Electoral Dissonance

It's pretty much cognitive dissonance - the ability to hold two conflicting, mutually exclusive even, beliefs simultaneously - isn't it?  The way in which our ill-informed electorate appears to think, I mean.  Or at least, the way the right-wing press seems to believe that they think, judging by their headlines.  As ever, with the arrival of a new Labour Prime Minister, the press have gone into overdrive with stories about crippling taxes to pay for his policies, etc.  They are clearly relying upon what they assume are voters' reluctance to pay taxes, to which there is an element of truth: nobody likes paying out money.  But at the same time, those self same voters are guaranteed to be in favour of cutting NHS waiting lists, building new hospitals, schools and the like.  Not to forget better mental health care provisions to keep all those dangerous nutters off of the streets that the press are always on about, more policemen to deal with those terrorists and immigrant criminals they like to try and scare their readers with, more tanks, planes and ships to see off that Russian invasion they are always scaremongering about.  Between them, the press and the public want it all.  But how do they think all of this is paid for?  The reality is that any government's main source of revenue is general taxation.  That's right, those taxes that the people who want all these services don't want to pay. 

The problem is that for decades the press and successive governments have been trying to sell us the lie that you can have both high quality public services and low taxation.  New Labour told us the shortfall could be met through Private-Public Finance Initiatives, while the Tories, once they got past their bogus 'austerity' agenda, told us it was all about simply cutting the 'unpopular' bits of public spending, (ie that targeted at the poor and minorities), to focus public finances on the 'important' stuff instead.  (A manifest lie, of course, as they also cut policing, the justice system and defence to the bone, in order to finance ever bigger tax cuts to their rich buddies).  But this 'cognitive dissonance' isn't just confined to economics.  UK voters, for instance, have consistently indicated their disdain, repugnance even, for Trump, yet, at the same time, many of them simultaneously seem prepared to vote for Nigel Fartage and his band of Reform brigands - a man who has revelled in his alleged friendship with Trump and has frequently endorsed the fat bastard's policies.  (I know he's been trying to walk this back since the disaster of Trump's war against Iran, his threatening to seize Greenland and his various disparaging anti-UK comments, but some of us don't forget).  Again, mutually exclusive positions, surely?  It's as if they have no idea what Fartage actually stands for and proposes.  Which they might well not, the British electorate seems so ill-informed (and the press seems determined to keep them that way).  Ah well, there you have it - this week's political rant

House of the Living Dead (1973)

Every so often I come across a film which has fallen into such obscurity that even I haven't heard of it.  Such was the case with Anglo-South African horror film House of the Living Dead (1973), which I recently caught up with.  Yet, despite having never seen or heard of it, the whole thing had an air of familiarity about it, reminding me, at every turn, of other low budget shockers I'd seen.  The whole business of a young woman arriving at a remote country house and finding her fiancé/husband undergoing personality changes and being suspected of various heinous crimes, along with the mad lookalike relative hidden in the attic, seems to have come straight from The Black Torment (1964), for instance.  The antagonist's experiments in capturing souls, meanwhile, is highly reminiscent of 1972' The Asphyx, while the whole voodoo-on-the-plantation business recalls I Walked With a Zombie (1943).  Despite the film's title, however, there are no zombies present, with the whole voodoo angle being a piece of misdirection, for the horrors turn out to be of the strictly pseudo-scientific kind.  The real culprit is the mad twin brother, a reclusive doctor who lurks in the attic carrying out weird experiments on the local animal population, having found a way to extract their souls and store them in large jars.  There's an equally dotty mother who opposes her other (non-mad) son's marriage to his fiancée, who is about to arrive from England, as she doesn't want to risk the insanity which runs in the family being perpetuated into another generation.  Another complication arises when an English doctor who knew the mad twin at medical college arrives at the same time as the fiancée, planning to stay with some old friends at the neighbouring farm.

