Arbitrary Punishments Given at School

Remember school days? Those days our elders told us we’d miss? I don’t but I have started thinking more about education as I get older. It is no easy task to manipulate children into good behaviour.

A popular punishment at school, after corporal punishment was made illegal, were English writing chores. The irony of this is not lost on me.

I was a smart arse in the 1970s and 1980s. Accepting ‘smart arse status’ in adulthood helps me to understand why I was punished. How many children were forced to read the British encyclopedias their parents were conned into buying?

Starting school late resulted in my adoption of terrible social skills. My short sightedness wasn’t discovered until half way through my middle school which led to unintentional trouble. Labelled a cheat, I’d copy other student’s work when teachers chalked information up on the blackboard.

The first punishment I remember was the unforgiving wooden ruler across my outstretched hand. Anyone going through this punishment will know it ‘builds character’ – a strange British term – conjuring up the courage to hold out your palm for the second and third will help harden one’s soul. I’m glad it’s illegal now.

The bad deed which warranted the violence against me? I was mixing paints. Unfortunately making a brown mess when I was trying to make white paint. At six years old I’d read about light spectrums but hadn’t realised how bad paints were as a medium for experimenting with light.

By the time in was secondary school my smart questions were annoying, and the punishments too. My least favorite was being given thousand word essays on arbitrary things like The Life of a Penny in Teacher’s Pocket or similar themed story, such as The Life of a Cocktail Stick in a Kitchen Cupboard.

As a child, with little experience of life, trying to fill pages with fiction outside of lesson time was punishing. I’d yearn for the simple ‘five hundred line’ tasks heaped on my fellow students. I was so proud of achieving the essay word counts and so devastated by the teacher’s criticisms or lack of feedback.

Towards the last term of school I found the courage to ask for lines instead of essays. I remember the joy of carbon paper (this copied what was written on the top sheet) and sticking pens together so each line was repeated enabling faster completion.

When my children attended school, in the 1990s/2000s, isolation was the school’s line of punishment. Forcing the ‘disruptive’ children to stay in a room in isolation from their friends is punishment but with other disruptive children it is cruel.

For myself, I think the inconvenience and pain of writing lines was a good punishment. Being smacked across the palm with a wooden ruler was sadistic, unnecessarily cruel and ineffective. I suspect the written essays were to entertain the teachers and to stop my questions, which is why I eventually disappointed them.

What punishments were popular at your school and do you remember why?

I Have A Sty (hordeolum) – babble

I don’t know what it’s called where you live but, here in the United Kingdom, a ‘sty’ is the name for an eye lid pimple brought on by stress. It starts small, ‘kinda prickly and ends up as a swollen, crusty mess that makes it hard to blink and see properly.

All one can do is manage stress, not cure it.

Could I list my stresses? Probably. The question is, would anyone want to read them…?

I’m being coy as I know what’s done it.

Two weeks ago I submitted a book to a literary agent to ask if they’d consider me. It’s 47k words long and much is riding on it being positively received.

Naively I thought I could submit a book then ‘get on with the next’. Now this mistake seems massive. I can barely concentrate on anything. My head is everywhere negative.

What if I can’t write? What if my ideas are rubbish or they hate the concepts? Doubts continue to bug me along many different paths of thinking. I purged my wp account in case they looked…but what would they be looking for? Will they see me or be coloured by what they read here? Will they find the right Samantha Harris as there are so many of us?

AGGGHHH it’s all too much…hence the eye.

I’m wandering around the flat doing the most stupid things…procastinating for sure, is one of them.

Astragalus root has bizarrely worked to take the sting out of the sty. Initially I was drinking the self prepared astragalus root tea for my chest pain (long story). The small white used roots looked like they could be soothing. Why not take a wild stab at it? I did nothing more than swipe the root gently but directly onto my sore eye lid and it eased.

So, I’ll keep the used roots to keep the inflammation down until the infection goes and I’ve made chamomile tea too in a bid to relax this afternoon. Apparently, it could be twelve weeks before the agent gets back to me with some sort of reply about my book.

TWELVE WEEKS !!!!

I’ll have no eyelids left by then and will need more tea.

Should I warn kids not to mess with herbs? Ah, they’ll be alright.

Thanks for reading.

White Magic is Everywhere – Song.

White magic goes unseen

White magic is in the green

It’s in the trees, in the grass, in the bees

White magic is in the breeze

White magic is everywhere

White magic, I don’t care

White magic floats between

It goes, unseen

White magic lady

White magic, ain’t shady

White magic is everywhere

It floats on every atom on the bright blue air

White magic is where it’s at

White magic, so get on back

White magic is everywhere

It floats on every atom that is in our air

White magic, you don’t have a clue

White magic, what we do

White magic, we spread it everywhere

And it lives in every atom upon our air

White magic is the key

White magic, for you and me

White magic, let’s get on down

And we’ll take down from the air, down to the ground

White magic is everywhere

White magic is in the air

Written today 9th June 2021.

Watford, Hertfordshire, United Kingdom. Europe.

The Chamber Pot (adult real life story).

The Chamber Pot by Unextraordinarybint
TheChamberPot

Fishing boats bobbed with the movement of the waves against the walls of the barbican as I quickly walked across it’s cobbled stones. A strong wind forced me to pull my scarf tighter around my neck. I had no coat and was freezing waiting for him to answer the door. The walk from Mutley Plain had been painfully fresh. I’ve always found it impossible to keep warm in British winters. Pushing the ancient, wooden door open I followed Robert through the hall and into the study.

