Sacred Cows

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore … Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. [Alfred, Lord Tennyson].
  Amen to that sez I; as I am fading fastly and lack my steely strength of yore. Unlike that lovely hero of the turf, Rising Fast, I seem to be sinking faster. Sad innit?
  Sitting at the galley table musing on this ’n that; my ground coffee covering the lingering taste of a toasted bacon butty. Delish! Life is still clingable, and I am recalling that piece that goes … dum di dum … “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” [I Corinthians 15:55].
  Following along the above theme, I quote a droll bit from one of Margaret Atwood’s books. She is a really beaut writer with something to say and the gift to say it, not like these formulaic ‘best sellers’ generated by a platoon of ‘research assistants’ and a bank of powerful computers. The first chapter with the publisher’s mandatory fellatio with a complete stranger in the back of a taxi. Yair, hundreds of very clever Young Ones writing, but take away their computers and what then?
  Here it is, she is writing of an old refugee dame from the Great Patriotic War: “Dead was not an absolute concept to her. Some people were more dead than others, and finally it was a matter of opinion who was dead and who was alive.”
  Amen to that, too, as I look at some of the plonkers that I know. Bloody droll of Margaret, nay?
  Take the word ‘iconoclast’, from the Greek, id est, a person who attacks cherished beliefs or instit utions. Well, ’Arry Driftwood would never do that. But someone needs to milk the sacred cows, nay? I see teeming herds of sacred cows so where would one start anyway.
  Is Art a sacred cow? Some people believe anything goes if you label it ‘Art’ so perhaps prudence should restrain this damned typewriter. It ain’t me you know, it’s this damned uncontrollable
  East German typewriter!
  Reflex attitudes adopted over the Art snaps of little girls.
  Are little girls sacred cows? No, just little girls who are entitled to our protection, perhaps. In my imaginings I can see the thousands of sickos in plastic raincoats slavering over such Art, though; and most Art is junk and a con.
  I don’t know much about Art … . Call me a Philistine if you like but the poor Philistines have no friends at court as the Jews wiped ’em out; men, women, child, dog and cat. Tiz in the Olde Testament, which must be a sacred cow? We have only the victor’s word that the Philistines were not nice people … like us. It makes one think about recent events and who the victims and who the victors are, don’t it?
  So I’ll take a chance and be a Philistine and admit to uneasiness about lightweight, fin-keeled yachts and so-called SUVs, V8 car races anywhere, supermarket monopoly, user-pays mentality, belief that Howard/Rudd are clones of Moses to lead us from the Wilderness, that anything can save Sydney Harbour from crassosity.
  And what about dogs? I recall a fantasy yarn about dogs being brought to Earth on a returning spacecraft and ruling the world through control of humans. Riding through the park to Leichhardt one can plainly see that dogs have taken over? Man’s best friend? Well, I reckon a 9mm Browning Hi-Power is man’s best friend … and it don’t need endless supplies of Pal and don’t get fleas and smell of dog. Reflect on that shipmates.
  And what of the sacred cow of the all-wise stock exchanges and the millionaire oracles of THE SYSTEM, who reveal themselves as aught but poseurs and snake oil merchants? I laugh, ha ha! I once read a definition which likened capitalism to a wild elephant charging through the chookhouse yelling “every man for himself!” and that is what stock exchanges are: chicken entrails and chookhouses … feathers and squawks and professional mendacity.
  As an un-arriviste or parvenu, and unredeemed olde Marxist, my cup of schadenfreude runneth over. But unfortunately the slings an arrows and kicks and blows fall widely and more heavily on the innocents … which is me, of course. I throw myself at the mercy of The Court and plead my innocent stupidity in not joining the buggers at the trough. Perhaps the Indians have the best idea, in having their sacred cows the ones that moo and give milk.
  Anyway let us all have a good sulk and then get back to making thingies and earning a quid so you can pay my oldaged poisoner’s pension before we all fall under the Radar.
  I had to get Radar in somewhere as it is the most popular fad-word at present, with the parrots pissing ’emselves to work it into their spiels.
  As a passing observation on THE CRISIS none of ’em actually make anything useful? Have you noticed that? Tiz all paper shuffling. Read and destroy!