Xenophobia and meatballs.

Should we be embarrassed for the state of affairs that we live in? There seems to be an excuse for those that lived in the distant or even recent past as scientific understanding lacked an accurate explanation for things in general. We had great hopes for the year 2000, flying cars and a utopia based on the pursuit of a higher order. Like in Star Trek. When London caught fire in September 1666 rampant xenophobia ensured that folk rambled around to find a Jew to hang; it was apparently unlikely to have an accidental fire in a big pile of wood without the interaction of a follower of the old faith. Where as we know now that as that big clumsy scarab pushes the sun across the sky the occasional spark is bound to come off and cause trouble.

The great fire of London had an integral background of xenophobia due to recently having attacked the Dutch, consistently fighting the French and the recent reformation of the church; there was a distinct lack of facebook so perhaps folk could lump Catholics and foreigners in to their own vile little pigeon holes because people really did not know any better. Even though a bearded gent who everybody at the time professed to believe in had stood on a hill 1400 years previously and told everyone not to behave in such a frankly gormless fashion; it hadn’t worked and now there were two groups of people who professed to believe in the bearded gent arguing over what he had meant in the first place. But that’s folk for you and there you go.



A diagram of how the sun works.



So an event carried out by individual nutters, or an event that is not really carried out by anyone can lead to the bumbling persecution of a category of people. In the case of Timothy McVeigh who carried out the largest homegrown terrorist attack in America did not lead to the persecution of Catholics, not that I am suggesting it should have done. At this point in time we had progressed to the point that made it common sense that he was an individual that happened to be catholic; his mental intentions were not the mental intentions of the majority of Catholics who were at this point, very noticeably, not blowing anything up at all. This could be due to the fact that Mr. McVeigh’s motives were not religious but political; although one might hope that a couple of commandments might have given him a little pause for thought.

A surprisingly pale bearded gent distributes advice.

There has been a backlash against the Catholic Church as an institution as a whole in recent weeks; once again the news displayed evidence for sexual misconduct and child abuse. The reaction to these events has been anger towards the institution and sympathy towards the Catholics themselves; this seems to be the most logical and kindhearted reaction. Considering how reviled pedophilia is outside of the church; those that commit it under the protective wing of the church have driven people from the institution in droves. No-one has discovered some one to be a Catholic and drawn their children closer while watching the individual with deep disgust and suspicion, I think is my point.

I logged into Facebook the other morning to waste some time and avoid doing anything constructive before I die; at the top of the wall were the words: Kill all Muslims.

I will not patronize anyone by explaining what is wrong with this.

I recently learned the art of stuffing meatballs with mozzarella; I will never look back. I will treat anyone who makes meatballs without stuffing them with mozzarella with scorn. I frown upon their undeveloped ways. While doing this I am very aware that some of these people might be peaceful people; there are nearly two million Muslims in the U.K and probably even more people that make meatballs without a cheese filling; I can tell by a massive lack of events that they are not killing anyone. I have a Google box, a book of face, Wikipedia and none of us have any excuse anymore. The people who live after us will know that we didn’t. 

The future.

I am man!

In retrospect I should have realised that the violence was not inevitable; I should have seen it coming, if only I had the insight into my own psyche that Diane Abbot clearly possesses.

Cheeseburgers are a pretty manly thing to cook for tea, so far so good; I am at peace with myself. Then came fatal mistake: I rolled the mince into dish shapes, lined them with jalapeno peppers, stuffed them with shitake mushrooms and mozzarella cheese. Then mash up a packet of smoky bacon crisps and roll the burgers in the crumbs to form a coating. (This also soaks up excess moisture). I placed the burgers on a baking sheet in preheated oven and then had a massive nervous collapse.

Stabbing pains shot through my head as I clutched wildly at my temples and thrashed around on the linoleum. The day before I had made a bacon sandwich, which was supposed to help, a manly thing apparently your bacon sandwich; but I had ruined it by putting cherry tomatoes in it which had made it all gay. Now I was paying the price.

I scrabbled at the front door and stumbled out into the street: A bespectacled gentleman with a satchel was passing; I immediately punched him savagely in the face sending him sprawling to the floor. A woman came running from her house, so I made an absence gesture with my fist and told her to get her tits out. The shooting pains subsided, I went back inside and slapped my girlfriend in Case she said anything; lets face facts; she should have been cooking in the first place because she has a vagina and, as a result, this was all her fault.



After drawing this overwhelmingly feminine picture of a happy little dinosaur I had no choice but to scissor kick an I.T consultant in the stomach.



     

I have read an awful lot about me this week and I am inherently awful: I am eternally grateful to both Diane Abbot MP and Barbara Ellen, a sort of journalist, if I have completely misunderstood the word journalist and it means that you write down what ever comes into your head, for keeping me posted on my deeply flawed existence.

I had no idea until I read the Observer that men are responsible for wasting the fertility of women by not having children with them because men are selfish. Put like this it sounds a bit stupid; this is because it is. A third of women, according to this publication, do not have children for this reason; Barbara Ellen feels that it is a larger percentage than this; presumably because the elves in her head sang to her that this was the case.

Despite the unquestionable statistics it raises the question of opposites: How many women are forced to have children because the man is selfish? Barbara seems to be under the impression that women who don’t want children for reasons of their own are an ‘urban myth’, which is frankly more sexist against women than anything I have ever said or done.

I don’t really need to point out to any rational person that if only one person out of the necessary two wants children then that person needs to be with someone who does. What if the man wants children and the female party involved does not? Is she being selfish?

Why are children part of an unquestionable long term plan? If you are part of a couple and you think that you would be good parents and a child would enhance your life and relationship and you can provide for this new being then that seems fair. Thinking that having children is something that you do because it is what you do is an outdated concept that lacks all levels of introspection and philosophy: This planet is running low on a great deal of things and people are not one of them.

As an upper middle class journalist/MP, a large majority of the people that actually exist are going to be different to the people that you have actually met. I have taken everything these two people have said into account: I checked with my partner and asked if I was stopping her from breeding, she assures me that no-one needs to do that. She was very graphic about it. All men have the desire to be stereotypically masculine in the same way that women all like pink shoes and talent shows. My girlfriend watches Top Gear while I’m out because I hate it; I like baking, drawing pictures and big lovely bosoms. I am comfortable with this, and would be, even if I loved the cock.