
Oh how I love Bender! The booze, the cigars. The pimping. And his philosophy? ‘Kill all humans!’ Couldn’t have put it better myself.

renaissance man
Oh how I love Bender! The booze, the cigars. The pimping. And his philosophy? ‘Kill all humans!’ Couldn’t have put it better myself.
A friend on Facebook just shared this. How great are squirrels? Just watch to learn. A fun and uplifting video.
We have squirrels. We also have a walnut tree, actually in a neighbour’s garden. But overhanging ours. When we moved in here, I wondered, for a while, how and why we were continually being carpet-bombed with empty walnut shells.
Reflecting rather poorly on my Sherlockian powers of deduction, it wasn’t until I was literally sat ‘neath the trees at the back end of the garden, that I twigged. I could hear debris falling around me and I could hear an odd ‘scrit-scrit-scrit-scrit’ sound.
I looked up, and cool as a cucumber, there was a rather ballsy (very literally) squirrel, leisurely enjoying chomping away on his walnuts. I don’t know how many squirrels we have living nearby. The most I see is a couple chasing each other.
As this video demonstrates, it can be quite rewarding to pay more attention to these fabulous little furry critters.
This is both a book review (my first zero stars one!) and a polemic, I guess. It also touches upon troubled familial relations.
Many years ago my mother gifted me a copy of Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life. I read the first half, and found it asinine. But, in essence, I agreed with Hay; thinking positively is healthier than thinking negatively.
But the second half of the book? That was another matter entirely. And it is in that part of her ‘work’ that Hay’s true colours are shown to be, not to put too fine a point on it, a motley flag of insanity. Insane, and very dangerous for anyone taking her advice to heart.
I have, I suppose, some unresolved issues with my mother, around both the break up of our original ‘nuclear’ family. And, subsequently, being treated less equitably than other siblings. Re the latter; when my sister lived abroad, my mum visited Spain far more frequently than travelling the few miles to us (I’ll leave it at that, for now).
Anyway, back to the main topic of this post. Her having bought me this book, whilst in part motivated by good intentions, perhaps, revealed a deeper – I might say unstated, except it wasn’t/isn’t – view of her apparent opinion of my life circumstances.
What it boils down to is what is nowadays referred to as ‘victim blaming’. In this case it’s the ancient pre-scientific idea that illness is a form of punishment for ‘sin’, wrongdoing, evil, or just a bad attitude. Call it what you will.
When I first read You Can Heal Your Life I put it down in absolute shock, horror and disgust, when I read Hay’s moronic assertion that the disease Polio is caused by ‘Paralysing jealousy. A desire to stop someone.’ She has an A-Z, or, more accurately, an A-W, of similarly ridiculous ‘explanations’, for everything from Abdominal Cramps to Warts! [1]
The impact of polio on my family’s lives is huge. Polio killed my grandmother on my father‘s side, contributing to the consequent disruption of his life (he and his brothers were brought up in foster care, as orphans). Polio also disabled my maternal grandmother, meaning she lived her adult life on crutches, and eventually in a wheelchair. My mother had issues with family, quite possibly related again, in part, to the knock-on effects of this disease, running away from home very young (so I’ve been told), and ultimately into the arms of my father.
Does she really and truly believe that these two ladies got polio as a kind of cosmic or psychic punishment for ‘Paralysing jealousy. A desire to stop someone?’ Such views are horrific; they are obscenely offensive, and totally unfounded. The actual cause of polio is, as should be universally known now, a virus, identified in 1909, transmitted for the most part via water contaminated by human faeces. [2]
Something that struck me very forcibly when I decided to research this post is the total mismatch between endorsements and critiques in relation to Hay. Everybody , from Wikipedia’s entry on her, to the Guardian’s obituary, simply parrot Hay’s own completely unsubstantiated ‘personal history’. There’s no mention at all of any sceptical views of her anti-scientific ideas and claims.
