Hal Moore A Soldier Once... And Always Mike Guardia Download 2013-11-05 The definitive biography of Harold G. Moore, hero of the Vietnam War and author of the bestselling memoir of the battle at Ia Drang. Hal Moore, one of the most admired American combat leaders of the last fifty years, has until now been best known to the public for being portrayed by Mel Gibson in the movie We Were Soldiers. In this first-ever, fully illustrated biography, we finally learn the full story of one of America’s true military heroes. A 1945 graduate of West Point, Moore’s first combats occurred during the Korean War, where he fought in the battles of Old Baldy, T-Bone, and Pork Chop Hill. At the beginning of the Vietnam War, Moore commanded the 1st Battalion of the 7th Cavalry in the first full-fledged battle between US and North Vietnamese regulars.
Drastically outnumbered and nearly overrun, Moore led from the front, and though losing seventy-nine soldiers, accounted for 1,200 of the enemy before the Communists withdrew. This Battle of Ia Drang pioneered the use of “air mobile infantry”—delivering troops into battle via helicopter—which became the staple of US operations for the remainder of the war.
He later wrote of his experiences in the bestselling book We Were Soldiers Once... Following his tour in Vietnam, he assumed command of the 7th Infantry Division, forward-stationed in South Korea, and in 1971, he took command of the Army Training Center at Fort Ord, California. In this capacity, he oversaw the US Army’s transition from a conscript-based to an all-volunteer force. He retired as a lieutenant general in 1977. Hal Moore graciously allowed the author interviews and granted full access to his files and collection of letters, documents, and never-before-published photographs.
We Are Soldiers Still A Journey Back to the Battlefields of Vietnam Harold G. Moore, Joseph L. Galloway Download 2009-10-06 Lt.
Harold Moore and Joseph Galloway return to Vietnam's Ia Drang Valley more than four decades after the battle they recalled in their #1 New York Times bestseller We Were Soldiers Once... Renewing their relationships with ten American veterans of the fabled conflict—and with former adversaries—the authors explore how the war changed them all, as well as their two countries. We Are Soldiers Still is an emotional journey back to hallowed ground, putting a human face on warfare as the authors reflect on war's devastating cost.
Eravamo Giovani In Vietnam Pdf. Giovanni Antonio Vanoni, Filippo Franzoni. Sign up for free now at https://www.jimdo.com. I migliori Auguri di buon Anno a tutti gli amici del Forum. ELICAI migliori Auguri di buon Anno a tutti gli amici del Forum. Le doppiette da tiro: -devo un tributo di.
The Art of Command Military Leadership from George Washington to Colin Powell Harry S. Laver, Jeffrey J. Matthews Download 2008-10-17 What essential leadership lessons do we learn by distilling the actions and ideas of great military commanders such as George Washington, Dwight D.
Wwe Wrestlemania 29 Match Video Download. Eisenhower, and Colin Powell? That is the fundamental question underlying The Art of Command: Military Leadership from George Washington to Colin Powell. The book illustrates that great leaders become great through conscious effort -- a commitment not only to develop vital skills but also to surmount personal shortcomings. Laver, Jeffrey J. Matthews, and the other contributing authors identify nine core characteristics of highly effective leadership, such as integrity, determination, vision, and charisma, and nine significant figures in American military history whose careers embody those qualities. The Art of Command examines each figure's strengths and weaknesses and how those attributes affected their leadership abilities, offering a unique perspective of military leadership in American history.
Laver and Matthews have assembled a list of contributors from military, academic, and professional circles, which allows the book to encompass diverse approaches to the study of leadership.
After yesterday’s guest blog on happiness, today I turn to the subject of madness, more specifically my own. I was approached a few months ago and asked to write a poem for a book being prepared by Bovington Middle School in Dorset, to raise money both for the school’s English deparment and for Help for Heroes. I tried all sorts of ideas before settling on this poem, WHEN THE MIND CRACKS, which is clearly inspired by my own crack-up in 1986. What a pity you’re too late for this annual competition on the theme of mental health. If you read the winning poems, you will see how closely they resemble yours in capturing the agony and the intensity of mental illness.