All manner of mayhem ensues, with brutal murders on the plantation, at first attributed to an escaped horse, a mysterious hooded figure lurking around the countryside and an increasingly frantic fiancée trying to fathom her husband-to-be's strange behaviour, clashing with his mother and attempting to find out what's going on in the attic.  In a frenzied climax, it is revealed that, sometime before the fiancée arrived, the mad brother had murdered his twin and swapped places with him, planning to extract the girl's soul and unite it with his brother's, which he is keeping in a glowing blue jar.  Inevitably, all those glowing jars get smashed when the visiting doctor turns up with the police and the evil twin finds himself attacked by all those souls, both human and animal, he had extracted.  Cue the lead actor staggering around screaming as ghostly animal noises play on the soundtrack and coloured lights play over his face, before he falls over the banister to his death, (landing next to his dead mother who had previously tossed over that same banister).  The film ends with the girl in the visiting doctor's arms - which seems a bit creepy as he's old enough to be her father.   House of the Living Dead is an entirely derivative film, with every element feeling as if it had been borrowed from another, better, film. Even the cast, headed by Shirley Ann Field, has a hand-me-down feel, with the leads all being vaguely familiar for half-remembered TV roles.  (Still, lead actor Mark Burns did win a Best Actor prize at the 1974 Stiges Film Festival, so somebody must have liked his over-the-top, scenery chewing, performance in his dual roles).   It's all directed smoothly but blandly by Ray Austin, best known for the hundreds of TV episodes he directed, first in the UK, then the US and sexploitation films like Virgin Witch (1972).  The only thing that makes the film stand out are its South African locations, which add a certain degree of sweaty exoticism to an otherwise overly familiar scenario.

(Despite never having heard of the film under the House of the Living Dead title, I later found out that it had originally been released in the UK under the title Doctor Maniac, which I vaguely recall having been referred to, in dismissive terms, in, I think, one of Alan Frank's books on horror movies.  But I hadn't seen it, even under that title). 

Holy Dementia, Fatman!

That Trump is an utterly unhinged psychopath is pretty much beyond question, (and the US electorate equally unhinged psychos for having re-elected him), but  exactly where are his delusions leading him?  Increasingly, I'm beginning to suspect that he sees himself as some kind of super-villain.  In his own head he probably sees himself as Blofeld, Thanos or Lex Luthor, but in reality, I feel that he's closer to The Penguin.  Not any of those more recent revisionist versions of the 'Batman' villain, but rather the version played by Burgess Meredith in the sixties TV series.  It sort of fits with his increasingly insane speeches and pronouncements.  I mean, when reading or listening to them, just imagine him wearing a purple top hat, monocle, clutching an umbrella and smoking a cigarette in a long holder - the image fits perfectly.  It's the same when you see him on TV, embarrassing himself and his country at some international event or other: as he waddles in front of the cameras, just imagine him in that outfit.  Again, it fits perfectly.  He even does that super-villain thing of telling us all his dastardly plans, in detail, before he tries to enact them.  Then wonders why they inevitably seem to fall flat or get foiled by NATO, Canada, the EU or even Iran.  Soon, I'm sure, he'll be sneering, just like Penguin used to do to Adam West's Batman, as he delivers his speeches.

Then there's his apparent with Barack Obama, sorry, Barack Hussein Obama as Trump insists on calling him.  Obama's been out of the White House for at least ten years, yet Trump still seems to see him as some kind of threat.  Could it be that he suspects that Barack Hussein Obama is really Batman, out to foil him at every turn?  Maybe he thinks that Joe Biden is Alfred the Butler, Bruce Wayne/Barack Hussein Obama's aged retainer?  Perhaps Obama should start dressing up as Batman and appearing, unannounced, at events Trump is hosting, just to freak him out.  I have a strong suspicion that, some day soon, Trump will appear at a press conference dressed as The Penguin and, if he doesn't like the questions he's being asked, point his umbrella at the press and release poison gas into the crowd, killing them all.  After that, it'll only be a short step to a live TV broadcast in which he has Obama dressed as Batman strapped to some infernal device and starts ranting about his latest dastardly scheme  -suitably peppered with bird puns - before sneering and departing by telling Obama how the device he's strapped to will kill him.  Even though he's left a ludicrously easy way for Batman to escape with a single bound.  We can only hope then that Obama/Batman catches up with Trump and beats him up in the style of the TV series, with words like 'Ka-pow!', 'Wham!' and 'Ooof!' appearing on the screen.

The Dying Days of SEO?