I find this deeply shocking. Does her financial success make her immune to proper evaluation? Apparently so. The only objective or balanced critiques I could find were those of individuals, pointing out what dangerous nonsense she grew rich peddling, sometimes in the context of the death of a loved one who’d followed her crackpot advice.
It’s a great shame, I feel, that so many people – millions, perhaps, if sales of her stuff is any indication – are suckered into uncritically adopting her bullshit. Even if only thanks to the positivity aspect of her ideas. It smacks of a blinkered desperation. I can understand that. Having chronic ailments myself, I recognise that deep longing for some kind of simple solution to what might otherwise appear to be intractable problems.
It has been demonstrated – the placebo effect, for example – that the mind can be very powerful in relation physical health. But to adopt Hay’s alleged position (her own life needs to be thoroughly investigated, as to the truth of her own claims/actions [3]) is to fly in the face of the findings of all modern medical science.
It has been medical science, not New-Age quackery, that has dealt with my psoriasis and related arthritis, and manages both my physical pain and mental ill health. We can thank (or curse?) developments in public hygiene, in light of this hard won knowledge, for creating the conditions that have allowed for humanity’s demographic explosion.
I thought about giving this book half, or maybe even just one star, for the first part, about the benefits of positive thinking. But the issue is that these come attached to the second part, which, in my view, is poisonously bad. Evil, in fact. The rose here is attached to an enormous stinking turd that really cannot be ignored.
It has oft been said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It’d be damning enough if one were to know how many desperately ill people have died as a result of taking Hay’s unfounded nonsense as truth [4]. That people will have died following her advice is sadly inevitable.
But, just as bad in my view, is the pernicious and completely bogus idea that illness is the fault of and consequence of the sufferer’s thoughts and/or actions. This adds self-righteous condemnation to the arsenal of the healthy, and unnecessary guilt and self-condemnation (how ironic, given the alleged healing of loving oneself Hay professes to peddle!) to the afflicted.
My mum needs both her hips replacing. According to Hay’s worldview this is somehow my mother’s own fault, on some negative psychological level: ‘Fear of going forward in major decisions. Nothing to move forward to.’*
This would be laughably preposterous applied to a car; do my tires regularly need replacing because, A) they have a ‘Fear of going forward in major decisions. Nothing to move forward to.’ Or B) due to physical wear and tear?
If your local garage mechanic said ‘You don’t need new tires, your tires just need to truly love and value themselves. Here are some affirmations for them to repeat.’ Would you pay them, or go back there in future?
In her lifetime Hay profited monumentally from peddling her dangerous brand of nonsense. Her personal claims are all totally unsubstantiated. And her broader claims fly in the face of medical science. Why – other than the toxic marriage of hopelessness to comforting BS – has she not been taken off her pedestal? It has to be the present day sanctification of success. She’s made lots of money, so she must be right.
* These quotes are lifted from the appalling second part of You Can Heal Your Life. It ought to have a Government health warning: New Age BS is no substitute for scientifically grounded medicine.
[1] Her ‘explanation’ as to the cause of warts would be hilarious, if it weren’t so frighteningly vacuous: ‘Little expressions of hate. Belief in ugliness.’ Her list reads like a dotty New Age analogue of horoscopes; arbitrary, open to wide interpretations, and based not on real knowledge of understanding underlying facts, but a vague even whimsical form of associative imagining. Warts are in fact caused by a virus. Not by the mind of a person who may have them.
[2] Tragically, under our current Tory rulers the potential return and rise of such diseases is being increased by the total disrespect shown to both the environment and the humanity it sustains, by their rampantly capitalist ideology. Brexit is part of this downward scramble towards private profit-motivated deregulation.
[3] As far as I’m aware none of Hay’s autobiographical claims, from the alleged facts of her childhood, to her ‘miraculous’ curing of her self from cancer are in any way reliably documented.
[4] I need to re-find the quote, but one of the few critical things I found about Hay included a comment from a bereaved man whose wife died whilst following Hay’s imbecilic ideas.
My less than ideal state of mind of late has found me losing stuff more than normal. From phones or specs, to wallets and keys.
