Not many people know

that progress is an abbreviation
of
progressive infantilisation.

I cleaned the bath today

for the first time in two years.
I never use it anyway,
nor the shower.
And I finished my new
self-help book, called
Hygiene Without Tears.

Another benefit of authoritarian socialism ?

In Beijing streets there is birdsong in the air.
Most of the traffic is new and electric.

about a mile from Tiananmen Square 
we heard a woodpecker.

Our Eternity

is so miserably cramped
that Eternity would snigger
even if it noticed it.

Are Google Statistics Baloney ?

(Baloney = Bologna = a type of American sausage, I think.)

Recent views of this little blog. Did I go viral ?

 

from a formulaic interview:

What keeps you awake at night? 

Wondering why I can’t sleep.

'What's in a name ?'

Having a meaningless Christian forename
(Antonius/Antoninus)
I have always admired Nordic ones such as
Stone, Sun, Bear, Wolf, Womb,
Life, Star, Darkness, Mist...
I had an Albanian friend whose name means
Earth-spirit. 
And of course Alma means Soul
and Almina Little soul.

Ozone.

As would any mastermind,
the sun has found a loophole
in our atmosphere.

Seriously endangered, of course.

 

Hello Moon!

 

Hello Earth!

My mis-spent youth.

 

When I was a student, I somehow got a Christmas job at Belfast’s most up-market tobacconist, an impressive emporium called Leahy, Kelly and Leahy, right next to where the original English castle of Belfast stood, at Castle Junction, where most of the trams and buses passed.

I served behind the counter, selling tins and packets of pipe tobacco (plug, sliced and ready-rubbed) such as Three Nuns (which I smoked), St Bruno (which I and a friend smoked), Condor, Escudo, Ardath, Erinmore, Mick McQuaid, Murray's Mellow Mixture, Walnut Plug, mouth-numbing War Horse, St.Julian, Dunhill, Balkan Sobranie, Rich Dark Honeydew.  Some of these were made by Gallahers in Northern Ireland, others were made by Carrolls in Dundalk on the other side of the Irish border.  They were blends of tobaccos such as Burleigh, Latakia, Shag, Truffle...Some were grown in Turkey, some in Yugoslavia (Bosnia & Herzegovina).
Many had rum added, and sometimes other flavours.  If tobacco dried out, a slice of apple in the plastic-lined leather pouch or tin revived it overnight.

I sold hundreds of packets of cigarettes, and once escorted a customer to the Cigar Room, where Mr Leahy and a humidor on an impressive mahogany table received him.

I also dispensed snuff to old women in black shawls.

Business was brisk at Christmas and, though I was always bad at counting and doing sums in my head, I think most people got the right change.  But snuff had to be carefully weighed in a delicate old-fashioned balance with weights and a pan.  Ever sympathetic to poor ‘shawlies’ I gave them generous amounts above the quarter-ounces they asked for.  I liked being carelessly generous at the expense of a thriving business.

But of course, a day of reckoning was bound to come…when a shawlie refused the services of a colleague and asked for me personally, telling her shawlie friend that she always got good measure from the man with the beard and glasses.

So I was dismissed, having relieved the august establishment of several pipes, several ounces of tobacco and a handful of half-coronas.  The old women missed me.

I gave up pipe-smoking in my forties, but occasionally now, in my eighties, I savour a wonderful American mix generously donated by a friend, calling itself Black Truffle. I follow it up with mellow cognac, and continue reading my book.

The unforgettable Joseph Stalin was a heavy cigarette smoker, but he thought pipe-smoking would add to his stature.

So he took up the pipe. filling it with cigarette-tobacco, which he probably and heinously inhaled.

Britain's prime minister Harold Wilson also used his pipe to great effect.

Old tin and my current meerschaum + amber pipe.

Belfast's Castle Place in the 1950s
with two types of tram, trolleybus and diesel bus.

Leahy, Kelly and Leahys emporium
on left, somewhat earlier.

Ad from New York's  Saturday Evening Post in 1942

Word of the Day.