He sat in his usual place, at the head of a busy, tall table, his large frame filling the gap which worked as a doorway to the library. He collected ancient manuscripts and occult books. Taking his responsibility, to the English artefacts seriously, he’d built a temperature controlled environment for them. We discussed the Mona Lisa and Rembrandt before he suggested we start.

Nervously I climbed the well worn, wooden stairs to the upper floor. His studio was a jumble. Worked canvasses propped up walls, paints were set up on palates with painted pictures in various stages everywhere you looked, covered with large dusty, stained sheets which draped across the floorboards. He led me to where he’d already started and I tell him I’m impressed.

Robert was a master conversationalist as well as a brilliant artist (painter). Each of our meetings is remembered with fondness. He influenced me. No subject was off limits. He appeared to enjoy discussing the more intimate things in life, especially sex. I’ve met men like Robert all my life. He was gentle, loving and giving. No other men were so at ease with their sexuality. He asked me outright,

“Do you enjoy sex?”

Please remember that at this stage in my life sex is something which ‘happens to me’ and this overweight, greying man is at least twice my age (at least). I laugh at him. He continues,

“I’d love to make you orgasm. Nothing more. I’d just love to taste you Samantha.”

I don’t believe him and scoff at his suggestion. This is not good enough for Robert. He is affronted. He now wants to know why wouldn’t I let him lick me. With no reason to lie, I tell him, I don’t believe he wants to lick me just to make me cum. His expression is stunned and then he asks,

“Why not?”

Now, that was an interesting question.

My answer was long and badly expressed. I’d never had an orgasm and didn’t understand why men licked me other than to get my legs open. Oral sex seemed to be a momentarily affair before being presented with a penis to suck or envelop. I didn’t think I could cum, I suggested female orgasm wasn’t real and he assured me it was.

Robert asked me if I trusted him and held out his hand for me to hold. He led me through to a bed at the back of the studio and told me of it’s history before leading me through to a private bathroom of sorts featuring a sink and large gilt edged mirror fixed on the wall.

He stood me naked in front of the mirror, making me look myself. Robert persuaded the younger me to look at each of my reflected features. He told me that I was beautiful and worthy of worship..something I still have problems with today. He realised my self esteem was too low and as such I didn’t ask for pleasure, I didn’t know I could or should. We moved back to the four poster.

Passing me a large ceramic chamber pot he asked if I would mind emptying my bladder. It was cold and I’d been holding for hours so it took seconds for me to fill it with hot steamy urine. Robert took it from me as if it were a holy chalice; his hands either side and without hesitation, drank the lot, wiping his mouth across with his sleeve when he’d finished.

I was out of excuses.

I lay on the bed amongst the lace silk throws. Giving me the first and second orgasms of my life, Robert took away layers of fear that inadequate sex education, peer pressure and society had placed upon me.

As his tongue explored and licked I felt more worthy and empowered than I thought possible. I didn’t worry about how I smelt, tasted, looked or sounded. Pushing deep into my vulva, his tongue played, licked and teased my clitoris into spasms of joy that came over me in waves.

My first orgasm was like climbing a road hill on a bicycle, straining to reach the top then feeling my body flipping inside, as I fly over the peak doing wheelies and nothing is coming the other way to spoil the ride as I roll down the other side.

We continued to do this for weeks during breaks of him painting me. At the time I believed him to have several intimate relationships with women he had children with, around seventeen of them. Robert and I were never ‘true loves’ but we enjoy meals out together and probably some of the best conversations I’ve had. He was a profoundly interesting person with a depth of personality not often found.

My informative years (the 80s) had been full of advice for sex safe and how to not get pregnant or get HIV. It was heavily aimed at gay people and avoiding sexually transmitted disease. There was very little information for straight women other than how to put on a condom, how not to do it in the arse unless you’ve stretched (still hurts) and how to give head, (it’s suck not blow).

At twenty years old, it was liberating to talk to someone like Robert. Someone who knew something about sex, the bones of how it really worked. An older man. I’d been having consensual intercourse for five years before meeting him. No lover had brought me to orgasm. Like many women I had pretended out of boredom, embarrassment, pity and wanting it to finish.

Without meeting Robert I may have gone on to become one of life’s unfortunates, those who’ve never had the pleasure of an orgasm. His honesty, courage, patience and intelligence saved me many miserable decades and I’m proud to have known him before his premature death.

I’ve gone on to have many wonderful lovers and learnt much about carnal knowledge but it would still be over twenty years before I purchased a chamber pot.

Thanks for reading.

Feeling Persecuted in London

I woke up upset again today.

Recently the sun has been shining. We had a week long, glorious heat wave.

The government released most of us from our homes from covid19 lockdown rules and we’ve been able to move around freely, with or without masks. Most of us made the most of it.

And, we are looking forward to complete freedom on the 21st June.

So, why do I feel low?

Could it be because I’m surrounded by untruths?

As I sit and write this, a mist hangs low over Watford in Hertfordshire and sirens sound loudly on the roads outside my tower block. It is always busy where I live, on the outskirts of London.

Many things bounce around my head, none more than the attack on myself in 2012.

I try so hard to not think about it…so hard.

I went to the fair on Sunday. Three hours of screaming and colour. It was probably the second time I’ve been out with my grandchildren. It was amazing. Everyone was happy and smiling. I was smiling. I was laughing.

So, why don’t I wake up thinking about that happiness?

I’m trying to avoid news channels but I live in London. It’s impossible not to know the news as I’m attached to youtube most of the day.

I check to see if the system is working yet.

For me, this is done by putting a victim’s name into the BBC news search box. Not mine.

No, it isn’t being covered.

He doesn’t matter.

So, why do I feel so upset. They tell he doesn’t matter.

Roll on ‘complete freedom’.

