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ISSUE 222 Date: 3rd February 2012

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Issue 222

Page 2

Thoughts & Quotes ...

Thomas Paine (29 January 1737 – 8 June 1809) was an English political writer, theorist, and activist who had a great in-

fluence on the thoughts and ideas which led to the American Revolution

and the United States Declaration of Independence. He wrote three of the

most influential and controversial works of the 18th Century: Common

Sense, The Rights of Man and The Age of Reason. First published 10

January 1776.

There is something exceedingly ridiculous in the composition of mon-

archy; it first excludes a man from the means of information, yet empowers him to act in

cases where the highest judgment is required.

Society in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but a necessary evil.

We have it in our power to begin the world over again.

Time makes more converts than reason.

Of more worth is one honest man to society and in the sight of God, than all the crowned ruffians

that ever lived.

It is pleasant to observe by what regular gradation we surmount the force of local prejudice as we

enlarge our acquaintance with the world.

O! ye that love mankind! Ye that dare oppose not only tyranny but the tyrant, stand forth! Every

spot of the Old World is overrun with oppression. Freedom hath been hunted round the globe.

Asia and Africa have long expelled her. Europe regards her like a stranger and England hath

given her warning to depart. O! receive the fugitive and prepare in time an asylum for man-

kind.

When we are planning for posterity, we ought to remember that virtue is not hereditary.

It is of the utmost danger to society to make it (religion) a party in political disputes.

Mingling religion with politics may be disavowed and reprobated by every inhabitant of Amer-

ica.

There is something exceedingly ridiculous in the composition of monarchy; it first excludes a

man from the means of information, yet empowers him to act in cases where the highest

judgment is required.

Hereditary succession has no claim. For all men being originally equals, no one by birth could

have the right to set up his own family in perpetual preference to all others for ever, and tho'

himself might deserve some decent degree of honours of his contemporaries, yet his descen-

dants might be far too unworthy to inherit them.

I offer nothing more than simple facts, plain arguments, and common sense.

A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right, and

raises at first a formidable outcry in defence of custom.

Society is produced by our wants, and government by wickedness; the former promotes our hap-

piness positively by uniting our affections, the latter negatively by restraining our vices. The

one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The first is a patron, the last a pun-

isher. Society in every state is a blessing, but government even in its best state is but a neces-

sary evil.

In the early ages of the world, according to the Scripture chronology there were no kings; the

consequence of which was, there were no wars; it is the pride of kings which throws mankind

into confusion.

Everything that is right or natural pleads for separation. The blood of the slain, the weeping voice

of nature cries, 'tis time to part.

Government by kings was first introduced into the world by the Heathens, from whom the chil-

dren of Israel copied the custom. It was the most prosperous invention the Devil ever set on

foot for the promotion of idolatry.

Small islands not capable of protecting themselves are the proper objects for kingdoms to take

under their care; but there is something very absurd in supposing a continent to be perpetually

governed by an island.

Issue 222

Page 3

expedite v 1. (transitive) To accelerate the progress of.

2. (transitive) To perform (a task) fast and efficiently.

eat humble pie phrasal verb

1. to admit one's faults; to make a humiliating apology.

anthropomorphic adj

1. (for animals, non-humans or other inanimate objects) given human attributes.

dexterously adv

1. In a dexterous manner; skilfully, with precision, carefully.

contrite adj

1. Sincerely penitent or feeling regret or sorrow, especially for one's own actions.

subterfuge n 1. An indirect or deceptive device or stratagem; a blind.

2. Deception; misrepresentation of the true nature of an activity.

hiatus n 1. A break or pause.

2. A gap in a series, making it incomplete.

3. (linguistics) A pause between identical vowels in a word.

trudge v

1. To walk wearily with heavy, slow steps.

LIFE OBSERVATIONS Triangular shaped sandwiches are posher than square ones. What happened to doylies?

At the end of every kids party, why is one of the little darlings always in tears?

Green coloured chips? Isn’t the greenness in light got at potatoes arsenic?

Sharpening a pencil with a pen knife would have been okay for kids to do in the 1950s — per-

haps, not so now.