Prebuttal,
as in
'But the longer Melania went on, 
the more this sounded like a  prebuttal 
of allegations that may be about to break in the media.'

- The Guardian, 10th April 2026.

Another curious word from the same publication:

"...an estimated 35,000 people turned up to a protest helmed by Magyar."

As geopolitics change from day to day,
so does the English language!

Charles de Batz-Castelmore

is not a ear-catching name,
but re-cast by Dumas as
The Fourth Musketeer,
I read about his exploits
and those of his pals, 
and his pals' children
and the Queen's necklace...
before graduating to Balzac...
and Zola and Flaubert and
de Maupassant.  (I had little interest
in English novels apart from
Eliot and Hardy...but I digress.)
Here he is, the Fourth Musketeer
D'Artagnan, under the erstwhile altar
of a church in Maastricht, Holland.  

I doff my feathered hat.

A nice knick-knack - Murano perhaps ?

The yellow bit is the important one.

Photograph: cirp GmbH

 

3D-printed model of the clitoris based on the work of Ju Young Lee.
 Yellow structures are the nerves.
Green and purple are erectile tissue.
Red and blue are arteries and veins.
Proper manipulation is the issue.

 

Muslims and Jews excluded.

Fresco in the church of Matamorisco
(translatable as Slaymoors) in Palencia
(North-Central Spain), showing
the Weighing of Souls by the Archangel Gabriel,
with the saved to the left and the damned to the right
where shadowy demons lurk, maybe with Satan himself.
But the unbaptised and heathen went automatically
into limbo, so do not feature.

Bring on the dancing girls!

 

Coldrife on a warming planet.

It was 27°C yesterday.
I still wore my thermal 
winter underwear. 
But the bullfrogs this morning
are clamouring
for me to remove
at least one layer.
I am only slightly shivering.

Dogged.

An ancient, blunt
multi-tasked word
Bitch
(much older than Cunt)
can easily switch
from noun to verb to adjective
much used, much deplored,

and which I, raised by women,
loving dogs,
have always abhorred.

Memory lane.

 Scores of Easter Mondays ago
my mother and I would break and eat
our Easter Eggs (hard-boiled, not
the chocolate obscenities) at dolmens
or standing-stones.  About fifteen
years ago M. and I rolled our eggs
down Saul Hill, near Downpatrick
below a massive Mussolini-esque
grey statue of the saint.

Today here, near the village of Laramière
in south-west France, where I had also
brought M. and my long-deceased
and under-rated poet friend Tom Matthews,
I broke and ate my Easter Egg alone within
the chamber of a long, low dolmen
with massive roofstone: La Peyra Levada,
pictured beside my Peugeot 106 for scale.

In Ireland, some dolmens were inhabited.
Under this massive3-metre roof-stone
a small family of refugees could squat
and not be rained on,
though water would flow around their feet.

"Spoiler Alert"

If a disclosure of the plot
spoils a book for a reader,
then the reader or the book
is a bottom-feeder.

A Picture for Easter Sunday

to commemorate the 1916 Rising in Dublin
which Sir Roger Casement hastened futilely
(by German submarine) to prevent.  

This is a view of a lime-kiln
at Murlough Bay, county Antrim, 
in whose churchyard
Casement the hero, traitor and paedophile
wished to be buried, but never will.
His celebrated bones decay in Dirty Dublin, still.

0

The Trick Briefcase and the Persistence of Resistance.

 “I perfected a trick briefcase,”
my hero Jean Genet recalled,
“and I became so adept at stealing books
that I could conduct sleight-of-hand with great courtesy
right under the noses of the booksellers.”

My short imprisonment for
shoplifting 'household items'
was rather more genteel than Genet's,
involving lots of tea and toast
and an excellent prison library
run by a young dopesmoker.

Last week I completed my latest picture
with a musical-box mechanism which plays
Für Elise.  It is the story of teenagers opening
the door of my never-locked car and removing
two faulty CDs which they hurled on the lane.
I picked up the bits.
It is called  THE PERSISTENCE OF RESISTANCE
OR DADA. Of course, like Genet, I never had
nor consciously missed a father.

