Walking in a Winter Wonderland ...

I thought I'd just post something before we move into Christmas, not really anything too amusing or such, just a collection of thoughts and mumblings that are good to get down from head to keyboard.

Aye, I called it "Christmas". I'm not too keen on being drawn into the war between the over-zealous secularists and the hard-line traditionalists, but sufficied to say though I don't know what I believe, if I do believe, regarding the man upstairs, I've zero problem with carols, (My favourite being Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!) trees and calling it by the name it's gone by for a couple of centuries.

Although I'm not a betting man, the Bookies have made Aberdeen the most likely place in the United Kingdom for a white christmas - The picture I took a couple of days ago would seem to confirm they've got a payout on their hands ...



Unfortunately with snow, comes cold, and the City is like a tomb. At least we've got the "Winter" part nailed down; still waiting on the "Wonderland" though. The Year is coming to an end however, and I'm looking back on 2005 with a bit of fondness that previous years maybe haven't had.

I managed a couple of firsts in the last twelve months - I visited not just another country, but another continent, and found people mad enough to put up with me. I met those same people I'd known previously only as IRC names, and found them to be amongst the best bunch of lads and lassies I've ever had the pleasure to meet.

I got myself a horribly unpleasant job I loathe, but have so far managed to stick it out for nearly five months. I'm hoping this month that perhaps, if things go my way, I'll be able to begin looking to have a second inter-continental juant and impress more on the kind folks mentioned earlier, if they decide they can take a second round, of course.

What else? Spent a couple of months trying to figure out exactly what sort of person I am. In the same way as you might comment that a woman was or wasn't your "type" (Or gent), I spent a while trying to figure out what type of guy I am. Unfortunately self-evaluation, fair self-evaluation at that, isn't one of my strongpoints, so I didn't get much further than deciding I'm a little too shy for my own good, and too quick to dismiss anything I have to say as probably being wrong or silly.

What to do about it? Well - Everyone needs a New Year's Resolution, don't they?


Oh, Merry Christmas and a happy New Year everyone - Festive cheer for one and all.

Slightly unhappy ponderings ...

Unto his men, the officer did scream; load your rifles, stow your fear!

Mumbled shuffling, frozen soil to sole, breeches answered the commanding call.

A tinker, a tailor a doctor a spy – Some might live of their tale, some might die.

Shrill whistles to ears, as harsh as any cry, over the top lads, leave no man behind.

Those breeches so loaded, few ever fired, blown from hands so weary, so tired.

To the mud fell men, some honest some true – consigned as a cross one of too numerous to view. For those that fought on, they earned moments further – against the wire, terror and thunder. Of guns beyond sight, but shaking the ground; drowning out screaming, drowning out sound.

Who amongst men, had authority so – to send a thousand to death, and bring forth such sorrow? None alone, for as a nation we acted; they would see no day, for the safety of our tomorrow.

A field of red and the crosses of graves; we remember of poppies and the world, they saved.

As I'm writing this, the clock ticks over to the eleventh of November - darkening days and colder winds aside, another anniversary in a calender that's full of what sometimes seems like more event rememberings than history every had time to actually carry out, is upon us.

But this one is a little above any petty complaining. Today is Remembrance Day; the end of the War to end all Wars, the Great War, the first global conflict of Mankind's admittedly tarnished history.

All those decades ago, in a railway carriage in France at five in the morning, the great guns of World War I finally fell silent, And Europe's battle-torn body could amidst the bullet holes and gaping wounds, gasp for air. The imperial powers of the United Kingdom, France, Germany and countless others lay shattered - No more appetite existed for the harsh horror of a war that claimed almost a million lives for Britain alone.

As I write this only a handful, less than ten in fact, of those soldiers whom fought in the Great War still live now - A thinning link to those terrible times, and a pressing reminder of how my generation and those that come after me, may come not to appreciate the sacrifices made as easily without such a tangible link as Human eyes who saw such and remember.

My generation hasn't seen much in the way of traditional war; the Falklands conflict came well before I could coherently understand the conflict, and since that skirmish over something populated by more sheep than man, the age of warfare has taken a dramatic turn. For now is the reign of the terrorist - Whether by suicide bomb or devices planted with maker fully intending to live, the way to wage war is no longer through carefully drawn battlelines and diplomatic declerations.


