Pink Floyd's Final Cut - It says so much

I have just been listening to Pink Floyd's "The Final Cut", which was the last album with Roger Waters. It's a very deep album which needs careful listening to in order to understand it.

As I have already written here, I have been suffering emotionally lately. This album deals substantially with the issue of mental illness and depression, in addition to the total futility of war. The songs also have deep meaning to me in other ways, for example the part of "The Gunner's Dream" where it is mentioned about a funeral and the corner of a field, it reminds me of the interment of the person who helped me find myself more than anyone else did, and comforting her 8 year old son as we left the cemetery.

This album can still move me to tears. 

I can understand fully about the part where it says in "The Final Cut" about holding the blade in trembling hands but never having the nerve to make the final cut - that is exactly how I have felt several times lately, only with pills not a blade.

So, here's your chance to hear this album for yourselves - but please listen to it and not just hear it. Then take some time to think about it.

Revisiting my Musical Youth

Almost by accident, I ended up revisiting my musical youth tongiht. A mixture of 70s rock and early 80s music.

It's strange, but 30 years on much of the music I totally rejected at the time in a decade I didn't particularly enjoy has actually stood the test of time. The likes of OMD, Ultravox and Human League sound so much better than the commercial shit of the 90s and noughties. 

On the other hand, it could be I'm getting an old fart and my eyesight has deteriorated to the point where I am wearing rose-tinted specs?

Anyway, judge for yourself with a taster of early 80s music here:

Enjoy!

Heavy Rock Monday

It's August Bank Holiday here, and I am in a mood for heavy rock music once more.

I've been listening to Rainbow, Deep Purple and Iron Maiden. 

As a treat here's Difficult to Cure (AKA Beethoven's 9th Symphony)

 

Stairway to Heaven

Here's the live version of Stairway to Heaven. Still relaxing after all these years!

A Song Which Sums Up the Tory Legacy

The Who's song Baba O'Reilly has as part of it's chorus that "it's only a teenage wasteland".

That sums up the whole Tory philosophy - leave behind a wasteland where there is no hope, no future, no employment and riots in the streets as a consequence.

So, here's the song:

My personal anthem - Freebird

This is my personal anthem - I am a freebird and no fucker is ever going to cage me.

Setting Myself Free

In their song Fade to Black, Metallica wrote "Need the end to set me free".

Although I have felt like ending it all at times recently, it can apply in other circumstances too. I need the end of the hell I have endured courtesy of working for HMG in order to set myself free and be able to move on and live again.

Working for the civil service has been a nightmare. I am a creative person and the hellish job I have endured for the last 4 years has had no end product and needs no creative input whatsoever.

I am emotional. To be a good civil servant you need to put aside your emotions. The problem I had whilst working there was that the emotional side of me is an integral part of my whole being. I have always been passionate and long may I continue to be so. I can't just put my emotions on a coathook when I go into work and then get on with the monotonous shit that is in front of me. I need to be a person not a robot! To be expected to act dispassionately when dealing with people is against everything I am. I need to be free to be myself - and at that shithole I wasn't.

I am free-spirited. The civil service is not a job for free-spirits. You are expected to leave your spirit behind and be a robot. I'm sorry - I cannot be a robot.

I am a rebel. I have always been a rebel. How the hell could I ever be a civil servant working for the government when I am a revolutionary socialist dedicated to the overthrow of the capitalist government and all their evil works?

Why did I go there in the first place? The answer is simple. I was forced to take the job or be left without any income by the very government which then employed someone who will do everything she can to bring about it's very downfall. How strange!

So, getting back to the main point of this post, which is setting myself free, I am relieved this period of hell is coming to an end. I need to be myself again. I need to be able to think for myself and not have a choke-chain on my thoughts and emotions. I look forward to being able to spend the next couple of years concentrating on my studies in which I can express myself and to then, hopefully, be able to work in a situation where I can use my passion.

Freedom is just around the corner.

In the meantime I need to bite my tongue for just a few more weeks. 

Oh to be on these beaches once more!

