I Have a Dream...

"I Have A Dream" - transcript

As it turns out, the most famous line in the speech wasn't meant to be in the speech to begin with, Dr King's advisors thought the line was too tired, overused, no longer inspiring.  Good thing he didn't listen, no?

And because nothing in this world is free, you have to pay his estate to air this speech. "It will not be in the public domain until 2038, 70 years after King's death. Until then, any commercial enterprises wishing to legally broadcast King's iconic "I Have a Dream" speech, delivered August 28, 1963, on the National Mall, or reprint its words must pay a hefty fee."

Thing is, public domain extends beyond airing a speech on TV, and a good idea can never be contained.

Common - A Dream

There's more to MLK than this one speech that has come to define his legacy, the man wasn't just fighting for racial equality.

Listen to this Interview with Martin Luther King, Jr., March 18, 1964, “Even for those who have listened to King's speeches and read "Letter from a Birmingham Jail" and other writings, there's something to just hearing the man talk, to listening to his mind at work in real time, that offers a greater sense of who he is. In this interview, we get a glimpse of King not just as an orator preaching on behalf of civil rights and a more just society, but as a psychological observer, political tactician, and social-change strategist grappling with a wide array of opponents and personal threats with extraordinary clarity and sympathy.” (Martin Luther King Jr.'s Amazing 1964 Interview With Robert Penn Warren

For Africans, this letter is especially poignant, linking our struggle for independence, ongoing to this day, with the civil rights movement we grew up hearing about, yet never truly understanding, I suspect.

In light of the drums of war currently being beaten over Syria, perhaps some reflection is in order, as to the nature of war and government.

And last, but definitely not least, Dr King's views on poverty and capitalism.
"The curse of poverty has no justification in our age. It is socially as cruel and blind as the practice of cannibalism at the dawn of civilization, when men ate each other because they had not yet learned to take food from the soil or to consume the abundant animal life around them. The time has come for us to civilize ourselves by the total, direct and immediate abolition of poverty."


shoppers stung by onion prices

Onion prices in India surged by a third on Monday to hit a record high with supply shortages due to last year's drought in key growing areas. Heavy rainfall this year has damaged the crop in many of the larger growing states in the north and south.

The onion is a common ingredient in many Indian dishes. Its widespread use across the country gives it the status of a political vegetable. Soaring prices of onions have helped dislodge state governments in the past, and rising food costs often spark street protests.

The average prices at Lasalgaon, India's largest wholesale onion market in Maharashtra, jumped nearly 37 percent to Rs 4,300(Ksh5,800) per 100 kg, breaking the earlier record of Rs 3,800(Ksh5,178) struck on December 20, 2010.

Retail prices have risen more sharply. In some metropolitan areas like Mumbai, the retail price was Rs 6,500(Ksh8,860) per 100 kg on Monday, compared with Rs 2,000(Ksh2,725) just two months ago.


You're in love...

Stop giving me that look.  I know, I vanished for a couple of weeks, but in my defence, work is crazy hectic right now, and the only time I have to sit and type anything is, well, right now. That's right, I've skived work for you, that's how much I love you.  No?  Not buying it?  10 to 1 I will get an email tukanaing me over my 'alleged' reasons for my absence, but that is my story and I'm sticking to it, so there!  That was for OGAO, who is currently reading this with one eye, not believing a bloody word I say (I'm right, aren't I madam?) and for the outspoken leader of the legion of 36, also reading this with one eye and muttering, 'she'd better have a good story to tell me, or else...'  Folks, I do in fact have a story to tell you.  Its more wrap-up than story, it's the end of a story I started a year ago, and it has...wait for it...a happy ending.  No really, it does.

Just so you know, it also has some girly TMI, so walk away if you're too macho for emotions and shit.

Remember the guy whose baggage I was carrying, beginning of last year?  I called him Mr 'the feelings are gone', because that was the line he gave me when we broke up, and by broke up I mean he dumped my ass.  In a most cruel manner.  How did he do it?  First he avoided me for several months, in person and to a lesser extent telephonically (is that even a real word?).  And when he would occasionally resurface, having been forced to do so by my relentless stalking, he would be quite nasty to me; abrupt, dismissive, downright hostile, mean, snarky (that's polite for bitchy), moody...you name it, he did it.  Goes without saying that there was no sex.  Then one day he seemed different, better I thought.  He was almost nice, even though you could see the strain on his face when he tried to smile, but hey, at least he wasn't being nasty, right?  Wrong.  That night, after a tense morning, we met up for drinks in the evening.