And well done (heavy irony) to HMG that has cut funding to the Poetry Society which has in turn had to cut funding for writing programmes for prisoners, too many of whom have mental health problems. I’ve published poetry myself and have been involved in a small way with this sort of work and can testify to the beneficial effects of writing, particularly poetry, on the lives of prisoners suffering from anxiety, depression and other mental afflictions. When will they realise that helping people manage their troubled lives and move away from crime and anti-social behaviour actually protects the public in the long run? Your comment and recent events have made me think quite a lot about the way we interact with our prisoners Anna. As a society we are rightly addressing the importance of access to the interenet and the issues faced by those who do not have it. But prisoners do not have it and this is becoming a bigger and bigger barrier to their opportunity to interact normally with society. Being able to post and discuss things on the internet is deeply healing for many too.
I wonder if it might be possible to make internet access a privilage for some prisoners? There would have to be rules.
There would have to be both the technology and the personal capacity to ensure that every page they visited was scrutinised. The former is surely easily achievable. I wonder if perhpas the latter might be achieved with the help of volunteers?
Thanks for starting this interesting train of thought. I’m currenrly writing on the way we function intellectually in Web2.0, Web3.0 and Web4.0 environments and am hoping to start a PhD in the ways in which Web4.0 behaviour can be harnessed to enhance democracy (and the practical issues involved in doing this). Anyone interested in chatting about this or sending me comments can find me through my blog: or through this article: which starts to lay some of the groundwork for the PhD. The tragic events in Norway have highlighted the contrast between our approach and theirs, which sees crime as being an indication that something is wrong and prison as being the place where the issues generating the behaviour should be addressed in an environment which is as close to normal life as possible. This line struck me: “When all he can see is me” He can see you and he can accept what you are telling him. He can see you in a way you do not yet understand, or maybe didn’t understand then? It’s a good piece of writing because it helps to describe the indescribable.
Here’s one I wrote about school improvement (at 87) There was going to be more but it didn’t go down well with the critics. Interestingly I felt more comfortable writing without punctuation too – or it might have been that I just don’t really know how to punctuate this kind of writing in a way that helped it. I’ll leave you to your JW (Aaaaaagh) and stick with my political straddler DS Yes he sang about some ‘redneck ishoos’ but mebbe he did so in attempts to get across to poor workers that voting R was not an aspirational thing at all.
Y’know, a bit like the way Labour had to use NI etc in order to reach some misled rightists. He also protested about the death penalty and allied himself with no party; his daughter has very recently denounced Rs trying to claim him as having been one of theirs.. I’m glad to hear about his daughter – do you mean Roxanne? Yes I agree that some of Cash’s work would not have endeared him to Republicans – San Quentin’s a good example.
They would have loved him though for wanting not only to support the GIs in the Vietnam War but to go out and fight with them. I expect he was ‘complicated’ (or perhaps ‘muddled’).
I doubt if there’s much of a comparison between Cash’s relationship with poor workers and New Labour’s relationship with News International. At the risk of expessing naivety, innocence, inexperience, out-of-touchness, I don’t understand your first sentence – did you have an attack of these flying ants when you said ‘Aaaaaagh’? A longish comment, if I may – before you post another entry and the theme moves on. Your poem covers only the first minutes. The initial shock.
The music – in my case it was corny old fashioned fairground organ music sometimes playing ever faster sometimes more slowly but somehow always with a sarcastic tone to it. Then come the voices – that’s when the real terror of a breakdown kicks in. Once the voices have established their reason for being in your head – established their story – mine was basically the grommets operations I had as a child implanting the radio control device.