NOTE: this blog will discontinue very soon
for all prisoners of the moon.

In the far-off

Cold War days, Marcusians
and other far-left agitators who ignored
big and small realities surrounding
the Soviet Union, declared
that Israel was the USA's 'puppet-state'.

It's such a Topsy-Turvy World... 

Mutual grooming.

photo by Toby Meville.

We added numbers

to language
in our defence
against reality.

The thing about socialism

is that it arose out of
protestant puritanism
which made work
the only path to heaven,
so socialists worship work. 

April can be a cruel month

especially for budding fruit-trees
and vines. This year it's a good month
for ploughing.

Detail of 12th century tapestry
of Girona in Catalonia.

Wine

is notoriously variable
but more reliable

than people.

Why not eat the tasty lean bits ?

 

Apart from other considerations

my would-be-poems are depressingly-judgemental
and probably, like myself, under-developmental.

Being 'a failure' isn't a lot of fun
(for billions) -
but my species is a much direr one
when all is imagined, said and done.

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of the world
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There was a famous-in-Scotland warlord

who hid in a cave and watched a stationary
spider, which taught him patience. Such a spider
adheres to my stairwell wall. I will not insult her
with a name. In the room below I attach myself
to the world-wide web of human utterance,
which depends upon an oceanic web of cables,
hundreds of thousands of miles of them
along the ocean beds,
most of them privately owned
by a few abominably-rich Americans
who are entangling us & trussing up the planet
with our shrieking insignificance.

Candle weather coming.

  

The above-normal temperatures in France so far this year have led to many vines budding early. In the early stage of budding (débourrement), the vine is extremely susceptible to colder temperatures, and in some cases severe frosts can wipe out a whole vineyard’s harvest overnight.

To protect their vineyards against spring frost, many French winemakers still rely on the ancient technique of using candles (bougies antigel) to warm the vines. Thousands of candles – usually metal pots filled with paraffin wax – are placed throughout the vineyard in order to raise the vines' ambient temperature. 

Winemakers are recommended to install about 500 candles per hectare, which can help raise the temperature of he vines by 2 to 3C, according to figures from the Bureau Interprofessionnel des Vins de Bourgogne, the official industry organization for Burgundy wines.

Farther east and south, in my Gaillac area and around Bordeaux it will, however, be warmer.

Doors of Perception.

Consciousness is a World Tree
of many branches, twigs,
leaves, flowers, seeds and roots,
not to mention parasites and lodgers.

But perception is the problem.
We perceive peculiarly,
through the lens of quantity
rather than of quality.
Our minds inflamed by number,
ever-number saps our sensibility,

carved cuckoos inside clocks.
we're trapped by sequence, narrative,
and contrapuntal melody.

'I saw one ship

go sailing by,
sailing by,
sailing by;
I saw one ship go sailing by
at 10 o'clock in the morning.'

Strait of Hormuz

The devil in the details.

'God forgive me!'
It is a bit off
to correct dead good men's books,
but the august John le Carré
seemed to think that women
were imprisoned in Wormwood Scrubs
rather than in Holloway.

Assisted Dying, unassisted smoking.

Nick Auf der Maur was a Montreal politician, activist, newspaper columnist and career drinker who, in his youth, had been arrested for performing poetry in the street naked (with a gin and tonic in hand) and getting into a bar brawl with Jack Kerouac, who, he said, was a racist. He was also a heavy smoker. The lump that developed on his neck turned out to be throat cancer, which spread to his brain. When radiation didn’t work, he underwent an experimental procedure that cut out part of his throat and tongue, leaving him unable to eat, drink or talk properly. At home to visit him, Auf der Maur picked up the landline to make a call and heard her father’s voice on the line to a friend. He was saying he wanted to end his life, and he wanted help doing it. She put down the phone and then, later, spoke to the friend. If her father was going to end his life, she wanted to be there.

