I must say, I cannot say anything to defend my twitter feed; nobody reads it and rightfully so. It's supposed to be an adjunct to my blog, but I'm just bad at it: too prolix, too lazy, not witty enough.
I have some amazing stuff to go on the blog, mind you, but I just can't seem to finish any of it. Bits of writing begun, sketched out, half written. Ground-breaking, beautifully written things about Gulnara Karimova, the Aliyev Clan, the MEK, Yulia Tymoshenko, Condoleeza Rice, Dagestan, British law firms in North Korea, the Communist Party of Wales, the former Soviet Aerospace programme at Baikonur, Scooter Libby, Lukashenko's moustache. You just won't believe how good some of this stuff is. If it ever gets finished, it'll be like Penman on Jacko, Hersh on Kissinger, Hitch on Clinton, Mailer on Marilyn, Miller on Greece, Shawcross on Cambodia, Burchill on Diana...only better!
theres been a quite serious deterioation in your prose. i assume its deliberate.
He just needed the threat of nuclear war.youve been productive recently
this is the key to craners politics. its the interesting part of his politics. its why he is good at uncovering links between different groups, countries and stuff... its a shame hes so overemotional. if it wasnt for the hysteria which is probably a result of Welshness, all his things would be good to read.
Hardly anybody present was watching any of this — except for me, for the sake of science. It was all about Barbour and Real Ale in white tents. Is this where the high-rolling betting syndicates circulate? What heavy scene was going down in the rural marquee? Who cares? I was here for science. Dogs were allowed into the parlour and, I noticed, the sheepdogs often seemed more intelligent and energetic than their owners. The genetic material was of a higher quality, relatively speaking. Yet, all of these smart and handsome collies had been chasing sheep around fields all day for somebody else’s sport — a sport that didn’t make sense and might not even exist. Their reward was food, shelter, affection. Pride? Maybe. Maybe not. (Take a look at what you do for food.)
The Welsh National Sheep Dog Trials in Narberth was one big Mesolithic rubbish dump. It was swarming with hungry dogs attached to wandering human tribes — for example, suicidal Black Mountain hill farmers or Carmarthenshire betting syndicates clad in expensive Barbour gear. On the Celtic fringe of Europe, surrounded by broken dolmens and druidic remains and oppressed by these barking rituals and parasitic packs, I could sense the bronze age just beneath the surface. The Coppingers had to be correct, for the ancient canine impulse, the genetic lineage of the collie, was palpable and pouncing. It could not lie or be suppressed. These dogs are the loveliest parasites in the world.
What heavy scene was going down in the rural marquee?
Also, for the record, my name is not Olive.