(How many other sufferers come up with the same?) So you find yourself wandering about listening to the control room sometimes taunting, sometimes giving odd instructions like saying a daft phrase 87 times EXACTLY, or else, sometimes saying there’s a party being organised so you go wandering about local restaurants politely asking for the table booked in the name of. There’s so much more nonsense that goes on – dangerous nonsense that can so easily end in tragedy. That DOES end in tragedy. I was instructed to jump into the river Avon – I don’t swim.
In the end I “renegotiated” it into baptising myself in muddy water near the bank. First my folks saw of this was a pile of muddy wet clothes outside the back door of the house where I’d stripped off to go for a shower (it was early – no-one about at that time). I had another 48 hours of madness after this. It might have been three or four days – might have been longer – I know it included signing up and going to an Alphacourse meeting. I had already called to see a Dr of Divinity based in Cheltenham, the brother in law of a dear friend, who I was “being told” was God’s current reincarnation on earth – we still exchange Christmas cards. Must have been a surprise for him, though, me turning up at his front door at 7:30 on a Sunday morning respectfully babbling religious sounding nonsense. I could swear to this day he and I were “talking” to each other before and after I went to see him, as well as sitting there with him.
Fortunately, on the Wednesday, I drove past dad going the other way near home – flagged him down – said I was hearing voices (and control really really didn’t like that!!) and he took me straight to the doctor’s surgery. My Doc – she is a wonderful lady – had me checked into hospital that afternoon and the recovery started then.
I am a very lucky man. I was very close to complying with the “instructions” to kill myself – too much of a coward to obey. Looking back I can make that it was a laugh a minute, but not at all so, really. Definitely not funny at all. I don’t blame those Americans of the 60s/70s that did support their GIs in spirit if not in person. There was conscription after all, if one REALLY sympathises with brutalised people one might empathise with people coerced into taking part in any war (especially those brainwashed as only latter-day Americans could be about ‘socialism’ and other countries’ rights to decide their own politics). Your attitudes are so prescriptive; fancy harking back to a man’s empathies of 40yrs ago and overlooking his attitude to guns, brave in itself in a mad place where gun lobbies portray the UK as a police state because of a ‘work’ of fiction that has been swallowed as a cause celebre and occupies miles of columns on Stormfront et al.
I suppose I would have a similar reaction to flying ants at the door as I would to certain people knocking on it trying to enlist me to their ‘religion’ but I’m not sure what inspired your ‘idea’ unless it was an attempt at humour (which is unlikely). ‘gratuitous vituperation’.
You must be a sensitive soul indeed DS. It went like this: AC’s poem ‘objected’ to his having been subjected to HfM instead of JC or KK You joshed that you didn’t share his preference In similar vein I joshed with you about mine You proceeded to defend your choice (as if it’s a competition anyway. Durrrr) then to add some lies about mine’s politics I offered to leave it at that, me with my wobbly-politics choice and you with your Jehovah’s Witness (a clan that’s even more dislikeable than arch Republicans). And so it droned on ‘vituperative’ too? Thank you Gilliebc – the really important point I did not make is that I was lucky having parents who could take me back home and look after me for the months when the strongest medication was needed. Without that life would have been very very awkward. If I had had the breakdown more recently, since their deaths or during their late infirmities, again the outcome would have been very different.
As it was I was able to play a large role in their care in their final years which has been good for my own self esteem. It’s also been good for Great Britain PLC as I’ve mde a contribution through my taxes and all but eliminating state care costs for mom and dad (the “all but” being their own NHS medical costs). Having good effective mental health treatment/care in place pays good dividends for the nation. Since it is Friday night, so may I propose and compose a poem, for Alastair, to show how it is done, AND THIS is off the cuff, totally, right now. Mind, don’t mind, it is only a bunch of cells, that plays, with your mind, Synapses, it is only a junction, as on a road, that gets clogged with traffic, of another nature. Worry if you want, but it won’t get you further along, you might as well piss into the wind with your thoughts.