Strange quotation, strange man.

Ernst Jünger,
humanist-fascist.

'Le suicide fait partie
du capitale de l'humanité.'

sounds les strangled in English:

Suicide is part of human capital.

On Painting.

To create decent authentic art
it is essential not to care
a tinker's or other despised person's fart
if nobody comes to stand and stare.

Nostalgia.

My first 'sound-system'
which I played in the attic
in the late 1940s
looked exactly like this.

I played Grieg's piano concerto
recorded by Benno Moiseiwitch
on at least 4 old 10-inch records
with worn needles.

What better introduction to 'canned music' ?

Unsurprisingly,

I have been completely wrong
and probably crass
in my socio-genetic-anthropological
assumptions.

Progress.

As we have moved out of a period
where International Law largely applied,
so the Law of Unintended Consequences
has become the Law of Totally-Predictable
and Dire Consequences.

Viscous consciousness.

It's not like switching websites
or TV channels
from regenerating an Irish bog
to porn-site
to Facebook to Brahms...not at all.

Nor does it happen in Baudelairean
listlessness or soupy brain-fog.

Some of my days
are elevator-days
I pass instantaneously between floors
from plane to plane
no keys, no doors.

Lean Lion Kills Strange Monster.

 

Romanesque tympanum at Skibet in Denmark.

Tehran billboard.

 

One of the saddest paintings

that I have ever seen:
an early van Gogh of 1884
so reminiscent of Millet
(The Gleaners, etc.)
and so unlike his outpourings
just six years later
when he was accidentally shot
by teenagers with guns
out 'for a lark' or 'for a caper'.

  

Thanks to the underfunded BBC

Mr Nobody was born.

“When a government murders people on the streets of our major cities, when we don’t say anything, when oligarchs take over the media and control how we could produce it and consume it – we all face a moral choice. But luckily, even a nobody is more powerful than you think...”

...if he gets backing and fights his long way through.

https://www.catchupplayer.co.uk/episode/211129/Storyville.html

“In questo interregno...

 ..si verificano i fenomeni morbosi più svariati.”

- Antonio Gramsci

But that Goya should number owls amongst his monstrous
fenomeni morbosi or monstrosi makes his reason seem
somewhat somnolent.

Bargain of the Month

on Etsy: genuine Muammar Gaddafi wristwatch.

not in great demand

Meanwhile...

Nicolas Sarkozy appeared at the Paris court of appeal to face a fresh trial over allegations he conspired to receive illegal election campaign funding from the regime of the late Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi.

To brighten us up...

...a Capetown street.

photo by Robby Ogilvie

Call me Hammurabi.

In his Code of Fairness, he declares that
the rich should pay twice as much
as the poor for medical treatment. 

So why is Hammurabi, priest and worshipper of Justice,
celebrated in the United States' Capitol in Washington,
bastion of acquisition and unfairness ?

After Camus

the ancient philosopher said
that the essence of senescence
is the little blobs of fæces
you find hardening
in your long-johns and arse-hairs
as you get ready for bed.

The philosopher heaved a sweet
sigh and said
there won't be any more
of that shit when your dead.

Without stillness

and simplicity of self,
we can no longer be
an adaptable species.

On 'Populism'.

"It’s against elites, but led and funded by the rich. 
It presents itself as a mass uprising,
but relies on low turnouts for much of its electoral success.
It talks a lot about freedom, but its policies are authoritarian.
It promises a glorious future,
but its social vision is “soaked in the brandy of nostalgia.”

– Liam Byrne, MP.

A statement of the unrealised obvious.

‘Deaf people can’t hide behind words!’ 

But they can hide behind and away from people,
which gives them great inner resources.

Satan's wet dream :

The erection
of Perfection.

Chant of the Minotaur.

In the maze
of existence no centre
of consciousness can hold,
much less endure
to the end of all days.

My mind is my coffin

is a hide-
covered currach
drifting out
with the tide

As the world seems to enter 'the beginning of the end time'

I'm not entirely ashamed to say
that I found this interesting
and helpful.