It is over a week now since I returned from a beautiful and relaxing (apart from the hellish coach journey) holiday in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland.

The highlight of the week, without a doubt, was the trip over to the Outer Hebrides, taking in North Uist and Harris.

The Outer Hebrides are a mass of contrasts. Some, such as Harris and Lewis, are mountainous, whilst others, such as Vatersay and Benbecula, are flat as anything. Another stark contrast in the islands is between the east and west coasts. The east coast of the islands is mainly rocky with cliffs, whereas the west coast of the islands has machir (sandy grass dunes) and lovely expansive white sand beaches.

Here is a selection of pictures of beaches from North Uist and Harris:

 

Ciggies Again

OK, so it's confession time.

I've been back on the ciggies for a few days now, and I must admit - I'm enjoying them immensely!

I would still like to give them up, but that is for another day. In the meantime I think I'll go and spark up.

Fade to Grey by Visage

Whiskey In The Jar by Metallica

An upbeat version of the Irish classic by Metallica.

Snuff by Slipknot - a great song

A game of charades

Yesterday I had a rather interesting game of charades.

It wasn't billed as a game of charades though, it was supposedly a keep-in-touch meeting at work because I have been off for the last couple of months due to my depression and stress. In it's own way it was quite comical. Three of the four of us in the room (the other person was a note-taker not fully briefed on the situation) were aware of the farcical nature of the meeting. We even went through the motions of arranging another keep-in-touch meeting in a month's time.

However, 3 of the 4 of us knew perfectly well that meeting which we arranged will never take place. 

Why?

The answer, dear readers is that in less than a fortnight's time I'm facing dismissal due to the treacherous actions of someone who pretended to be a friend. Someone who I represented when they were facing the sack. Someone who I went out of my way chasing hardship funds for after we had been on strike.

Over the last 4 years I have had fantastic support from my trades union and I would like to publicly give my thanks to those who have defended the indefensible on my behalf.

So, where do I go from here?

The answer is that I knuckle down with my studies and get the best degree I can.

Holiday Hangover

Has anyone ever noticed that after a holiday you feel like you need another holiday to recover from it?

I've been back from Scotland for a week now and still feel absolutely shattered.

Returning to the norm

So, it's back to the daily grind of life after a week in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland. It was a beautiful week with spectacular views and beautiful weather.

However, the reality of life is still shit. I'm still facing the nightmare situation with work and there is a load of studying to be done. Tonight I've been wrestling with the moral and legal arguments around the issue of smacking children. Having weighed up the arguments and read the evidence from various experts and committees, I have concluded that smacking is not morally or legally justified.

Tomorrow I've got a rather nice lunch waiting for me - smoked salmon, crab and prawns with salad. Should be rather special!

So, having had a week away from it all, I'll be back writing regularly now.

That Writing Bug

At the moment I am suffering stress and depression. It seems that I am in a dark pit with no exit in view. Churchill once described his depression as his "Black Dog". If depression is a dog, then the dog which bit me should be subject to the provisions of the Dangerous Dogs Act 1991. However, Churchill found that his way to combat depression was writing. In his case it was writing about his ancestors and their warrior ways.

I have also found that writing is one of the few ways to ease the pain. I guess it is a cathartic process which helps by enabling me to concentrate for a few brief moments and also gives me the opportunity to have a rant when I need to.

So, having spent time writing essays and this blog, I find my mind turning to filling the time between my current course ending at the end of September and my next course beginning in February 2013.

The answer to the unasked question, dear readers, is to start writing a book. The book I write will not be a penny fiction novel, but neither will it be an educational classic. It will, however, give me the opportunity to vent my frustrations and give a blow-by-blow account of the circumstances which led to my current state. In this book I will hold nowt back. There will be those who will try to silence me, but they will not succeed. So, watch this space for more news!

Self-Control

The dictionary definition of Self-control is:

noun

[mass noun]  

 

the ability to control oneself, in particular one’s emotions and desires, especially in difficult situations:

So, I hear you all asking, why am I writing about self-control? 