September 11th, 2001, July 7th, 2005 but to name a few, the western world which had so terribly waged war once, and then with lessons learned done so again, has been assailed by an enemy who does not boast a flag, or a border or a vision of nationalistic superiority. This enemy is a teenager, an athletic young man, an aged man relying on cane and kindness.

As recent events have tragically highlighted, perhaps even a national of your own nation. Born under your flag, educated under the same system that schooled yourself, and holding precisely your status and identity. Is this truly an undefeatable enemy?

At the time of this post, Jordan has been rocked by a series of attacks, showing that this "new enemy" of sorts has decided that "The West" is simply insufficient a target. Indonesia, Jordan, Israel, Australia, Russia ...

I often wish I could ask those World War I Veterans who live now what they see in this world today. Is it simply the same game they played all those decades ago, with new characters? Do they see little difference between Imperialistic European Powers and Militant religious groups?

I feel sorry that after their sacrifice still, our world is war-torn and strife-filled. That still men kill men, under their own authority or in the name of a God or otherwise. If this is still a game of sorts, then the rules have changed so radically that I doubt in the future poems shall be written of our troubled times, now.

There is no beauty in war, but this war we fight now does not seem like a war at all.

A field of red and the crosses of graves; we remember of poppies and the world, they saved.

Mumblings and ponderings amidst the darkening days ...

Things I miss about the United States, and the contents therein;


(In no particular order)

Drink refills.

Palpable patriotism.

A faster pace of life.

Good friends on similiar wavelengths to myself.

Friendliness on a scale very different to home.

More places to eat than houses to live in.

Being a little more unique (Not entirely limited to simply being in the U.S, but still).

Cool accents.

Interesting flag.

Cities bigger than anything I've visited in my life.

A country that despite deeply unpleasant circumstances, still makes it not too horrible an ordeal to visit.

The Visa Waiver Program, that means I can visit without any visa application or bothersome waiting (See above point).

Did I mention the friends who were helplful, impeccably pleasant to be around and extremely interesting? Worth another mention anyway.

Wonderful, forthy, ice-cold milkshakes that simply don't exist back home.

Nathi's pies. She make 'em good, uh-huh fly-boy. *Shuffle to the right, gyrate head a little, then back to the left.*

Beating Scolo at his own game on my first go; "Helm! Bring us about and make all weapons available! Lock on to the U.S.S. Centipede and FIRE!"

And the worst part? Having to leave. :)

Glory to Scotland! Let's all laugh at our southern kin!

We've withstood some considerable taunting in football from our Union-brothers, England. Whilst they've been at World Cups and European Championships, we've mostly (Not me, due to having an English father I would have faced death by strangulation) been relegated to picking whatever team our southern chums were facing to support.

They're well aware of it too -- Against France, in Euro 2004 from the terraces could be heard the near-orgasmic chanting of ten thousand England fans; "Are you watching Scottish Scum?"

Yes, we were. Impotent to act in retribution.

But did the month of September not bestow upon us glory? Why waste valuable time reading, when another patented simpligraph can explain it just as well?



Enjoy. ;)














On a far more sombre note, I deliberately witheld from posting anything on the eleventh, yesterday. There are people who've put it far better than me, so let me again delve into photos; a picture says a thousand words, after all.



"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil - For you are with me."

United we stand.

I'm not dead -- I'm just up to my knees in fish gut!

So, quite the while's past since my last entry, eh?

When last you heard of the intrepid Kaenei, he was discussing the foolishness inherent in losing your passport whilst in a foreign country, whilst still -in- that foreign country. Fortunately since those blissful months spent eating chicken, pie and doing absolutely nothing of any meaningful physical labour, I'm now safe'n'sound back in Aberdeen.

I've even found myself a job. Unfortunately for me, this is a job so utterly horrible, that it can only truly rival Motorway Service Station sandwiches and the demand for soap in Glasgow in its pathetic-ness.