Slight detour, the person who told men that a bar is a good place to have a serious discussion with your woman is an idiot.  When I find said idiot, I will shoot them in their silly mouth.  Back to the ill-fated drinks.

Over the course of a couple of cocktails, or whatever I was drinking that night...  Hang on, that's a lie, I remember what I was drinking, what I was wearing, where I was sitting, how I was sitting, I even remember guy sitting next to me (Paco, my original reason for being in the bar after work, but that's a whole other story, one I've already told).  So yes, I was drinking whiskey.  We, soon to be ex and I, began talking about how off he had been (his words) and how something was definitely wrong (my words).  He told me, and don't laugh, “I'm not what you're looking for, you're looking for a man to marry.”  I don’t think I've paraphrased, but I have been known to have a very selective memory, so perhaps that's not entirely accurate, but you get the gist.  I told the man that I was not looking to get married, not in the near future anyhow, what with a fledgling business struggling to get off the ground and a bank balance so far below zero it was approaching negative infinity (still is come to think of it, shame man!).  I reassured the man that if that was his only concern, then we had no problems, we were nowhere near marriage.  Oh how right I was.  After much more talking, more waffling on his part, more reassuring on my part, he announced that it was time to go home, because he wanted to fuck me, or was it he wanted to get fucked?  Yes, there is a difference.  I was elated, I thought we were back on course.  Until he kissed me half an hour later, and something was very, very wrong.  I mean revolting wrong.  I have never been one to buy into that 'his touch was different' bullshit, but his kiss was different.  I pulled away, and asked what was wrong, and that's when I got the now famous line.  All together now...'the feelings are gone'.

I burst into tears.  I cried like I never had before, or have since.  I cried like a fucking child.  You know that ugly crying, the one of the howling like a wounded creature, snot running down into your mouth, tears dripping off your chin, shoulders heaving, the works?  I cried like a mother (and by that I mean mofo, not mother of child, mother of child would make no sense in this context, no?).  Please note, this is not after the fact, the bugger was sitting right there, frozen.  Poor bastard couldn’t walk away, what kind of callous bastard walks away when a woman starts crying, right?  But you know he wanted to make like Kemboi and high tail it out of there.  Luckily for him, the tears didn’t last that long, I think my pride kicked in, and I went home.  Strange thing is, I didn’t cry when I got home.  In retrospect, I've decided that the crying was part grief and part release, it was the culmination of months of uncertainty and fear, and the relief that it was finally over.  I know it sounds odd, but it felt like I was shedding something (explains the howling, no?  Don’t laugh, it was real howling, given that I sound kidogo growly on normal days...).  I didn’t cry again until two days after, in the car, in traffic, out of the blue.  Same horrible crying, and it must have looked as horrible as it felt, because the guy in the next lane looked scared for his life.  Even with two layers of metal and glass between us, men still get scared by tears, useless buggers.  That was the second to last good cry I had over that man.

Life continued after that break up, as life tends to.  I worked, I slept, I partied like a fool, drank more than I should have, crushed on a couple of unfortunate men, shagged a couple more unfortunate men, mended my friendship with my heartbreaking ex as best I could, slowly but surely mended myself.  I'm skimming, of course, because I see little purpose in taking you through the depths to which I sunk.

Wait, I've already told you about my crying, don’t think there's much of any face left to be saved, is there?

In the first six months after that break up I was a mess.  Literally.  I looked like shit, I felt like shit, and if it wasn’t for perfume I suspect I would have smelt like shit too (not literally, I did remember to keep clean most days).  I would work all week, as fate would have it I had just landed the biggest project my biashara had ever handled, and then I would drink all weekend.  Halfway through, on a warm Easter evening, I even funga'd a (seemingly willing) man, thrilled to have a man looking down my shirt, any man at that point.  Thrilled, that is, until he got up off his chair and didn’t really get much taller.  Ladies, here's a piece of free advice.  If you happen to meet a man sitting down, reserve your advances until he stands up.  Why?  Male and female torsos are approximately similar lengths, for people of average build the difference in height is because of the different length of legs.  What I'm saying is, you can't tell how tall a man is until he stands up (and stands up, you know?).  The man I funga'd?  He wasn't a midget, but let's just say I was glad I was in flats, it made the difference less troubling, but only slightly less.  Whenever I need to remember just how bad things got, I remember that night, not because I shagged a man shorter than me, but because when he stood up I no longer wanted to shag him, in part because he was, and I assume still is, short (there's more to it, but it's a long and convoluted tale), but I did it anyway.  I was too shy, and desperate, to change my mind and walk away.  And because I know there are a couple of short men looking at me badly right now, let me just point out that despite my misgivings, that little bastard had game.  Yes, I woke up somewhat revolted, but at myself, not at him.  Him I smiled at, and then ran away, never to see him again.  True, and embarrassing, story.

