After the Celts and the Anglo-Saxons were forced into Christianity, the sacrifice of animals was frowned upon and discouraged. What did carry on however was people’s adoption of skins and horns, yet one more diversion which bugged the early church fathers, even as far back as St Augustine’s time:
'If you ever hear anyone carrying out that most filthy practice of dressing up like a horse or stag, chastise him most severely,' he said.
This custom derives from sympathetic magic, which is a kind of intimate communication with the natural world, and appears to have carried on as an aspect of Celtic life. The very last surviving relic of Celtic horse magic is found in hill figures, however, long after people stopped adopting their skins and heads. Another surviving aspects are horse effigies, which are paraded through towns, sometimes known as an Oss. The oss is accompanied by a man with a club called a Teazer, and his name suggests he teases the horse under and about its body with his club.
Some of these rites, or part of them at least were assimilated into Christianity, and St George absorbed many of the qualities of then horse god, and horses were even sacrificed to him. And the Christian knights became riders of white steeds — as readily as other aspects were soaked up into Christianity — such as the brazen sun-disc and the festival of Christmas.
The horse as a pagan symbol was steadily unseated, and mounted by St George, St Margaret and St Michael, and the horse’s spectral association with both the apocalypse and the underworld — at least to Christians — was forgotten.
Here I am . . . the lorne forlorn . . . a work-shire hunt, I mean a work-shy, Berkshire hunt, with triple bananas for lunch and the promise of a whole lot more when I get home.
Bananas! B is for boost their energy flows, A is for "ass" through which the pulp goes, N is for Nana, Mouskouri she sings, A is for anvil where Thor's hammer rings, N is for Nana, whose shortbread we crave, A is for Atholl, whose brose is our fave.
And that is the poem, soon to be featured as the strap line advertising my new product range, which is Burnett's Banana Brose. Mouskouri will be singing the song, accompanied by Marvel Comics' "Thor" who will mashing bananas on an anvil in a Scottish glen.
The entire project as you see is "concept led" and my Nan is mentioned, purely because the Banana Brose is her recipe.
My favourite passage in Robert Louis Stevenson's Kidnapped is the episode in which David Balfour is shipwrecked on the island of Erraid. I sometimes think that Kidnapped goes downhill after the Erraid sequence. There is the hike across Mull and then the chasing through the heather, none of which attends the climatic drama of the early chapters, and the plot settles into true road-movie territory. Whenever I read the book, I always find myself returning to that old Erraid magic!
From The Golden Bough:
"In some parts of Amboyna, when the state of the clove plantations indicate that the crop is likely to be scanty, the men go naked to the plantations by night, and there seek to fertilise the trees precisely as they would impregnate women, while at the same time they call out for "More Cloves!" This is supposed to make the trees bear more fruit."
Which explains no doubt the desperate, guttural cries of "More Lambs!" heard throughout the Spring in Scotland.
More at Gimcrack Hospital
Two questions arise. Who produces this webpage, and then who reads it?
I says like this : listen you money-hungering server owners and bloodthirsty porn purveyors, that bleeding FHM website is full of lies and the lassies in it are all bollocks. It is high time they lassies realised what they were doing and put their faith in more sensible employment, such as working in a record shop, or selling programs at the game, and then you shopkeepers with your middle to top shelf nasties, would be put to shame.
And then I says to them, that LOADED website is worse, and everyone that looks at it dies after a short illness.
This is Downcome, a font designed by Eduardo Recife. In the spirit of the age and in line with other open source software, Eduardo Recife allows anybody to use his font, and all he asks is that he be acknowledged. As a bonus, if anyone can be bothered, Eduardo asks politely to be gifted any books, CDs etc that may make use of his font. That is the idea, but the practice is sadly lacking.
Slept all morning. Children's party all afternoon, Sighthill, Edinburgh. Sweet and polite group of kids. Basket scampi at the softplay. Watched MAKE ME AN OFFER (1955) starring Peter Finch, then all episodes of Nathan Barley. The most ideal weather. Last night, good company, Tadg, Andrew, Kenny. XLV: A type of gramophone record classified by its revolution speed of 45 cycles per minute. Refers also to the Jacobite rising in Scotland. One half of a football game! My boys were so pleased to see me at lunchtime. They wrestled on top of me for twenty minutes, trying to get best position for tickles. The weather is ideal, giving the day an endless quality. Turning to think of the future. Focus on completing a new book this month. 0 + 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + 7 + 8 + 9 = 45. Counting in triangles.
The Tesco lager was an almost translucent, yellow colour, with a good amount of carbonation and short-lived, white head. The immediate aroma was of floral hops with some grassy tones, followed by a little graininess, and some faint malt in the background. Shortly after that I was flinging CDs across the room at Tadg, who was trying to play the trombone.
Some may search this, while others may re-earth this thing called consternation in the net-book of mental pages where there are displayed two stages of rage like stage one : I am introduced to sway as a young fry one day then stage two I'm getting it the hell out of me YEA I put that shit on hold : "I must welcome you to this website and bring to you an announcement of intergalactic importance .... ladies and gentleman I'm the Voice of ConBy explosive specialist Panatenda Stacks the treacherous millenial expedition chief administrator of Perpetual Freedom, and I will f**uck you executives consecutively, I will test your chests out like trampolines YEA I will make the sky roll back like I'll make it all fold four fold and f**uck the dumb shit out of you, so you may not need to get smashed in a car crash quick or beaten with a half-eaten deadbeat chicken drumstick cause Peter Burnett summoned me to photocopy your entity and carol your dying ditty where hope draws up, you will not outlast him in specious buildings, and nor can you obscure a part of yourself in illiquid earnings, hear ye hear ye obliquities of hateful ways, and Peter's maniples are fired away so hereof let your study be as clear as shit, and ken that I wrote this ruled by Mr Hit. He is my dealer . . . . of course!!"