Thanks for reading.

Photo is of german facial protection mask from 1600s currently on display in a Combined Military Museum England, UK. Sorry about my wheelchair being reflected in the glass! I wondered if this mask would protect me from the virus, G7 or G5?

Blimey. Looks like I’m stuck with the TVT mesh.

The last few months have been hard. As hard as the last few years? Maybe not. Probably because my expectation level has dropped to 0.01 above zero.

Those that read my blog will know I had a vaginal polypropylene mesh tape implanted in me during a hysterectomy for Endometriosis. I thought it was, and I was told, it was, an inert material designed to hold my bladder up like a sling which would help with the stress incontinence they said I had.

When I woke up from the surgery in 2005 I felt an intense painful tension across my pubis…which I still have. It feels like I need a wee urgently and feels like something is cutting into me.

It feels like cystitis. I moaned about it since..the implanting surgeon gave me medication to ‘relax’ my bladder…as all they could find in my wee samples was blood, just a small amount.

The medication didn’t work and so ensued a fifteen year investigation as to the cause of this blood, pain and urgency. My GP referring me here there and everywhere to try and find the cause. Me becoming sicker and sicker.

I’ve done tons of physio. I’ve done diet restriction, addition and subtraction. I kept a food diary for two years. I kept an activity diary. I analysed every part of my life….and changed it. Including my work – several times – as everything I did seemed to irritate my groin. I did this for years. I eventually became exceptionally ill and was put on an NHS palliative care program.

My daughter got involved, together, through research we found that the TVT mesh that I’d had implanted in 2005 had left women with the symptoms I was complaining of. But, the kicker was, the longer it was left in situ the harder, almost impossible, it was to remove.

It was not designed to be moved.

It was designed to cause a ‘healing’ response from the surrounding tissue and build a tissue mass within my pelvic cavity. It was this mass which would then, in theory, hold the bladder in place. The TVT mesh’s rough edges were designed to irritate and cause the foreign body reaction which hurts us.

So, my lawyer contacted me yesterday to say until I have a doctor who admits my pain is caused by the TVT I have no case. Fifteen years of investigations and lies amount to nothing but exactly what they are.

I think the cost should be counted. I’m sat at home, on full disability, I’m 52 years old.

I was working full time. I’d retrained to become an electrician to be more physical and left modelling behind – I could no longer stand up in the shoes and it got me no where. Nothing worked.

I don’t complain about not being able to walk as I do have Ehlers Danlos but is this is being used as an excuse not to treat me? I got referred by my implanting surgeon for ‘consideration of removal of TVT’ in 2018 after I presented him with evidence of my continued ignored symptoms since 2005.

I’m no closer to removal now than I was in 2018. Further away really, as the removal specialist to which I was referred left the NHS soon after I saw her in Oxford 2019 (with my evidence) and then the hospital discharged me last month as they said they don’t have funds for TVT removal.

I was hoping to get somewhere with lawyers to go private as I know the government is refunding women who have done this. It seems discriminatory that us poor people reliant on the NHS are being pushed to the back of the queue and, as it appears in my case at least, still ignored.

So, no pay out. No removal as yet…Having been discharged from Oxford I’m not even with a consultant gynaecologist. It looks like I’ll be holding on to this torture device for a while longer.

Yeah, I know Matt Hancock apologised to all of us but he just says the right thing for the camera.

Thanks for reading.

On a good note I did submit my first book to a literary agent. At least I can think straight again.

The Problem with Shagging Sheep.

Comments on the medical device TVT mesh.

There is some talk of TVT mesh implants and how they have ruined women’s lives around the globe, but not enough, in my opinion, as it’s a scandal.

It’s development is interesting. The TVT’s inventor piloted the initial study on sheep. Unfortunately, the gentleman died but his work was continued…He worked for Johnson & Johnson. They recognised the monetary value in a product which would cause problems for life…and also supply Tena lady.

TVT is a questionable treatment for an ‘out of control’ bladder after childbirth and it was promoted as ‘the gold standard solution’.

It was designed to be implanted for life. Essentially it is a long tape placed around the bladder. It replaced existing operations and saved an hour in theatre.

It’s made from polypropylene plastic mesh – the same material the marine life have problems with.

The TVT is wrapped, blindly with needles, around the outside of the vagina, under the bladder and through the pelvic bone – if you are lucky the surgeons will miss your skene gland, rectum and clitoris.

It ought to be mentioned, originally it was designed for ‘awake’ patients so the tension could be adjusted.

I want to go back to the pilot though. I’m assuming that they used the TVT mesh on sheep who’d previously given birth AND who accidentally wet themselves. I pity the research student whose job it was to find suitable candidates for study.

How many days were really spent finding pissy sheep?

A problem with TVT mesh, is as the plastic gets older it shrinks. It can make penetrative sex difficult/impossible and generally it causes severe pain as your other organs move against it.

How did they research the sexual element with sheep? Assuming they bothered.

And then, how would the researchers extrapolate the data? I’m thinking all the comforting cups of tea in China will not get a sheep talking. And, were the sheep checked afterwards to see if they were still dribbling? Did they put smelling salts under their noses to induce a sneeze?

There is also the bipedal thing…I know it’s small but surely an important factor?

How could they check if the sheep could lift something? A sheep has never worked in it’s life.

Whatever, I await removal.

Thanks for reading.

Edited to add cartoon and to say coincidence or not (day after I posted this piece) the media have covered many personal stories as news regarding mesh implants. But they are muddying the waters by suggesting these implants are biological. They are not all mesh is synthetic or synthetic based polypropylene. Also,, there is some suggestion that the implants have just not been fitted correctly…no, it is more than that so all these pieces people are being fed in the media have been bent out of shape to stop the blame falling at the medical devices doorstep – where it firmly belongs.