In case you haven’t picked up on what's going on, today I’m laying all my shit out.  Well, not all, just the bit concerning this one old relationship.  Don't worry, the happy ending is coming.  Patience grasshoppers...

It took the better part of a year, but eventually I got better, almost my old self, if somewhat more jaded.  The ex and I were almost BFF's again, almost, both of us trying to date and/or shag other people.  And each other, but that's also another story I have told you before.  The tipping point in my recovery, our recovery (as much as I am loath to admit it, there were two wounded parties in this scenario), came many months after the end, possibly a year later, I don’t recall exactly, oddly enough.  We were having after work drinks (yes, I see how often drinks come up in reference to this man, and yes, I know that makes both of us look like complete lushes, but that's just they way it goes, we have drinks every so often, that was, and continues, to be our thing.  I'm starting to see why it didn’t work out...), and we got to talking about this girl, his pet obsession back then, she that had haunted our relationship, she that continued to haunt him.  In talking about her, it finally hit me that I was never that chick to him, and nothing I could have said or done would ever have changed that fact (this is how I knew what I was seeing with Mr D, remember?).  The relief was surprisingly exhilarating.  After spending God only knows how much time beating myself up over my alleged failure, I was finally off the hook.  It wasn’t my fault.  I cried.  Again.  Yes, I was kinda weepy around this bugger, but at least that time it was more of a quick silent sob in the ladies, not the mucus one of before.  And that is the last time I cried over that man.

He has pissed me off some, since then, done several jackass things (he does has a gift), even woken me up in the wee hours for an ill-timed booty call (yes, that was him).  The reason he was still making the odd (no longer) conjugal visit, long after the cessation of conjugal rights?  This man was my TGB, he was my first HD experience and you know what they say about HD, once you go HD your D is never the same.  That may be the crassest, yet cleverest, thing I've said all day...  I was saying, the man has been an ass on several occasions, as have I, but somehow we've managed to remain good friends, disturbingly good friends, despite all our dramas.  These days, we're just friends, without any attendant benefits, have been for over a year now.  And in that year of no comfort sex, he finally went out and got himself a woman.  Yes, I am saying that the lack of an emergency shag was the push he needed to start looking seriously, men only look when they are without.  Have I lied, gentlemen?  Didn't think so.

The man has found a woman.  Not a girl mind you, those ones he had, silly bastard (the day he gives me permission, I must tell you about the one he locked in his house. Its a very good story, yet troubling on very many levels...).  The man has got himself a real grown ass woman.

Which brings us back to the beginning and the happy ending I promised. 

The man is in love.  My ex is in love.  Not simple 'I really like you and the shag is good' love.  Love love.  'I wanna have babies with you' love.  'I'm taking you home to meet my mother' love.  'I keep talking about you all night long in the bar instead of being a normal man and ogling small girls' love.  It's disgusting!  But in a good way.

What's that?  You don't see how this could be a good thing?  Well, this is a man who has previously only known various shades of love, the 'I love hanging out with you' love, and the 'damn, you cook a mean stew' love, the 'I love that you blow me when we get home drunk' love.  Wait, scratch the last one, that's not love, that's love of own dick.  Point is, this man knew some love, but now he claims to know all love.  That's right, the man says he is in love.  His fluffy words, not mine. 

And I'm happy for him.  Worse, I keep telling him not to fuck it up.  

