Thursday, February 24, 2005
Profile for educational purposes??
Profile : Dirty Gertie
Prisoner no. 140662
Age : 12 and a bit (quite a substantial bit actually)
Physical description : Short of leg, large of mouth.
Hair : yes,usually. Colour : variable.
Can be identified by random metal artefacts, inserted, or otherwise dangling from various bodily appendages, and the hallmarks of various ‘skin artistes’ work.
Reason for attending college : N.H.S. professional kick-out and general social inadequate.
General information : Bit of a show-off, can be found on stage, wherever and whenever the opportunity arises, er, showing off. (Typical ‘youngest child’ behaviour)
Personal quote : “Hey, everybody, look at MEEEE.
Mothers’ quote : University, YOU?, HA HA HA HA HA HA”.
Most likely to be voted ‘girl most likely to be ‘in’ if she had to pay to get out'.
Ambition : To take on the world and win !
Copyright J.L.Rushin 2005
In the name of Sport
This piece was written in 1998, as an assignment for my Acess to higher Ed course; the remit was 'A piece of argumentative writing, making use of appropriate literary devices.'
The subject of Fox Hunting has always been close to my heart as a former, and very active member of the Hunt Saboteurs Association in the late 70's and early 80's.
Obviously since the ban on hunting with hounds, which has recently come into force some things may have changed, but at the time of writing we have hunt supporters braying loudly about how they will defy the law; the future remains to be seen
“ALL IN THE NAME OF SPORT”
It is high time the Government kept the promise they made in their election manifesto, and outlawed the hunting of foxes in the name of Sport.
How the epithet ‘Sport’ can be attached to this barbaric pursuit is beyond my comprehension. As defined by the shorter Collins dictionary; sport is an exercise pursued for relaxation and enjoyment, particularly if there is an element of competition involved. So perhaps a hunt supporter could enlighten me regarding what competitive element there is in one small mammal being chased, in fear of its life, by sixty or so other, far larger mammals:
This, in the name of Sport.
Those who engage in this bloodthirsty pursuit are economical with the truth to say the least, regarding the unsporting practices in which they engage, in order to tip the odds in their favour.
The killing of young cubs is legitimised by the label of population control, before the season proper begins. They do not tell of how many nursing vixens are bludgeoned to death, in this so-called closed season: Often leaving young cubs to suffer a long, drawn-out death by starvation.
This, in the name of Sport.
They do not tell of the midnight forays into the coverts upon which they plan to draw the next day, with shovels, blocking the entrances of earths, in order to prevent the quarry going to ground- the ‘sporting chance’ of which they make so much.
They do not tell of the insidious terrier men, who, in the event of the hapless fox finding sanctuary in a culvert or Badger sett, (which it is illegal to block) are summoned by the master, and the terriers are put into the bolthole, where they savage the fox. The fox is then dug out, often still in its death-throes, and flung to the baying pack:
This, in the name of Sport.
They do not tell of the hounds, starved for forty-eight hours prior to a hunt, in order to whet their appetites and sharpen their bloodlust. Used for a few seasons, and then destroyed when they are no longer useful. These beautiful dogs cannot be re-homed as family pets due to the unnatural, in this day and age, lifestyle to which they have been subjected. So once they are surplus to requirements, they are simply disposed of, all life, it would appear, is disposable to the barbarians who engage in these heinous practices:
All this in the name of Sport.
Even the arguments put forward by the pro-hunt lobby in defence of this pursuit of the inedible are lame and inaccurate. The ‘pros’ claim that hunting is necessary, in order to protect livestock from the predator, in reality, the number of foxes killed each season by hunts has little effect upon numbers, and can in no way be held to be selective population control. Personally I have no objection to a farmer taking a shotgun to a rogue fox that is known to be responsible for killing livestock and despatching it, quickly and cleanly.
I grew up in the country, and our chickens were shut in every night, in their little house, after they had gone to roost at dusk, safe from whatever marauders may have been roaming the night.