Around the Second Millennium

we thought that the World-Wide Web
was the best thing since electricity:
an exciting, liberating, egalitarian
empowering invention. 
But now, for millions,
it's like a slow, seductive garrotte
round the brain,
which, day by day, increases
its and our tension.

My aunt used to say

that life was
one disappointment
after another. 
Many were caused by me.
I remember her tears.
She lived brightly
and sprightly
in excellent health
with all her teeth
for over 90 years.

This blog is not a journal.

Nor is it a commonplace-book.
It's somewhere in between...
an outlet for a chap who has been
an aspergerish over-sharer/communicator 
and almost obsessive truth-teller
since he left school and no longer
had to tell pathetically-transparent lies
about his punishments
to his long-suffering mother.

Today's blog, however, reports on my reading
of a few pages of a poor novel
set in pre-independence,
pearl-of-the-East Ceylon,
re-named in 1972 Sri Lanka: Isle of Splendour
(overtones of Shakespeare). 

Before that
it was called, by some, Sarandib, which
by a curious route gave us the word
Serendipity – which I thought was American
because I came across it first in a Deep-South novel.

Arabic Sarandib comes from Sanskrit Simhaladvipa:
Lion Island. And behold Sri Lanka's National Flag.

Berthold alias Bert Brecht,

was a pretty important 20th century playwright,
very political. He wrote great songs, fine poems and
(my favourite) The Threepenny Novel.

He is still pretty important, since his 
Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui (1941)
is pretty relevant just now. And has been
much performed in recent years.

The play is about a Chicago mobster
who gets control of the city’s wholesale
vegetable trade through corruption,
intimidation and violence and murder:
a clear allegory of how a certain nondescript Austrian
had climbed to power during the 1920s and 1930s,
and founded a Thousand-Year Empire
on sand and hate and submission.

It was not staged until 1958, after Brecht's death.
But Mother Courage and Her Children, about
an enterprising, child-collecting refugee/
asylum-seeker during the Thirty Years' War.
was frequently performed during his lifetime and since.

For me, however, Brecht is like Shakespeare:

better on the page than on the stage.
Unlike Ibsen.

Here is his poem on Hell (from a page of my translations)

Considering Hell,
my brother Shelley thought
it must be much like London.
Since I live in Los Angeles and not London
I think Hell is more like
Los Angeles.

In Hell, too, there must be luxuriant gardens
with flowers big as trees
which of course wither at once
if not fed
with rich people's water.

And fruit-markets where great piles of fruit*
have no smell, have no taste.
And endless convoys of cars
as light as their shadows, faster than impulses -
gleaming conveyances in which well-fed people
go nowhere from nowhere.

And houses
built for the happy, thus standing empty
even when lived in.

The houses in Hell, too, aren't
all of them ugly,
but the fear of being dumped on the street
oppresses the suburbanites
no less than the shanty-town squatters.

*Cultivated by semi-slaves in Guatemala and Honduras.

Which reminds me of this poem by MTC Cronin
about Hitler in Hell:

In hell, Hitler is forced
to protect his anonymity.

He paints walls and cadavers
and sniffs fumes of the dead;

he eats the ashes of children
and drinks blood from a funnel;

hammered into his mouth
are many pulled gold teeth; but mostly
he sits forgotten on the chair
just inside hell's door.

*

An illustrated note on Hell.

Thus end today's commonplaces.

The Irrefutable Truth.

Technology
creates far more waste
than it can ever reduce.

Ever the aphorismic practitioner, I wrote this after reflecting on all the 'Mixtapes'
that I made on cassettes in the nineteen eighties and nineties, and then all the Compilation CDs
(tapes and CDs that I can't throw away)
and now never listen to because the radio/internet waves support dozens of compilation channels which
are surprisingly good.

The phallic African banana

was, in medieval times,

sometimes called the Fruit of Paradise

...long before United Fruit

established plantations & régimes

in Guatemala and Honduras.

