London 2012 : Galway Whooker Says Phuk 'Em - Human Rights British Occupied Ireland
international | rights and freedoms | opinion/analysis 
Monday May 21, 2012 22:22
by BrianClarkeNUJ - AllVoices 
Human Rights British Occupied Ireland
Her painful silence continues, I don't know what to do about Patricia? I'm madly in love with her, without knowing the status of our relationship? Were we engaged, going steady or what? I don't know?. I have been phucking like a red-rooster since she went. A different woman every night for several months now. With so much willing hippy flesh around, nobody knows what going steady means anymore. London crawls with sex-starved women who want it. Nothing permanent, without any hang-ups. The whole range on offer, from cool Swedish models, eager young English roses with their men away in the military, pushy yankee ‘chicks’, eager young, French demoiselles, Teutonic goddesses.
So we are still miles from nowhere, in the middle of the Indian Ocean heading for Aden or some such place, on the way to the Suez canal but right now I am more interested in watching the clouds as I lie on deck. I am not looking for omens or anything but I enjoy the constantly changing and evolving shapes. There are immense billows forming faces of Cameron, Obama and an Arab in disguise. Dark foreboding images that dominate along with a few celtic and pagan gods up there among the clouds, revengeful Gods of north Africa and the Euphrates. There are also Zeus, Anubis, Osiris, Set and alarmingly Mars in a massive war chariot.
It does mean something for me on this Olympian protest voyage, Yemeni soldiers getting bumped off left and right today, lot’s of very angry young Arab men on the street, with plenty of unemployed time on their hands and missing WMDs, Cameron and the viceroy telling whoppers about Ireland again today in the house of commoners, like their predecessors while recently drones humiliating Islamic armies in almost all of their countries. Still the Arabs persist, now more Islamic than ever, now showing no respect for the loving Christian WASP god who came to bring them the gifts of a dying democratic consumerist society. How much more fire and brimstone before they admit the error of their ways, more shock and awe in Tehran ? Meanwhile, up there the clouds gods are hard at it. The sky is full of Gods jostling for attention, including inscrutable ancient Chinese deities, a procession of Hindus. Where is Buddha? Oh yes that's right! Buddha is not a God exactly!
Enough of the foreboding images of this protest trip to London 2012. I cast my mind back to gentler times, when I first hit London in innocence in the late '60s. My place was squat in a quiet part of hippie Maida Vale. A second floor bachelor flat and I am at home with my new friend. Her name is Nina if memory serves me right. I met her at a concert in the Elephant and Castle, can't remember the name exactly but they had great rock bands. I check my answerphone for messages. There's one from Patrick in Dublin, asking me to string a few sentences together, for a new magazine for the fast growing teenage market. The other message is anonymous from Rolling Stone who want me to to call them. I'm glad I got the answerphone but there is no message from Patricia.
Her painful silence continues, I don't know what to do about Patricia? I'm madly in love with her, without knowing the status of our relationship? Were we engaged, going steady or what? I don't know?. I have been phucking like a red-rooster since she went. A different woman every night for several months now. With so much willing hippy flesh around, nobody knows what going steady means anymore. London crawls with sex-starved women who want it. Nothing permanent, without any hang-ups. The whole range on offer, from cool Swedish models, eager young English roses with their men away in the military, pushy yankee ‘chicks’, eager young, French demoiselles, Teutonic goddesses.
Nina is on my bed flipping through vinyl album covers. Nina or something from Tokyo. Getting them was easy enough in John Lennon's time of make love not war. Getting rid of them next day was the difficult part. I crumbled a bit of grass, mixed it with a few strands of tobacco and slowly rolled a joint. Mustn’t forget that Van Morrison article, due tomorrow, I thought. As I skimmed some notes it occurred to me that I was living on the cutting edge of something amazing. Definitely the right time and place to be in London, right there where the action was, prior to the subsequent troubles in British Occupied Ireland. The Swinging London business of the 60s was it like the Olympics 2012 or just a marketing device?
Nah, the music had power all right. Power to excite pubescent hormones and cash flow from Japan to Abbey Road but where is the real power? Who rides the beast? Rock writing changed fast too, from gossiping about a group, their groupies and their girlfriends? to a new generation of writers emerging on Kerouac, Miller, Burroughs, taking it to another level. Readers became sophisticated wanting solid information, studio details, technical stuff and intellectual observations. Rolling Stone tapped into an audience where drugs had gone mainstream. The trick was to seduce the readers, tappity, tap, tappity, tap tap and it was done. Pulled it out of the typewriter folded it, put it in an envelope.