Clean Air Laws: Is it against local bi-laws to have a fire in your back garden? — if so, why are

bbqs okay?

The smell of a wet dog drying in front of the fire is simply indescribable.

Wood smoke: There’s something primeval about prodding fire embers with a stick.

When stroking horses it pays to remember — they can mistake fingers for apples.

ASSIGNMENT: Companions or Trespass (400 words)

Random Words: garnish, behind, victim, thousand, trespass, horsewhip, parrot,

glasses, Mrs. Wilson, guild (150 words)

Don’t forget the cryptic clues ... 20 words. (please enclose answer)

CLIVE‘s three free e-books

NOW PUBLISHED on RBW and issuu

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

http://issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

Issue 222

Page 4

Steph‘s FREE poetry e-chapbook is now published on www.issuu.com/risingbrookwriters

and on RBW main site

http://www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=52

The chapbook is illustrated by some of her original artwork.

She is a member of Stafford Art Group and has exhibited some pieces locally.

CRYPTIC CLUES: (JT) A series of bird clues, which could be of interest. All the birds are on the British List, which means they are to be found here at some part of the year. 1. Mr. Chuzzlewit? (6) Martin 2. Hood or Goodfellow? (5) Robin 3. Heavenly heather? (8) Starling 4. Follicularly challenged waterbird ? (4) Coot 5. Letter X? (3) Jay

Jean‘s Genes (SMS)

In the great eternal plan

would it have hurt any other man,

if t‘was not ordained from on high,

could granny‘s genes have passed me by?

Could maternal heredity have been exchanged

for DNA of paternity?: even if she was deranged!

Mad as a Hatter! Willowy, paternal gran

floated light as the breeze and carried a fan

even in the throes of winter.

While mum‘s mum – stout of kilter -

of stalwart, yeoman-farming stock,

on work-worn knees wobbled around her flock.

In the genetic soup of life

t‘would have given far less strife

in the designer-jeans department

of this tubby soul‘s predicament

if in the lottery of the chromosome,

when cells divide and decide to willy-nilly roam,

decreeing every single which and why

for the lucky of lean butt and elongated thigh.

BUT, WHY NOT FOR ME? . . . at just five foot high

bootcut hipsters remain a longing with every sigh . . .

EGGS- ACTUALLY ... Memories of being a film extra CMH

After a workout in the dojo, ―Rehydrating‖ in a nearby pub was always a key part of the night.

When we were approached by a TV film company to take part in a location shoot, to say we were

interested was an understatement. All the glamour of a film shoot – so we thought - and £20 for a

one-day job, grub provided, was just too much for us lads to turn down. Just think of it; nearly a

week‘s wages for a ONE-DAY job. They got all their 'policemen' in one go. Measurements were

taken by somebody called ―The Head of the Costume Department‖, a no nonsense woman in a

trouser suit.

The instructions were: ―Turn up on Sunday at 7.00 to get your breakfast. White shirt and black

shoes or boots, we'll provide the uniform. Shooting starts at 8.00. Lunch will be about 12.30 and

tea about 5.00 if we need you for that long.‖

The location was in an area of Stoke that was scheduled for ―Redevelopment‖, which meant

that the majority of the houses were empty. A dismal cul-de-sac with the gates to a disused, dilapi-

dated, deserted, factory barring the end greeted us as the 'Exotic Location' in which we were to

work. Still it was easy money, wasn't it?

Breakfast, as much as we could eat, and we could eat for England. Bacon, three sorts of eggs,

sausage, fried bread, black pudding, fried tomatoes, fried spuds, Tommy sauce, fresh bread still

warm from the oven, toast and jam with porridge and cornflakes for the wimps, it was magic. As

healthy young carnivores, we all managed seconds.

Then we were issued with our uniforms. They came in the usual two sizes, too big and too

small, with ―helmets‖ to match. My uniform must have been wrongly made because, unlike many

others, it almost fitted.

Unfortunately, nothing could be done about the helmet, the only thing that stopped it blinding

me was the fact that it rested on my ears.