Reflections

by Richard Baker

 

'Those who restrain desire

do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained*;
and the restrainer or Reason usurps its place
& governs the unwilling.'

William Blake did not do much to restrain
his own libido. Moreover, he...

'...always found that the angels have the vanity
to speak of themselves as the only wise.
This they do with a confident insolence
sprouting from systematic reasoning.'

(from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell')

*Perhaps due to low testosterone levels.

God is more sad

than angry. Sadder and wiser ?
Poor God!  And so he has abandoned us
to Judaism, Christianity and Islam
in that order. Plus our other own devices.

Façade detail, Modena Cathedral.
(Doesn't Adam have lovely feet ? )

'Baking News'.

As usual, the News Organ spends

five minutes telling us what has actually happened

in the war between the Shahatollah

and what the late latter called 'The Epstein Class'

plus Israël, ancient antagonist of all,

followed by 50 minutes of intense 

speculation which will be quickly

superseded by events.

Today is, of course,

Fossil Crinoid Day

Human life:

release
from sweet confinement in the womb
into the sad captivity
of the world.
And then, if you are very privileged,
a tomb.

 

Beautiful ? I prefer Monet...

 ...and a good Monet would be much cheaper.

Scientists have captured in unprecedented detail
a beautiful image  of the vast Milky Way galaxy,
of which our own solar system is a part.

Or how about this, closer to home and from the same online edition of The Guardian ?

Tardy self-diagnosis.

 If – instead of having my tonsils
and adenoids removed in 1948 –
I had been given TRT (alias ART).
I might have gained the energy,
stamina, muscles and memory
that other boys had, and which,
in my case, have diminished more
and more with my advancing years...
...might not have had a shut-down
for a decade...might not have been
a slow-on-the-uptake slow thinker...
might not now have brain-fog,
high blood pressure & cholesterol,
a Pacemaker, fatigue, poor balance,
deafness and ringing in my ears.

I have no pain whatever, it must be said.
I'm sometimes just a bit lame.
No way will I die in a hospital bed.

Fiction, prediction.

There once was a writer 

who wrote far too much.

and didn't really want to be read. 

He didn't like people too much,

and most of the time he sort-of

wished he was dead.

His name was not Kafka

nor Borges, nor Beckett.

It might have been Fred.

My latest piece of 'folk-art'.

65 centimetres wide and placed
in the little niche on the other
side of the street from my house
(my smallest piece of garden),
this limestone sculpture of a
wild boar and his family
(sold by my friend, executor and
brocanteur David Poirier,
at a very reasonable price),
has no provenance, but is likely to have
been chiselled somewhere in Quercy,
Rouergue or the Albigeois, SW France.

from Twenty-nine Things

You can Do with a Penis.

Quixotic or idiotic ?

Had it been possible
I would have written a letter
of appreciation of his short stories
to Kafka, and of praise for his portraits
to Vincent van Gogh.  As it was,
I wrote to blind Borges, blind Tolkien
(secretaries replied)
and to the splendid Alice Neel
not long after she died. 

Portrait of John Perreault

In the evenings

only
I feel so good after dinner
and a modest measure
of wine, that my socialist
disposition makes me want
to share the pleasure.

The Fall.

Adam and Eve
dropping from a Tree
in Autumn.
Among withered leaves
and a sloughed-off skin,
no tomb,
Fall Guy and Fall Doll.

'If computers can surmise, can they surprise ?

Can Artificial Intelligence
be creative ?

Memoirs aren't improved by total recall.

Is Artificial Intelligence
capable of curiosity ?
(a faculty largely suppressed in humans)

It can't have fun, 
enjoy, regret, or suffer,
or incline towards impetuosity.

The times they aren't a-changing

 very much. 

Leigh Hunt (who might even now be called a seditious agitator, and be arrested for supporting the Palestinian cause)
was sentenced to two years in prison for libel against the odious Prince Regent (later George IV), after publishing a critical article and satire in his newspaper, The Examiner, in 1812. 

