Is that it? That’s the best you can do? Just put it up there, your testosterone-fuelled blood-lust? And how you poison the mind. Eats its own sick, dog. Merry Christmas in Daesh-land.
You murderous clowns are worse than the worst of the Irrational Rangers of Assassination (IRA) and you’re not even drunk. I’ve no pity for you. You’re up there with the Nazis. Good job. The drugs are working.
“The mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.”
This thing about “infidels” and “apostates”. Are we to languish in our holes and not take issue while the true infidels and apostates act with impunity? It’s sad, really.
Nemo me impuni lacessit. I believe it. You believe it.
A scourge. Vile. Words aren’t adequate to describe a half-wit pounding an ancient statue with a sledge hammer. ‘The vandals took the handles’. Such a concentration of filth. Oh my, but it smells.
“But those that seek my soul, to destroy it, shall go into the lower parts of the earth. They shall fall by the sword: they shall be a portion for foxes“.
Yea, it is written. They shall also be a portion for Hellfire missiles arriving at 995 mph. Technology won’t save us. But it doesn’t hurt to put the wind up this scum. Vaporize him who can. Feliz Navidad.
Never has the world seen such a concentration of small penises in grown men. A big part of it has to be sordid, sick sexual frustation. The only way this vermin can get laid is by rape. Joyeux Nöel.
Yeah that’s right. Twenty years to break me down. I saw the 2010 movie and I thought, “No. I’m still not gonna do it. Sign up for the Facebook.”
I mean, I liked the movie. “The Social Network”? And Jessie Eisenberg? Always so darn cute. Loved the movie. But was I gonna do it even after that? No way, as we used to say. And I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. You often just wonder who cares?
But I’m on the “Facebook” now. And you’ve probably digested my complete profile by now. Everything breaks down into the eensiest, teensiest particles of complete information about everything, everywhere, all the time. This was the future. Even I predicted it. Is it a good thing? Too late for that.
Strange thing, people you’ve never heard of coming up to you on the data stream wanting to be your friend. The list of contestants is getting longer every day. Who are these people?
It’s good for pictures. Odd, strange little semi-unexplained images. Photography’s such fun. Especially when you’re an amateur. You don’t have to worry too much about absolute precision. Or some putz stealing your stuff and passing it off as their own. You can have it, loser! That’s the spirit.
So it’s over now. I forget the rest. “Thought I’d something more to say.”
How many relatives can you name that could play the “Londonderry Air” on a mess hall violin, and also by his own hand shoot down 73 enemy aircraft from April, 1917 to July, 1918 over France and Belgium, and be remembered as the greatest flying “Ace” of the “Great War”? That’s right. Big question mark.
There’s only one. Edward “Mick” Mannock V.C., D.S.O. (2 bars), M.C. (1 bar). What’s all that mean? Victoria Cross (posthumous). Distinguished Service Order. Military Cross. And hitting a few bars along the way.
Mick Mannock was of Irish and British decent. We don’t seek famous warrior ancestors-by-marriage, but if we should stumble upon them then famous warrior ancestors-by-marriage it is. Mick Mannock was my consort’s first cousin, twice removed. That means he was a cousin of her father’s mother. Grandmother’s maiden name, as they used to be called, was Amelia Camille Mannock.
Nice Doggy
Getting up there in the air a hundred years ago and flying around in these canvas, string, wire and dope contraptions and their antiquated mechanics and avionics, and doing what the great Mick and many others did, is an incredible story.
Here’s a few excerpts from a personal diary Mick Mannock kept from April to September, 1917.
“20 April 1917. Over the lines today on Parry’s bus. Engine cut out three times. Wind up. Now I can understand what a tremendous strain to the nervous system active service flying is.”
“3 May 1917. Six of the boys did a great ‘stunt’ yesterday morning. Unluckily, I was not on that duty. They went over ours and the German lines at twenty feet all out, strafed five balloons and returned safely with all machines shot to pieces.”
“7 June 1917. The push on Armentiere-Ypres sector commenced this morning. We escorted FE’s over Lille on bomb-dropping business–and we met Huns. My man gave me an easy mark. I was only ten yards away from him–on top so I couldn’t miss! A beautifully coloured insect he was–red, blue, green and yellow. I let him have sixty rounds at that range, so there wasn’t much left of him. I saw him go spinning and slipping down from fourteen thousand. Rough luck, but it’s war, and they’re Huns.”
“20 July 1917. Had the good fortune to bring a Hun two-seater down in our lines a few days ago. Luckily my first few shots killed the pilot and wounded the observer (a Captain) besides breaking his gun. The bus crashed south of Avion. I hurried out at the first opportunity and found the observer being tended by the local M.O. and I gathered a few souvenirs, although the infantry had the first pick. The machine was completely smashed, and rather interesting also was the little black and tan terrier–dead–in the observer’s seat. I felt exactly like a murderer.”
“19 August 1917. Almost a month since my last notes. Pure laziness. Things have happened. Plenty of scrapping in the air, and much glory. Brought my ninth Hun down yesterday morning.”
“5 September 1917. His nose went down (pointing at me) and I immediately whipped round, dived and ‘zoomed’ up behind him, before you could say ‘Knife’. He tried to turn, but he was much too slow for the Nieuport. I got in about fifty rounds in short bursts whilst on the turn, and he went down in flames, pieces of wing and tail, etc.”
War means fighting. Fighting means killing. Killing means dying. It’s an amazingly consistent theorem throughout the sorry history of warfare.
Last Photo of Mick Mannock
It was the 26th of July, 1918. Mick Mannock had returned to France having been promoted to Major and was commanding 85 squadron whose previous top was Billy Bishop, the Canadian. Mannock, at 31, was ancient by Royal Flying Corps standards. He was also burned out. By modern measures there’s no way he’d still have been flying much less commanding a squadron.
He’d destroyed a German plane before 6 am that morning. Then he did something inexplicable and that he’d repeatedly warned other pilots never to do, which is to go down and have a closer look at the plane you’ve just shot down. A hail of ground fire from the German trenches struck his SE.5a. A wing came off and Mannock crashed. His body was recovered by the Germans and immediately buried. It’s uncertain even now where exactly his grave is.
Five biographies have been written about Mick Mannock from the scholarly to the merely anecdotal. samoyeddogs, through the offices of our hard working research staff, has managed to acquire them all as well as a copy of his personal diary published in 1966. Peace.
“The mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.”
samoyeddogs 