know no songs.

We hear men speaking for us of new laws strong and sweet,
Yet is there no man speaketh as we speak in the street.
It may be we shall rise the last as Frenchmen rose the first,
Our wrath come after Russia’s wrath and our wrath be the worst.
It may be we are meant to mark with our riot and our rest
God’s scorn for all men governing. It may be beer is best.
But we are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.
Smile at us, pay us, pass us. But do not quite forget.