It's been another year

So now I've

Had a year off from plays
Looked for another job
Applied for Mastermind
Had a holiday to New York & Florida
Given an auditon for Mastermind
Went to Florence, Italy
Found another job

Went to a number of Italian cities on our way to our friend's wedding
Accepted to appear on Mastermind
Got the part of Macduff in an outdoor produciton of Macbeth
Left old job and started new job
Went on Mastermind
Headhunted for yet another job

Made eight performances in Macbeth in front of audiences plus dress rehearsals ovewr two week period

Accepted that job and am about to leave the old new job for new new job

Now resting...

It's been a year since I posted.

A long year.  Very quickly, in the past 12 months I've

Left one job, and started another
Almost lost wife through sepsis, she is now recovering
Been accepted to appear on TV quiz show Pointless.
Moved house.
Appeared on TV quiz show Pointless
Been published in a book, Afterliff, under the definition "Brixworth".
Won the TV quiz show Pointless.  Got trophies and everything.
Start refurbishing kitchen of new house.  If you've never had it done, you don't know what it's like.  If you do, I've been there man.
Won the jackpot on TV quiz show Pointless.
Appeared in four plays.  One of them I directed as well as acted.  All of them great.
Travelled to the follow places on holiday.  Amsterdam (twice), Monmouth in Wales.  Brussels & Somerset.
Planned further trips to New York, Orlando & Norfolk for Xmas stay.

I'm about to keel over.  Rest now...

The Deadly Dame

Inspired by my friend's new haircut

---

You’re probably expecting me to say how once I met The Dame, that my two-bit life as a gumshoe; a profession I worked at both on the right side of the fence and the more daring and wilder side of illegality, my life was changed forever.

Admit it, you are, aren’t you?  Isn’t that how all the stories begins.  How the ordinary life of a resident is turned upside down when a stranger comes to town.  The pieces are shaken up and left to settle and all those other damn clichés?

Those folks that might think that, and I’ve known a few folks over the years, believe me.  But those folks never met The Dame.

The Deadly Dame.

Before I go on and tell you all about her, I want you to imagine something.  I want you to imagine my office as it was back then, set sometime between post WWI 1920s and pre WWII 1930s.  Times didn’t change much then; and since you’re probably imagining things as based upon fragments of old movies you might have seen late at night in the era of Television, it don’t do too much to be all that specific about dates.

I need you to imagine me, Nick Pacetti, as I was back then too.  The wrong side of 40, mostly unshaven and wearing the faded suit bought back when times were better.  When lots of things were better.  When I had a wife, and a family.  And lots of other things I’ll probably never get to tell you about.

But most of all, I need you to hear my gravelly, cigarette inflected voice narrating the story as you read.  If we’re going to tell a noir-ish story, and since it features the essential ingredient I mentioned above, you need to be involved in the language and the elements that genre uses.

So go back, and try and read the story from the top in my punch drunk from life, off-Bogart voice.  I’ll wait here, not doing so much ‘cept waiting anyways.

You’re back.  Swell.  Doesn’t the story now have a realer, more traveled flavour to it?  Course it does.

So I was a private detective.  I rented an office in Los Angeles just off the main strip back when the town bustled with players and hustlers.  Not that I ever did much of either.  I was what you’d call a watcher, the “eye” in private eye.  I would sit by my 4th floor window, leaning back on my chair; perhaps with a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other, just staring out of the window at the folks below. 

If I wasn’t working on a case (which was more and more often these days) I could kill afternoons, days sometimes, just staring.  It was during of these ever lengthening “episodes” that I first saw The Dame.

I don’t know how long she had been standing there, staring at me as I stared at folks from the window; but when she said “Mr Pacetti” in her firm and heavily scripted voice, something told me she had been silently sizing me up.  Maybe even judging me behind my back.

“Yes?” I replied, urgently setting back my glass on the table and swivelling my chair around to face her.  God damn, she had caught me unawares.

“Mr Nick Pacetti, the private eye” she said again.  And it was then I managed to take a good look at her.  And boy, what a look that was.

She was a dame, alright.  If I had suspected, even for a minute, how deadly she’d turn out to be.  Well, I guess I wouldn’t be telling this story for one.  For another, knowing then what I know now I’d have got the hell right out of there and joined a monastery.  But neither of those things would have happened anyways, because I saw her.

