photograph, Glasgow Herald.
"....a trailblazer for a better world." they said, of Linda Norgrove, collateralised by her rescuers.
" A charity will be started in her name and it will be a fine way to commemorate Linda's life."
A Humanist minister (honest, not invent, a humanist minister, Sweet Jesus fucking wept, how I hate those fucking bastards) and far too many gobby, sanctimonious po-faced wankers, spinning their own work, their own calling, their own running in, behind War and Tragedy, rubber-stamping their victims for dried milk or water tablets, that Western do-gooders might wallow, smugly, in self-praise.
Better by far that she'd lived and loved and fucked and drank and eaten, raised children of her own, fretted and wept for them, than that she lie, grenade-trashed, in a cold box, paraded before these sour hills.
6 comments:
Good God, that picture could a funeral for the near-pointless meddling of the white middle classes.
They call International Development, but it is really a refuge for those who hate the complexity of the world, and want a way to live that is beyond criticism or question.
A reserved occupation.
And the Coalition bought into the myth that more money will lift us effortlessly on to the moral high ground.
The Scots in-laws parade a family moto (dredged up from the mists of time in 1970) 'If God for us, who can be against us?'
Si Deus, quis Contra
Maybe the godless Aid crowd could adapt it.
Doesn't look like the best part of England, does it?
It is such empty, bogus comfort to guilty parents, is it not, that the pieces of their children lie blown to bloody bits, for others, yet such grist to the moralising political mill? It is a picture and a half.
The Western Isles, mr mongoose, Presbyteria Ultima.
Am a little drunk. Can you remeber the Tommy Atkins lament about WW1 that I think it was you popped on Guido a few years back?
My young friend stanislav popped a lot of stuff on Guido, he never archived it, it'll be around somewhere, mr dtp, let me know if you find it. I'd like to see it, too.
You could, of course, Google the original, by Rudyard Kipling, which is much better than anything stanislav ever wrote.
I remember it, mr DTP, it involved the something something something and the Prince of fucking Wales, didn't it? I think it was displayed here in Ishmaelia, perhaps a different version.
Kipling wrote some stunning war poetry. But who will return us the children; mine angry and defrauded young; it didn't pass, it didn't pass, it didn't pass from me; I drank it when we met the gas beyond Gethsemane. And He paid the price to live with himself on the terms that he willed. That last one seemed applicable to Linda Norgrove too.
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