 

Interference From Software

Let’s talk about interference. I live in England, UK. We are now post Brexit.

Am I the only one getting frustrated with the interference of programs online while I’m trying to write? From searching to editing, the robot programs ( whom you did not ask for help) interfere.

Predictive search…I can’t stand this.

I can type. I don’t need help….I know what I am going to search for….no matter how often I try I will never understand it’s predictions and it’s results.

I am pretty sure that Google is sexist. I cannot get my site listed for love or money. See the featured image of this article for my search results for my own site… However, I have had problems with google mail and youtube for years. In fact I just paid for google to recieve my emails which they’d locked up…bizarre. I got some messages from five years ago…

Anyhow, it’s not just google misbehaving.

Microsoft was my chosen program for writing and editing my books…I’m 51 years old, it’s familiar.

I’ve had my hotmail account since last century and this is not a stretch of the truth. It doesn’t appear to be working now, at all, I’m trying not to panic. Many of us are affected so I’m sure it will be soon be fixed…

I have faith in you microsoft to fix the hotmail…however Word is lost, I think.

Does anyone know of a writing and editing program which is not cloud based? I am having real security issues with word and microsoft. I’ve been locked out of one laptop completely as I accidently removed it from my devices….no way around this it seems, I cannot get the machine into the BIOS screen to safely reboot.

Thankfully, being an electrical nerd I have a few devices around so can usually manage to get one of my machines online…however, I am not an IT nerd and I am out of touch.

I’m using the paid for version of Word…just incase some of you are judging me lol.

Months ago, I spent days trying to retrieve some writing and editing. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you guys how frustrating and time consuming this is. It also messes with my general work writing planning as I think I’ve edited something but then find out it hasn’t been done after all.

Asking yourself whether you’ve written this or that for a character and having to read through to find out, takes time and messes with confidence.

I contacted microsoft about my missing files and edits. They ‘fixed’ the software and apologised for my loses. However, as a writer of fictional adventure it’s not so easy to find your place again…especially when you don’t have faith that your changes will be saved.

It’s slowed my writing down and I feel stuck. I’m learning on the job as I’m disabled and it’s the only thing I can currently do in my own time etc when I’m well enough. I get tired easily but am always thinking about plot lines and character plays. I suffer from memory fog so need to be able to write when I can with out too much hassle or remembering where I am.

I’m I really looking at buying a typewriter? Surely not? Where would I get ribbons???

Hopefully someone will see that there is a gap in the market for writers with unreliable broadband and memories.

Until then I write on a laptop which I have disabled the wifi on. The bulk of my work being stuck in word on this laptop. I’m grateful that I did a hard copy, printed off for my alpha reader. However, many adjustments have been made since then.

But it’s not just the logistics now, it’s the feeling of insecurity which is holding me up.

I would love to write offline but with editing assistance, spell check etc. Why is this impossible? What am I missing? Is the interference from software programs necessary? Spellcheck not being on here is bad enough…why not? It’s the simplest thing…

Cloud or nothing? I’m hoping someone will give me some advice here, I really don’t mind paying for the right software but it mustn’t be on a disk as I don’t have a diskdrive (who does now?) Gig pen software doesn’t appear to be a thing yet…? So, I realise I would need to download the software initially…there are so many editing programs but they are all cloud based from what I can see.

Thanks for reading.

The Fall

The grateful stood back

Watched

While we attacked

The blood spewed

Our eyes avoiding

The tortured

They knew

The Great Four sat

Surveyed, reviewed.

Others, apathetic,

Reigned

Bonded to greedy games

Enemy brought in

Boxed bright

Fuelling winnable fights.

She slips out from within

Unwanted, ugly, thin.

Her plan, simply to survive

To build, to love and to lie.

Understanding the lines in the sand,

She gathers feathers

To softly land.

The end.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

I hope that this poem resonates with some readers.

staycalmcarryon

Destruction- poem

The war machine swims unseen

It slides, drifts in between

Hammer, hammer, hammer

Push, push, push

Making their need a must

Jobs for the many

Death for the due

It could be me

It could be

You.

***

<p id="destruction_poem_samanthaharris" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">by Samantha "unextraordinarybint" Harris.by Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

The Whiteness and Bloody Americans. Rant.

What is wrong with white people? This is aimed at white people in Europe not the States. I’m English and would also class myself as European. I voted to remain for Brexit.

How can white people not realise they may be a target for hatred? Because, in the same way my (white) ancestors had to scream out for help to London, most are not aware.

The media and social media only tell what it wants, but if you look you will find independent news outlets now giving out the very depressing news. Youtube is worth watching if you can circumnavigate the PR stuff, filters, sexist and racist search results.

Stabbing and shootings in towns up and down the country have increased dramatically during lockdown…they stopped collecting ethnicity as it was getting very obvious. In response, Far right activity rose by 4% to 8% of our countries total terrorist threat. This resulted in a news blackout of the ongoing attacks.

But, I want to talk about our health and the NHS, and a woman called Rano Bains.

Why should you be interested in what she says? Because she is Head of Equality and Diversity for many NHS Trusts and hospitals (national health service) in England. It is her words which drive policy, funding and training in our wards and universities.

Rano Bain’s words…

“The whiteness refers to white consciousness – the ‘silent’, pervasive, cultural norm that informs and shapes our racial ideology. Whiteness is constructed as a formless, empty cultural space that is neutral, natural and normative. Whiteness, because it is an unnamed, hegemonic position of privilege and power, becomes the point of reference for measuring others, unlike “blackness” which has been named in the language of white signification. Whiteness has defied scrutiny as it does not seem like a culture as everyone is apparently the same.”

hmmm…plain English would have been nice…..However, I will attempt to break it down.