Depression, that happens on a full moon, when we bark into the sky or when rain comes in. Sun, oh yes sun, which gives us strength, then buggers off for six months and makes us sin. The Doc says, my chemicals are not right in the brain, but who I am to argue, he could be right, but yet again. Death comes to us all, but how? Now that is enough to make you worried, and wonder now. Ok, ok, more prose than poetry, butI hope you get the feeling. Cheer up Alastair, you constant occasional miserable Scottish yinit.
People love you, and understand you – well, some of us do!: ) •. A different, but shorter poem, but with more intense stanzars, or whatever professional poets call them things.
Depressions high and low, can be called a hill and a valley, going here and though. Manic depressions the same, but become a Star War scene, trying to save a Princess dame. In a World of your own, trying to find the key, but given a lock not actually known.
Cracking up as a complete pan of glass, and not knowing where you are, time to say, yes, I am really completely off my arse, Thought I would put that last line in for pathetic amusement laughs from the gallery around abouts. Wisdom, and new dome?
On the mind of a soul, of mankind. I find it isn’t so, with souls, going here and fro. Nastiness, when you feel it, when young, digs a hole deep in your soul. Hard to fill, when older, even though you try get bolder. In a pub local, picking up fights, that you think is important, and showing might. Coppers keep picking you up, even if they are weak, playing their games, the establishment speak. Never mind my friends, let it wash, a ducks backs it always should be so.
Let them carry on, and do so, and rememeber, I’ll be your broth, and try and do so. Off the cuff, in a huff I might write these poems, worms and all stuff. Blackberry Z10 Usb Driver Windows 7 64 Bit more. But with true complete feelings, as like a complete wife over the kitchin drain making peelings.
Vegetables on the street, giving problems to peelers but all want is just a meet. To complain as a fish wife, to tell off all to all and put down their knife. Saying the country is really sick, under the skin right under well true and thick and sunder. BBC spouting off as a Daily Mail, not in touch with ones that want life and want to sail.
Channel Four not that bad, channel five simple on the whole but not quite as that sad. ITV, Corry Street and Emmerdale, showing our society in fact not that bad but slightly quite pale. Health in mind and body and soul, is the aim I think for all and don’t let them put us over the coal. Living life healthy happy and free, and to help the world which we need to be. I think I have run dry, poetrywise. I am getting pretentious now. Dry, dry, where can my next words come from, said a lad in number ten panicking, from his Cornwall retreat looking like a plum.
Maybe I should say behave all, but that might stir glory, with those that have fury. Maybe I should say somethings like this, we will beat you with sticks, maybe they will give up, or is it a miss?
Shove them in a concerntration camp, not that damn genius I think, hold on, Geneva convention and all that pomp. Gallows then, or am I going too far, the electric chair then, I think I am loseing it, and can only sit and stare.
Happy holiday in Corwall Dave. August bank holiday – get the whole bloody arsenal out, just in case.
I do not know anything, but two weeks after last, copycat? From ones who missed the “party”? I hope to God not, but.
I think I have run dry, poetrywise. I am getting pretentious now.
Dry, dry, where can my next words come from, said a lad in number ten panicking, from his Cornwall retreat looking like a plum. Maybe I should say behave all, but that might stir glory, with those that have fury.
Maybe I should say somethings like this, we will beat you with sticks, maybe they will give up, or is it a miss? Shove them in a concerntration camp, not that damn genius I think, hold on, Geneva convention and all that pomp. Gallows then, or am I going too far, the electric chair then, I think I am loseing it, and can only sit and stare. Happy holiday in Corwall Dave. August bank holiday – get the whole bloody arsenal out, just in case.
I do not know anything, but two weeks after last, copycat? From ones who missed the “party”? I hope to God not, but. True story here – a poem made by a friend I used to know, Vanessa Thomas(copyright 1998), a South Wales semi-amateur poet, on me, on when I met her and got to know her, and her noticing how much of an emotional wreck I was at that time with her. She liived on benefits bringing up four children, when she had to move miles from where she lived previous due to dangerous family problems, if you get what I mean. TRADEMARK He came to see me, then went away, He loves a girl of yesterday, She’s left a mark, she’s left a scar, His heart won’t open, it’s just ajar.
