When The Bubble Bursts

 Yesterday we witnessed another "Only in America". 
It came upon the inhabitants of Northern Pennsylvania as a monstrous apparition: a ghost-come-early for Halloween. What could it possibly be this 300 foot long, silvery sky-slug?
Relax folks. You were looking at a "joint land attack cruise missile elevated netted sensor"; a giant blimp designed to thwart an 
imaginary attack against the American homeland.
 By the time the giant blimp (which had broken from its tether) came to land it had destroyed miles of power lines and left 20,000 people without electricity. The only real attack on the American homeland. And an attack upon the taxpayer's wallet as well, at a mind- boggling cost of 2.7 billion dollars.

This was the latest Pentagon delusion foisted upon the law-makers as a good idea, and it came down with a hiss of hydrogen and public derision.
Someone once said that "the most abundant elements in the universe are hydrogen and stupidity". In this week's misbegotten venture we have been given the perfect combination of the two.

Jubilate.

Ian

We few, we happy few.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers" thus King Henry the fifth addressed his men on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt six hundred years ago today.

It is a battle that has been recorded in the annals of English history as "God's own fight."
There is plenty of evidence to support this thought.
Henry Fifth found his path back to the coast of France barred by a vengeful army of French knights and men at Arms. They numbered around 21,000. Facing this formidable array were the English forces numbering no more than 6,000 long bow men and assorted knights in armour.
Without going into the particulars of the encounter, by the time the battle was over, an overwhelming victory had been recorded by English arms. Possibly 12,000 French were killed against no more than 500 English dead.
Small wonder that Shakespeare made hay out of this event in the Elizabethan theatres in his play King Henry 5th.
When my son Mark and I traversed the battlefield eighteen months ago I was struck by how small an area encompassed the field of battle; no more than half a mile in length and less than three hundred yards wide. While I walked around proudly quoting Shakespeare I also was overwhelmed by a strange presence, a feeling that I was walking on sacred ground. I was brought to tears.
The same tears I shed at Normandy beach three days later. Tears for the men who fought and died, tears for the folly that leads men into war and tears for the fact that we will continue to repeat the process until men learn to beat their swords into ploughshares and until the lion finally lies down with the lamb.
Jubilate.

Ian