Stick your poppy up your…

My dad joined the RAF when he was 14 as a Boy Apprentice. He won several medals for his work as a flight engineer – as a Chief Tech and Flight Sgt – and was the last recipient of the old British Empire Medal (BEM), since brought back. The RAF admitted that they caused his Multiple Sclerosis and he retired on a full-pay pension. When he died, the RAF admitted responsibility and my mum is accorded full honours as a War Widow and gets a pension from the state accordingly.
 
He never wore a poppy.
 
Not once.
 
He was registered with RAF Command as a conscientious objector when it came to wearing the poppy and was excused doing so, even when leading his men on the parade ground for November 11 services.
 
Back then, the poppy’s centre read “HAIG FUND”. Douglas Haig was a mass murderer according to my dad. He could not – EVER – wear something that had a mass murder’s name on it. He felt he might as well have had a swastika or an effigy of Stalin on his lapel. And the RAF respected this.
 
And, yes, both my parents were members of the British Legion (which does a lot for veterans and is against the politicisation of the poppy as it is simply a flag to note that you’ve donated and should not be bothered by street collectors again), RAFA, SSAFA and the RAF Benevolent Fund… they gave what little money we had to support others with even less.
 
And my dad never wore a poppy.
 
Come and have a go at me if you think you’re hard enough.
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Stop the clock

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Based on my amazing Nostradamus impression on 20 February 2016, here’s my US election prediction:

  • HRC by a landslide (400+ EV)
  • Dems take Senate
  • Dems narrowly miss House.
  • 30% of registered Republicans stay home and don’t vote at all.

 

UPDATE 9 NOVEMBER 2016: I know nothing and should shut the fuck up in future.

Brain science

Me: I need to nip across the road and buy some cheese.

My brain: It’s very far. You’ll have to change your shoes. The dogs will bark when you leave. It’s a waste of money as the cheese there is expensive.

Me: My dinner is literally going to be cheese on toast. I just need more cheese.

Brain: No no, just have toast. That’ll be fine. Or go to bed hungry. We’ll lose weight. That’s fine too. Look, you’re tired: don’t go out.

Me: Look, brain, you do realise that you have been in remission from all the depression and anxiety since December of last year? That means we can go out and buy things without panicking about the process.

Brain: Fucking hell. I’d forgotten. Quick: buy ALL THE CHEESE.

I love you

Whenever my husband leaves the house, I always call out “I love you!” to him. If something terrible happened, that will always be the last thing I ever said to him.

The last thing I said to my late ex was “For fuck’s sake, at least *TRY* to pull yourself together.” A week later he killed himself.

Make sure “I love you” is always what you say to people as you or they depart, even if you’ve come to hate them.

Sinking like a stone

I went to the funeral of Sarah, my friend who looked after our dogs when we were away. She’d been ill for about two years, the disease nipping at her heels at all times, making her forget to eat. Forget to feed her dogs. Forget to look after herself. Forget that she was loved. Forget that she was needed.

Her passing was too much for my friend Adam. He decided to join her on the day of her funeral and is now gone too. No more laughs. No more fun. No more jokes. No more politics. No more collies. No more vaping. No more stories. No more self harm. No more love.

I will carry on because there isn’t any other choice. But I wish carrying on meant avoiding how much this pain hurts.

Look who’s talking

Jen, aka Other Dog, is very ‘chatty’ – making sounds that approximate human speech in order to copy what she hears Chris and me doing.

Being a Border Collie, she knows a lot of English words and a fair few human concepts – for instance, smiling. On seeing someone she likes, she bares her teeth – not to snarl but to try to copy the smile reaction she sees from humans.

Her chatting has incorporated two phrases and concepts. Whenever I open the back door, I call out “peepees and poopoos!”. Now, if she wants to go outside, her chatter contains the word “reeree ah rooroo”.

She has also taken on board the most common thing she has heard Chris and I saying to each other, developing the word “ru-roo” to mean “human/person/not dog” – a corruption of “love you”.

The other day she came up with her first sentence. Chris popped out to the corner shop while she was in the back yard, so she didn’t see him leave. She was inside for his return though, and when he came through the door excitedly announced “ru-roo uh reeree ah rooroo!” – “you were outside!”

Wristbands and stars

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Julia Heartless-Sewer ridicules the parallels between making refugees wear bright red wristbands and the yellow star of the Holocaust in her awful “I have controversial opinions for money” column.

What she (intentionally) misses is that the Shoah didn’t start bang on 30 January 1933. It arrived slowly, with even Jewish people thinking badges were the end, not the start.

The biggest thing I notice about this is that the people who say the wristbands are fine and dismiss the parallels with the Holocaust are more dismissing the Holocaust itself than anything else.

The foul stench of antisemitism can always be found hiding behind the polite but equally disgusting dislike of refugees.