He picks on me, whenever I try, Because of this girl, she’s the reason why, I show him I love him and that I care, But in his mind, she’s always there. His understanding is wearing thin, His heart and love, no-one can win, He’ll pick on me, whenever he can, This impassive and imperative man.
My love for him is very strong, In my eyes he does nothing wrong, I’ll stand by him, even though there’s a scar. Even though his heart is only ajar.
He’ll soon, I know, not want me any more, The scar, it hurts him, right to the core, His loneliness will seek another, But he can only love as a brother. He came to see me, then went away, He loves a girl of yesterday, She’s left a mark, she’s left a scar, His heart won’t open, it’s just ajar. Many thanks to Vanessa, and she used my surname to publish the book, and not her surname because of her own problems from the past, and wanted to be semi-anon, bringing up four children. An incerdible offbeat intelligent woman, four years older than me. Anyway, that is life sadly.
You have your problems, and I have my bed also made. Some might be wondering why I use the extra fourth line in the last verse sometimes, and sometimes an extra line in the first. Well, I follow what has become familiar in “pop” songs, but they repeat their last two lines in same words in songs, so I have adopted it and have it different, and I think it has good effect. My poems are shit by the way, semi-cultural at the most. Anyway, I make them off the cuff, and if I was any dood at it I would be a pop lyric writer making loads, as Carole King did and does, watch?v=Z8q0DXY5UmQ •.
Tripoli, Italy, old Roman, and all old silly. Not known in whole, but it is, an historical ball. Sand inland, by the ton, OK oil also, under their sun. Gaddafi has yes lost his way, but come on, try make him sway. He hasn’t been that bad. Though exit makes him sad.
Colonel, militarily not the wall. If, highness, you do not stall.
Full time has been called for you Colonel, but you will be well looked after in your retirement, I am sure of it. It is a funny ol’ world, but things move on, Colonel, you must realise that. Not long posted on Wolf Tones Black and Tans kick arse music as a poem but sadly, yootoob don’t accept justification lines of poetry in comments, so, as it is, I will trproduce it as such, time for another poem Glasgow, glasgow, preachers head in hands, death threats all seem from invading sands.
Time travels very fast. Hate, how long can it last?
Modern times, keyboard banged, big and small, fingered scored. Fingers like pigs nipples, swelled, clumbsily simples. But the main thing is to get over the bump, to local understanding, accept, thems thoughts put on a dump.
“couldn’t you care, my wife and your husband?”. Dylan should have butted in here and said “I was only keeping the oven hot for when you eventually come home, to stop it drying out”, but as a typical poet, he didn’t have the balls to saying it, when faced with a brand new experienced killer. But he spoke well for the Captain in court, a great verbal reference for him in fact, and Captain got off with just a well good telling off, and told to try and his best to get over what he experienced within war. Captain and his wife had a very, very happy lifetime marriage, and yes, for him, her oven was always hot. More tea Vicar? Alastair, emailed Disqus on what I posted last night about my “expand profile” strange(!) user name that has appeared there, and this is the reply I got, “To change your name you would need a full Disqus account which you can register here: Be sure to use the same email so you can merge your comments and change your profile information here: ” I will do as said tomorrow sometime.
Obviously something rogue has happened, but that is online life it seems at times. Hopefully I will have no problems doing it. By the way, MicheleB has a strange username with her “expand profile” too – checked others, but didn’t come across any other strange ones. Circadian rhythm movements coming up, with NZ rugby time upsidedown.
