Ah yes… last night.
Pretty much the same cast of characters (The Englishman and Reader John M. — Mr. Free Market had to stay late at work: celebratory drinks after some successful capitalist venture, no doubt), the same products of Messrs. Wadworth and Company, same wonderful fun, same pub. Same final result, of course.
Back when the skull-hobgoblins have finished their Happy Dance…
Alert Readers will have noticed the disappearance of the Comments link at the end of each post. This is because I, in an uncommon fit of modernization, clicked on the “Update Your Template” link from TurdPress, and the results are as you have seen.
Gah.
Should you wish to comment, you now have to click on the post / article heading, which will take you to that post’s page, wherein you will find the comments.
Sincere apologies, but [10,000-word rant against change deleted]
To make everyone feel better, here’s a picture of a place I intend to visit this afternoon, in the Old Town part of Salisbury:
If that doesn’t improve my mood, nothing will. Of course, if the weather becomes more shitty than it already is — not an unknown event in These Yerrre Parrrts (and it’s already teeming outside) — then Mr. FM and I will just stay at home and attack a case of whisky.
For those many of my Readers who don’t follow rugby, the “haka” is a Maori war dance performed before every kick-off by the New Zealand national team (known as the All Blacks because of their uniform color, not because they’re all Maoris, who aren’t “black” anyway). Here’s a pic of the haka:
Right now, the British Lions team has been touring New Zealand, and some of their fans (who’d come all the way over from BritishLionsLand) performed a satirical version of said haka — prompting some twerp to ask whether this might not be regarded as “insulting”. (Apparently not; most New Zealanders, who clearly have a sense of humor, find it funny.)
I once suggested to Mr. Free Market that England should come up with a suitable response to the haka, when the All Blacks tour the U.K. His response was a classic:
To the Perpetually Aggrieved, such a response would no doubt be classified as “hateful” because it reminds people of the horrifying imbalance between Evil White Militarism and Heroic Native Peoples’ Resistance or something.
Frankly, I think it’s an excellent reminder, and one which we in the U.S. should employ more often, e.g. in demonstrations such as this one:
Okay, that might be seen as overkill at a sports competition, but you get my point.
My suggestion for the proper response to the haka didn’t require muskets and bayonets, by the way:
No doubt some would find that offensive, too.
The other day I came across a book written by some dorky Brit hipster [redundancy alert] called “The Worst”, which comprises lists of the 5 worst people or things to do anything with, ranked in order of awfulness. I think it’s a good idea, and I’m going to steal it and make it a regular Friday Feature.
Let me kick the thing off with:
5 Worst People To Have Dinner With
Feel free to add your five worst dinner guests in Comments.
Allow me to present an essential difference between boots as worn in the western U.S.A., and boots as worn in western Britishland:
Now let me explain why the ugly green ones on the right are not an affectation in These Yerrrr Parrrrts (as they call it here).
For most of my trip thus far there has not been a drop of rain fallen on my head. At least, not while I’ve been awake. So all my excursions have been dry, so to speak, and I’ve even been able to wear my Minnetonka moccasins (Kim’s go-to footwear) on a couple of shopping trips.
Then last night it rained — buckets, apparently — but I barely noticed it because I was sunk in semi-drunken slumber after Mr. FM and I had semi-indulged, so to speak. Today dawned bright and clear, but hidden underneath the oh-so green grass was… mud.
Good grief. It wasn’t just yer everyday sandy Texas mud; oh no, this was vile, clingy, chalky mud, the kind that needs not washing off but chiseling off if allowed to dry on the shoes. Anyway, after but a few steps in this stuff, my boots had completely disappeared into snowshoe-looking things of brownish gunk — it took the shoe boy almost an hour to clean it off (and if you look closely, you can still see a trace or two on the soles of my cowboy boots; I dare not tell Mrs. FM of this shortcoming or else the hapless youth will be flogged again).
Clearly, one needs a different kind of boot out here, so Mr. FM took me “wellie-shopping” at an emporium known as “Countrywide” which caters to the farm- and country-folk. And this was how I knew I was in Hardy Country.
You know how in Shepler’s Western Wear stores there’s an entire section dedicated to cowboy boots of all shapes and styles? That’s Countrywide’s policy towards Wellington boots (as rubber rain boots are known in Britishland). Yikes. And just like cowboy boots, wellies range in price from $100 a pair to $500 — and Mr. FM pointed out that “bespoke” wellies can demand still more than that.
I decided to go for fit over price: my sturdy calves (“more like full-grown bulls”, as my old dad once said) have given me trouble with tall boots all my life — but wonderfully, the wellies which fit me best were a “budget” brand which cost me only about $120, and are the ones featured in the pic above.
As for the bilious color of the things: Mr. FM assures me that hunter’s green is by far the most popular shade out in the field, as evidenced by this picture of his hunting party*, taken last year. Note the overwhelming choice of footwear:
So that’s okay, then.
*The bloke on the left (shirtsleeves rolled up, tieless and not wearing wellies) is apparently Lord Freddie Someone-Or-Other, whose family was given permission to be thus casually attired by the King, back in 1800 or something.
Apparently, the LPGA is cracking down on female golfers’ attire, because dignity or something.
Clearly, this is to make professional women’s golf even less attractive to male TV viewers and -spectators.
If we take the lovely Paige Spiranac, for instance (and who wouldn’t?), we’d be going from this:
to this:
All nonsense, of course. As I’ve often said before: if anything, the LPGA should loosen dress codes on their circuit — hell, let them play topless — if they want more men to watch the women play their inferior golf (and thereby get more sponsorship and TV money).
Imagine if we could watch the lovely young Paige playing in this (forbidden) outfit:
Okay, maybe she could lose the heels, just for the tournament. But let me tell you, even without the heels I might be persuaded to watch women’s golf again…