I'm the idiot listening to his stories of how good everything is, how excited he is, and how scared he is, and smiling.  I'm the fucking cheerleader, pushing him down that aisle he's eyeing (the man is talking nuptials, for real).  I'm the idiot backing off family functions, his family not mine, because I know how hard it is to meet his clan (I love them dearly, but they are six kinds of special, and they don’t seem to understand the whole 'your brother dumped me' story, God bless 'em).  I'm the friend who knew he was in love with her, and her him, before the two idiots put it together for themselves (or so they claim. Say it with me...really?).  I'm the woman who will be taking happy pictures at the wedding, scratch that, the woman in the happy pictures at that wedding, because I am no longer heartbroken.   This is disgusting!  But in a good way.

The title of the post is off the soundtrack, Wilson Phillips' 'You're in love'.  I shall not talk about it, because it's one of those songs no black person from Africa should acknowledge loving (kinda like Michael Bolton), and I will deny its addictive three part harmony till the day I die, but dammit it's just so lovely...

Open the door and come in
I'm so glad to see you my friend
Don't know how long it has been
Having those feelings again.

And now I see that you're so happy
And ooh, it just sets me free
And I'd like to see
Us as good of friends
As we used to be...

It's such a fluffy song, it makes me wanna cry.  I mock myself.

And so ends the tale of Mr 'the feelings are gone', long may he prosper!  He is a good man for being the source of many tales on this here blog.  By the way, he doesn’t really know about all this, so if you could keep it to yourself, I'd be most appreciative.  Cheers.


It's all about tension. Who knew?

29,900,000 results.  That's what you get when you google 'female orgasm'.  No really, try it for yourself and see.  You didn't google, did you?  It's all right, that's what I'm here for, to boldly go where other people with better things to do can't be bothered to tread.

Quick disclaimer, last week's disclaimer has been carried forward, especially the bit about the words you may encounter.  This will be crude, and rude, and... you know the script by now, don't you?  Tender souls, leave now.  The rest of you, put on your gum boots and protective head gear and follow me back into the depths of the sewer.  Today it's all about the come, the act not the fluid.  Consider this sex-ed 101 (more like 111 if previous posts are anything to go by), and all in my inimitable style.   Ahem.  Before I get into it, I owe you an apology.  I wrote the last post under the assumption that we were all on the same page, sexually.  You know what they say about assumptions being the mother of all fuck ups?  So, so true. I should have have started here, before I went there.  We need to talk about orgasm's, the how and perhaps the why, before we can even begin to talk about sex with other people.  Apology accepted, yes?  No?  Kwani you want me to sing you a bloody love song?  Fine...

I love to love you baby...

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Ms Donna Summer in a song that allegedly features her coming 22 times (how did they count exactly?), in the 16.5 mins album version that is (watch here).  'Love to Love You (Baby)' has been covered by all and sundry, so you probably know the song even if you don’t know it.  What you may not know is that this was Ms Summer's first disco hit, unlikely given her folk singer background, she was brought up a good Christian girl, like most of us, suitably restrained and whatnot.  “She told Time magazine December 1975 that to write the lyrics, "I let go long enough to show all the things I've been told since childhood to keep secret."”  Songfacts.com  You can see how this is the perfect choice for the sewer, no?  You can't get over the 22 orgasms, can you?  “It was rumored that Summer sang her very convincing orgasmic-sounding vocals on the studio floor while simulating a sex act. The rumor was partly true - after trying to record her vocal the traditional way, her producer Giorgio Moroder had her sing on the studio floor while lying on her back with the lights out, since she didn't want the guys working on the album looking at her when she sang it. She explained that she was indeed touching herself during the vocal - she had her hand on her knee. Her boyfriend Peter served as her fantasy inspiration.”  Hand on her knee?  Really?  Insert evil chuckle here...  Incidentally, the lyrics of the song are quite mild by today's standards, it's the moaning that does the trick, or perhaps that's just my deviant mind playing tricks on me, listen and decide for yourself.

I love to love you baby...

I don’t know how to have this conversation, not just because I am in no way qualified to talk about it, besides the presence of a 'wise' hoohaa, but also because there's so much to talk about.  Should I start with the physiology of the orgasm, what happens inside you that results in clenched toes?  Or should I go straight to the how to manual, tell you to lift your hips more?  Or perhaps a psychological discussion about nature's purpose for orgasms, bonding v procreation?  Or maybe you want to know how to tell your man how to get you off, without bursting his excellent lover bubble?   Better still, why not talk about how to get yourself off, in colourful euphemisms and such like?  Perhaps an illustrated diagram showing you what a clitoris really looks like and where to find your G-spot?  So much to do and such little time...  I'll try and summarise as best I can (and by that I mean copy/paste liberally), but if you're truly interested you might want to read up on your own, because those 29 million results are not all bollocks.