I have already started bedding at six, and rising at two with a frown. Six weeks of kiwi time coming, I will have to endure, To catch things live and alive, on ITV’s coverage hopefully pure. Amateur coverage that no doubt, will wince my rugger bones. But at least it will all be, think, enthusiastic not run by bores. Good luck to ITV1 and ITV4, but get ready for criticism online. Totally and extraordinarily, from the usual rugby whores. Vanessa’s one of 63 in her book, but a poem on London homeless in the 1980’s and tory ’90’s, which we hope to god will not return to with the present regime, Cardboard Coffins No-one to turn to Nothing to do Nowhere to go No-one to know.
No shoulder to lean on Everything’s wrong No listening ear To wipe the odd tear. No parent, no friend, No money to spend No shelter to sleep Things are not cheap. Nothing to eat No shoes on my feet Nowhere to go As I sit in the snow. A cardboard box for my bed A rucksack underneath my head At night, London’s a cardboard city Hundreds of us, what a pity. Last line is a dig at liberal conservatives head in sand inactives, claiming expenses,as I translate and create in my own personal mind.
Make of as you want. OOPS – 65 poems even. Googled her ISBN but it doesn’t show. It was published by Carmarthenshire County Council in 1998. No idea where Vanessa is these days, since I have worked all over the world since, and lost touch. Piscataway in New Jersey, and Willmington, near Boston was interesting, after 9/11. We had a healthy discussion about it when I visited Piscataway, but the bloke I had to deal with in Willmington treated me as a member of Osama’s family, the tital yank numbnuts, everything foriegn wanted to bomb them or something!
That was a seriously hard engineering gig, and yes, I wanted to flatten him, the yank prick twonk, but I resisted, oh yes I do, but it is still inside, and I should have invited him onto Main Street, for a DRAW! And I would have won easily. Shit my pants though when on a plane when that plane went into the ground for other reasons in Long Island, which the capatain informed us as we landed at Boston. I am a sensitive man. But one on one, I can give as I get. Tenniis poem. Tennis US Open, well wankered by rain from Mother Eart.
Well, Flushing Meadows, well soaked, with what Greenland melted ice in the sky? With burning constant lights and fuel, seen from the Moon, you try and deny? Murray slippering on lines, and the spanish one, falling off his seat with cramp. Weather up the East Coast. Strange and seems ramp up.
Four years it is with this, rain not expected. Any message yankies, burning proffered? Oliver Reed and Rita Tushingham with my best whiteman early history of north america, trapping, in the mid 1800’s, or maybe earlier, •. To tell you the truth, I could be still working for Pyramid Engineering Sevices in South London, selling micro-electronic processing equipement top-drawer stuff from the old ultra-successful SLEE company before them, but when the bubble burst, and the people I had to get on with from Bookham Technology from Abingdon and Swindon, and Nortel, thought miles better and brillianter, in Paington, I realised, British Industry is not properly supported and is amateur total shit, and that is due to Thatcher way back, and the way she destroyed it’s confidence, which exists to this day.
Coalition Clegg twats have reinforced it with the Sheffield Forgemasters nonsense as soon as they got in. Start fill you CV in, you won’t get back in in 2015. Gary Lineker, Alan Hansen and that Shearer, Over-confidents golf course botherers.
On Match of the Day spieling shite, Knowledge human lacking might. Alex, keep them sorts rod length, gobby shites with their oncourse clubs.
Trying to run things with a G n’ T, Corbett short at their side, looking like a tee. Horses and courses is a better view, to see common man deal and lose. As on the streets, and we play the game, of life, win lose draw, always same. What makes you think these golf-course sports telly pundits wind me up with their over-arrogant comfortableness?
Hate the creepy bastards in fact, they make my skin crawl. Where is this little england, all loverly and also sundry? Wimbledon wombled with rubbish all around abound? Alderney living, what does she know, tennis and cricket her husband spout. BBC indian emporers and empirers, came back with their Victorian old shout. Victoria’s bed they have stayed, return to infesting BBC’s new led. Cliff with his pop songs, coffee cafe, but Spike M no who knew a Naafi.
Rubbish who came back, arrogant, servents barked at with rant. Empire, what for? Ugly game, Chist’s no dome. Just a poem to show up of the claim of Rome for the right to say everything about Jesus Christ and his mother.
