I haven’t been able to get to much on the Edinburgh International Book Festival this year, for reasons. After seeing Tariq Ali discuss Lenin, I managed to miss Stuart Cosgrove returning to the subject of Detroit ’67, and 404 Ink marking their epochal Nasty Women with Nadine Aisha Jassat, Joelle Owusu & Laura Waddell.
Sometimes it’s a good idea to have someone keeping an eye on you.
One of a 24-hour staff of nurses, maybe. Like, if you’ve suffered a catastrophic brain injury and don’t know that if you try to get out of bed to go to the bathroom your whole left side will give way and you’ll fall terrifyingly onto your wardmate – Hi, mom!
Last week’s proto-rant finished with the shock news that Donald Trump’s supposed favourite song is all kinds of awesome. And hey, as of 5:08 PM today, Theresa May’s still Prime Minister at the sufferance of a Conservative party none of whom want to win Pass the Brexit Parcel of Shit.
I guess a couple of the questions that Ghost in the Shell – the subject of last week’s post – raises are What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to be alive? And inadvertently, What does it take to turn a squat-dwelling anarchist into a willing super-weapon for a government that used her as a disposable lab experiment?
Long-suffering readers of the blog may recall that I’m interested in what it means to be alive….
Hogmanay in Scotland is a time for traditions. First-footing, coal, whisky, Auld Lang Syne, steak pie (apparently), black bun, and all the rest. When I lived in America, New Year’s Eve was the hardest time of year to be away from the country of my birth.
But there’s another tradition that covers all of Scotland, England, Wales, and Northern Ireland that I didn’t miss so much – the New Year’s Honours List.