The pro-hunt lobby claim that outlawing hunting would cause an employment crisis in country communities, in actual fact, the effect upon nation wide unemployment statistics would be very small indeed. Whilst it is true to say that a small number of people are employed to make good the damage that hunts regularly do to the countryside, surely it would be better for our countryside, and its indigenous wildlife if this damage was not inflicted to begin with. And whilst much has been made in the Tory benches and the House of Lords about this small, and as yet, unrealised increase in our dole-queues, what did we hear from them concerning the plight of many, many more facing unemployment due to the closure of our once-proud national industries? Margaret Thatcher appeared to positively relish the closure of still-profitable coal mines, and the throwing upon the slag heap of thousands of miners. At least the fence-menders and hedge –layers will still have work to do, just not as much; the miners did not have that luxury. But then, they had no connection with the upper classes and their leisure pursuits, noblesse oblige it would appear is alive and well in Cool Britannia.
And all in the name of ‘Sport’.
The subject of Fox Hunting has always been close to my heart as a former, and very active member of the Hunt Saboteurs Association in the late 70's and early 80's.
Obviously since the ban on hunting with hounds, which has recently come into force some things may have changed, but at the time of writing we have hunt supporters braying loudly about how they will defy the law; the future remains to be seen
“ALL IN THE NAME OF SPORT”
It is high time the Government kept the promise they made in their election manifesto, and outlawed the hunting of foxes in the name of Sport.
How the epithet ‘Sport’ can be attached to this barbaric pursuit is beyond my comprehension. As defined by the shorter Collins dictionary; sport is an exercise pursued for relaxation and enjoyment, particularly if there is an element of competition involved. So perhaps a hunt supporter could enlighten me regarding what competitive element there is in one small mammal being chased, in fear of its life, by sixty or so other, far larger mammals:
This, in the name of Sport.
Those who engage in this bloodthirsty pursuit are economical with the truth to say the least, regarding the unsporting practices in which they engage, in order to tip the odds in their favour.
The killing of young cubs is legitimised by the label of population control, before the season proper begins. They do not tell of how many nursing vixens are bludgeoned to death, in this so-called closed season: Often leaving young cubs to suffer a long, drawn-out death by starvation.
This, in the name of Sport.
They do not tell of the midnight forays into the coverts upon which they plan to draw the next day, with shovels, blocking the entrances of earths, in order to prevent the quarry going to ground- the ‘sporting chance’ of which they make so much.
They do not tell of the insidious terrier men, who, in the event of the hapless fox finding sanctuary in a culvert or Badger sett, (which it is illegal to block) are summoned by the master, and the terriers are put into the bolthole, where they savage the fox. The fox is then dug out, often still in its death-throes, and flung to the baying pack:
This, in the name of Sport.
They do not tell of the hounds, starved for forty-eight hours prior to a hunt, in order to whet their appetites and sharpen their bloodlust. Used for a few seasons, and then destroyed when they are no longer useful. These beautiful dogs cannot be re-homed as family pets due to the unnatural, in this day and age, lifestyle to which they have been subjected. So once they are surplus to requirements, they are simply disposed of, all life, it would appear, is disposable to the barbarians who engage in these heinous practices:
All this in the name of Sport.
Even the arguments put forward by the pro-hunt lobby in defence of this pursuit of the inedible are lame and inaccurate. The ‘pros’ claim that hunting is necessary, in order to protect livestock from the predator, in reality, the number of foxes killed each season by hunts has little effect upon numbers, and can in no way be held to be selective population control. Personally I have no objection to a farmer taking a shotgun to a rogue fox that is known to be responsible for killing livestock and despatching it, quickly and cleanly.
I grew up in the country, and our chickens were shut in every night, in their little house, after they had gone to roost at dusk, safe from whatever marauders may have been roaming the night.
The pro-hunt lobby claim that outlawing hunting would cause an employment crisis in country communities, in actual fact, the effect upon nation wide unemployment statistics would be very small indeed. Whilst it is true to say that a small number of people are employed to make good the damage that hunts regularly do to the countryside, surely it would be better for our countryside, and its indigenous wildlife if this damage was not inflicted to begin with. And whilst much has been made in the Tory benches and the House of Lords about this small, and as yet, unrealised increase in our dole-queues, what did we hear from them concerning the plight of many, many more facing unemployment due to the closure of our once-proud national industries? Margaret Thatcher appeared to positively relish the closure of still-profitable coal mines, and the throwing upon the slag heap of thousands of miners. At least the fence-menders and hedge –layers will still have work to do, just not as much; the miners did not have that luxury. But then, they had no connection with the upper classes and their leisure pursuits, noblesse oblige it would appear is alive and well in Cool Britannia.
And all in the name of ‘Sport’.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Hmmm, writer's blog?