DETAILS OF THE SAINTED LIFE OF BARRY
Companion of St Benedict's at Monte Cassino, Saint Barry Vilitatis was the first to write the famous rule at the Great Benedict's dictation. After St Benedict's death, St Barry continued his much imitated and lively correspondence with St Donna of Hamarstadt and her Miraculous Goat, in which the descriptions of monastic flagellation are so vivid that they inspired something of a vogue in Dark Age Europe.
Piqued, it is said by the Chronicler Wittloss the Goth, by his failure to be appointed Magister Flagellorum, St Barry left the community of Monte Cassino and fled to the Abruzzi mountains with one companion only, the same young Wayne of Perth who was later to become a "wife" to the Prophet Mohammad.
Finding refuge in a cave on a hillside, St Barry settled down to a life dedicated to intense prayer, flagellation and study of Male Generative Fluid. Alas, barely two and a half years into his retreat, he was murdered by a group of local Pagans for whom the sights, sounds, and smells of mutual flagellation proved to strong a stimulus to their destructive wrath.
Another word that has changed its meaning is the verb to humanise.
To humanise now means to turn into a machine, but this definition has become a matter of balance. Life on Earth is the fact of a brick wall neatly stacked, all the same colour and interlocked so that it does not fall down. When an object is humanised then it is fitted into the technosphere, rather than brought into the human mode.
Does it have a commercial application?
Yes, it is a bumble bee, and therefore we may enslave it for Honey Breakfast Flakes. Can it be used as a lubricant? Yes it is an essential oil can be sold to violinists to help their grip. Can we re-manufacture it on a mass scale? Yes we can, no matter what it is, even if it isa plastic or a chicken. The word humanise applies to every fowl we have so far come across, they can be bred as often as taste requires, andironic as it may sound, humanised in farms.
Die Bide Awa bietet viele erstklassige ghastly gast-hoff, mit pork breakfast, aber auch redmeatpreiswerte Unterkünfte, wie das Wife_Fight 6 oder das YMCA. Eine komplette Auflistung der mass grave Unterkünfte finden in Yell! Mach chon bald werden baldie man von : "Christ in Himmel!" wir in der Lager sein, bedekken mi boughs auf holly unt Dobson-kraft. Ihnen ein komplettes Alky Tourpacket nach El Paso anzubieten.
Ab Juni 2000 können Sie in den Otter Arse-Reich Reisebüros in Deutschland Otter spezielle Angebottom buchen. Derzeit erstellen wir noch die Themen, wie Unst - die Martin Luther Straße, Baltasound. Mit chips is maxi-you poof!
And also before we go, a quick mention of some recent sporting results:
In the Magnie Pantson Grocers League, Division 8,
Yell 4 Unst 16 (suicides)
The content and purpose of dreams are not definitively understood, though they have been a topic of scientific speculation and a subject of philosophical and religious interest throughout recorded history:
Free cinema : in an open field we approached the screen, through rows of racked chairs. Close to the screen I met the lead actor, a real stiff-jaw, he stood way up above me. The actor was able to look over my head he was so tall. The field was filling with audience, and there were chunks of snow left on the ground. I turned to speak to some people I knew, the three most intelligent boys from school. The three boys sat on one seat and had their school blazers stuffed with library books. I walked further back; I had lost the friends I arrived with. Also, there were no safe seats left in the field, and this was out of many thousand. Most of the seats seemed to be sinking in the mud and melting snow. I left for the town, which was dark, and full of circular terraces, where one would descend and then reappear. I found that the best way to get back to the field was through a primary school, but I was escorted out of here, and taken to the seaside. Dawn, and the film was over. The snow even, was much melted, and I had missed everything. Passing up the opportunity for fried foods from a shack, I walked along the sea front, to look for my friends.
I wish I'd heard James Kelman's Saltire acceptance speech. I read about it ... it raised an eyebrow. I searched the net but nobody had published it, though I did find this quote:
Our culture is as rich as any culture and it’s shocking to me that our children, and the likes of myself at the age of 66, have to struggle to fucking express it.
It was enough! I don't know if James Kelman said that or not, but that is what I heard.
There isn't much competition for quality writing, I mean among people that are alive. James Kelman has pretty much being holding the lot of it down, singlehanded for Scotland since the 1980s, with nobody that I've seen or heard writing anything as good.
What I mean by good I'll have to express later. I'd never thought of Kelman as struggling to express his Scottishness, and I don't know what he means about our children.
For Ten Years This Important Image Lay on the Homepage of My Website
to survive a destructive book is no less painful
for the reader than for the author
LF Celine: Voyage to the End of the Night / Death on Credit / Guignol's Band / Rigadon
Wyndham Lewis: Men Without Art / The Complete Wild Body / The Apes of God
Giacomo Leopardi: Operette Morali
Thomas Bernhard: The Loser / The Voice Imitator / Extinction / Gathering Evidence / Wittgenstein's Nephew