Author: Kim du Toit

My Property, My Rules… Or Not?

Culture, Politics

Here’s an article which got me thinking.

Investigation finds Facebook is STILL letting housing advertisers exclude by race, religion, and even disability.
Facebook allows advertisers to discriminate by race in housing ads, allowing advertisers to filter out certain ethnic groups from seeing their ad… [and] advertisers could still discriminate by race, as well as other categories such as mothers of high school children, people who require wheelchair access ramps, and even expats from Argentina.

My initial reaction: so fucking what? If I’m advertising for a room mate, isn’t it my right (under the Constitution, First Amendment, freedom of association etc.) to decide with whom I want to associate?

I’m sick of the negative implication that’s been applied to the word “discrimination”, by the way. If one is said to have discriminating tastes, that’s okay; but if I don’t want to rent my house to college students (reason: noisy, drunken all-night parties etc.), adherents of Santeria (reason: animal sacrifices in the basement) or cripples (reason: no handicapped access or facilities) then all of a sudden, according to government, I’m discriminating in a bad way?

I thought that the essence of “private property” (the protection of which is one of government’s few legitimate functions) is that one may use it as one wishes. So if I don’t want to share a house with a Catholic, vegan or [gasp!] a Chinese woman, isn’t that my right?

I know, I know; discrimination against people of other races, religions and cultures etc. is supposed to be wrong — and it is, when practiced by government or public entities. Government can’t say that only Protestants can apply for a government job, and cab drivers can’t refuse service to a blind person with a guide dog (because of their anti-animal religion) because the cab service is a government-licensed activity.

But as an individual, I’m supposed to be able to practice any kind of discrimination as long as it doesn’t actually harm other people. And no, not wanting to share your living space with a Black gang member is not causing him harm — except that according to the modern liberal mindset, it is.

These groups are protected under the federal Fair Housing Act, which makes it a federal offense to publish ads that indicate a preference for or discriminate against people based on race, color, religion, gender, handicap, family status or national origin.

What bullshit.

The only blessing I can see arising from all this nonsense is that I don’t have a Facebook account and am unlikely to ever have one. (So in that regard we can both breathe a sigh of relief.)

Update: Uh huh. Never saw this one coming:

Facebook could soon lock you out of your account unless you’re willing to upload a ‘clear’ selfie to verify your identity

No Cottage No Cry

Travels

Got back to the Englishman’s Castle (i.e. farm) last night after a four-hour journey from Cornwall in the pouring rain (see: Britishland Weather, Normal Autumn Edition). Of course, after leaving the cottage at 3pm and this being Britishland Autumn, only one hour was completed in daylight and the rest in Stygian black dampness. Fortunately, The Englishman is well versed in the Dark Arts of driving a Land Rover in such conditions which is a Good Thing because as any fule kno, Land Rovers have totally inadequate and shit windshield wipers which, at any speed over 20mph, simply wave about feebly over the glass without making much contact. Being a Stout Bulldog, however, The Englishman didn’t seem to notice, even when negotiating the terror known as traffic circles (“roundabouts”) along the A303, which runs from Cornwall all the way past Stonehenge, ending I-don’t-care-where.

Of course, after such a journey some sustenance was needed, but rather than go to the King’s Arms (which could only have ended badly), we settled for a curry and a couple beers at a fine Indian restaurant in Devizes.

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. This is.

Had my landlord called me earlier to say that the next scheduled guests had canceled their stay and would I like to stay in Boscastle for the next few days, I would have sung the Hallelujah Chorus. Why? Well, I like singing the Hallelujah Chorus at the best of times, but mostly I would have sung it because my stay in the cottage, far from being the ordeal I thought it might be, turned out to be one of the best times of my life. This was not just because Boscastle is beautiful (it is) or because the locals are very friendly (they are) or because I liked being on my own (amazingly, I discovered that I do).

It was a great time because of the cottage itself. I’ve not given a proper description of the place before because I wanted to do the place justice after I left. So here goes.