Typically, as I found out many years later, it was a case of hurry up and do nothing for the first

hour. Check the camera angles, do a walk through, reset the camera angles, do another walk

through, more camera changes, do a full speed run through then, when everybody was fed up to

the back teeth with it and we were getting ready for yet another rehearsal, somebody shouted,

―Lights, Cameras, Action!‖ (Yes, they REALLY DID then, now modern electronics have taken all

the magic out of it.)

Then we got introduced to the 'strikers' we were protecting the 'factory' from, a good bunch of

lads who outnumbered us at least three to one, and some of the most evil looking types we'd come

across.

The director briefed us. ―You are to stop the strikers getting in the gates. We can't run through

this in detail, so you'll have to work it out on the fly. The start point is where the strikers come into

the street. You link arms and stop them getting the gates open. You'll hear my hooter sound at the

beginning and end of the shot; just keep going until you hear it.‖

Hooter sounded, arms linked across the gates facing a 'raving mob of strikers', we pushed and

shoved and heaved keeping them from 'storming' the 'factory'.

Then it started to rain. I have worn lots of different helmets, WW2 British Army, NATO, Me-

dieval, Roman and Greek but, let me tell you, that there is almost nothing like a plastic version of

the old-fashioned police helmet to funnel rainwater straight down the back of your neck.

Hooter!

Seeing the camera crews scuttling for cover the 'strikers', instantly, turn from a raving mob to a

bunch of blokes who were saying, 'stuff this for a lark, lets get out of this downpour and get a

brew.' So did we.

When the rain stopped, it was back at the gates again.

More of the same, the director directs. This time it's different. We've had a good natter to the

others, they'd been recruited in much the same manner as we had and had been told not to shave

after Friday, and it's not quite as hectic. Still shoving and pushing but more scenically, at least

that's what the director says and he should know(?)

Somebody went down in the scrum, he'd tripped over a kerbstone, and the blood shows as he

staggers away from the ruck.

Hooter!

The first aid team say he's okay, just a slight cut, but the film team go ape over it; no cleaning

up, no plasters, no treatment that shows. They wanted BLOOD! It's surprising just how far a little

bit of blood and a lot of bad acting can go.

'POLICE BRUTALITY', says the director, 'I want lots of it. Beat him up, kick him, and ham-

mer him with your truncheons' – light plastic and hollow? No way! But, we can act with the worst

of them and proceed to show just how bad we can be – as actors. After that, it's back to the gates

again.

Hooter!

Push, heave, and shove. We're really earning that £20 this morning.

Hooter! Lunch.

Like breakfast, as much as we could eat and we all scoffed it down for England. Seconds and

Thirds in some cases. Even though I was hollow legs personified, I managed to get filled up.

I hated those gates. Somebody had unlocked them in the interval so they gave under the next

push and the 'police line' got broken. I became separated from the rest and got pelted with eggs,

not so much pelted as covered with the broken yolk from at least two dozen eggs. It's no 'yolk'

when that runs down your neck and joins your wet shirt either.

Hooter!

The property and costume department, all five of them, came out to repair some sartorial dam-

age and one of the girls told me to hold still while she got most of it off. ―Leave it,‖ says the direc-

tor, ―I'm going to throw some more later‖. Ahh well, I suppose that that's the problem with being

the tallest of the extras. I‘m too easy a target.

―And stop smiling,‖ he told me. ―You've got a grin all over your face‖. ME! Mr. Po face him-

self, grinning! Okay, so I was enjoying myself, but grinning! Straight face from now on.

―Now,‖ says the director. ―Now it's your turn. POLICE BRUTALITY, I want lots of it. Beat

them up, kick them, hammer them with your truncheons.‖ Just worse acting then.

We just had time for two more takes of, carefully rehearsed, 'police brutality', before the heav-

ens opened up again. Rain stopped play for the day, but let the evening meal continue.

Slightly damp, smelling like an uncooked omelette and £20 richer I climbed into my car and

went home.