Google's long campaign to wreck its search engine and basically destroy organic search results has, of course, culminated in its current attempt to impose 'AI overviews' on searchers rather than traditional results.  Which means, obviously, that individual websites are getting even less traffic from Google than before (and it has been in terminal decline for more than ten years).  This, in turn, has meant that the entire 'Search Engine Optimisation' (SEO) sector has been left high and dry as it is now patently obvious to everyone that their various tricks and 'strategies' can no longer 'game' search in order to promote traffic to client sites.  So they are desperately turning to other means to try and get us site owners to pay them.  Judging by the emails I've been getting of late, at least.  I've always had emails from SEO 'experts' telling me that, for a small fee, naturally, they can boost my traffic, but I've always known just enough about how the web works that it is largely snake oil that's being sold.  Of late, though, the emails have been coming from people who are promising the same boosts to traffic, but via various 'publicity' methods.  I've had two just this week from an outfit telling me how they can get my stuff onto Roku and various other platforms.  Now, bearing in mind that they do correctly identify The Sleaze as a satire site, it should be pretty obvious that a streaming TV platform is hardly the best fit for a site publishing text stories.  (Besides, if I wanted to set up a channel on Roku, I could do it myself - it isn't that difficult in principle).  

In their latest missive they even tell me how The Sleaze's traffic is up 60% so it would be great time to take up their offer.  Which seems counter-intuitive as it clearly indicates that I can grow traffic without anybody's help.  (How they know what my traffic is, I have no idea - the only reliable guide these days are server logs - to which only I have access - as I've found that the various services I use can't accurately discern bots from real visitors and one (a very well known web stats service) apparently can't process top-level VPNs - so it just ignores traffic using them).  But this particular outfit is just one of many claiming that they can get me across more platforms - none of it is anything I can't do for myself, but don't, because I've already tried and found out that it doesn't work.  I was also contacted, out of the blue, by a service concerning The Sleaze's associated podcast, 'After Hours'.  They were asking me to send a link to what I considered my best episode so that they could listen to it.  Which seemed an odd request as they had clearly scraped the email address I use for 'After Hours' from one of the services it is hosted on (most probably Spotify), in which case they know where it is and can listen to any and every episode!  Anyway, after some research, I found that they are a legit service - they apparently match up guests for podcasts.  Of course if they had listened to 'After Hours' or even read the show descriptions, they'd have known that it doesn't use guests, it isn't that kind of podcast.  In fact, I quite literally manufacture my own 'guests' for 'After Hours'.   That said, there are a lot of podcasters out there who have used their services and seem happy with them, so good luck to them.  But I still think that their method of approach was more than a little odd.

Political Puppets

So, where is Mitch McConnell, the right-wing US Republican Senator and Trump enabler?  You know the guy - he's about three hundred years old and looks like a startled turtle that just been evicted from its shell.  Well, he hasn't been seen in an age - he's allegedly in hospital recovering from a fall, but, increasingly, people are suspecting that he's actually dead and has been for some time.  Some people claim to have spoken to him on the phone and his family has released some highly dubious 'proof-of-life' photos of him in hospital.  But with modern AI, that sort of thing can easily be faked.  Assuming that he is brown bread, why is everyone so reluctant to admit it?  Personally, I think that they are stalling in the hope that they can, in some way, resurrect him in order to keep up the Republican numbers in the Senate.  What form such a resurrection could take is the question, though.  Obviously, conventional medical attempts must already have failed - there's only so many times you can put thirty thousand volts through someone's heart without response before you have to concede that they are stone cold dead.  So, it is clear that unconventional measures will have to be employed.  They could, of course, go down the Frankenstein route and try massive multiple organ transplants to get him going again.  The problem with that lies in the sourcing of the organs as rejection is always a possibility.  They've doubtless learned from that fiasco with the late right-wing talkshow host Rush Limbaugh - there was an attempt to bring him back from the dead through simultaneous multiple organ transplants shortly after his demise.  The only fresh organs they could come up with at short notice were from a recently deceased young black man.  Limbaugh survived the operation and even revived, but he just seemed to know that he had the organs of a black person inside of him and rejected them in spectacular fashion - he literally exploded!