You see, from 6pm until 3am, I am employed however reluctantly on my part, and gleefully on my employer's part, to clean several metric tonnes of fish gut and offal from various machines. We're also not talking pleasant machines, like the Nintendogs or even a Breville Pie maker; imagine HAL hadn't quite passed the obviously stringent requirements to serve as an AI on the Discovery and in-between spaceflights, took a job at a processing factory. Imagine he then had various blades and hooks ranging from five foot circular saws to high-pressure chemical cannons strapped on to his extremities and told to demonstrate his "Dave Boweman Special".

You're all thinking Fish looks like this, aren't you?



Well I hate to shatter any illusions for you, but this ranks alongside other such urban legends as how anyone came to think Bananarama were ever musically gifted, and just exactly how any one Dundee Schoolgirl (out of probably thousands) get any homework done whilst caring for their twins (Charlene and Mary-Jane, as if you hadn't worked out their ultimate lot from the bright Kappa tracksuits and the trousers-tucked-into-socks). Fish arrive like your McChicken Premiere once did ... Freshly dead and still sporting such unpleasentness as eyes, guts and bones (Or in the case of your McChicken Premiere, possibly sporting dozens of eyes, and pumped full of chemical enhancers) .

And unfortunately, believe it or not, the Scottish Fish Industry does not get by with only taking "The ones that die of old age". Your Grandad's sweet in his old senile "Did-I-forget-to-put-my-rubber-underwear-on way, but it won't do you any good to keep hearing these fairytales. These poor fishes are rounded up by their thousands, by a few hundred "Fishermen" (The concept has changed to what now consists of "Hook net to arm, press arm maneuver button, press net release, wait for three hours, press net recall button") who are the only difference between the likes of such provincial shanty towns as Peterhead and Fraserburgh being rightfully abandoned in favour of places NOT still stuck in the seventies and still actually in possession of "Discos".

I can't even claim to be in thrilling company -- You see, cleaning fish-guts isn't something you're likely to need a degree to achieve employment in (Unless frankly, you're one of the muppets who seriously thought "Tourism & Industry" was a valid degree course) and as such, almost everyone at my workplace is foreign.

I don't mean from such exotic places as Italy, or South America, ooooh no.

They hail from the Former Soviet Socialist Republics of Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, Poland and various other Eastern European Worker's Utopia. Yup -- Hammers'n'sickles'n'SERVING THE SOVIET UNION!

Another curious thing is the tendency for my colleagues to "gain" the ability to speak English depending on how long they've been working. Confused? I've prepared a graphic to educate ...



So you see, ability to speak English and actually BE of any use is directly proportional to however long they'd need to be of use for. Trying to find a brush? Need help with a sticky pallet truck? Better not ask the Slovak 'till he's had his Kit-Kat and read "Communist Dictator Monthly" (Incidentally, Stalin was Mr. November).

And of course whilst I suffer, my dear Nathicana is conversing with Drag Queens, soft Porn stars and all manner of exhibitionists; whilst I get a six-foot-something Nigerian who likes to decapitate salmon with his bare hands and stuff into holes as a less time-consuming alternative to finding the correct plugs.

To think, this is all so I can save up the money I need to go BACK to the U.S. -- Having seen what I put up with, your donations are fucking demanded. It isn't a donation, that would indicate a choice. I'm telling you to send your money ...

Or I'll send round the Nigerian.

Kaenei and the giant Hornet of doom. [Or how I took on Mother Nature and won]

You know, I like sleeping.

It's that special while where the Earth can continue conspiring against me as it does during waking hours, and I'm too unconcscious to care. The general ill-luck that plagues my day can continue to spawn whilst I snooze and it won't affect me one little bit. By extension of that the few minutes following my eyes opening in the morning is one of reflection-- Just how bad will this day be, and how can I ruin someone else's to compensate? Will I lose anything else important to my stay in the United States, such as a kidney or worse; my underwear.

Unfortunately for me, this one morning was not one of plotting, but one of insect-augmented DEATH.

I've got a fundemental problem with Wasps, it's got to be said. There's a world of difference between a Bee, and a Wasp, and it goes something like this:-



At least Bees have a purpose-- They make delicious honey so Kaenei can flavour his toast in the morning and subsequently make the world that little bit better. But a Wasp has no other purpose in life other than to sting the fuck out of you, to inflict as much pain as it can and then make the feelers on its head twitch in the wasp equivalent to "Get it right up you" before it flies off to inflict itself again on some unsuspecting peon.