Now to quote Joni Mitchell on this ‘strange new flesh’ I found. I was wondering what this little Oriental creature had between her legs. She is still sitting on the edge of the bed looking at an album cover, as I move behind her on the bed and start playing with her hair. I was going to explain the album title but I was already getting her bra off? She had a couple of nice tits, in each of my hands from behind as the album fell to the floor. So did her jeans and panties in due course, exposing a particularly bushy muff. Yummy, Yumi, yum. She sat up to watch my fingers run through the hair and I move slowly back up along her body to kiss her on her mouth again ,while sneaking a finger, very discretely into her moist little cavern. She began to moan so I decided to slow the movement down a bit.
I needed to slip a few things off myself and women with one track minds do sexy writing so much better than me. But getting the fit took a while. So East met West for the first time in 60's London for this Irisb boy, in a resounding climax. Japanese Baby had driven my car. It had been a good phuck as phucks go but I wasn't sure what all the Japanese squealing was about but she seemed happy enough. Being young I planned to do her again in the morning if I could. I wondered what Rolling Stone wanted? The answering machine was definitely a good investment. The motorbike was parked properly, the fridge contained enough breakfast ingredients and I fell asleep really happy, as Nina snuggled up to me. London was a good place then, before it made forty years of war on my people.
I do try for emotional honesty but I have learned since my east west experience, that all these women with one track minds who say 'fuck' a lot or don’t give a flying fuck! like quite afew groovy chicks since the 60's, are quite ruthlessly mercenary hunters despite the illusion and they choose their victims accordingly. I try to present my intimate musings in a positive, progressive, and gender sensitive way, while at the same remaining brutally frank and true to my own sexual shortcomings, doing as best I can not to offend any minorities. However I have learned everything is political and like everyone else I have my shortcomings. At the end of the day I owe it to myself, to remain true to myself.
So after many such wonderful experiences, how could I have anything against London or its wonderful people I met there. No its the politicians who front the City money and the industrial-military-war-complex are cultivated to corruption and blood money. Most of these politicians dedicate themselves initially to the public welfare but are seduced by the greed of it all along the way. The politics of Empire and its consequence gets seriously on my tits with the extent of its tragedy and blood letting. I'd much prefer to focus my attention on cultural matters or new developments in the world of art, literature and the future of communication.
However when an unelected English despot wants to start it all over again with internment in British Occupied Ireland without trial and torture in solitary confinement an Irish sister with a political conscience, it starts the Irish troubles all over again. It makes Olympic London 2012 a grotesque facade of hypocrisy, especially with many of my Irish brothers tortured similarly. It makes London's slogans about human rights in Beijing or "Free Tibet" a mockery of justice and sheer hypocrisy, infuriating anyone humanely Irish, truly acquainted with the real extent of British genocide, political torture and ongoing crimes against humanity in Ireland into a rage. This is why this Olympic protest is important and we call for a boycott of Olympic London 2012 along with its sponsors.
It does mean something for me on this Olympian protest voyage, Yemeni soldiers getting bumped off left and right today, lot’s of very angry young Arab men on the street, with plenty of unemployed time on their hands and missing WMDs, Cameron and the viceroy telling whoppers about Ireland again today in the house of commoners, like their predecessors while recently drones humiliating Islamic armies in almost all of their countries. Still the Arabs persist, now more Islamic than ever, now showing no respect for the loving Christian WASP god who came to bring them the gifts of a dying democratic consumerist society. How much more fire and brimstone before they admit the error of their ways, more shock and awe in Tehran ? Meanwhile, up there the clouds gods are hard at it. The sky is full of Gods jostling for attention, including inscrutable ancient Chinese deities, a procession of Hindus. Where is Buddha? Oh yes that's right! Buddha is not a God exactly!
Enough of the foreboding images of this protest trip to London 2012. I cast my mind back to gentler times, when I first hit London in innocence in the late '60s. My place was squat in a quiet part of hippie Maida Vale. A second floor bachelor flat and I am at home with my new friend. Her name is Nina if memory serves me right. I met her at a concert in the Elephant and Castle, can't remember the name exactly but they had great rock bands. I check my answerphone for messages. There's one from Patrick in Dublin, asking me to string a few sentences together, for a new magazine for the fast growing teenage market. The other message is anonymous from Rolling Stone who want me to to call them. I'm glad I got the answerphone but there is no message from Patricia.