But what are the other options for brining McConnell back from the dead?  Well, there's always that old favourite, the Voodoo route.  Now, strictly speaking, this wouldn't bring him back to life, but rather see him raised from the dead as a zombie.  Which could have its advantages, from a political point of view, as a zombie McConnell would be completely compliant to the orders of his master.  Just the sort of Republican congressman that Trump likes.  Of course, there are those who might worry about the idea of a zombie McConnell, fearing that he'd start rampaging through congress, cracking open colleagues' heads and feasting on their brains, (although, some would argue, he'd probably starve if relied solely upon congress for his diet).  But it's only movie zombies that do that sort of stuff - traditional zombies created through Haitian Voodoo rites are compliant, slow-moving and rarely violent.  So, who knows, perhaps even now there are a bunch of Voodoo priests dancing around his hospital room, performing all sorts of arcane occult rites.  After all, if we're to believe Trump and Vance, the US is already infested with pet-eating Haitians, so by the law of averages, some of them would have to be well versed in Voodoo.  Personally, though, I think that they are going to go for the puppet option.  That's right, they're going to turn McConnell's dead body into a life size puppet.  That's why the delay and all the secrecy - they have to embalm him first, then replace his skeleton with a jointed metal framework, then work on attaching the strings, so that he can be manipulated like a puppet in a sixties Gerry Anderson TV series.  It wouldn't be the first time, although previous attempts have been somewhat less sophisticated - they apparently kept the Queen Mother going for several years as a simple puppet, with a stick up her arse operating her head and mouth, and a couple of sticks operating her hands, Muppet-style - she was always seen standing behind a balcony so they didn't have to worry about making her walk.  

Now, I know what you are going to say: 'Why didn't they do the same thing with Senator Graham instead of annoincing his death?'  Which is a fair question.  But there's an obvious answer: Graham's death was sudden, coming out of the blue, without a lengthy hospital stay to use as cover.  The same sort of thing happened with Princess Diana - there was just so much press attention surrounding her sudden death in a car crash that the authorities were forced to admit that she was dead almost immediately.  Believe me, if they'd had the chance of engineering a long hospital stay, then she'd still be with us today, jerkily wandering around on walkabouts, an embalmed smile permanently on her face, but posing no threat of embarassment to the Royal Family as she'd at last be completely under official control.

The Loreley's Grasp (1973)

As I've oft noted here, thanks to a combination of illegal uploads to the likes of YouTube and streaming TV's insatiable appetite for content, you can be sure that even the most obscure of low budget exploitation movies will eventually become available.  So it was that I was recently able to finally catch up with Spanish seventies horror film I recalled reading about when I was a kid, but which had remained elusive for decades.  The Loreley's Grasp (1973) is of interest for a couple of reasons: it represented an attempt to create a new movie monster, drawing from Germanic mythology for a change, plus it was written and directed by Amando D. Ossorio, best known for his 'Blind Dead' series of horror films.  Looking at its production and release dates, The Loreley's Grasp would seem to represent an attempt to follow up on the success of the first 'Blind Dead' film, introducing another, all-new, monster.  As Ossorio's presence suggests, the film is Spanish made, although set in West Germany - despite various establishing shots of German locations, it is pretty obviously shot in Spain, with a mainly Spanish cast, although the two leads are Italian and German.  The plot centres on the legendary siren of the Rhine, Loreley (or Lorelei, even), who is traditionally depicted as a beautiful woman who sits on her namesake rock in the Rhine, her song luring the crews of passing boats to their doom on nearby rocks.  Here, however, she becomes a water nymph who, during the full moon, transforms into a scaly reptilian creature that rips the hearts from her victims, in order to eat them and transform back again.  What this ensures, of course, is that the film has a pretty high gore quotient, with some pretty graphic, for the early seventies, heart rippings out, (with young women as frequent victims in order to justify some bared breasts).