Well no longer, the line is drawn here!



I've started the W.I.M.P. [Wasp Investigation & Murder Pact] as a way for us defenceless citizens of the world to band together and fight these black-and-yellow terrors! This covers every single type of wasp; African black wasps that chew up spiders, common-as-muck garden variety wasps and the mother of them all-- Hornets.

Hornets are different, they're malevolent; sinister, silent and above all else, permanently angry. It's like they've been standing in queue for tickets to their favourite musician [I'll go out on a limb here and say N-Sync] and stood in the pouring rain for eight hours only to get to the counter and learn its sold out; Like they were looked over one too many times for promotion at work or the ultimate in flipped-out craziness; Employes of the United States Postal Service.

These motherfuckers don't care how young/old/gender-confused you are, they'll sink their agonising poisons into your veins quicker than you can say "Alas! I am wounded not by the striking blade so fickle as steel, but the searing puncture of Mother Nature unrestrained!"

I had the displeasure to awake not three days ago to one such demon-insectoid, perched as it was on my bedsheet and clearly weighing up wether my genitals or my face were more tempting stinging targets. Practically employing mastery over gravity I departed that bed and legged it from the room so quickly I almost knocked myself out on the door I had neglected to open to faciliate my escape.

It flew then to my window; as I watched said beast from the doorway.

This my friends, is where the power of Humanity allowed me to adapt in a way the Queen of the Demon-Wasps can never duplicate. Creeping forward, I grabbed a heavy book and repeatedly threw it against the window whilst screaming and gibbering death insults until I was satisfied that I'd either suceeded in killing it, or sealed my doom at the hands of something that can shit venom from its own arse hole.

Fortunately, it was the latter-- I later christened those twenty four hours "D2W" day in celebration of my glorious victory, and I live in hope comrades that you too will rise up and rebel against these honey-eschewing bastardised spawn of doom-satan.

VIVA LE REVOLUTION!

The biggest mistake a Brit in the U.S. can make....

...Is lose your passport.

Yes, that one document which serves as sole proof of your identity on this continent, and more importantly grants you the ability to -leave- the United States should be counted amongst your more important documents.

Those who know me further know I managed to do exactly that, whilst transferring from St Louis International to the rest of greater Missouri. Don't worry, I won't require any "What a dumbass", "How could you lose THAT?" and "Dude". Please avoid the latter especially, it isn't funny and it isn't clever.

So, I'm on the rocky road to attempting to replace the passport. Now as most will know Britain isn't short an embassy or two in the land of freedom and oppertunity-- Indeed one look at BritainUSA.com will probably make you think YOU'VE got a British embassy in your bathroom. Unfortunately for me, and by extension any British citizen trying to get consular assistance in your bathroom, the majority of embassies are nothing more than one floor offices in major downtown American cities, with little more than an answering machine directing you towards the "big three".

I hear the question already, allow me to explain the form of a graphic...




As you can probably see, I can't just pop to Washington D.C. in person and get it sorted out, so I'm having to rely on post.

This creates all kinds of worries that you don't get doing it in person-- Did I fill the form correctly? Did I get all the information I need? As questions go to the latter, no. I don't know my old passport number for example, foolish me neglecting to note it down [insert ironic smilie here]. So as it stands, I'm having to hope that the people at the Washington Embassy take pity on any errors I've made.

Whilst we're on the point of how ridiculous this whole situation is, I can't not mention the fact I'm paying $150 for my stupidity. How completely unfair is that? In the olden days I'd have recieved a swift smack round the back of the ear and sent to bed without supper; not charged such daft amounts of money. Unfortunately this same complaint was the sound of glee when the Goverment decided that paying for embassies through taxes wasn't fair-- You can bet I didn't have the same foresight I do now on the subject.

Well, hopefully I'll have the paperwork sent off this week. If I don't, my last gasp plan is to shows up at the federal building in Des Moines and flaunt my illegal status about the place-- Surely -that- will get me home.

Besides, I've always liked the orange jumpsuits.