It was about thirty years later that I next found myself in front of a film camera. However, this

time the film company was American, it wasn't raining, there weren't any eggs, I had a sword

bolted to my hip, a wolf skin fastened to my helmet, and the uniform I was wearing was my own

nicely tailored steel one, but that's another story.

CMH)

Opportunity Lost ...

RBW Online is published every week!

It has a minimum of 60-70 e-mail pdf readers

and many more online and on Facebook.

This access to a regular readership is something

most writers would give their eye-teeth for!

How about jotting a note on the calendar to

remember to send in something for the bulletin?

The memories once transcribed are recorded as MP3 tracks and can be found on

www.risingbrookwriters.org.uk/DynamicPage.aspx?PageID=75

So far only RBW contributors memories have been uploaded but around

50 free MP3 tracks from all the ten groups taking part will be available eventually.

Issue 222

Page 10

ASSIGNMENT: Futuristic apocalyptic tale... What happens if the Euro falls? What

happens if the Eurozone fragments? How fast would borders close? (PL)

John rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window, the train was slowing down and

clearly would be stopping very soon. He reached up for his backpack and holdall in

preparation for the stop along with every other passenger in his carriage. It had been a

long haul from Paris to Berlin and he was looking forward to his last trip, particularly

since it was his first visit to the German capital.

At the ticket barrier the security man checked his ticket and to John‘s surprise mo-

tioned him to one side, before speaking into his phone. Within seconds a second man in

a smart uniform came across, saluted and said ‗Commen sie hiere,‘ again motioning

John to follow him to a door with the sign ―Poleizei‖ on it.

Somewhat perturbed John entered wondering what on earth was going on.

The officer saluted, ‗Herr Kapitan Joachim Sege, what is your business here?‘

‗Um... I‘m visiting Berlin for a few days before returning to England.‘

‗Please, your passport.‘

‗Of course,‘ fumbling inside his jacket and handing it over to the officer.

‗Your name please.‘

John replied, ‗John Paul Anthony.‘

Looking through the pages, ‗You haf no visa.‘

‗But I don‘t need a visa, we‘re in the Common Market.‘

‗Where haf you been? The Common Market is finito! Now you must haf visa to en-

ter Germany. Also you must haf Deutschmarks, the Euro is no more!‘

‗But I only have Euros, no other currency apart from a few pounds sterling which I

will need on my return to London.

Herr Kapitan looked again at John‘s passport: ‗It say here you are a doctor, what

kind of doctor? Medical?‘

‗Yes, that‘s right.‘

‗So what are you doing here?

‗Well actually, I‘ve been on a rather extended holiday, climbing in the Pyrenees in

France for the past four weeks, caught the train back to Paris and as I said finishing my

trip off in Berlin.‘

‗No visa, no Deutschmarks, you may not enter.‘

‗Look Herr Kapitan, can you advise me what‘s the best thing to do, I would hate to

have come all this way without seeing you beautiful city. If I‘m allowed to go to the

nearest bank, or the British Embassy I‘m sure I can get the necessary papers and cur-

rency, but, of course, I‘ll need my passport.‘

The officer frowned, ‗I think there may be a way out of this but there are a few con-

ditions. Firstly, you will need to see my daughter who is very unwell and our doctors

seem unable to discover what is the problem. If you are more successful, you must pay

me 50,000 marks for assisting you to obtain the necessaries.‘

‗How much is that in sterling?‘

‗I think about £750.00, but remember that includes visa charges, transportation and

perhaps a few gratuities to, how do you say?, smooth the path!‘

John realised that there was no way out of his predicament and acquiesced, hoping

almost against hope that his diagnostic and other persuasive skills would see him

through.

