Luton defence league

According to the temperature of my ridiculously right wing village in mid-Beds, tomorrow/later today's events in Luton will be a) very scary, b) the best thing ever, c) I don't know I buy the Guardian.

This is interermeresting. The overwhelming feeling is one of cowardice. Fur-hatted, piss-in-my custard-coloured-bowel cowardice. If the muslims get shown whats for, woo-hoo. If 'we' get shown whats for, I wasn't there, I knew nothing, I can live with a few brown faces on telly. In short, we need not be afraid of these c***ts. They're afraid of us. They are fragile.

Urgh. Alright, I have done a few things since March and I CAN write about them, even if I don't really see the point. I've started an archery course. The reasions for joining are predictably complex, even if it did start out as a christmas present.

Now what could be more english than archery? Ignore piffling logic like the ubiquity and sophistication of bows in Arab and Mongol armies; mere thousands of plucky english archers standing against tens of thousands of grubby french knights forms part of our collective self consciousness. You know, that thing that connects you to the barely sentient gorilla

I need a start I suppose

OK. Barnacle - Favourite word (I just feel like anything done by a barnacle must be ten times harder at least then anything done by man) and Vomit - least favourite (as in I like praying to the porcelain god as much as I like praying to the sky fairy).

And into the blogpool I jump...

Gosh, isn't it shallow?