It’s called “The Old Store House” because that’s what it used to be back in the 19th(?) century. It’s a really old building, and lies smack bang on the banks of the river, just before it empties into the harbor and estuary:

It has three bedrooms and can house five people (two double beds and a single, across three bedrooms), and has two bathrooms upstairs — excellent showers and a bathtub. But that doesn’t tell the full story. The place, inside, is absolutely gorgeous: stone and tile floors downstairs, and carpets upstairs. Here’s the kitchen and the living room:

…and the pictures don’t do them justice at all. (By the way, in the bookcase are an incredible selection of dime novels in hardback; Loyal Readers will know of my love for the genre, and suffice it to say that I read four during my stay.) Simply put: I could live there quite happily for the rest of my life — and I should point out that my good friends the Sorensons (who took me there and stayed a couple days) are of the same opinion.

Enough of that. To my Murkin Readers I say: if you’ve ever thought of visiting Britishland, you have to visit Cornwall, you have to visit Boscastle, and you have to stay at The Old Store House. To my Britishland Readers I say: book your stay for next year (here). But I should warn you all that The Englishman has already booked out fifteen weeks (nearly four months) of next year, so do not procrastinate.

And I’m told that almost all the people who’ve booked their stay are “returners”, which should give you an idea.

This is not a plug of gratitude to The Englishman on my part — although I am pathetically grateful to him for getting me in there at such short notice. This post is a service to my Readers, because I promise you, you will love the place, both the town and The Old Store House.

If you do manage to get in, email me and I’ll give you all the inside scoop: where and where not to eat, tips about local beauty spots, and where to shop. Now get going.

P.S. “Sharon’s Plaice” [sic] just up the road from the cottage has the best fish & chips I’ve ever eaten. The fish comes from that morning’s catch, and fresh potatoes are likewise dropped off daily from one of the local farms. Last Saturday night there were about fifteen people (I among them) standing in the chilly rain, patiently waiting for their orders to be filled.

It was the third time I’d been there in five days.

Oh, and the Spar Foodliner across the street sells Wadworth 6X.

Livin’ The Dream

Guy Stuff

So this guy inherited a bank, had no interest in running it, and sold it for three quarters of a billion dollars. Then he set out to do what any super-wealthy Formula 1 enthusiast would do: he built his own racetrack in his backyard where he can race his $5-million collection of sports cars whenever he feels like it.

And just to add to y’all’s jealousy, the 52-year old guy’s racing companion is his 23-year-old girlfriend, the wonderfully-named Clemence Lepeyre:

I know: he’s ugly, she’s young and gorgeous; he has lots of money, she has… well, you know.

Sounds like everyone’s happy except the Usual Suspects (in this case, the envious socialists because he dares to be rich and enjoys spending his money, and the envious harpies who whine about the couple’s age difference, like he’s going to settle for some old frump about his own age lol).

To all us guys, though, this man is a god. (What else would you do with $726 million and no charitable instincts?) All he needs to make this thing perfect is an air-conditioned 500-yard indoor range somewhere. (By the way, I love the track layout: it has something for everyone and every kind of sports car.)

As I’ve often said before: money doesn’t buy you happiness, but it sure as hell buys you a better class of unhappiness. Now all I need is to buy that winning PowerBall ticket so I can test that hypothesis for myself…

Foolishness

Men & Women, Two-Minute Hate

Under “Feminist Harpy” in the dictionary, you’ll find this picture:

Why? Because of this insane demand:

Mother demands her son’s school take Sleeping Beauty off the curriculum because the princess doesn’t give consent to be kissed and woken up by prince
Sarah Hall, from Northumberland Park, North Shields, claimed the fairytale promotes an ‘inappropriate sexual’ message to young children.
She argued the story is irresponsible because it teaches children it is acceptable to kiss women while they are asleep.
The mother of two said: ‘I think it’s a specific issue in the Sleeping Beauty story about sexual behaviour and consent.
‘It’s about saying is this still relevant, is it appropriate?’
Ms Hall is worried about what message the tale, which features a Prince waking up a Princess by kissing her, sends to impressionable youngsters.

Neither Prince Charming nor Sleeping Beauty were available for comment — because they’re fucking fictional characters.