Do white people know what other white people think? She makes it sound like we are plugged into an invisible big psychic cloud. Her claims of white consciousness of people in Russia, Israel, Poland being the same as white people in England, Germany or America are terrible.

It shows her racism immediately. The first line says that she is viewing white people from a position of suspicion and it is white people who declare racial identity, to her. Is Ms Bains the type of person who should be running our ‘equality and diversity’ departments?

Current serving Ministers have declared that white privilege has no place being taught in our schools, but are they aware that it is taught in our NHS to our healthcare assistants, nurses and doctors?

White people come lower down the humanity chart to many people in the media, the health care profession and education. This has to change. All lives matter all faiths matter, including those without faith – that doesn’t mean they make the rules.

When people are not offered the same facilities and services it is called discrimination. (eg. TB vaccine). When they are not warned of extra risks to them, (eg. flu vaccine) this is racism.

White people are the only race not afforded the indigenous land protections.

In this manner, the United Nations is racist.

My country – The United Kingdom of the British Isles, is a country RICH in culture and heritage. It is wrong to say we have none. To be frank it is racist to say white people have no culture.

Terms like ‘snowy peaks, and ‘the whiteness‘ are racist. They should not be allowed within training programs in our national health system. They should be discredited by academics within our schools and universities.

Explain to me why white people are criticized for holding positions in predominantly white citizenships or companies? How can that possibly be racist? But, it isn’t racist that African’s insist on their land being owned by black people? It isn’t racist that native American Indians have land that is just theirs?

If white people want their own space, it’s racist?

Explain why Christians can’t say they hate Islam? Both are bad, but Christians have become tolerant and are the standing religion in the UK along with paganism. Religion isn’t even a race but somehow it is being added to our ‘hate crime’ laws, originally designed to protect everyone. Soon I will be unable to say I hate religion!!!

This directly threatens our free speech and our security.

Explain why a black person (from anywhere) is on our national news talking about feeling hurt because she suspects racism? She suspects it was racism…? She may be getting hassled for all sorts of reasons to assume it is racism is not on. Because she is in a predominantly white country she declares racism, but she works within a predominantly non white environment in the NHS in London.

Regardless.

How is this national news when the same day people were stabbed, on UK streets, for being white? Another incident only covered at a local level, as all of these types of murders now.

Murder by colour code. If you are a white murderer or white child killer you will be plastered over the media, if you are black/brown/not English you may not even get arrested if your child dies unexpectantly unless the public pull the police up.

Explain why George Floyd is on BBC but Cannon Hinnant isn’t? Neither murder happened in Britain (BBC stands for British Broadcasting Corp).

I’m scared. I stand as someone who was attacked by people who were not of my colour. I am not imagining the hatred towards me. I’m verbally attacked when I leave my home by an awful Russian woman (white). I’m scared of the doctors and nurses no matter what colour they are, as many view me as spoilt immediately because I am English. White Irish ambulance staff can be especially mean. All white people are not the same!

As an English person I learnt a long time ago to lie about where I am from, but I will never again. I educated myself away from the white guilt, the same as I educated myself away from the Christian guilt and can now see it for what it is. Both are run for greed, envy, laziness, brainwashing and corruption.

I stand as someone who was born in Plymouth, Devon, England. The full history is not covered by the Americans EVER…they remain race blind on the slave trade history because of their own sordid history and because it suits certain people politically.

This lady, Rano Bains (no idea where she is from), has a nerve to say this of England with her Whiteness perspective. However, we are the most tolerant of countries. Perhaps she cannot see a long history or culture within our country, but surely this does not mean there isn’t one?

I read her pdf in 2018 and have been stewing since. I didn’t want to do a piece as I don’t want to add to a rise of hatred towards anyone but it seems I do need to defend myself and my life. A black lady is found online saying all white people are inbred and most of the comments underneath agreed…however, you will not be able to find it.

Search for any attack on a white person and google immediately takes you to black lives matter material unless you know the name of the victim and the date you will not find it on referenced on our news. Google is not relevant and neither is youtube.

White people are not the same, nor do we think we are the same. We are classed as white for measurement of resources for assurances to black and brown people to ensure that facilities are shared equally.

Also, we now appear to have strange advert quotas – air brushing blond people from TV, advertising, film and social media in Europe is also getting very tedious. European people are white. Get over it. Stop telling us we are racist.

White people are just people. We don’t deserve any more or any less than any other human. It is Rano Bain’s term, The Whiteness, that gave birth to many of my poems reflecting as The Blackness….ideally I wouldn’t be seeing the world in this manner. I never used to. But, this is obviously the idea, after all, you cannot capture a culture and it’s resources without upsetting a few people.

Our national anthem has come under attack. Us Brits will ignore it and will carry on with it but for the English (traitors), Americans, Indians, Pakistanis, Russians and African who called for it to be banned, please get a education by reading the following.

The history behind the British song Rule Britannia, UK national anthem.
In the 1600s the seas around Britain were ruled by North African Slavers(who were black). They boarded British ships and carried off the crews (whites) to be sold as slaves in Africa. The situation became so bad that fishermen wouldn’t put out to sea in case they were captured by African Slave Traders.
Between 1609 and 1616, 466 British ships were captured by Slave Traders in the English Channel, Irish Sea and North Atlantic, and the crews were sold into slavery. White crews.