I await some cardinals to tun up at my door, to put me right. And to have a good go at BBC history, and the people they employed, many returning from the Indian subcontinent in the late 1940’s, just to give them a job. I, I believe need to understand ourselves, before you should go out your door.
To a world to explore, in ignorance, my aristocratic friend, in pence. Lowly brit, can speak the international speak, on the street, not like you as a high freak. Gobbling on your words, confused, a lady pick up lost, Manchester dude. They make me laugh, with their free scarfe, trying to still run it, even with their cold bath.
If, the film, was a message, heard absoured, I think, and totally ostrich sand ignored. Jesus, I write poems all my life it seems, and when I get around the realisation of the concept of editing, rather than be a flash poet, I might lose something in the feeling. Why to I sound suddendly like Skripps from Heartbeat – you know the one, the one that was Benny from Crossroads, or was it the binman from Corry.
Sorry Beeny from Crossroads, he was in Corry. Anyway, when my present financial situation changes when “events” happen, I think I know which route to go on. I have a bookfull of simple ideas already.
Just a taster – •. I write these poems, to make it easy, realise lads boxers and ladies knickers. How easy it is for ones condusive, how to be culturally inclusive and indusive. Yes, ladies knickers I prefer, bisexual, I have been described. But basic male love is asexual, python length though and all. Lads that like lads is sweet, an old thing, no need to tweet.
Primary school did meet, ladies too, love lipping meet. More tea vicar? Young people, you certain ones, writing poetry is easy.
Don’t be like me, that put it off for forty years. My first poem was a song, for an imaginative pop group, I called Huw and the Kippers, which my younger brother laughed his arse off in being totally impressed in it’s humour and cuttingness.
Praise, and raise? Not these days, unless you are a banker wanker. Us lot far from their City ways, with them as a money tanker. Us on their form of streets, are left to bin pick scraps. For them to keep in living, to the living in their traps. Fools are we to endure this, oil trade, and time split made. How to change, profits made, from fantasy money not fade.
Who knows, revolution of sorts, or London City wall used? If City they give some slack, maybe we’ll then futures pull back. No need to say further about the above, appart from posting some Pulp and Javis Cocker from, again, Sheffield. I have a fixation of Sheffield.
I have some great photos of Sheffield from about ’44/’45 when my nan and my dad visited there to see our relatives, •. Joining the armed forces, I kew I had to be within the lines. But I was, life brit looking at pathetic personal official lines. They knew I think, my then present secret personal whines, looking at nuclear, on basic camp, in ’85, the alarm whinned. An education it was, better than any can conform.
Respirrator, underground of with CSG, Breathed saying, Corporal, cough, I support your team. Life building character scenes I seeked and a dream. But, we were paid for the front line, but as I a technician? Behind the lines aircraft cleverly kept together without ommision? Lads army should be paid.
Loads more, and more pension paid. Spanners like me, was like an estate agent unlike a coffin be. Jesus christ, i do not know what to say •. Might as well post another one, I will have to look on beeb news telly from Sian and Bill, first thing they say I will make something up, it is 6:43 now, here goes, Four hundred million, BBC are involved, fighting self-involved total penis belled. Who gives these comfortable self-centered, comfortable leather chaired totally numptied. Salford, get orf your arse, walk, and see you there, if you want to continue your career in Madmanch YEH!
Welcoming committee will be led by Shaun Ryder, I have alledgedly heard, •. Saturday standing square, but with no exciting footie scores coming in. Here we you and all stand with excitement last night sent off scored. Rugby is thin in certain places and faces and described as wasted. True, it it is self-involved with us rugby cases totally mad natives. But english rugger club is the biggest natives, oh yah look at her, and look at them, failed, money pounds at the door or any bar. England rugger team were like a past time off and on the field, hope footie round bladder will show thwm up to full-time yield.
Bloody disgrace •.