| Friday, December 24, 2004 |
 | Well, the food has been purchased, the presents are (largely) awaiting wrapping - very few this year, which has also massively dialled down the amount of money I've spent on myself (but the sales are Pwn3d). A couple of minor elements tomorrow, and Operation We Don't Call it Christmas Around Here will be good to go. I'm looking forward in particular to wandering with a small band of friends around a deserted Central London, pretending to be on the run from zombies. No, seriously. How else would I be spending it?
Meanwhile, let's not forget the true origins of the commercial Christmas, which, according to this barking lunatic, rest with the Jews - sound file, probably not safe for work, rude word in URL. It takes a lot to make me root for David Baddiel, but this managed it.
Over the pond, among a welter of teeth-gritted "Merry Christmas"es, now that Blunkett's gone I can no longer operate my Blunkett/Rumsfeld no-shame sweepstake. The families of those who died in Mosul can be consoled by the knowledge that their letters of condolence will be personally signed by the Donald, but it seems the previously bereaved got the rubber stamp treatment. It's fair to say that signing these letters in person is the least that can be expected of a Secretary of Defence. The very least. He doesn't even have to be competent, or have a realistic strategy for dealing with Iraq, or be more than mildly interested in the absence of armour on the vehicles carrying the troops whose families he will be contacting later - he just has to have a working hand and a cursory knowledge of his own name. This absolute bottom-line expectation - the one part of the job I could do - has not been fulfilled. So, suggestions, please - what exactly does one have to do to lose your job in the Bush cabinet? The nastiest suggestion I have received so far is "spit". Frankly, I didn't need those nightmares.
Let's try to blank them out with another Winterval tradition - telling stories.
0 Comments:
| |
