Author: Ian Andrew

I never took that much notice

Just a short story I was inclined to write… “You mean back in the day? Oh, that’s a while ago. I mean, I remember. Bits of it all. But I never took that much notice. Well, I did, but most of the early things weren’t near Philly, so it didn’t really concern me. I’m not stupid. I watched the TV news. The one after I came home from work, but you know how it is. I’d come in, kick off my boots, strip off the hi-vis shirt, my jeans. Step into the shower. Out of the shower, towel, dry,...

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Discovering Books

I have a tendency to discover a new series of books when they are far from new. Clancy was on his third release when I discovered Jack Ryan. Michael Connolly and his famed Harry Bosch were many volumes into their adventures, Lee Child and Jack Reacher were entertaining their ‘Visitor’ before I found out and even good old Harry P was dallying with Prisoners in Azkaban before the rising wave of social chatter in London got too much to ignore. It’s a weird phenomenon and one I used to fret about. I would be annoyed that I hadn’t known about the...

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I love history…

The fascination with history is unending for me. I love to study most, if not all, eras from before the Romans and Egyptians through to the events of last year. It is all fascinating. Yet, I am, like a lot, especially drawn to and horrified by the events leading up to the Second World War. I have always been slightly uncomfortable at how the German nation managed to do what they did. That beautiful nation, where I have been lucky enough to visit over the years and where I have always been greeted by warm-hearted, enthusiastic, pleasant and genuinely...

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Just Words

Give me your guns, your blacks, your browns, your poor white trash Your flotsam and jetsam, on broad shores Turn in your needles, lines, your rocks and dust Stand to my front and claim I am nothing Call my woman’s form weak When I hold your liberty in my hands Assault me, beat me, then tell me It is only words. They do not matter. Their meaning, just for kicks. We all do it. Just your locker room bravado Shall I talk of burning flags, of slavery? Shall I speak to the danger of him, or her, or them? The colour of their skin, the dullness in their eyes The shape of her, the smell of her, the lust for her All words, just words, none mean anything. Not at all. They’re just gays and fags and queers Chicks and pieces of ass, sweet thangs and tarts Just words, just talk. Tough on immigrants, check their religion, national registers Just words. Camps to hold them before we deport them. Just words. Only words, weak words. That’s why propaganda doesn’t work. Does it? Does it work? Weak, watery, flows of a pen. Have I got this wrong? I thought, surely thought, words are power. Words are truth. Words are mighty and great. They raise to anger. They are tools and weapons. But only to the listener. Never mind. You are...

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The Antrim Coast

Turns out the BBC is releasing a new 3-part Documentary looking at the forging of the Antrim Coast road. Recognised as one of the great tourist drives of the world. To tie in, I thought, have a poem: You see a simple stretch of road, from arch to arch in length Yet no journey from the black to red, can tell you of her strength Oh yes you’ll see her beauty, reflecting nature’s flare A swell of sea, with foaming waves, taunting cliffs left bare But that is just her outer skin, to flatter in a lens As she...

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Ian Andrew is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.co.uk

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