Peter Reynolds

The life and times of Peter Reynolds

Posts Tagged ‘dinosaur

Simon Heffer’s Disgusting Prohibitionist Rant

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Fat Cat And His Drug Of Choice

Journalists in the old media and politicans are panicking.  They are trying to crack down hard on us and our rights to opinions and self-expression.  In the age of WikiLeaks and the internet, their self-serving oligarchy is undermined by real freedom.

Cameron’s and Miliband’s arrogant and dismissive rejection of Bob Ainsworth’s proposals for an end to prohibition, shows they have no proper response to his arguments.  Today, another member of the ruling elite penned a truly ignorant and repressive opinion in The Daily Telegraph.  See here for the full article.

As well as trying it on with the discredited idea that cannabis causes psychosis,  Heffer says, with astounding spitefulness and stupidity:

“We have a serious problem with drugs in this country because we do not punish drugs crime severely enough. Legalisation is not the answer, but getting nasty might just be.”

It is an utterly disgraceful article. Heffer should be ashamed of himself for spreading lies and misinformation, I suspect deliberately.

The facts are that the harms caused by prohibition are well documented and proven.

The facts are that the allegation cannabis causes psychosis is just the latest scare story. In the 1930s the prohibitionists used to say that cannabis makes white women promiscuous with black men. This is just the latest smear of equivalent value.

Public opinion is hugely in favour of an end to prohibition. You only have to look at the polls and the huge volume of comment and opinion on the web.

The oligarchy of politicians and the media is on the point of collapse.  Those who value truth and freedom can console themselves that the darkest hour is just before dawn.  Journalists like Heffer and Andrew Marr, for example, are desperate to hang on to their corrupt position where they control the news agenda and contrive media coverage in cahoots with their friends in parliament.

A peaceful revolution is coming where fat cat journalists with no more talent than the lowliest blogger will be turfed out of their comfortable sinecures as the irrelevant dinosaurs that they are.

Heffer and his chums on both sides of the House have had their nasty little stitch-up going on for too long.  Dawn is approaching and his sort has no future

Britain’s Elder Statesman

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In A Proud And Honourable Tradition

William Hague is a British politician we can be proud of.  I agree with almost every word he says.  The only subject on which we diverge is Trident.  I see no point at all in this massively expensive white elephant.  Everything that can be achieved by possessing a nuclear weapon is achieved by just one warhead capable of use on a variety of delivery methods.  Our generals don’t want Trident.  We should listen to their advice.

Hague’s time as PM was an unhappy one and it is true that his judgment can be a little wobbly at times but only on trivial matters such as dress code.  His presence, intelligence and dignity endow him with a magnificent stature that commands not just the conference platform but the world stage.  He makes Labour politcians look either like spiteful, spotty schoolboys or grumpy old codgers with dinosaur attitudes and medieval manners.

He is the perfect foil to David Cameron.  Truly, this is a wonderful partnership which will enable Britain to regain its place as a world leader.

Walking The Dog 1

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When I first saw it, my heart went into my mouth and then dropped in to my stomach as I realised I was looking at a pterodactyl. Loping away from a low branch, it’s massive wings somehow rolling up and then unrolling in an unbelievably slow movement, it rose gracefully, magnificently away from me.

Regaining my composure, with my trusty Kodak Digital at my side, I still managed to miss the chance of a great picture and Capone, my faithful, four-legged companion, just looked at me in disgust before doing his own loping away towards the sea.

Ever since then I’ve been hunting the heron and its mate, for there are two of them cruising the farmland, woods and foreshore between Emsworth, Warblington and Langstone. I’ve seen it perhaps half a dozen times in as many months, once just three feet above my head as I walked down one of Havant’s more exclusive residential avenues. Every time I fumble for my camera, it uncurls those great wings, folds its neck up in dinosaur style and leaves me in disarray.

Every day produces something remarkable in this little haven on the south coast. Across Chichester and Langstone harbours the Portsmouth Spinnaker tower glints bright white in the sun. Crowds of brent geese grow bigger and individually fatter by the day and the oyster catchers screech low along the water’s edge, swinging in formation to display the dazzling zigzags along their backs.

When the brent geese first came in from their summer home in the arctic, they would gather in one huge flock of perhaps five hundred in a field just above the sea. Capone would put them up in a force five south-westerly and they would head seaward in a cacophony of honking, flapping wings getting them nowhere, directly into the gale. I would walk on with them above and all around me, hanging motionless, creating a world of noise and feathers and wind and dog and insignificant me.

Warblington cemetery contains a piteous children’s section where the gravestones are decorated with teddies, windmills, rubber ducks, Rupert and Peter Rabbit. Every day that two minute walk touches me but never more so than on Christmas morning. Then, the really remarkable thing was the intense, beaming smiles that both the bereaved mothers gave me as they tended their child’s grave. Walking into the south-westerly that morning made my eyes water as never before.

The March storms brought both drama and damage, the fields along the coast displaying lines of seaweed 40 yards further back than usual. Other dog walkers who live right on the foreshore told me their roof tiles were tinkling like a xylophone. Parts of Emsworth were flooded. The sea overflowing the mill pond wall filled the empty eight and a half acre pond in half an hour and brought down great lengths of the inner retaining wall. I found myself up to my knees in overflowing sea as it swept in round the sailing clubhouse and caused chaos in the dinghy park.

This morning I left the warmth of Nore Barn Wood and struck out across the most heavily pigeoned stubble field I know. Then to my right a white object caught my eye in the middle of the boggy area that runs down to the stream where the pterodactyl had first frightened me. Capone and I diverted and plugged our way towards it but it was still, inert, probably one of those plastic bags that Emsworth has virtually done away with. We trudged on, me avoiding the cow pats, Capone stepping in every one and relaxed into the warm morning sunshine, another storm promised for the weekend.

It rose again, elegant and yet ponderous at the same time, lofted up and away and gone.

Peter Reynolds 20-03-08