I went into Town today to register as an election observer for the Open Rights Group. On the way home, my tube train shuddered to an early halt in Oxford Circus station. Some poor person had fallen (or jumped?) under the train.
Archive for Strange
Last year I wrote about the Lancet study that estimated 654,965 Iraqis had died as a result of Tony Blair and George Bush’s invasion. At the time, the Prime Minister’s office attempted to rubbish the estimate, saying that it was nowhere near accurate. Now the BBC has discovered that the Ministry of Defence’s own chief scientific adviser said that the survey’s methods were “close to best practice” and the study design was “robust”.
I hope that the architects of this tragedy will eventually stand trial for their crimes.
Scrap the proposed introduction of ID cards. Of course!
Anyway, when I first heard someone mention MySpace I checked it out and wondered if maybe I was re-directed to a defunct Tripod page.
And then the music started playing… oh sweet zombie jesus.
|Worth paying?||Worth paying?|
Seen on Metafilter…
Post from user “dances_with_sneetches”:
Okay, maybe this is the place I can find someone to explain to me the third verse of the Star Spangled Banner.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash’d out their foul footstep’s pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
posted by dances_with_sneetches at 9:10 PM PST on April 28
I’ve just finished listening to Cliff Richard arguing for an extension to the term of performance copyrights. Could he be any more selfish?
It’s one of those laws where ordinary people are not permitted to bring private private prosecutions. The argument is that it stops people from “abusing” the law. This novel use of the word “abusing” actually means “practically demonstrating the fuckwittitude of”.
A cigarette, between knobbly old fingers. A tiny thread of red promise slowly curls in its tip.
The young man stands beside the cafe table. He smells of the rain outside. The old man arches an eyebrow. It grotesquely contorts his lean, wizened face.
“Is your name Ash?” the young man repeats.
The old man draws on his cigarette. Its promise bursts into crimson life, illuminates his mahogany smile. He gestures a welcome. Opposite him, the young man sits…