Her painful silence continues, I don't know what to do about Patricia? I'm madly in love with her, without knowing the status of our relationship? Were we engaged, going steady or what? I don't know?. I have been phucking like a red-rooster since she went. A different woman every night for several months now. With so much willing hippy flesh around, nobody knows what going steady means anymore. London crawls with sex-starved women who want it. Nothing permanent, without any hang-ups. The whole range on offer, from cool Swedish models, eager young English roses with their men away in the military, pushy yankee ‘chicks’, eager young, French demoiselles, Teutonic goddesses.
Nina is on my bed flipping through vinyl album covers. Nina or something from Tokyo. Getting them was easy enough in John Lennon's time of make love not war. Getting rid of them next day was the difficult part. I crumbled a bit of grass, mixed it with a few strands of tobacco and slowly rolled a joint. Mustn’t forget that Van Morrison article, due tomorrow, I thought. As I skimmed some notes it occurred to me that I was living on the cutting edge of something amazing. Definitely the right time and place to be in London, right there where the action was, prior to the subsequent troubles in British Occupied Ireland. The Swinging London business of the 60s was it like the Olympics 2012 or just a marketing device?
Nah, the music had power all right. Power to excite pubescent hormones and cash flow from Japan to Abbey Road but where is the real power? Who rides the beast? Rock writing changed fast too, from gossiping about a group, their groupies and their girlfriends? to a new generation of writers emerging on Kerouac, Miller, Burroughs, taking it to another level. Readers became sophisticated wanting solid information, studio details, technical stuff and intellectual observations. Rolling Stone tapped into an audience where drugs had gone mainstream. The trick was to seduce the readers, tappity, tap, tappity, tap tap and it was done. Pulled it out of the typewriter folded it, put it in an envelope.
Now to quote Joni Mitchell on this ‘strange new flesh’ I found. I was wondering what this little Oriental creature had between her legs. She is still sitting on the edge of the bed looking at an album cover, as I move behind her on the bed and start playing with her hair. I was going to explain the album title but I was already getting her bra off? She had a couple of nice tits, in each of my hands from behind as the album fell to the floor. So did her jeans and panties in due course, exposing a particularly bushy muff. Yummy, Yumi, yum. She sat up to watch my fingers run through the hair and I move slowly back up along her body to kiss her on her mouth again ,while sneaking a finger, very discretely into her moist little cavern. She began to moan so I decided to slow the movement down a bit.
I needed to slip a few things off myself and women with one track minds do sexy writing so much better than me. But getting the fit took a while. So East met West for the first time in 60's London for this Irisb boy, in a resounding climax. Japanese Baby had driven my car. It had been a good phuck as phucks go but I wasn't sure what all the Japanese squealing was about but she seemed happy enough. Being young I planned to do her again in the morning if I could. I wondered what Rolling Stone wanted? The answering machine was definitely a good investment. The motorbike was parked properly, the fridge contained enough breakfast ingredients and I fell asleep really happy, as Nina snuggled up to me. London was a good place then, before it made forty years of war on my people.
I do try for emotional honesty but I have learned since my east west experience, that all these women with one track minds who say 'fuck' a lot or don’t give a flying fuck! like quite afew groovy chicks since the 60's, are quite ruthlessly mercenary hunters despite the illusion and they choose their victims accordingly. I try to present my intimate musings in a positive, progressive, and gender sensitive way, while at the same remaining brutally frank and true to my own sexual shortcomings, doing as best I can not to offend any minorities. However I have learned everything is political and like everyone else I have my shortcomings. At the end of the day I owe it to myself, to remain true to myself.
So after many such wonderful experiences, how could I have anything against London or its wonderful people I met there. No its the politicians who front the City money and the industrial-military-war-complex are cultivated to corruption and blood money. Most of these politicians dedicate themselves initially to the public welfare but are seduced by the greed of it all along the way. The politics of Empire and its consequence gets seriously on my tits with the extent of its tragedy and blood letting. I'd much prefer to focus my attention on cultural matters or new developments in the world of art, literature and the future of communication.
However when an unelected English despot wants to start it all over again with internment in British Occupied Ireland without trial and torture in solitary confinement an Irish sister with a political conscience, it starts the Irish troubles all over again. It makes Olympic London 2012 a grotesque facade of hypocrisy, especially with many of my Irish brothers tortured similarly. It makes London's slogans about human rights in Beijing or "Free Tibet" a mockery of justice and sheer hypocrisy, infuriating anyone humanely Irish, truly acquainted with the real extent of British genocide, political torture and ongoing crimes against humanity in Ireland into a rage. This is why this Olympic protest is important and we call for a boycott of Olympic London 2012 along with its sponsors.
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