Grim scenes. And some manky bastard (not me) left a plastic cup. Ruined my wee jog.
Bye for now.
The current liberal/woke/SJW mission – they are in the tentative throes of an unofficial alliance these days – is their war on the past, their need to chop and change, to ‘fix’ that which does not conform to their present-day ‘world view’, to erase artefacts from another age which were celebrated in that age. Their fascistic ways are influential: we have it here with the latest act of cowardice by BBC-owned UKTV in their pulling of Fawlty Towers episode The Germans, an iconic staple of British TV originally aired in 1975 yet now derided by the aforementioned Axis of Intolerance. It has since been reinstated following counter-protests by what must be, and I hate to appropriate a Nixonian term, the Great Silent Majority.
Someone is offended! Phone the police! This war on … everything is the modus vivendi of hysteria culture. In the middle of a pandemic we now have folk trying to tear down statues of slave traders, these protesters (or whatever) wearing clobber made in Indonesia by slave children. The lack of self-awareness is almost funny.
I expect the following will soon appear on their proscriptions: anything Nazi-related, lauded TV series The Wire, the Crocodile Dundee movies, motion pictures featuring cross-dressing, The Silence of the Lambs (1991) because Buffalo Bill likes to put his willy between his legs, and Gone with the Wind (1939). Oh, wait a minute ….
What a horrible time to be alive. Plonkers.
I know zilch about basketball, though I have seen Space Jam (1996) four times. Apparently, The Last Dance has just broken viewership records on Netflix, and it comes as no surprise. The series is a masterpiece in the assembly of archive footage, modern-day interview, and appropriation of soundtrack-ready tunes that I suspect can make taking a shit in a pre-lockdown Burger King somehow transcendental (my new ‘life goal’). This stunner, for example:
There is a current debate as to whether this is ‘real’ documentary or not as Michael Jordan had editorial control, but this an afterthought; it’s entertaining as hell, and I venture that all documentary is representation. The mere sight of a nonchalant Jordan sat there on a leather throne with his tumbler of whisky, in hysterics as he views on an iPad disparaging statements made against his worship by teammates and opponents, warrants an entire episode.
Not a very likeable bloke, but an entirely admirable one – he is scores above his supporting cast, and doesn’t seem bothered that he is derided as a prick. I’ll never understand the baying criticism of ruthless athletes; the sports supermen aren’t signing death warrants or invading countries, and one could argue that Jordan’s will to win put trophies in the hands of mediocre colleagues.
And for the record, I almost purchased a £6.99 basketball in Home Bargains last week. But I didn’t (there was no hoop available).
Spent three hours here this morning. Walked about a bit, pissed in a bush, did some burpees on the beach, bought a packet of chicken and a can of Irn-Bru from a Co-op.
Nothing else to report.
A few cheeky ciders in the Ardmillan Hotel beer garden, getting bitten to fuck by midges and stung by ravenous wasps (the insects, not White Anglo-Saxon Protestants).
It’s a ritualistic endeavour and that’s my dream for the summer.