She was tall, above average height for a lady.  But it wasn’t her height, it was how she carried her height that mattered.  She was leaning slightly off centre in the frame of the doorway, with the door to my office wide open.  How she’d opened the door without alerting me, I’ll never know.  Maybe I’d drifted off to sleep with a little too much scotch and a little too less soda after lunch, but maybe not.  My first instinct was she was just that damn good at cat like silent movement.

Deadly powers, you might say.

If I had known.

She was wearing a full length dress, as all the ladies of the time would have worn, with a similar coat in matching style.  A hat placed at an elegant, not jaunty, angle.  Shoes, expensive but not the kind you see in show business.  Barely a suggestion of skin around the neckline, or ankle.  Not the sort of thing that would be all the rage decades later, but fashion and sexual permissiveness will do that for you.  Didn’t matter one jot to me though.  Even with the most delicate of outlines as her shoulders, arms, waist and thighs pressed against that dress, I can say upon my soul at the day of reckoning, she was the most desirable and beautiful woman I had ever seen.

And I had only just seen her.  I was yet to hear her speak more than a few words.

“Yes, I’m Nick Pacetti” I said, doing my utmost to retain something of control over the exchange.  Trying, at the least, to get my breathing at a level approaching normal.

“I’m here to talk to you, there’s something you need to do for me.  Naturally I’ll pay you for whatever time and expenses are incurred”.  She spoke quickly, but she didn’t gabble.  Her voice had en easy pace to it; if it was rehearsed, it didn’t seem like a performance.  It didn’t feel like I was being played.

“Of course.  Well Miss, what should I call you…?” I began.  In taking in her entrance I hadn’t completely forgotten my experience.  No wedding ring.

“I could give you a pseudonym, but I won’t.  Just call me Ms” she shot back.

“Can I get you a drink?”.  I only had scotch and soda, so my menu was limited but it was the courteous thing to do.

“No thank you”.  There was poise and precision in that voice, and her body language.  And her body.

“Alright.  Won’t you sit down at least?”.  If our verbal exchange were a Boxing match, I’d be on the ropes right now looking to hang on to the stronger opponent.

“Thank you” she replied, and drew the chair sitting opposite before lowering herself to my height with nary a sound emitted.  The steel behind her soft, mannered voice was unmistakeable, if you knew where to look.  I wanted to know everything about her.

“Before I go on, I need to tell you my daily rate and expenses” I said.  This felt like more familiar terrain this time.  Sure, she taken me aback at first, but sitting opposite me in the client’s chair, I could run through my introductory talk and regain the upper hand.

“The rates and expenses will not be a problem Mr Pacetti” she immediately replied.  “The bill will be paid in full.  Fortunately for both of us, I am a very wealthy woman”.  For a fraction of a second I thought I almost saw a smile.  A recognition, even an admittance that she was dominating the conversation.  But it only lasted barely a moment, if that.  She was far too clever to be smug, or over-confident.  That much I already knew.

“My favourite kind of client!” I said, and laughed slightly awkwardly.  I was hoping she would join me in breaking the tension, but she didn’t.  The Dame kept on looking at me with her focused gaze.  She was feeding off the tension, using it, for her sustenance.

“So, what is it you need me to do” I tried again.  This time I did see something in her expression change.  She leaned back ever so slightly on the chair and began to speak.

“I have a list here of men I want you to find for me” she said, holding a piece of paper that she had just produced from inside her elegant coat. “Twelve men in fact”.

“Twelve men?” I started.  “You realise Miss, I mean Ms, it can take weeks and weeks, if not months just to find one single individual.  People can make it very difficult indeed to be tracked down and identified if they don’t want to.  I hope you’re as wealthy as you say you are”.

It was good to finish off with that line, “as wealthy as you say you are”.  It was a good line, I was proud of it.  I’d used it before, and would use it again, but on this occasion it was a punch from a cut up fighter on the ropes against a worthy opponent.  She definitely had the advantage of the early rounds, jabbing and sparring, but I’d landed a big blow.  12 men indeed, I wouldn’t have to work for 3 years after this job!

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble locating these men” she replied, after what seemed like an age compared to her previous responses, but was probably only a few seconds.  I later realised she used the time to enjoy the satisfaction I couldn’t help displaying on my face, before proceeding with her attack.

“Why not?”.

“Because” and here she paused, and removed a cigarette from a previously unnoticed case, and put it to her lips.  I rushed to find a light for her, but she already had one and was lit by the time I found my matches.