Like many continental horror films of the era, despite having a contemporary setting, The Loreley's Grasp frequently slips back into the genre tropes of the forties, with a cast of characters who might have wandered in from one of Universal's classic horror movies.  The Burgomeister of the small town where most of the action takes place, the blind musician, the handsome hunter brought in to kill the monster, they're all present, along with the eccentric and mysterious savant/scientist who turns out to be an expert on the beast, the plucky lady teacher and even the Loreley's ancient and loyal retainer.  Add to all these stock characters the fact that, when in human form, Loreley travels around in a horse drawn coach, (she frequently turns up at the funerals of her victims), and the film ends up having a weird, time-warped feel about it.  The plot ultimately breaks down into following the various killings carried out by Loreley, with the hunter always one step behind.  Eventually, these murders go beyond being fuelled by her need for human hearts, with the killings increasingly intended to eliminate those who seem to know too much about her.  In order to pad out the plot and add some depth to the story, the script ultimately has to mash together the legend of the Loreley with that of Siegfried and the Rheingold - which means that Loreley is revealed to be Wotan's daughter, charged with guarding the golden treasure of the Nibelungs in her grotto beneath the Rhine, where she is attended by the three Rhine Maidens and her retainer Alberic.  Also thrown into the mix is the 'sword of Siegfried', an irradiated blade prepared by the savant, which can force Loreley back into her human form and kill her.

In terms of execution, The Loreley's Grasp fails to match the bar set by Ossorio with his previous movie, the first 'Blind Dead' film.  Despite a brisk opening, with the Loreley in scaly form crashing through some windows to claim its first victim before the titles have rolled, Ossorio fails to maintain this pace, following up with far too many talky scenes of exposition before we get back to the monster's deprivations.  Moreover, the script is poorly structured, with the presence of a nearby girls' finishing school set up early on, but then not developed properly, with the Loreley seemingly taking two thirds of the film to realise that there is a copious supply of beautiful babes who like to take their clothes off close to her lair.  An opportunity largely missed.  The film's biggest weakness, though, is its monster, which is a pretty unconvincing man-in-a-rubber-suit which, following Ossorio's previous monster, the shambling, relentless blind and undead Knights Templar, who exude eeriness and menace with their decayed appearance, comes as a major disappointment.  It simply lacks the blind dead's originality, coming over as a poor relative of the Creature from the Black Lagoon.  Consequently, the film lacks any real atmosphere or suspense.  On the positive side, it does have some strong gore scenes and features some familiar Euro-exploitation faces in the cast, notably Tony Kendall/Luciano Stella as the hunter, Helga Line as Loreley and Franco veteran Luis Barboo as Alberic.  Not as insane as a Jesus Franco movie nor as much fun as one of Paul Naschy's monster fests, (although, in the English dub I watched, his usual English-language voice is used by Tony Kendall), The Loreley's Grasp definitely falls into the second rank of seventies Spanish horror and, despite Ossorio's credentials, it isn't surprising that it has fallen into obscurity.

As a footnote, despite what the film would have you believe, the Loreley isn't actually an ancient Germanic myth, instead having her origins in an 1801 ballad by Clemens Brantano, which, in turn, was adapted, in 1824, by Heinrich Heine into a poem.  The poem was subsequently set to music and it is this version of Loreley, as a siren-like menace, that entered German popular culture. The version of the Siegfried myth the film entwines with Loreley is likewise the one created by Wagner for his 'Ring Cycle'.

Drawing a Blank

I've been sat here, staring at the blank text field in the Blogger back-end, for what seems like an eternity, trying to think of something to post.  But, to be frank, it's defeated me.  I'm drawing a blank.  Right now, I really feel like I've run out of steam.  Not just in terms of what to write here, but generally.  Maybe it's this run of extreme temperatures we've been enduring - while, to some extent, I feel that I've become acclimatised to plus thirty temperatures, I still find being out in them for any length of time physically draining, not to mention the loss of sleep they've caused - maybe it's the ongoing aftermath of the family bereavement earlier this year, maybe I'm just getting old, but I'm back in the familiar territory of feeling stalled on all fronts.  There's so much I should be doing, from work on the house to outstanding dental work, but I'm just not doing any of it.  It doesn't help that I'm a procrastinator by nature - I even told someone that in a dream once, so clearly it is something that stretches deep into my subconscious - so when I fall into one of these moods getting even the simplest of things done becomes a major trauma.  Damn it, I'm even stalled on producing the next episode of 'After Hours' - it isn't just that I haven't got anything scripted or recorded, I simply don't have a clue what its content is going to be.  Even my repainting programme for various model railway coaches has stalled, with numerous projects queued up.  To be fair, this is partially due to the weather - spray painting and high temperatures don't really go together.