As always, we must start with the definition, because there is too much nonsense surrounding this topic.  What the hell is an orgasm?  If you do nothing else today, promise me you'll read The Female Orgasm: How it Works.  Whatever it is you think you know about how you come, you do not know (unless you're a gynae or such like, and even then...).  Turns out, an orgasm is simply your body releasing built-up tension in your muscles.  That's why we call it release.

That warm, sexy rush you feel during foreplay is the result of blood heading straight to your vagina and clitoris. Around this time, the walls of the vagina start to secrete beads of lubrication that eventually get bigger and flow together.

Slight detour.  I could be wrong about this, and if I am then one of you will no doubt correct me, but from this I can only conclude that arousal and wetness go hand in hand (all the women are nodding, the men are not amused).  This means, gentlemen, that if the woman's vagina isn't wet, perhaps she's not turned on (enough).  That I have to point this out is troubling, but there you have it.  Let's get back to it.

As you become more turned on, blood continues to flood the pelvic area, breathing speeds up, heart rate increases, nipples become erect, and the lower part of the vagina narrows in order to grip the penis while the upper part expands to give it some place to go. If all goes well (i.e., the phone doesn't ring and your partner knows what he's doing), an incredible amount of nerve and muscle tension builds up in the genitals, pelvis, buttocks, and thighs — until your body involuntarily releases it all at once in a series of intensely pleasurable waves, aka your orgasm.

The big bang is the moment when the uterus, vagina, and anus contract simultaneously at 0.8-second intervals. A small orgasm may consist of three to five contractions; a biggie, 10 to 15. Many women report feeling different kinds of orgasms — clitoral, vaginal, and many combinations of the two. According to Beverly Whipple, Ph.D., co-author of 'The G-Spot and Other Discoveries About Human Sexuality', the reason may simply be that different parts of the vagina were stimulated more than others, and so have more tension to release. Also, muscles in other parts of the body may contract involuntarily — hence the clenched toes and goofy faces. As for the brain, a recent small-scale study at the Netherlands' University of Groningen found that areas involving fear and emotion are actually deactivated during orgasm (not so if you fake it).

After the peak of pleasure, the body usually slides into a state of satisfied relaxation — but not always. "Like their male counterparts, women can experience pelvic heaviness and aching if they do not reach orgasm," says Ian Kerner, Ph.D., a certified sex therapist and author of 'She Comes First: The Thinking Man's Guide to Pleasuring a Woman'. In fact, Dr. Kerner says, "many women complain that a single orgasm isn't enough to relieve the build-up of sexual tension," which can leave us with our own "blue balls." Don't worry: Like the male version, it's harmless.

Now you know why you twitch like you've been electrocuted.   You also know that your frown, when he rolls off, job half done, is because of the unreleased tension, and your aching loins.  Who knew?

Now while that explains the mechanics of the orgasm, it doesn’t answer the most basic question most women have, did I have an orgasm?  Don’t laugh.  See, the way they tell it, an orgasm is an earth shattering, mind blowing occurrence of epic proportions, complete with loud groans, and possibly tears.  Hell, I said as much last week, no?  Turns out, I was wrong, kinda.  Orgasms ran the gamut from warm fuzzy glow to paralytic seizure and everything in between.  The trick to figuring out if you had an orgasm is in how you feel during and after (build up to a point, then release, then come back down, all hopefully).

Every woman’s experience of orgasm is different and, for reasons we don’t fully understand, not all women experience the “euphoric high” or sense of calm related to orgasm. Some women may simply experience less dramatic orgasms than others; then again, sometimes orgasm feels differently from different types of stimulation.

As an example, some women find that orgasms from clitoral stimulation (especially with a vibrator) may feel more “sharp” or “electrical” but may not feel as deeply satisfying or euphoric as orgasms that result from vaginal intercourse. Other women feel completely the opposite and may find more depth from masturbatory orgasms than partnered orgasms. There’s not a right or wrong, or a certain type of orgasm that’s better than another across the board, it’s just that there are a range of experiences to be had.    

What they're saying is, just because you didn’t get to the point that you called out your maker's name, that doesn’t mean you didn’t come.  Different strokes for different folks, my lovelies.