With numerous old iPhones laying around in various states of disrepair, I decided to recommission a couple.
My main phone now is an SE2020. I’ve just had a 6S and a 4 repaired. The 6S is to be my main backup (I’m typing this blog entry on it, whilst watching Trump vs. Allen on my SE2020!), and the 4? I might try and sell it, or just have it as a back up backup!
I might also use the 6S as my drum teaching MP3 player as it has double the memory capacity (64GB, as opposed to 32).
My local mobile repair place, Fonetek, did a good deal on all the repairs, essentially throwing in a battery replacement (I provided the battery itself) gratis.
Aaargh! Being a dribbling idiot adds a lorra lorra stress to life. And if you’re already stressed to atomisation point, dat ain’t good, bwoss!
I’m in a stressed out depression at present, on and off. And every time I lose or misplace something it becomes a calamitous panic that sends my PTSD style ‘Nam Vet’ type cortisone overload off the scale.
I lost my primary pair of testacles… er, spectacles, a few days ago. And then this morning I couldn’t find my secondary iPhone. And the latter I’d just been prepping for taking to Fonetek, to have a new battery and screen fitted.
In the end, after the stress panic subsided a little, I recalled that I’d been letting the iPhone battery drain off its charge, and it was stuck in alarm mode; the broken screen preventing me from turning the alarm off, I hid it under some pillows. Forgot. And then panicked!
Whilst looking for this iPhone (an oldish 6S), I found the lost specs, on the gravel drive of our front garden. Crushed, bent, dirty, and yet, remarkably, not actually broken. Whether they can be fixed or not, I don’t know.
Having found the iPhone, I’ve taken it to Fonetek, where they’re replacing both screen and battery (as well as a broken back on an even older iPhone 4). I’ll pick them up later. I’m hoping having the 6S as a backup to my SE2020 (or whatever my newest one is!?) might be helpful.
The older iPhone? Might sell it, if it’s worth anything. Or poss use it as an MP3 player for drum lessons? Hmmm!?
All of the stress associated with this sort of idiocy is o my compounded by the state of mess and clutter that totally dominates our domestic life. And that is a fundamental failing I need to address in real earnest: this Spring a Spring Clean is, quite possibly literally, a matter of life n’ death!
Looking after Hannah’s girls, Ali’ and Sofi’, my nieces, this weekend has been really good medicine for my troubled mind/soul!
The weather today alternated between gloomy grey overcast skies, with drizzling rain and bitterly cold winds, and rather pleasant sunshine! Luckily we got a bit of the latter whilst out.
I tried out a rather robust netting hammock, of which there are two. It’s fab! We need something like this in our back garden. Sooo relaxing!
The Northstowe park we went to has a kind of open-air public gym. I think all human habitations should have such municipal amenities.
If you sh*t your pants, you don’t wear them over your trousers. That’s one of my mental images re why people tend to try and hide depression.
After a good long spell of, dare I say it, genuine contentment and happiness, or at least some of that, plus plenty of more everyday equilibrium, ye olde Black Dog has returned, as a drooling ravenous and cacophonous wolf-pack.
Over the years I’ve called the Samaritans a number of times. When I’m at my wit’s end, and feel I have nowhere else to turn. I don’t want to further burden Teresa, or family, or friends. Everyone has enough troubles of their own. And besides, I don’t want to be that depressing baleful broken record nobody wants to hear.
Most times I called The Samaritans in the past I’d hang up in disgust part way through the call. Feeling that it was not helping at all. Maybe even making things worse? But recently I’ve called them in a spate of desperate moments, including twice in quick succession yesterday.
And this time I was just venting. Maybe I was simply just much worse? So much so that their service did actually work for me. Thank goodness they are there to listen. I really don’t know what might’ve transpired without that safety valve.
Well… ‘least said soonest mended’! As several of the ‘downstairs’ characters in You Rang, M’Lord were always saying.
Without giving too much away, I hit some sort of crunch or crisis point this evening. Not a pretty sight.