Issue 222

Page 11

UPDATE FROM ... The Poetry Library info@poetrylibrary.org.uk

Latest Competitions: Prole Laureate Poetry Competition 2012 | Closing Date: 01-Mar-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1133 Girton College Jane Martin Poetry Prize | Closing Date: 16-Mar-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1137 Flash 500 Humour Verse Competition | Closing Date: 31-Mar-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1138

Poetic Republic Poetry Prize | Closing Date: 30-Apr-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1130

East Grinstead Town Council Jubilee Literary Competition | Closing Date: 01-May-12 http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/competitions/?id=1136

New Magazines: New Linear Perspectives http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/emagazines/?id=634

Playerist http://www.poetrylibrary.org.uk/magazines/magazines/?id=633

http://mediadecoder.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/01/31/barnes-noble-says-it-wont-sell-books-published-by-amazon/

106 articles online about this:

In a sharp reply to Amazon‘s expanding publishing efforts, Barnes & Noble (US bookstore chain and e-reader producer)

said in a press release on Tuesday this week that it would not sell books (& ebooks) released by Amazon Publishing in its

bookstores.

Tablet and e-reader sales are soaring in the US.

http://mediadecoder.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/01/22/tablet-and-e-reader-sales-soar/

JUST FOR A LAUGH (CMH)

Have you ever thought of what happens to the letter, numbers and paragraphs you delete from your

computer screen? Such a simple thing, but where have you sent those rejected items?

One idea is that they are shipped to Immingham, where they're made into alphabet soup. This

explains why most adults prefer the ordinary kind of soups rather than face the consequences of their

actions.

One author‘s explanation is that every time you hit the delete key you unleash a tiny monster in

the cursor. This tears the poor unsuspecting characters to shreds, drinks their blood, and then eats them,

bones and all.

An IT giant‘s explanation is: ―The characters are not real. They exist only on the screen where

they're needed, as concepts, so to delete them is merely to de-conceptualise them‖.

I wonder were they the workers or the management‘s characters?

The Buddhist explanation might be: ―If a character has lived rightly, and its karma is good, then,

after being deleted, it will reincarnate as a different, higher, or lower character. Space is the lowest

character and the fate of those whose karma is not good. Good letter go to another plane via the Enter

key.‖

The 21st century ―logical‖ explanation is that all characters are the same, swirling in a vast sea

of meaningless nothingness, it doesn't really matter if they are on the page, deleted, underlined or what.

It's all the same and more characters should delete themselves because...

The environmentalists complain, ―You've been deleting them! Can't you hear them screaming?

Those poor little innocent characters, and the baby lower case ones, have rights too!‖

THE POETRY SLOT

The Birks of Abergeldie Robert Burns (1787)

Chorus.—Bonie lassie, will ye go,

Will ye go, will ye go,

Bonie lassie, will ye go

To the birks of Aberfeldy!

NOW Simmer blinks on flowery braes,

And o‘er the crystal streamlets plays;

Come let us spend the lightsome days,

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie lassie, &c.

While o‘er their heads the hazels hing,

The little birdies blythely sing,

Or lightly flit on wanton wing,

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie lassie, &c.

The braes ascend like lofty wa‘s,

The foaming stream deep-roaring fa‘s,

O‘erhung wi‘ fragrant spreading shaws—

The birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie lassie, &c.

The hoary cliffs are crown‘d wi‘ flowers,

White o‘er the linns the burnie pours,

And rising, weets wi‘ misty showers

The birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie lassie, &c.

Let Fortune‘s gifts at randoe flee,

They ne‘er shall draw a wish frae me;

Supremely blest wi‘ love and thee,

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie lassie, &c.

Behold, My Love, How Green

the Groves Robert Burns

Behold, my love, how green the groves,

The primrose banks how fair;

The balmy gales awake the flowers,

And wave thy flowing hair.

The lav‘rock shuns the palace gay,

And o‘er the cottage sings:

For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,

To Shepherds as to Kings.

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu‘ string,

In lordly lighted ha‘:

The Shepherd stops his simple reed,

Blythe in the birken shaw.

The Princely revel may survey

Our rustic dance wi‘ scorn;

But are their hearts as light as ours,

Beneath the milk-white thorn!

The shepherd, in the flowery glen;

In shepherd‘s phrase, will woo:

The courtier tells a finer tale,

But is his heart as true!

These wild-wood flowers I‘ve pu‘d, to

deck

That spotless breast o‘ thine:

The courtiers‘ gems may witness love,

But, ‘tis na love like mine.

Issue 222

Page 13

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