Monday, 13 April 2015
Grandads Rage Against the Machine, by Stevie Stately Haston.
It's been a weird week, this week that was. It's been good and bad, there's been a mood of grey, and a sad air, and then of course luckily the sun shines and hope pervades. Please God, preserve me from the ordinary 50 shades of grey that can cloud our dreary existence.
So, I met a couple of old guys, and we teamed up for a natter on the edge of existence, and perhaps ours, after all we are getting on. They were fishing off the 30 to 40 meter cliffs.
The older of the two, and of the the three (if your paying attention) was called Gerald from Valetta, a sprightly 74 years. I had watched him nimbly solo up and down a grade 5. He was a great lad as was his mate. Gerald was fascinated by our climbing antics. Gerald watched me attentively and kept asking questions, and then worked everything out for himself. He had worked on church domes in the casual style of the Maltese, i.e. total Insha'Allah lack of Health and Safety.
If any body knows Geralds last name, or knows him, tell him to come back to us, and I'll take him on a route. He climbs the cliffs for pleasure to fish, and meditate-a lovely man. As we shook hands I noticed a missing thumb, he had lost it in an explosion.
So why is this spying going on? Blips of 21 hits a few times a day, repeatedly! Am I that much of a threat to the New World Order? Haven't the "Powers that Be" got anything better to do than spy on a climbing grandad? What do they think I am going to do? Tear down their stinking edifice with my rusty Zimmer frame? Get a real job NSA, or whoever it is! It used to be groups of 34 hits, at least that made more numbers on my blog! Try this W A N K E R S, thats code for desist.