“First of all”, she said, exhaling smoke in a manner of assured experience, “if you unfold the paper there, you’ll see the names of each men listed there, and the addresses where they are currently located.  I know you’re about to say that current locations don’t mean a hill of beans compared to flesh and blood, so don’t”.

I had my mouth halfway open to say just that, so I closed it.

“Second of all, and most importantly, is that these men, all twelve, are already dead”.

I had never been a boxer, but I can scarcely believe a knockout punch from Jack Johnson could floor me quite so seriously as that last remark.  Far from fighting back with one facile remark, she had just allowed me to my feet so she could deliver another supremely executed right hook.

“But, but” I stumbled, feeling in more need of another scotch than I had ever felt before in my life, “how do you know this?”.

Facile remarks, stupid questions.  Either I was having a bad day, or a bad day compared to my opponent, or that my opponent was making me swing and miss like a chump.  I suspected the third option.  Of course she knew, she was about to tell me.

“Four of them took their own lives, a combination of asphyxiation from hanging morphine overdose.  A further three were poisoned.  Two were killed from the blunt force trauma of a shovel striking them around the side of the head.  Which leaves three.  Two died from wounds caused by knife injuries, and the final one was strangled after a long and violent struggle with an intruder”.

If the cool and matter of fact nature of the previous paragraph chills you, I would challenge you to hear it facing opposite the magnetic personality and ageless beauty of the Dame who delivered those words.  Delivered them with such grace and authority she could have been detailing the breakdown of an automobile into its component parts.  She wasn’t finished.

“I need you to attend those addresses on that paper, and contact the relevant Police departments.  There will be investigations to the find culprit, or culprits, naturally.  But these will be fruitless.  They will find no fingerprints, or evidence of any kind that can be used in a court of law, and eventually the police will close the case and mark it as unsolved”.

Another chilling statement, delivered with clarity and without hesitation.  It truly was a sight to behold.

“The only single element linking these 12 cases will be you, and your appearance on the crime scene on each occasion.  You will of course be held as a suspect by any officer unwilling to do the necessary police work.”  Now I started to panic, was she telling me this to set me up, to frame me?  Why would she tell me all this if not?

“But knowing about the location of the crimes does not make you the murderer, there will be nothing on you and eventually you will be free to leave.  Depending on your appetites for public recognition, you could use this knowledge in a number of different ways.  You might become something of a fortune teller, the local psychic the police turn to when all leads are dead.  Or you might use the spotlight to ensure a steady supply of private eye work.  You may even want the fame that could come along with knowing such a scandalous and no doubt intriguing story”.

My head was spinning, I was out on my feet.  If this had a referee he’d have stepped in and stopped the fight after too much cruel and unusual punishment.  So, summoning up what energy I had left, I spoke back.

“I just have two questions”.

“Did I kill those men, and why am I telling you about them?”  This time she really did smile, a wonderful joyful smile that lit up the room.  She was pleased to have pre-empted my admittedly obvious rejoinder, but more than that, she seemed relieved to have unburdened herself.

“Yes”.

“To the first question, I will not say.  It will ever remain something to wonder over, and everyone loves a mystery.  To the second, let me say that a private eye would be the best person to hear, if they can hear.

“Why”.  Single word sentences were all I could muster.

“Because men talk.  They talk to other men.  Word will spread of what happened here.  Perhaps legends will spring up around the events.  Of an avenging angel, and a woman to boot”.

“These, were avenging murders?”

“Oh yes”.  The smile re-appeared.  “The four that took their own lives, they were made to realise the reality of the sins they committed.  Terrible sins, against children, and ones they had no way of making amends.  The ones who were poisoned, they were violent men.  Violent toward their wives, and their children.  They were men hooked on control.  The administering of poison took that control and power away.  The ones with more violent ends were politicians and other authority figures.  Men who sent other men to wars for their own profit.  Men who had sent innocent and blameless law enforcement officers to their deaths to protect the interests of their private property.  Men who closed down shelters, refuges and orphanages to extract more value of their land to private investment.  But a rain came upon them”.

The Dame got up from her seat, still without making a sound.  It all happened in one fluid movement, and for just a split-second as she leant to crush out her cigarette I saw her dress tighten against her thigh and posterior, and I lost whatever sanity I had left.

“Goodbye Mr Pacetti” she said as she moved to the door.  Her voice had lost none of its power, or intensity, but it now returned to a more formal air.  “The answer is yes, I may see you again, one day.  And I told you because you’re a good man, beneath it all.  So go back to your wife and family, they miss you.”

