Cloudy Days


As a preface to this piece, I would have to say that the Stormcock list, referred to below, is an internet mailing list which is populated by people who are interested in sharing informations which roy harper and themselves have initiated over the years. It exists as a conduit for people who would wish to share certain views about the world we perceive and wish to be in some ways critical of; and the way that the list is maintained offers no particular person on the list any advantage over any other. In that sense, I think that all of us who are aware of this list feel that it’s ultimately a very democratic organ.

I have many fellow travellers on the Stormcock list and I hold many of them dear. I don’t get to read the list as often as I should, and I miss quite a lot. I would suspect that there are a few of us loosely attached to this list who are in that bag. This is a list which generally tries to embrace a broad consensus, but which has a solid core of realists somewhere in its heart. Occasionally there are murmerings which are not concentric, but in the main they only serve to remind us about what kind of a luxury it is to belong to such a generally straightforward virtual gathering. That having been recognised, I would wish to inform this gathering of the way I feel about its most recent choice for debate. The weight of email to me and to the list on this one has made a response by me a seeming imperative. So I’ll introduce the following onto the scales.. Re-the black cloud of islam.. a song of mine written in 1989….

I let my guard slip. I knew that I’d let it slip. I wanted it to slip. I was absolutely sick of being politically correct. I am not politically correct, I never have been.. and I never hope to be. I’d been navigating through an obstacle course for thirty years. My guard slipped.. and I needed it to. I was livid. I was absolutely overcome by feelings of despair. My worst fears were coming true. Religion was gaining ground. The one collective trait among humans that I’d long held at arms length, with the deepest possible suspicion, superstition; was outrunning anything that I could personally throw into its warped path.

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