Thankfully some things were in place to minister to a mind in turmoil. And I appear – for the moment at least – to have weathered this latest storm.
It’s been brewing a while. I kind of knew it was coming. I’m hoping it was like a pressure valve releasing. Fervently and devoutly wishing for better days ahead!
The two R. Crumb pics illustrating this post are chosen purely for their ‘poetic truth’; they aptly get across where my head was at today. Melt-downs and explosions!
I’d kind of like to get into some of the nitty-gritty. But I’m too close to it right now!
Some while ago I posted excitedly about ordering a bunch of groovy green tops. Well, turns out the company in question are Chinese bandits. They pinch pics of expensive fashion-wear from genuine makers/sellers, and pretend they’ll sell you it for peanuts. Should’ve known it was too good to be true.
The only upside is that I filed a complaint and a request for a refund. And, somewhat to my surprise, they did refund me. Now I’m worried they might be flogging my card/account details! This and another recent and similar farce have taught me to NEVER EVER buy clothes off FB marketing links!
Unholy Excrement!!!*
I’ve been enjoying a relatively prolonged spell of happiness. Or rather I was enjoying same, up until very recently. Witness my post of 8/11/‘21.
A few times recently I’ve had distinct wobbles. See the recent Nick Drake referencing post on poetry and depression. But tonight – or maybe today/this afternoon? – it, depression that is, hit me really hard. Like being squished by an elephant (with red painted toenails, perhaps?) who’s fallen or leapt from a very high tree!
It can feel like having been psychically streamrolled. One feels flat, dead, dull. A bit like the depressive painter from The Fast Show, everything turns to black. Sheer Dread is the dominant hue.
Staying with the road-building vehicles metaphor, it’s rather like being bulldozed, or, to reference a Black Metal act of yesteryear, Killdozed. (Not the sort-of famous band Killdozer, out of Madison, Wisconsin.)
I actually found myself ringing The Samaritans, as Teresa prepared our dinner. I hung up on the poor volunteer when Teresa came in to announce that dinner was ready, and asked who I was speaking to. I told her who it was; when she asked why, I replied ‘I’m feeling a little down.’
That’s a bit of an understatement! I don’t know about other folk. But I’ve had numerous depressive episodes over my lifetime. I’ve found that one reaches the depths quicker with each visit: at first it’s a gradual (and over time) deepening descent. Later down the line you can teleport from apparently fine/normal directly to stupefied zombie instantaneously.
Anyway, I had a bath, ate my dinner, watched a bit of snooker, and Teresa made us pancakes. It is, after all, Greasy Tuesday! I tried to still myself, and silence the looped mantras of hopelessness that are the usual internal monologue at such times. And, much to my surprise, the pitch black waves of the Ocean of Doom gradually receded.
One characteristic of depression – one I don’t always suffer from – can be that literally nothing is interesting or pleasurable. I was veering that way today. Indeed, I was careering off a cliff of nihilistic oblivion. I’m very surprised I’ve pulled through, to be honest.
Being still and quiet, when profoundly depressed, sometimes simply means stewing in melancholy. Luckily today I was, after a while floundering, able to clamber out of that particular whirlpool, or sidestep that ‘twister’?
One of the things that helped, I think, was trying to recall what’s good in life for me at present (despite the pitch black tsunami of emotion!): I’ve just been given a car! I have a loving wife, who’s come home from work and cooked us dinner and pancakes. And so on.
I’m also thinking (yet again!) that perhaps I should go tee-total. Either just until I’m out of this funk, or perhaps longer term? I have definitely been leaning into the sauce as a self-soothing or self-medicating crutch, or distraction. And, whilst it can be pleasurable in the short term, on balance I think it’s more harmful than helpful.
There are some other issues, but I’ll leave it at this for now. That’s enough candid confessional stuff for the time being, methinks. I just hope I can win the fight against my own demons, and/or the slings and arrows of this ol’ life.
*On a much cheerier shit-themed note, I do love Chris Packham’s crappy calendar!