“Goodbye” I said, with the last of my remaining muscle power standing to see a lady leave the room.

She closed the door herself, the only formally unladylike activity she carried out, or admitted to, while in my office.  After no more than ten seconds contemplation I raced around the desk and threw myself at the door handle.  But by the time my trembling hands had grasped it and made it turn, she was gone.  No trace of her was left.

I searched the corridors, the elevator, the adjoining offices, even the boy at the newsstand right outside the building.  But no one could tell me if they’d even seen a sight of her, or seen her go past.  It was just as if she had arrived, and vanished into thin air.

I began to think it was all a dream, a fantasy caused by too little exercise or too much sleep and sloth.  But when I returned to my office, her piece of paper was still there.

I returned to my seat, only instead of resuming to watch my people, I pulled out some paper from a drawer, found my pen, and began to write.

The Deadly Dame – Chapter 1.

Tightening the knife in her hand, The Dame moved towards the target of her mission of vengeance…

Five Hit Songs (with creepy pedophilia sub-texts)

Pop music hasn’t always been about drug dealing, casual sex, oblivion drinking, strip-clubs and gang-related murder, as your parents would contend. Oh no.

They’ll insist, that back in the “good old days”, pop music used to be about more wholesome subjects; like death through dangerous driving (Leader Of The Pack), murdering unfaithful women (Delilah) and of course transvestites seducing naïve young men (Lola).

Oh but that was different, they’ll say.  It was fun and playful.  Not something to be taken seriously, it was always about the energy and the melodies.  Not like nowadays with your Pussycat Dolls pushing prostitution on 6 year olds.

They forget the music they evidently prefer happened when they were young; so naturally it seemed harmless at the time, perhaps even a little racy.  Now they’re old, it seems so much more real and threatening.

So lest we be allowed to forget, the vilest gangster-wannabe rapping about “blunts” or some such has absolutely nothing on the creepy fascinations that were big hits back in the day.  These were not obscure vinyl releases listened to by no one, you understand.  These songs containing insinuations of sexual interest in minors were huge way back when.

On behalf of our lawyers, we don’t think any of these songs were actually intended to be anthems for NAMBLA, they just ended up that way, unintentionally.

#5 – Itsy Bitsy Teen Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini – Brian Hyland

The song

First released in June 1960 by Brian Hyland, written by Paul Vance and Lee Pockriss. Lyrics here

Number 1 in the US, Top Ten in many other countries, including the UK Singles Chart.

Covered in 1990 by the Timmy Mallett-fronted Bombalurina, it reached #1.  You can listen to it here, if you really want to, or  if you have a lot of free time.  Or if you’re doing a research project on the decline of western civilisation.

Future historians will wonder over the UK Singles Chart, and will probably conclude it was the device of a cruel, totalitarian regime to torture dissidents.

What it’s about

A 2 year old girl. 

Still think the song is a playful, harmless ditty?  Paul Vance wrote the song inspired by the bikini his 2-year old was rather shy of revealing.  We don’t blame her.

#4 – My Sharona - The Knack

The song

My Sharona was the first single ever released by The Knack and made #1 in the US in 1979.  The Hit Me Baby One More Time of its day, as the band never managed to exceed the success of that initial smash.  Although unlike Britney, they did not go mental, or have sex with Justin Timberlake, to the best of our knowledge. 

What it’s about

Barely (as in not) legal under-age sex. Lyrics

Sharona was a real person.  Her name was Sharona Alperin and she was the girlfriend of The Knack’s lead-singer and guitarist Doug Fieger. 

Picture

He was 25, and she was 17, under the legal age of sexual consent for most states in the USA.

So if you have had a guilty pull thinking about Miley Cyrus before November 23^rd 2010, you are a sex criminal in the eyes of US law.

#3 – Save All Your Kisses For Me – Brotherhood Of Man

The song

#1 in six countries, and Top Ten in five more.  Winner of the 1976 Eurovision Song Contest.  That was in the days before it was exclusively the preserve of the gay community and the acerbic wit of Terry Wogan.

With a smile the ladies love…

What it’s about

A 3 year-old. Lyrics

Right up until the final, chilling, line where it is revealed the song is sung toward a toddler, you’re led to believe it’s a sickly ode to a lover to stay faithful while the protagonist embarks for parts unknown.