But what if you really didn’t come?  That's not that odd, as it turns out.

First, you are not alone. Many women — about one out of three — have trouble reaching orgasm when having sex with a partner. This is even more common for younger women who are just beginning to explore sexual relationships. Getting to know your own body and preferences will make sex more pleasurable and can help you discover what brings you to orgasm. 

This 1 in 3 statistic is all over the web, see 10 Surprising Facts About Orgasms (No. 5 may explain my alleged wisdom, but do I say...), and Understanding The Female Orgasm.  Just between you and me, I think the number is higher.   I was going to throw in one of my now infamous personal anecdotes, but given what happened last time, I choose to leave my TMI out of this one, lest I get bitten in the ass again.  The thing is, a lot of the literature on women's failure to orgasm is troubling, they're either too quick to assign some form of dysfunction to the woman, calling her frigid or something such like, and then prescribing drugs to cure her malady, or they blame her relationship with her lover, because he is unable to satisfy her, or her him.  In most cases, the woman's freedom in and responsibility for her own pleasure is either downplayed or completely ignored.

What utter bullshit.

Fortunately for us, there are some people who are not of that school of thought.  Female Orgasms: Myths and Facts is short and simple enough for even the laziest amongst us to skim through, plus it's suitably fluffy.

If a woman cannot reach orgasm, then her partner is not a skillful lover.
While there are many ways a loving partner can help a woman reach orgasm, in the end, a woman is responsible for her own sexual pleasure. That does not mean her partner should not be involved. Communication between partners is very important. It is up to the woman to inform her partner her likes and dislikes in their love making.

At the risk of being accused of being insensitive to my orgasmically challenged sisters, you need to go out and educate yourself.  This business of waiting for someone to come along and rock your world is just plain silly.  Wait, don’t write me hate mail just yet, let me make my case.  Ladies, get to know your parts, intimately.  That's right, I'm telling you to get a mirror and take a look, a good, long look.  What's that?  You don’t like how it looks?  Then why would he (or she)?  From almost everything I've read, and from personal experience, I can comfortably state, with some authority, that being uncomfortable with your body is generally a hindrance to coming.  You get stuck in your head and forget to enjoy yourself.  Look, touch, hell, taste it if you want (stop frowning, if you expect him, or her, to eat you, you need to know what you're serving, what kind of chef won't taste her own gravy?).  Bottom line is, if you don’t know what's going on, how the hell will someone else?  The up side to this most useful information is that it makes show and tell with your lover just that much easier, because you know what you're going on about.

In case I'm being unclear, I'm also telling you to go wank.  I've done the post on masturbation already, so you know I'm familiar with the topic, but even I had no idea about crura and such like, not until I read this article, 10 Things You Don't Know About Vaginas.  That's right ladies, your clitoris is long, and split, check out the most helpful diagram here.  Any woman who knew about this already, I will buy many beers, right after you explain why you didn’t share.

The point?  You need to write a manual to your own pleasure, and to do so you have to get to know your own body.  Trust me, when you know what you can do, you are unlikely to tolerate nonsense from someone else, either you'll show him what you want, or you'll find someone else who can give you what you need.  Does that sound harsh?  Good.  Perhaps if we all got a bit more harsh about these things, we wouldn’t be subjected to never-ending tales of crap sex.

I love to love you baby...

That lyric is not for your man, it's for you, ladies.

Last week The Spinster made a most brilliant comment about The Glorious Bug, the man who took her sex from analogue to digital (I suspect that may be quite literal).  On the one hand, shagging someone who broadens your horizons is the trigger to your awakening, but sometimes it's your awakening that triggers the coming of your TGB.  Let me put it this way, once you open yourself to the possibility of better sex, the possibilities for better sex present themselves.

I'll leave you with this article by the most brilliant Dr Debby Herbenick, she that needs to win a Nobel Prize for sexy research, My Love of Sex.

But good sex is, I think, worth creating with someone. It’s worth the time, energy, patience, and communication it takes to learn about each others’ bodies, physical and psychic scars, the kinds of touch each person wants, the kinds of licking or not-licking, the positions, the kisses, the vanilla parts, the kinky parts, the pace and rhythm of parts of sex and of the whole act. Having grown up playing violin in an orchestra, I think of the Saturdays we spent practicing together, sometimes perfecting a few bars in the middle of a piece and other times starting from the top and trying to get all the way through to the end. Sex is a bit like that. Sometimes you’re trying to get something as concrete as oral sex down. Other times you’re trying to improve the bigger picture.  

