Sunday 28 April 2013

In Care of a Mortal Thread

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Hedd, Perfaith Hedd

Such dreadful news this week when we heard of the mini bus crash on the M62 near Pontefract which killed one girl and seriously injured a dozen others (indeed the bride to be may never walk again.) On their merry way to celebrate a hen party, about as far from the thoughts of death as you could ever hope to be, and in an instant their world is cruelly shattered forever. A sobering jerk back into dreadful reality.
What a foul blow! How mercilessly each and every one of us are shadowed by death; a fragile thread which anchors us to life but at any second could end with less force than a sparrows heartbeat. One breeze less than the flicker of a flame. Such gentle turbulence that carries mortals onward through collared mists, on roads, on seas and valleys of wild woods.
This should serve as a reminder that however bad life may seem,

RIP Bethany Jones, may the softest lullabies sing you to your rest.

Wednesday 24 April 2013

Cannibal Francis?




As you can see dear reader, I just burnt my knuckles on the grill but do you want to know something peculiar? The smell reminded me of pistachio nuts and chicken flavour crisps. Its true I say! Im holding my poor, hapless fist up to my snout right now as I type and the smell almost makes me hungry. Gulp! Hope im not turning into a cannibal? Or even worse I could have died and returned zombie?

Saturday 20 April 2013

The Fragile Mighty

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Souls in the rain

What a dreadful week! Mr Jakes is happy as frothy ale to see its tail~end. First we had the sickening news of the Boston Marathon bombing, then we had the depressing funeral of Baroness Thatcher, and as a triple whammy (you know just make us feel extra secure in our mortality) we learned of a devastating explosion at a fertiliser plant in West Texas that killed 14 (at last count) and injured many, many more. Oh and breaking news as I type is that we are hearing of an earthquake in China where 124 have been killed and over 600 injured in the Sichuan province.
Dear me, how fragile are we? Mankind; all conquering with an unrivalled history of both destruction and creativity, (no beast could ever match our thirst for knowledge) and yet 'clothed' in mortal flesh that makes us as vulnerable as a cobweb in a meat grinder. Be grateful we possess a spirit that can seemingly withstand all the horrors the planet throws at us, or we would be crushed like mice under the mighty wing of an eagle. Of course life often reminds us just how puny we truly are, however much build and strengthen our kingdoms. We can never overcome unseen forces at work, as to Mother Nature we are but delicate babes in very mortal arms.

Each step a gift, each step into an unknown future which could meet End at any second.

Saturday 13 April 2013

Tabloid Hilarity

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Comedy gold

Check out this cracking headline in todays The Sun.

Friday 5 April 2013

Boy With No Name

Rewind sixty eight years to a poor boy who found himself like thousands of others in the army, shipped off to fight in a foreign land. He went over with the BEF and his regiment was part of the attack force that were got cut off in Belgium and ordered to dig in and fight so that the rest could get away. His best friend met a bullet to the head and was fortunately killed. Fortunate? Extremely so. The boy and his comrades fought on but were eventually taken prisoner.
Taken to a camp in Poland, the prisoners were tasked to dig coal. But the boy with no name was also assigned a dirtier job in the camp. A job that would put the weight of a dozen worlds onto a mortals shoulders. This job was to cut the throats of fellow prisoners who were informers on the Germans. Slice the bad bad piggies. Slice them unto bloody death throes and let the reaper do the rest.
He stole rotten food from the camps dustbins in order to keep his fellow captives fed. The reader should remember that stealing food, even mouldy garbage, was an offence punishable by being locked in a coffin in the ground.
When the Russians were getting close towards the end of the war, the prisoners of war were marched out into the snow and forced to
march a thousand kilometres until finally liberated in Germany by the British and Americans. Ah freedom! But the price of liberation for some might as well be a dagger to the stomach for on the road to freedom the jeep the boy with no name was travelling in, hit a land mind and he was badly injured.
Eight long months in a sterile basic hospital he stayed and brewed. The many things he witnessed could add desperate chapters to this story but our eyes should be trained to one misery at a time. After his wounds had healed sufficiently, the Army told him he would not be allowed to be demobbed like the rest of his comrades and so he had to pretend to be mad and they stuck him in the 'nuthouse' (psychiatric hospital we'd call them in these more forgiving times.) There he stayed, urinating into his cupped hands and tipping food over himself until they really believed he was a lunatic and finally set him free without so much as a thank you or a guiding hand.
What's a man like that going do? Not exactly working for the post office material so he did what most would do and said "b*ll*cks to the lot of them" and just got on in his own way. Thieving. Conning. Robbing his merry way through life. There's no excuse for it and I am sure he didn't want one. I don't condone it but nor do I condem it either. The boy (still with no name) just did what he thought was best and I can understand that.

Anyway, it's just a story I was told once.