Some other historical news stories from England include,

In 1625, sixty English people (white) who had taken refuge in a local church were dragged out, loaded up and taken off to Africa to be sold as slaves from Mount’s Bay in Cornwall

On 12 August 1625 the Mayor of Plymouth wrote to London for military help after 27 ships had been seized by North African Muslim Slave Traders in just 10 days.

In 1645, 240 people were seized as slaves in Cornwall.

White people – valued by other nations because of the colour of their skin for abuses in other countries. We didn’t value ourselves higher because of our skin they did because they wanted it.

One or two survived, made their way back to England and wrote of their capture, but most didn’t.

The situation only began to improve for Britain after the end of our English Civil War when the Royal Navy was built up under Oliver Cromwell.

By 1700, North African Slavers generally knew better.

It was in honour of this defence of our security, that in 1740, James Thompson wrote ‘Rule Britannia’.

Apathy will not help our children or our grandchildren. I stupidly did not go to the police over my own attack in Kings College Hospital but I did complain and I did go to my GP about my injuries so it is a matter of record. I also took photos of my injuries, they amounted to bruising.

People need to stop talking about racism as if white people are always responsible. Racists are everywhere and you cannot tell them by their colour.

Stop believing that because of colour you should have less and be grateful because you have nothing to feel bad about.

Stop believing that because of colour you should have more and other people owe you something.

The end.

Leave a comment if you like, I suspect this will be filtered out of google and bing search anyway.

Thanks for reading.

If anyone else can decode Ms Rano Bain’s words please enlighten me. Pardon the pun.

Ruby Wax and Me – Nipple Poetic Story

There is a woman called Ruby Wax.

A more lovely woman you would not see.

She has cheeks of red which glow, and she hates them so.

Excitable she be and there are none funnier than she.

In earlier days she travelled around England to circumvent our inhabitants.

With Hit and Run, she met me.

Robert Lenkievitz’s model was I with breasts that you could anchor a ship on.

A study of St. Anthony found me naked on the BBC.

The next day, at my work, Boss was grinning like a jerk.

By lunchtime she’d made me coffee and then slyly asked me.

Yes, it was me.

Modelling naked on the TV.

Better though, I said, glowing rather red, was being interviewed by Ruby Wax.

I was immortalised on canvas and TV and that history could haunt me.

But proud, eventually, I would become; of my breasts, nipples and bum.

Meeting Ruby Wax who is a comedy best was the making of that assignment for me.

Afterwards, she went down to Longleat, for tea.

I went back to my bar, as the maid I really was, then I got fired because I’d posed naked for The Painter. See? One rule for one and another for me.

Now, I have Ruby Wax on my Facebook but she does not know that I was the body on which one of her episodes did close.

The End.

Thanks for reading.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY – you tube links are rather unreliable in UK so you could search for,

“Ruby Wax meets Robert Lenkiewicz in Plymouth, 1990. Hit and Run. “

Thanks for your time.

https://youtu.be/TqlN3zJUWEY

It took a year for this program to air – hence the two job reactions.

Friday the 13th Flash Adult Horror

Friday the 13th November 2020

The Modelling Assignment.

“Good Luck!” Jessie’s mother shouted seeing her daughter readying herself at the front door. The tall blond girl pulled her Chelsea football scarf from the hat rack and threw it around her neck and put her head around the kitchen door. Her mum was stood at the counter making a cup of tea.

“Thanks Mum. See you later for dinner. ‘love you.”

“Just remember you are as good as everyone else there…better! I love you too!”

Jessie pulled the front door behind her and pushed her scarf up against her chin. It was cold. It was an oddity of modelling work to be ahead of season. Today’s casting was for swimwear. It would be filmed in December for the following Summer.

The beaches will look enticing, empty, and warm because the models will make it look hot and inviting. The reality being that they were usually modelling bikinis and one pieces in between dashes into warm blankets and gulping down mugs of soup. There was always lots of makeup to cover up the red noses.

Today’s casting was in Paddington Recreational ground. Jessie travelled across London on the underground and stood waiting for the 81 bus for the remaining part of the journey. There was another model, Jessie could tell by the portfolio, stood waiting and they smiled at each other.

The woman was tall, blonde with blue eyes just like Jessie but her skin was clear, and her hair was long and extremely straight. She had a different shape to Jessie in that her body looked more toned and you could see a hint of muscle.

“Are you going for the Yellow Studio casting for Weeelo swimwear by any chance?” Jessie asked.

“Yes, I am doing this.” The model replied with thick Eastern European accent. “You doing this also?”

Jessie smiled and nodded as the bus came chugging into the stop and they both got on. The rest of the bus watched as they showed their Oyster cards to the driver and looked for somewhere to sit. A middle-aged man sat on his own stood up and invited them both to take his bench so that they could sit together.

“Thank you, very much.” They both said in unison and laughed together.

More people got on the bus and it threaded its way over speedbumps and through narrow streets until the stop at the bottom of the Park. They got off and brushed themselves over, using each other’s eye to check over each other’s back and hair. Both satisfied that they were as presentable as possible they walked into the leisure block where the casting was to take place.

A woman with a clip board approached them, “Girls! Are you here for the Weeelo casting?”

Her energy was high and contagious, both Jessie and her new friend and competition replied,

“yes!”

They were given pens and led to seats where they could fill out the forms. They were the usual model declaration. They gave the rights of the photos to the photographers but also stated that these were just for casting purposes and could not be used for published work.

A few moment later the employee came back with a selection of swimwear and told them a makeup artist would be with them shortly. She introduced herself as the photographer’s assistant and then said they should wait while she went to get drinks.

Jessie and the other model looked at each other.

