So Becky and I took a little visit to a fancy manor house recently. It was a pretty grand estate, formally in the possession of the British Royal Family. I even took a pee where the Queen’s mother used to pee… But don’t tell the queen. It was filled with all sorts of fancy-schmancy paintings and antiques and creepy wax sculptures, but unfortunately I’m not allowed to publish any photos of the interior.
So, in lieu of that, here are some pictures of Becky and I wandering around outside.
This is a story about a boy named Alexander Green.
Alexander really wanted to be a goth. Lots of boys at his school were goth kids and he thought they were very cool. He would often try to hang out with them, but they told him to go away because of his apparent love of conformity and rules. They told him that he didn’t understand. Ironically, Alexander didn’t understand what it was that he was being accused of not understanding.
One day, Alexander decided to become a goth.
Unlike where I grew up, which had a decent(ish) mixture of races and cultures, the place I currently live is quite segregated; and as such, a lot of the people here have quite a myopic view on the subject of middle-eastern immigration.
“They should go back where they came from.”
There’s a famous, but often mis-quoted, phrase, that states that being born an Englishman is like winning the greatest lottery in the world. We have freedoms here, and in all of the western world, that so many could scarcely imagine. In this instance, I’m not talking about the right to eat food and drink clean water that people in so many starving third world countries don’t have. I speak of the many areas of the middle-east, where families have to worry about their children being blown apart on the way to school, where they have to worry about their livelihood, be it a shop or a farm or a restaurant or whatever, being destroyed or looted by thugs and armed terrorists. The ideal that a country exists where they can go, and not have to worry about their loved ones being forcibly drafted into extremist militia, being blown apart by stray bombings or terrorist attacks, must be as near a vision of heaven on earth as they may find, and a lucky few may earn enough or fight hard enough to earn safe passage to England or America or anywhere else where such liberties are granted. Telling them to go ‘home‘ is effectively sentencing them to a life or hardship and danger, simply because they weren’t fortunate enough to be born where you were.
It’s a weird concept, isn’t it; to have a ‘best‘ friend. I find it strange enough; the notion that while you may have lots of friends, one of them in particular is universally agreed to be the one that you like the most, but what’s even stranger is when someone refers to themselves as someone else’s best friend. That’s weird, right? On the one hand, you can be saying to a friend who isn’t your best friend, that someone else is your best friend, and that basically translates as “Have you met Charlie? He’s that guy that I like more than I like you.”, but then for another person to refer to themselves as someone’s best friend is like a declaration that they like you more than they like anyone else. It’s like saying “Oh, hi. I’m Charlie, the guy that Matt likes more than he likes you.”