The use of romantic language substituting for the paternal protective love of a child is something you really could only get away with in the more sexually innocent time of the 70s

Picture

But it’s not as bad as…

#2 – Sweet Caroline – Neil Diamond

The song

Released in 1969, Top Ten in the US and later becoming a Top Ten single in the UK in 1971.  It has gone on to become one of Diamond’s most beloved songs, receiving a rapturous response when he played it at Glastonbury in 2008.  The song is also a mainstay of several Baseball arenas, including the home of the Boston Red Sox, Fenway Park.

It’s used as crowd control

What it’s about

Caroline Kennedy, daughter of President John F. Kennedy, who was 11 years old when the song was released, and 9 when it was written.  Lyrics

Let us highlight some of the key lyrics for you.

Warm, touching warm.

Reaching out, touching me, touching you.

Sweet Caroline, good times never been so good.

Picture

9 years old dude.  Much like #3, what starts as a harmless romantic love song gets warped and twisted into a perverted obsession with a pre-pubescent.

But that’s nothing compared to…

#1 – Clair - Gilbert O’Sullivan

The song

#1 in the UK in 1972, and #2 in the US.  One of the biggest hits of the Irish singer-songwriter’s career, co-written with his manger Gordon Mills.

What it’s about

Gordon Mills young daughter, who O’Sullivan babysat for.  Lyrics

The song is told from the point of view of an Uncle, adoring his young niece, Clair.

We say, “adoring”, we mean to say, “rubbing himself while thinking of her”.  Allegedly.

For much of the song (similar to Save All Your Kisses For Me) the listener is led to believe it’s between adult to another.

Clair. The moment I met you, I swear.

I felt as if something, somewhere,

had happened to me, which I couldn’t see.

And then, the moment I met you, again.

I knew in my heart that we were friends.

It had to be so, it couldn’t be no.

Then, it gets really uncomfortable, really quick.

Words mean so little when you look up and smile.

I don’t care what people say, to me you’re more than a child.

Oh Clair. Clair …

We’re just going to sprinkle a couple more of O’Sullivan’s furtive imagination run wild

But why in spite of our age difference do I cry.

Nothing means more to me than hearing you say,

“I’m going to marry you. Will you marry me, Uncle Ray?”

While I, in an effort to babysit, catch up on my breath,

what there is left of it.

Further investigation can be found here - http://itsallmaya.com/disturbing-lyrics-to-gilbert-osullivans-song-claire/ - not to mention a considerable amount of discussion at the bottom of the article, going back and forth as to what the song really means.  The post was made on January 29^th 2009 and as of October 2010 is still going strong.

And as several people comment, of course there’s nothing wrong writing about tremendous affection for a child, it’s really beautiful actually.  The problem is the use of romantic language in describing it.  “To me you’re more than a child” is exactly how abusers see children, it’s how they justify their desires by making it seem the child is more grown-up than he or she actually is, and is therefore “ready” for adult treatment.

As we said at the beginning, with the exception of #4 we don’t think any of them were intended this way.  Our best guess is that Gilbert (or Uncle Ray) was halfway through writing one song, when he got the idea for Clair and fitted what he had already written into that framework.

The real Clair, meanwhile, commented on how lovely and decidedly non-creepy Uncle Ray was, so we’re probably just reading something that isn’t there, in these jaded and cynical 21^st century times.

Still, would any of these songs get away with being released these days?

I'm writing a novel!  Thought the 8 month gap would have to justify something huge...

A funny thing fell into my Inbox today..

I received the following today,

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Copied from a friend: An incident occurred in a supermarket recently when the following was witnessed: A woman dressed in a Burkha (a black gown & face mask) was standing with her shopping in a queue at the checkout. When it was her turn to be served , and as she reached the cashier, she made a loud remark about the British Flag lapel pin which the female cashier was wearing on her blouse. ............The cashier reached...... up and touched the pin and said, 'Yes, I always wear it proudly. My son serves abroad with the forces and I wear it for him. The Muslim woman then asked the cashier when she was going to stop bombing and killing her countrymen explaining that she was Iraqi. At that point an elderly gentleman standing in the queue stepped forward and interrupted with a calm and gentle voice, and said to the Iraqi woman: 'Excuse me, but hundreds of thousands of British men and women, just like this ladies son have fought and sacrificed their lives so that people just like YOU can stand here in Britain , which is MY country, and allow you to blatantly accuse an innocent check-out cashier of bombing YOUR countrymen. It is my belief that if you were allowed to be as outspoken as that in Iraq, which you claim to be YOUR country, then we wouldn't need to be fighting there today. However - now that you have learned how to speak out and criticize the British people who have afforded you the protection of MY country, I will gladly pay the cost of a ticket to help you pay your way back to Iraq. When you get there, and if you manage to survive for being as outspoken as what you are here in Britain, then you should be able to help straighten out the mess which YOUR Iraqi countrymen have got you into in the first place, which appears to be the reason that you have come to MY country to avoid.' Apparently the queue cheered and applauded. IF YOU AGREE... Pass this on to all of your proud British & other worldly friends.. I just did!!! It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice. It's also nice to be British and proud!