They were both thinking the same thing. Why did they need makeup artist on a casting for swimwear? These were supposed to be ‘dummy’ shots. To see if the fit is right and whether they can model. Jessie walked to the end of the waiting room they’d been put in and opened the door. Expecting to see photographic lights, umbrellas, and rails, she was shocked to see nothing.

She looked at her perspective coworker. “What’s your name?”

“Greta Hombronas. What was in there?”

“Nothing was in there. There is no photographic equipment in there.”

“Maybe they shoot it on phone?” Greta responded her eyebrows raising optimistically.

“Maybe. Maybe we should get out of here Greta. After all, I got this lead from The Standard so where is everyone else?”

“True, it is not very busy here.” Greta looked seriously around the place, as if for the first time, “I think, maybe, you are right. Shall we go and get coffee?” She smiled at Jessie with a perfect set of railings and stood up.

Footsteps drew their eye to the door.

“Not going, already are we?” Stated a tall, dark haired man, stood there. Jessie moved closer towards Greta as four more men gathered behind him. The girls looked at each other nervously picked up the forms they’d filled out and tried to walk through the men, out the door. The men blocked their way and pushed them back into the room.

Jessie stood helplessly as two of the men held her arms fast on either side of her. The only man who had spoken took a syringe from his inside jacket pocket and jabbed it into her stomach. He pulled her chin up to his face as he plunged the contents of it into her.

She was aware that Greta was also being held and injected as she slipped onto the floor, between the strangers, into a deep sleep.

******

It was dark when she woke as she could not see through the binding on her eyes. Her arms and legs were bound with rope. Her fingers and skin could feel the familiar touch of wood. But this wood was unfinished and rough. She was in some sort of crate. It felt like it was packed with straw and there was a strong smell of animals and urine.

Trying to shout out for help found her mouth packed with cloth and her throat could only manage a low moan, raspy from thirst. What had they given her? Her head was hurting, and the straw packed between her naked thighs and under her arms was itchy.

She banged her bare heels against the wood at her feet three times. Listening out she thought she could hear three bangs back as engine sounds bombarded the space around her head, hurting her ears with its powerful thrusts.

Jessie tried to sleep, going in and out of consciousness with waking moments where she felt that the crate was being moved. The soft sensation of swinging and men’s voices shouting in the distance before a bone bumping journey which lasted over a day and was unbearably painful. It was three days and two nights before they stopped still, and silence surrounded.

Jessie could hear low whimpering faintly in the distance, she tried to bang on the floor of her crate, but the straw had shifted down under her during the journey and she achieved no sound that Greta could hear and be comforted by. Tears started flowing from her closed eyes as the crate was opened and she felt hands stroke her breasts, her stomach and between her legs.

“She looks good. No damage that I can see. Aww look, she cries. Is there more sedative?”

Jessie felt the prick of the needle as it entered her stomach shortly before passing out again.

***************

Jessie woke up lying next to Greta in a large marble room. The floor was cold and hard. Raising herself up to sitting position she started massaging her legs and arms. Welts were red on her wrists and ankles where the ropes had been but now, she wore a simple white robe.

Greta was also dressed in white. Her face was bruised. She had been savagely beaten as her face was swollen, both eyes were blackened and her bottom lip badly split. She laid on the floor looking up towards the crystal white ceiling without moving. Blood was spotted on her gown around her pelvis and her feet were bleeding.

Large, golden doors at the end of the room opened and a group of children, lined up in a row, walked through looking straight ahead of them. Behind them, also in a line, came nine women dressed in dark green with yellow sashes and veils. The women stared at them as they walked past and stood, queued, near a smaller door, looking back at the entrance.

Jessie tried to stand up, but her legs were not able to take her weight and she fell over. The women chuckled as the men made their way into the hall. One of the men shouted something out towards the women that Jessie did not understand and they skuttled away still laughing.

“They think your blond pubic hair is very funny. I must admit to finding it a little off putting so my aids will come and shave you to my tastes. It is lucky you are a virgin.”

He walked around them, his shoes tapping on the floor near her hands.

“Your friend was not so good at looking after her honour. He prodded Greta with the tip of his shoe into her torso. She did not react. It was not felt necessary to protect her from the workers. She fought hard, as you can see.”

Jessie tried to say, “What will you be doing with us?” but her voice was still suffering from the effects of the cloth and she needed water badly. Her head spun but she could make out three beds being rolled into the room, scraping lightly along the marble. Greta was lifted on to a white single width bed. Women came in with screens and placed them around the larger bed.

Three women came over to Jessie with a bowl of warm, scented water and a razor. Two of them held her legs open whilst the third shaved her bare. She sat, in shock, just watching them. Willing herself to wake up from this nightmare and be back at home. Time for her tea, sat chatting with her mother. The women continued to talk and laugh. Jessie blinked furiously but could find no words.

The woman shaving Jessie turned to the man and asks him something and the man shakes his head. His eyes closed and a smile dances upon his lips as the woman pinches Jessie’s bud hard between her finger and thumb. She brings the razor down hard across it and in one swift, strong movement, removed it. Blood splattered over the white gown as Jessie tried to kick the women holding her.

Her screams were met with a punch in the face and cloth back in her mouth whilst the women then swiftly stitched up the gaping hole and sprayed it with antiseptic to stop the bleeding. One of the women clapped three times in the air. A white hatted dwarf, his eyes facing the floor, came with a gold dish and collected up the bloody flesh.

The women pulled Jessie up onto the larger double bed. Partitions screened her off from the rest of the room. Her arms were tied up above her and her legs were tied apart to golden attachments on the bed. The women came, and one by one, left a red rose on her stomach.