Having been egged on by a more 'pooter literate friend, I find myself asking; 'do I really want to do this?' Is anyone really going to be interested in the ramblings and ponderings of a more than slightly deranged midget female who finds herself, somewhat disturbingly, more excited by V8 engines than designer labels, who is happier knee-deep in mud than teetering on foot-crippling Manolo Blahniks. Maybe it has something to do with being built more like a shetland pony than a clotheshorse?
Maybe it's a chromosomal abnormality?
I've always been a little wierd. I, partially at least, blame the late Hunter S Thompson; I'm convinced that reading "Hell's Angels" at the age of 14 or so, set my mind to having a motorcycle at the earliest opportunity; a determination which met with absolute opposition from my parents: "You won't have a motorbike while you live in this house" my Dad declared upon hearing the news that his 17 year old daughter planned to spend a newly acquired dollop of back-pay on a Honda 50.
So I left. I rented a bedsit in Leicester, and 'Gerald' and I set off on the road!
Gerald (don't ask my how or why he got called that!!) was a stop-gap, a semi-automatic, which was technically classed as a motorcycle since he had a centrifugal clutch, in the 'good old days' prior to CBT he was enough to pass my test on.
I suppose going back to the training centre on my next bike, a minature chopper, built especially for me, was a little incongruous, but I had to learn to use a clutch!!!
Now I know that girls on bikes are not particularly unusual, but that wasn't the only thing I did which was a little strange for a female. I also worked with dead people.
I embarked on this career direction when I became bored with my clerical job at a jewllery wholesalers; my boyfriend at the time was an embalmer, and I thought his job sounded a darn sight more interesting than mine, so I thought I would do that too: It was 1979, the year of mass unemployment, one in ten on the dole; 'Maggies millions' queued, despondently, for their giros.
An initiative for youth employment the Youth Opportunities Programme offered 6 month training schemes with employers, there was no definite job offer at the end, but valuable experience to be gained, nonetheless.
I worked for my 6 months at a large, family owned funeral directors, and, as luck would have it, at the end of it, a local hospital was advertising for a mortuary technician; I walked straight into the job.
More of this later.
In 1998, my career in the NHS pathology service came to an end. I had no intention of ever having anything to do with dead people ever again, however, fate has a strange way of biting one on the buttocks, and I now find myself working as the northern hemisphere's first female motorcycle hearse rider.
src="http://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js">
Unusual? Yes, but that's just me!!
Maybe it's a chromosomal abnormality?
I've always been a little wierd. I, partially at least, blame the late Hunter S Thompson; I'm convinced that reading "Hell's Angels" at the age of 14 or so, set my mind to having a motorcycle at the earliest opportunity; a determination which met with absolute opposition from my parents: "You won't have a motorbike while you live in this house" my Dad declared upon hearing the news that his 17 year old daughter planned to spend a newly acquired dollop of back-pay on a Honda 50.
So I left. I rented a bedsit in Leicester, and 'Gerald' and I set off on the road!
Gerald (don't ask my how or why he got called that!!) was a stop-gap, a semi-automatic, which was technically classed as a motorcycle since he had a centrifugal clutch, in the 'good old days' prior to CBT he was enough to pass my test on.
I suppose going back to the training centre on my next bike, a minature chopper, built especially for me, was a little incongruous, but I had to learn to use a clutch!!!
Now I know that girls on bikes are not particularly unusual, but that wasn't the only thing I did which was a little strange for a female. I also worked with dead people.
I embarked on this career direction when I became bored with my clerical job at a jewllery wholesalers; my boyfriend at the time was an embalmer, and I thought his job sounded a darn sight more interesting than mine, so I thought I would do that too: It was 1979, the year of mass unemployment, one in ten on the dole; 'Maggies millions' queued, despondently, for their giros.
An initiative for youth employment the Youth Opportunities Programme offered 6 month training schemes with employers, there was no definite job offer at the end, but valuable experience to be gained, nonetheless.
I worked for my 6 months at a large, family owned funeral directors, and, as luck would have it, at the end of it, a local hospital was advertising for a mortuary technician; I walked straight into the job.
More of this later.
In 1998, my career in the NHS pathology service came to an end. I had no intention of ever having anything to do with dead people ever again, however, fate has a strange way of biting one on the buttocks, and I now find myself working as the northern hemisphere's first female motorcycle hearse rider.
src="http://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js">
Unusual? Yes, but that's just me!!