Letter from London - That Van

The Home office recently conducted a pilot scheme which they claimed was to encourage illegal immigrants to surrender themselves or face arrest and deportation. The campaign involved huge advertising boards on vans which were driven around busy London boroughs with significant ethnic minority populations. Six boroughs were involved in the pilot: Barnet, Hounslow, Barking and Dagenham, Ealing, Brent and Redbridge.

The scheme, promptly dubbed #racistvan on twitter has opened divisions in the coalition government with the deputy PM Nick Clegg insisting that not a single member of his Liberal Democrats party was involved in or knew anything about the pilot. His fellow senior Lib Dem, Vince Cable said the whole thing was “stupid and offensive”.

There are observers who see in this Home Office plan a clever ploy by the Conservatives to woo back the voters that they have lost in recent years to the UK Independence Party. It does the Tories' poll ratings no harm if they are portrayed as being actively responsive to voters' genuine concerns over immigration. It is also said that Home Secretary Theresa May remains ambitious for conservative leader's position. Her vans will shore up her support among the new right of the 2010 Tory intake.

Nick Clegg and his Lib Dems may also benefit from this plan. They were quick to distance themselves from this government measure and this should play well with the many voters who abandoned them when they joined the coalition.

The Labour party under Ed Miliband is portrayed as weak in failing to effectively challenge a government scheme that has brought much anger in traditionally Labour supporting boroughs. The party has a tight rope to walk as it tries to attract white working-class voters who may have gone over to the BNP and other ant-immigration parties

The Government will study the results of the study and hope to roll-out the advertising campaign across the country in the next few months...

Random facts

The Office for National Statistics said that immigration accounted for just around 40 per cent of the year-on-year-growth, with almost 520,000 foreigners moving to Britain the 12 months to June 2012.

Overall there were 813,200 births, the highest number in a single year since 1972.

More than a quarter of the 813,200 newborn babies have a foreign-born mother compared with only one in six a decade earlier.


Still Mendacious

It's bad enough that they hatched a brilliant 100M scheme, but then they went ahead with said foolish plan to renovate a new house, sending out tenders to 10 unnamed firms?  Does public outrage mean nothing to the powers that be?  Apparently it does.  According to this article, Works on Ruto House Delayed, officials saw fit to trim the ludicrous budget even further.  “According to a top Public Works official, the government contemplated shelving the repairs after the Sunday Nation broke the story last month but later decided to scale down the budget to about Sh75 million.”  Wow!  A whopping 25M saved thanks to the quick thinking of our officials.  But wait, “According to the DP’s office, ministry officials had initially proposed Sh272 million for repairs that entailed converting some rooms in the house into offices to cut down on government expenditure of renting private buildings for visitors.”  From 272M to 75M?   This government is nothing if not fiscally prudent, no? No.

According to tender documents, the sitting room, main lounge and bedrooms will now have wooden floors while the reception area leading to Mr Ruto’s office will be carpeted. The flush doors will also be removed and replaced with mahogany doors.”  Very important, those wood floors, and mahogany doors, God forbid our DP be subjected to the indignity of cold floors and whatnot.  I mean really, what kind of country doesn’t have mahogany doors in its VIP residences?  But wait, that's not all, “A report by the Government Protective Security Office, which is in charge of security of government buildings, stated that the residence’s entrance lacked stop barriers and recommended their erection plus the installation of speed bumps and bollards. “The three gates to the residence lacked protective barriers for a VIP. The perimeter fence is too low to effectively prevent access into the compound and the electric wire fence is not functional,” reads part of the report. The report further indicated that there was no telephone operator to filter calls or a CCTV surveillance system in the compound and building.”  No call filtering?  How now?  What was the 383M we paid to the previous contractor before for then?  “In a recent TV interview, Mr Ruto rejected the huge repair bill because the previous contractors had been paid over Sh400 million. He also revealed that about Sh45 million was recovered from a contractor who had not finished the job.”  Well then, I guess it's all good, if we recovered some money from the previous bugger.  Or not, I can't find any mention of said refund anywhere, and given that we are a country obsessed with anything even remotely scandalous...  Watch the interview and join those dots for yourself.

These buggers are several kinds of special, six kinds to be precise.