---

OK, let's put the horrific content of the message aside for one moment, which I will come back to, but firstly...

This "story" is quite obviously made-up.  Let me take you through the ways.

1.       There are no names, dates, locations mentioned; always a key sign.
2.       The British Flag lapel pin?  British people do not wear lapel pins, and even if they did, they wouldn't call it the British Flag.  Union Jack, perhaps, or Union Flag if you're being pedantic, but not British Flag.
3.       Americans, however, do wear lapel pins.  Whoever wrote this took an American message and replaced the America with Britain.
4.       So did this guy in Australia - http://www.hoax-slayer.com/australian-flag-muslim-women-lapel-pin.shtml

So, now we've dispensed with the fiction, let's deal with the horrific.

1.       Those with weak arguments always create a "straw man" that they can then demolish as a way of proving their point.
2.       A woman in a Burkha (normally used by Afghans rather than Iraqis, but no matter; they're all the same, right?) accuses an innocent lapel pin wearer of a crime against humanity.
3.       Perfect.  Pick the most feared and despised ethnic group of the day, and have make them a completely unbelievable assertion which can now be dismissed with contempt.  Killing two birds with one stone, the crimes of the west are placed into the mouthpieces of those with least credibility.
4.       An elderly gentleman is now to state the correct reason for invading and occupying a country with the second largest reserves of oil in the world; freedom of speech.
5.       Let us put aside the support we gave to Iraq's evil, merciless, freedom-of-speech denying dictator when he was on our side fighting Iran.
6.       Let us put aside the stated reason for invading was an imminent threat of WMD.
7.       Let us also put aside the mark of a civilised society accepting refugees from war-torn countries.
8.       Let us just stick to the issue of freedom of speech.
9.       Yes, the woman was exercising a right that her home country would not allow.  What I find curious, however, is that the writers (and forwarders/sharers) of this poisonous swill have far more in common with repressive regimes than they'd care to admit.
10.   They don't believe in freedom of speech at all.  Isn't the mark of freedom of speech the ability to criticise the most important decisions of that country's government?  Not merely to repeat platitudes and uncontroversial opinions that no one would disagree with, or disagree with too strongly.
11.   So the line about paying for a ticket back to Iraq is particularly revealing.  Yes, this country is so much better than those from where peopled have fled, but if you say something we don't like we'll deport you straight back.  You're only here because "we" allow you to. 
12.   I'd be interested to know how much a ticket to Iraq is, given the "security situation".  I hope that elderly gentleman has deep pockets.  Pretty sure Ryan Air don't go there.
13.   But OK, play along.  Let's say she did make it back, and carried on being as outspoken as she was about the US/UK occupation.  Criticising the troops in that country could get you killed for being a "suspected insurgent".

Does this mean I wish the troops harm?  Or that I don't recognise the tremendous sacrifice they've put in?  Or that I think they're all war criminals and rapists?  Of course not.  I don't blame any individual soldier for ANYTHING.  I blame the liars and corrupt power-mongers that sent them there.  Even Abu Graib, even every atrocity exposed or suppressed, it's the fault of the leaders who sent them there in the first place. 

Who praise them when it's convenient to avoid larger public scrutiny, and deflect blame away from their catastrophic failure and obvious dishonesty, but are the first to label them "bad apples" and "rogues" when the predictable consequences of foreign intervention are realised.

I'm British and proud.  I am also married to a Muslim.  I also think people should raise as much money as possible through Help For Heroes or other charities scandalously forced to pick up the tab from government inaction, if that's what people believe in.  But people should be free to say what they like without being threatened with eviction for disagreement.

Support The Troops.

Change The Policies That Sent Them There.

The time has come...

I'm going to start Tweeting.  There Will Be Drivel...