Come in. Be safe. Make friends. And family. Grow here. Grow up. Then fuck off. twitter.com/paddyashdown/s…
"Mum, I think I can talk to birds", says my nearly nine year old son first thing this morning. "Wow. That's cool!" I reply, "What do you say to each other?" "Well it's kind of hard to tell you, because, well ... we don't talk human". And he procedes to make some soft cooing and burbling noises. "Ah, is that pigeon?" I ask. "Yup". "Is it pigeons that you talk to, love?" "Well I talk to a lot of different ones, but mostly pigeons and doves" he says, before adding "because they're I think they're kind of most like people". "And what happens when you talk?" "Well I listen to what they're saying and then I say something back. And then they talk back to me. And a lot of times they come up closer to me. One even let me touch it once. I htink they like me". "Oh that's great, love. Do you mean it's a bit like when Harry Potter speaks parceltongue to the snakes?" "Exactly!" he says. "Mum, what was the first bird I ever saw?" "Ooh I"m not sure, dude." "What's the one you've told me about before?" "Aw. I know the one you mean. You never actually *saw* that one though. You mean the barn owl that swooped over our car the night you were born, yeah?" "Yeah the barn owl! Like the one I held at the Owl Centre one time". "Uhuh, she was beautiful. Do you know in Gaelic she's called The White Faced Old Woman of The Night? So she's sort of a wee bit like a white witch." He pauses for a moment to absorb this. "Mum, do you think she's the one that gave me my bird-talking powers?" I absolutely LOVE my son. I think he is amazing and wise. I think he's a brilliant listener, a thinker and a gorgeous compassionate wee soul. And maybe he doers to talk to birds. And maybe they do talk back.
Media legitimisation of personal jibes. Patronising arsehole. Is that it, that's what passes for intelligent debate? #BattleForNumber10
I Burn But I Am Not Consumed Karine’s powerful, poetic and dramatic cultural statement in respect of the Trump presidency. Filmed live by the BBC at the opening concert of Celtic Connections Festival in Glasgow, it was performed with the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra as a prelude to Karine's song “Cover Your Eyes” which was used in the award-winning documentary 'You’ve Been Trumped' about the construction of a luxury golf course on a beach in Balmedie, Aberdeenshire, and Trump’s shocking treatment of a Scottish family and his attempts to force them off their land. KARINE POLWART: Thursday 19th January 2017 On May 11th 1930, Mary Anne Macleod, from Tong on The Isle of Lewis, boarded the RMS Transylvania from Glasgow to New York City, in search of a better life. There, she fell in love with Frederick, whose father had come to America from Germany as a 16 year old barber. The couple raised five children. Mary Anne’s middle son would return years later to Scotland, home of his MacLeod ancestors, whose clan motto is: I burn but I am not consumed. And here - in the name of progress and profit - and executive golf - he would pit himself against time and tide. In his wake, the shifting sands at Balmedie in Aberdeenshire would never be the same. That son of Mary Anne MacLeod is powerful. So too is The North Sea. The marbled, metamorphic rock of Lewis is two-thirds the age of Earth - amongst the very oldest found on our planet. It knows about power. It’s seen a lot. And so I wondered: what might that rock of Lewis have to say about the Inauguration - tomorrow in Washington DC - of the 45th President of the United States of America - Mary Anne’s middle son? This is what the rock told me. Oh son of Lewis, lonely boy, hewn from granite, salt and sky upon a foreign shore: the ocean is a mirror gleam in which you see yourself, and nothing more. Three billion years of gravity, of strata forged in fire and earth, the stone crib of your mother’s birth, in which your forebears lie. I am alive. I am a tomb. I burn, but I am not consumed. I burn, but I am not consumed. Fish may swim at your command across The Atlantic to the land of dreams and self belief and boundless chance. An exile tale. An immigrant dance. You’re captain of a frigate now, So set your compass, raise the mast, Blow up the sails, Erase the past, and future, if you must. Together we can stand and watch the peat-land turn to dust. This is your apprenticeship: The Gulf Stream doesn’t know your name, nor does the splendid, blazing sun that alters how the currents run. The North wind never heard you roar: You’re fired! You’re fired! My back might burn, the blaze run wild, but I am not consumed, my child. The Minch whips up a spindrift storm. The machair shifts. The machair moans. At Uig Bay and Luskentyre, the gale blows fast, the tide flows higher. The shore erodes and disappears. And, meantime, you are stoking fears and stacking hope into a pyre. You strike a match. Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh Your mother was a wee girl once, who played upon my rocky shore. And you, you are broken boy, and you want more and more and more. You build a tower. You build a wall, You live in fear that they might fall. You who see nothing but your face in the sheen of The Hudson River. Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh Oh ma bairn, mo leanaibh A balancing is yet to come, although by then you may be gone and leave a desert to your sons and daughters. Still, these waters, they will rise, the North Sea haar will cover your eyes, despite your appetite for lies. your disregard for truth. Three billion years of gravity, of strata forged in fire and earth, the stone crib of your mother’s birth, in which your forebears lie. I am alive. I am a tomb. I burn, but I am not consumed. I burn, but I am not consumed. Link