 

The answer, dear readers, is because self-control is not exactly my strongest attribute. As many people can testify, I have a notoriously short fuse for a temper, and my constant failings to give up smoking also demonstrate my shortcomings in this area.

 

I am of Irish/Scottish stock, so it could be said that my temper is a classic example of the Celtic temper and say things in the heat of battle that I regret later.  

The lack of self-control also applies to addictions. I have an addictive personality. My demons are caffiene, chocolate, junk food and I have also lost far too much money than is good for me playing cards . . . and of course cigarettes.

So, is there any self-control inside of me? The crazy thing is that when it is absolutely necessary I can show a degree of self-control. In order to get my surgery to be the woman I am, I gave up smoking for four years. For said surgery I also went on a strict diet for several years to make the weight for surgery. Then there is the self-control in finding the necessary time and effort to work on my Open University course. So, I guess there is some hope for me after all.

However, in order for me to exercise self-control, I do need a good kick up the derriere at times.

My Smoking Habit - a histoy of failures in giving up

The first memory I have of smoking is taking a bit of my Mum's "Basildon Bond" letter pad and putting some grass from the edge of the backyard in it, along with my brother. I was about 7 at the time and he was about 5.

Then, around the age of 10 I had my first proper ciggie. It was from the local shop where they used to sell Player's No 10 in singles for 5p. It was about that time I also tried my first cigar, which was a Henri Winterman's of some kind. I guess I must have enjoyed my first smoke since it was far from being my last.

In the winter of 1976/77 there was a shortage of heating oil at my secondary school - I wasn't of a high enough social standing to sully the premises of the local grammar school - and a bitter winter with the school closed for a couple of weeks in the snow and ice. Me and a few friends from school disappeared into the woods just over the back of my house and we found a hiding place where we would smoke heavily. Suffice it to say that at this point I was hooked. I was 11 and on about 20 a day.

I did the old trick of skimping on school dinners and eating when I got home and my saved dinner money was partly saved and partly spent on ciggies. At that point it was 26p for a pack of 20 Embassy No 1 which were my initial favourites. I then graduated through the tar levels until I hit Rothman's which were high tar.

My school just happened to be next to an old railway line which had long since had the trackbed removed. So, during lunchtimes, I would walk up the old route for about half a mile and have a few smokes before taking some extra strong mints. Anyway, one day I got caught by the woodwork teacher. He was so old he must have been first mate on Noah's Ark. Suffice it to be said that he taught my Dad in the late 40s. So, having been caught, I - along with several other reprobates he had found - were marched back into the school. We were then lined up before the Deputy Head who offered a simple choice. I could either take his punishment there and then - 6 strokes of the cane, which he nicknamed "Tickle" - or I could have a letter sent to my parents. I'm sure none of you will be surprised to learn that I took his punishment.

When my Mum did find my ciggies one day, she raided my savings, took a pound note out and threw it on the fire telling me that was what I was doing by smoking.

Shortly afterwards I stopped until I was 15 and entered the world of work where I started again. I invested in a rolling machine and smoked some tobacco called "Three Castles". I was on about an ounce a week, which I purchased every Friday which was payday. Then I would take a stroll along the seafront to the De La Warr Pavilion where I would have a couple of pints of beer and a whisky before returning to work - it was on one of these Fridays, Christmas Eve 1981, that I was first drunk having been laid off  that day - but that's another story!

Then, after losing my job in Thatcher's recession I stopped for a few months. I then started again but with the pretence to everybody that I was still off the ciggies. 

It was on 18th March 1982 that I took a walk through one of the nearby woodlands to have a quiet ciggie away from everyone. I was climbing up an embankment to what looked like an exit from the woods when I slipped back down. I dislocated my kneecap. It was horrible. So, my knee which has been crocked ever since, was ruined by ciggies! However,.the ironic thing is that when the ambulancemen took me up to the top of the bank it turned out that there was no path back to the road! So, I had to be carried on a stretcher over a fence, through someone's garden, through their outhouse and onto the road where the ambulance came round to meet us and take me to hospital. Suffice it to be said I then went public with my smoking.