In gaol from 1813 to 1815, he continued to engage with
literary figures and maintain a vibrant intellectual life.

ex-Prince Andrew (the youngest of the Mountbatten-Windsors),
and almost never in line for the throne)
was arrested the day before yesterday = 213 years later...
and was soonish released.
He will not go to prison.
Although he has rubbed shoulders with literary as well as deeply-unpleasant and vile figures (some of them also literary)
he does not have a vibrant intellectual life,
and, partly because of his sad sexual adventures,
not even a current wife.

© Wofl McGonagall, MMXXVI

COTERMINOUS [adj]

 – as when Lent and Ramadan
endure for the same forty days,
or as nearly as dammit.

Though not necessarily when
Israel starts a religious war
at the al-Aqsa mosque
built on the site where
the earth was last trod
by M'hamed.

I Bought a Second-hand Dogma

(don't we all in this vale of dark deceit ?)

It belonged to a lady with good taste
and slender wrists just like mine
(in contrast with my spathulate
thumbs that are not smartphone-friendly).

I wanted it to be (since, unfortunately,
I am not) black, elegant, easy to read -
o which end I took out its third
(seconds) hand, removing all guarantees
that might ever have been attached to it
as it was attached to its dead owner,
who is now even more of a loner than me...
now dog-less for five years

'Junior Dogma Quartz Original
Vintage Cr 3231-88', from the late seventies.

Width: 19 millimetres

The Future

means nothing
until it strikes,
arrives,
or sidles in.

Surely the Chinese are not really this stupid ?

They sell music-box mechanisms on eBay
(hundreds of them)
without informing us of the tunes that they play !

George Sand:

"Always resist those
who say Work hard
to live badly."

This is the state of social involution.

Laurent Binet wrote:
"Sport ?
A fascist conspiracy."

No fence:

No fear.

*

Right-minded
is left-leaning.

Would you believe

that my Fair Trade
coffee from Rwanda
is harvested from trees
tended by happy, trained
mountain gorillas ?

How I would like to !

Malcolm (64) has had a minor stroke.

But he's better now.

Another near-extinction.

The extraordinary whistling dogs are falling silent...

Their reddish fur and wolf-like features might fool you into thinking they’re foxes.

Their long backs and slender limbs might suggest a close relationship with cats.

They can’t bark, so surely they can’t be dogs… right?

But these are in fact the utterly adorable - bordering on unbelievable - Asiatic whistling dogs: the dholes.

And almost no one has heard of them, which is a true tragedy.

Because while they may not be able to bark the way domesticated dogs do, what really sets dholes apart is the noises they can make.

Clucks, screams and whistles cut through the forest as they carefully coordinate a hunt. These specialist canines are expert communicators as well as extremely social creatures, living and working together in tight-knit teams where each member plays a crucial role.

But their intimate families are being torn apart.

Across the globe, dholes are disappearing at a horrifying rate.

One by one, vicious snares see their whistles become whimpers, and humans introduce deadly diseases into their close communities, causing their clucks to go quiet.

These beautiful dogs are fading away.

In some areas, such as Cambodia’s Cardamom Mountains, snares litter the ground. These cruel devices trap the limb of any poor dhole unfortunate enough to cross their path, tightening mercilessly as the helpless dog fights desperately to escape. But, more often than not, it’s already too late.

There are now fewer than 2,500 mature dholes left in the world. They are hurtling towards extinction.

If we don’t stand up for them now, we could soon lose them forever - they are in urgent need of your support.

And so are we.

We need your help to get essential equipment into the hands of those that need it most – to buy a ranger a fresh pair of boots, a new raincoat or a sturdy rucksack to replace those worn out by thousands of hours spent patrolling through challenging landscapes like the Cardamom Mountains, painstakingly sweeping and removing snares as they go.

Dholes are one of the world’s most extraordinary canines – together, we can ensure they don’t fall silent.

SAVING WILD DOGS IN CAMBODIA

 

Please help save dholes. If everyone reading this donates just £3, you could help get the rangers all the equipment they need to help bring these remarkable creatures back from the brink. Thank you.

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