Jessie’s eyes grew large as the tall man came to the bottom of the bed. He lifted up his robe, “Ah such beautiful body. You will be forever beautiful my lovely.”

He pulled her down towards him, her arms stretching, and shoulders popped. Her screams muffled and she tried to twist her body painfully away. He pushed his fingers into her bloodied vulva, exposing her vagina. He lifted his gown and penetrated her with one sharp thrust, releasing himself immediately.

Raising his hands in the air he raised his hands and clapped three times as he withdrew from the bed, his gown falling back down to cover him. Jessie turned her head to see a young boy come in with a water bowl. Without looking at his master or her the boy reached underneath his gown and sponged him clean of her blood.

The partition was removed, and Jessie was untied from the large bed and placed on a single bed near to Greta’s lifeless body by four of the men carrying each limb. Jessie could feel their hands touching and probing her before binding her again with cuffs attached to the beds.

One of the men approached and stuck sticky tape across her mouth. Forcing the cloth deep into the back of her throat it muted the moaning sounds which had been escaping her.

Silence then descended over the large hall as everyone left. Jessie and Greta were laid head to head, naked and bound for what seemed like hours. Jessie wrestled with her right hand, forcing her thumb to dislocate she pulled her hand free. Working quickly she pulled the tape off her face and spoke to Greta as she worked to free her other hand.

“Greta can you walk?”

Jessie reached out her free hand to touch her new friends face. It felt cold and sticky and she knew Greta was dead. Cold, stark fear flooded through her as the coldness of Greta seemed to seep into her own body and sap her strength.

“Oi. Nah!” Shouted a deep male voice from across the hall.

Jessie saw the tall man. He’d changed his gown to a black robe with white flowing ribbons and was flanked by the children. Jessie looked at his face and at the children’s.

“Please let me go. You have one murder on your hands. Do not make it two. Please. You don’t have to do this…” She pleaded, staring at him deep into his black eyes.

“Ah this is not murder my lovely lady. My Queen. This is ritual. My family have performed this ritual for luck and prosperity for over three thousand years. We feast upon the most honored rose lady and she brings us luck. This year, this is you.”

My children will prepare you for the feast.

Jessie screamed, pulling at her tied hand, as the children open their long red satin coats. They each drew out a blade and ran towards her…

The End.

Still Here – Song

I’m still here.

Waiting around

for you to come round 

if you’re near

I’m still here

Division around

I’m listening for sounds

That you hear

I’m still here. The weakness keep coming and I keep driving it away

I’m still loving you every day

I’m feeling you getting weaker but I keep pulling you my way

I’m still here, I’m still here, I’m still here

I’m still here

Divison around

I’m listening for sounds

That you hear

I’m still here

Waiting around

For you to stop acting

Like a clown

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

I’m still here

Stlll Here By Samantha Harris written 7th November 2020 Watford, UK.

https://soundcloud.com/samantha-harris-33/still-here-by-samanthaharrissoundcloud if you have an account.

Thanks folks.

Leviticus 2-13 Salt

I’m looking into some bits for research and come across this Bible passage.

It has undergone many changes over the centuries.

I like King James version but I suspect believers have their own take.

All the versions are fascinating and say something of the time they are in.

They are all to do with offering meat or grain to God but ensuring it had salt.

Does God have a savoury snack thing going on?

In my country, UK, we have a very popular saying, “I’ll take that with a pinch of salt.”

It means that what you are being presented with is not worth believing.

Funny, as both that saying and the Bible were made/printed and published in England, UK.

Many people have told me that because I live in England I must be a Christian. No, we lived UNDER Christainity for centuries but now the law and the Church are separate.

Most people in the UK are pagan or atheist. The rest is divided by the many surviving different sects of Christianity and other fashionable religions.

Stone Henge is still our cultural spiritual home. Wood Henge, close by, reminds us of the movement/growth of faiths and how they change.

Most of what people read about UK is propaganda. It’s like the shock I got when I went to Israel. The media lie.

Religion has it’s place but it should be taken for what it is, words written by humans.

Leviticus is saying something with this passage and I believe it’s about not taking it too seriously…

Thanks for reading.

By the way, I was researching, ‘How to Make Bible Cake”, when I found the passage.

Could be a good covid19 challenge for you all – boredom is a good motivator.

Stop Discrimination in Medicine

Over and over again we are told only some people can get certain diseases and other races cannot. Even if results come back indicating a blood disorder, sickle cell will not be tested for…maybe even rickets would not be picked up because of your childs genetic makeup…although they don’t know your child’s genetic makeup…they do that on sight, by name or nationality. They = Doctors.

Rickets is a disease where monitoring and treatment is being targeted towards non whites when every child is at equal risk. Here is a medical paper saying it isn’t just non whites who suffer from it…attempting to make racist doctors understand that white children get ill too.

https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(14)60211-7/fulltexthttps://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(14)60211-7/fulltext

We’ve accepted racism and allowed it to enter our health professions. As a result Rickets is on the rise and many of our sick children go undiagnosed with painful diseases for lengthy periods.

We must call out racist papers and medical trials. If a drug is to be safe or a treatment, it must be safe for everyone. As genetically we are all different – not all white people are the same, not all black people are the same and there are billions of people inbetween.

Allopurinol – known to have vicious side effects in non whites is not usually prescribed to black folks in England, or shouldn’t be. It was given to me though and caused major rash and major gout attack.

But, much worse than that, I found this video. It doesn’t even warn against giving it to black people…

So, we are all at the mercy of this distrust and it is caused by the Pharma companies.

Please be cautious about any medication given to you and read the small print carefully.

Stay safe.

Thanks for reading.

I wonder how many other drugs are known to cause harm depending on your genetics?