So, several years on, I have another attempt at stopping which actually works for about 6 months. Needless to say I went back on the weed and more than ever. It took about another 10 years before I have yet another attempt at giving up.

This time it was more successful. I stopped in June 2003 and did not have another ciggie until 2007 - just after surgery, when the doctors could not threaten me with witholding treatment if I didn't smoke. 

I then attempted a few more times on and off between late 2007 and 2009 but never really made a serious effort. Needless to say I ended up over 40 a day again.

Then, once more in July 2012 I decided to have another attempt at giving up smoking. I have been on and off since then. The times I have broken have been when I have been most stressed and at my lowest points of this depression I am suffering, but I really do want to stop this time for health and financial reasons.

The thing is that I actually admit I enjoy a smoke - and the stronger the better. It is an immense comfort when times get tough. I guess that I'll always be a smoker, but sometimes it is a bit longer between smokes than other times. 

So, here I am, just after midnight on my second day without a smoke, and I'm going up the wall and back down again. However, I will try my hardest to hold out.

The Streets of Gibraltar

Kevin Barry

The Ballad of Kevin Barry

A song about a brave Irish Volunteer who gave his life so Ireland may be free

 

I dedicate this song to all volunteers who gave their lives to the Cause over the years and those who will give their lives for Ireland in the future to secure a
united island

In Mountjoy jail one Monday morning
High upon the gallows tree,
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the cause of liberty.

Just a lad of eighteen summers,
Still there's no one can deny,
As he walked to death that morning,
He proudly held his head on high.

Chorus

Shoot me like an Irish soldier.
Do not hang me like a dog,
For I fought to free old Ireland
On that still September morn.
All around the little bakery
Where we fought them hand to hand,
Shoot me like an Irish soldier,
For I fought to free Ireland

Just before he faced the hangman,
In his dreary prison cell,
British soldiers tortured Barry,
Just because he would not tell.
The names of his brave comrades,
And other things they wished to know.
Turn informer or we'll kill you
Kevin Barry answered "No".

Proudly standing to attention
While he bade his last farewell
To his broken hearted mother
Whose grief no one can tell.
For the cause he proudly cherished
This sad parting had to be
Then to death walked softly smiling
That old Ireland might be free.

Another martyr for old Ireland,
Another murder for the crown,
Whose brutal laws may kill the Irish,
But can't keep their spirit down.
Lads like Barry are no cowards.
From the foe they will not fly.
Lads like Barry will free Ireland,
For her sake they'll live and die.

 

What is bringing me down?

Thanks HMG!

Making A Chore Fun - not for the sensitive

So, I hear you all asking, what is this all about? Why is it not for the sensitive?

The simple answer is that it deals with dilation. 

What is dilation? That, my friends, is the act of keeping my vagina open. As you will see in my profile, I am a post-operative transsexual woman. The vagina which my esteemed surgeon, Mr James Bellringer of Charing Cross Hospital (http://genderxchange.co.uk/), built for me needs to be kept in good working order. To facilitate that it is necessary for me to insert something inside the vagina for about half hour at a time. If I don't do this on a regular basis my vagina would close up. 

It's necessary to perform this task at least weekly and it will be necessary for the rest of my life.

When I left hospital I was given a couple of solid perspex dilators. However, as you could imagine, they are not the most comfortable of things to have inside of your body. So, to make things a bit more comfortable, I have over the past 5 years or so invested in a number of vibrators of various shapes and sizes.

Not only are they a great deal more comfortable than the hospital-issue dilators, but they also give a little enjoyment too!

My favourite instrument for dilating is an Ann Summers "Rampant Rabbit". I have a good few of these, of various types, and the plastic container I keep them in I call my Rabbit Farm.

Anyway, to go back to the title of this post, if a chore has to be done, it may as well be fun. 

For those of you out there wanting to know about sensation - yes there is sensation! I have had many an orgasm thanks to my collection of toys!