A large part of the problem is knowing where to start with all the things that I should be doing.  This dilemma then becomes an excuse for procrastination.  Instead of just picking one thing to get started with, I just end up doing nothing.  I actually started the year well, with a plan of action: I got the first bit of dental work done and thought that I was setting in motion the replacement of the house's rotting old windows.  But the latter was then stalled by the fact that I live in what the council has designated a conservation area, meaning I need planning permission to replace the windows - something I've been assured won't be forthcoming.  I know what I need to do - get in someone who can refurbish the existing windows and install secondary double-glazing.  It will probably cost just as much as installing new, look-a-like windows with double glazing, but as, technically, nothing is being replaced and thus the exterior look of the house won't be affected, it won't require planning permission.  But this, along with the next stages of my dental work, were derailed by the events leading to the aforementioned bereavement, since when, I really haven't felt motivated to do anything.  Clearly, I need to get a grip on the situation and focus on one thing to get me started - if I can get something started then, hopefully, my enthusiasm for the other stuff might be revived.  Fundamentally, though, I think that my life needs a new direction - since I decided to take early retirement - and even more so since the events of earlier this year - I've been drifting, feeling rootless and without any real purpose.  Which, of course, is something else for me to procrastinate over.

The Big Balls of Courage?

Apparently, to be a true 'warrior' you have to have big balls.  Literally, it seems.  Self styled US Secretary of 'War' Pete Hegseth's latest obsession is apparently the testosterone levels of US servicemen - he thinks they have to be sky high if they are to be effective killing machines, sorry, 'warriors'.  It seems that there are to be compulsory tests of testosterone levels for US servicemen, with booster shots on offer if they are too low.  No, I'm not making this up, it's the latest policy announced by Hegseth.  Bearing in mind this buffoon's intelligence levels, he probably really does think that you can measure male testosterone levels by the size of someone's balls.  So his compulsory tests will probably involve lines of soldiers dropping their pants and having their knackers sized up.  You can just see it, some Master Sergeant taking a tape measure or steel rule to soldiers' testicles, weighing them up on a set of scales in order to decide whether they 'make the grade'.  Of course, this obsession with testosterone levels might end up conflicting with one of Hegseth's other obsessions, that of beards.  Having declared war on facial hair in the military, (and very upset at the fact that it is being ignored in many quarters), it seems somewhat perverse to propose injecting servicemen with testosterone, which could well promote facial hair growth.

Yes, we all should be worried - the idiocracy truly has arrived and the self-styled 'world's most powerful nation' is currently in the hands of the sort of morons who take everything literally:  they really do think that when someone is described as having cojones, it means, quite literally, that they have big balls which account for their supposed bravery.  It's the sort of simplistic world view that equates testosterone-driven aggression and thuggery with the idea of a 'warrior class'.  The likes of Hegseth have clearly seen far too many ludicrous Hollywood action films and read far too many war comics.  Next thing, they'll be promoting military guys on the size of their dicks - nothing under ten inches if you want to be a general.  It is perhaps appropriate to reiterate here that the Ancient Greeks, considered the progenitors of western thought and civilisation, were of the opinion that, far from being a sign of prowess, large genitalia were an indication of a bestial, unintelligent and uncivilised nature.  Which why most male sculptures from the era are modestly endowed - that was considered a sign of civilised values.  Something for Hegseth and his buddies to ponder on, I think.

In the Dark...

I don't want to keep harping on about this Ann Widdecombe business, but with the police investigation seemingly in chaos and contradicting itself, isn't it about time that they called in Miss Marple?  I mean, this sort of thing is right up her street: some bigoted old spinster gets offed in a remote and obscure village in the rural south west of England, there's no shortage of people who hated her thanks to her views and political connections, while the local police are a bunch of carrot crunchers.  I'm sure that Miss Marple would have it all tied up in no time, with assistance from the local vicar's daughter and the village cub scout pack.  Now, at this point, I was going to go off onto a complete tangent about some model railway stuff I'd just bought at this evening's local model train and toy fair, but at just after ten, the power went out, meaning that I have no internet, other than the very expensive minutes on my mobile phone - some of which I've been forced to waste making an outage report to the electricity company, (you can't just call them and report this sort of thing anymore - you have to fill in, in the pitch dark with a half charged phone, bloody online forms).  But hey - it's just come back on, so let's hope that, once the broadband connection has reset, it stays on long enough to get this finished and posted.  So, anyway, the stuff I got tonight:

These are a couple of the old Hornby 57ft coaches from the late 70s/early 80s.  They were actually mostly based around a generic moulding with a few variations to produce 'Southern', 'Great Western' and 'LNER' coaches. The latter had beading around the windows and doors and a teak finish, while the only difference between the 'Southern' and 'GWR' coaches, apart from the liveries, were their roof designs.  The upper of the two here was a unique later addition to the range, a restaurant/buffet car that was only offered in GWR (and later BR Western Region) livery.  The lower one is the 'Southern' version of the corridor composite.  I have no idea what I'm going to do with them -  they were bought on a whim because they  were cheap.  Both will undoubtedly be repainted and renumbered, then I'll figure out what to do with them - the 'Southern' coach will probably end up as part of a boat train formation.

These three are some rather tatty Trix wagons which I picked up very cheaply.  They all have various marks on their bodies, (the container wagon's other size has what look like several melt marks from a soldering iron on it). and one has a missing coupling.  But there's nothing that can't be repaired (even the soldering iron attack aftermath).  These will supplement my Trix locos and, with the use of the converter wagons I now have, will also be able to run in formations with stock and locos with Triang-style couplings.  

Well, the power's still on, (I'm guessing that it was a tripped fuse at the sub-station, although, until they find out why it tripped, there's a risk it'll go out again), so I'll post this and e-mail the police as to why they haven't got Miss Marple on the Widdecombe case yet... 

Disrespecting the Dead?

I see that the right-wing snowflakes have been out in force following this Ann Widdecombe business, working themselves up into their usual frenzy of self-righteousness over anyone perceived as 'disrespecting' their fallen 'heroine'.  We had their 'thought police' in the form of the right-wing press fuming because Sky's Adam Boulton had apparently described her as an 'old maid' and a 'spinster', forcing him to issue an apology.  Now, I'm no fan of Boulton, although his Alistair Campbell-induced on air meltdown in the aftermath of the 2010 general election was hugely entertaining, but seriously, we're meant to condemn him for simply stating facts?  It's a fact that Widdecombe never married, making her, by definition, a spinster and at her age, 'old maid' is also a pretty fair description.  If I'd been in his position, the only apology I'd have issued would have been along the lines of  - 'I'm sorry that you are so oversensitive that you feel the need to censor public speech you don't deem to be 'woke' enough'.  I mean, it's just political correctness gone mad, isn't it?  Bloody right wing woke bastards getting upset over nothing!  It's just words, for God's sake!  

But we're back in that strange world where you aren't allowed to speak ill of the dead.  Well, not if they were some kind of right-wing icon, that is.  I'm sure that if, say, Jeremy Corbyn, had passed away, regardless of whether he had died of natural causes, or been assassinated by an axe-wielding neo Nazi maniac, indoctrinated by years of listening to the speeches of Nigel Farage, whilst making jam or planting tomato plants on his allotment, the right-wing press would all be telling us that he had been a loony left-wing extremist hell-bent on having us all raped and murdered by one-legged transsexual illegal immigrant terrorists.  Yet if, say, I was to (accurately), describe the late Ms Widdecombe as a 'bigoted old biddy', then I'd doubtless find myself facing the opprobrium of her, equally batty and bigoted, admirers.  It's the same across the pond, where politicians from across the board feel obliged to find positive things to say about the recently deceased Senator Lindsey Graham, despite the fact that he was a hypocritical Trump-enabling right-wing reactionary who had long ago destroyed whatever credibility he might once have had.  We really need to start questioning all this nonsense about 'respecting the dead' and 'not speaking ill of the dead'.  Look, once someone is dead we can say what we like about them - legally speaking, you can't libel the dead - so why are we so reticent about actually speaking the truth about them?  Just because I think, correctly, that Ann Widdecombe espoused and worse still, put into practice when in government, some utterly repugnant ideas which should have no place in any civilised society, doesn't mean to say that I think she deserved to be bludgeoned to death.  I'm entitled to express my opinion, for God's sake.  It's called 'free speech' you right-wing woke warrior snowflakes!