Orikinla , the Nigerian who adores Keshi, Me? i just love her

Orikinla says

Scarlet Tears of London "Scarlet Tears of London" is a special collection of my most precious poems composed in the most precious moments of my passions and visions from June 2005 to January 2006. "Scarlet tears of London" is in memory of those killed in the Terrorist Bombings in London on July 7, 2005. From: $5.00


Tell Me You Love Me "Tell Me You Love Me" is a collection of beautiful and wonderful love quotes and sayings by icons of Literature, Pop Culture, Religion,Music, Motion Pictures, etc. The book is for the appreciation of true love for the benefit of all. From: $3.71

a second tryst with destiny

The British and our leaders in the greed for power. The desire to become the first PM, they divided our Bharat.

It is now time to reunite Pakistan, India and Bangla Desh and Sri Lanka at least for free trade as in Europe.




Nostalgia posts
http://imnutsincaps.blogspot.com/2005/06/saby-self-portrait.html
http://imnutsincaps.blogspot.com/2005/06/she-is-more-than-wooman.html

http://imnutsincapsquotes.blogspot.com/2005/10/brainstorming.html

http://imnutsincapsdeath.blogspot.com/2005/08/when-does-guy-really-die.html

a tryst with destiny

Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we will redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance .... We end today a period of ill fortune, and India discovers herself again." - Jawaharlal Nehru (Speech on Indian Independence Day, 1947).

The day when India woke up to freedom back in 1947 was a day of great celebration. A country got rid of her foreign yoke and became a sovereign nation, she celebrated her sovereignty on this day - the triumph of numerous martyred souls. It was a day of fulfillment, it was the day of a new beginning, a birth of a nation.On the stroke of midnight, a country came into life again as the British handed over the governance of India to the Indian leaders.The long and difficult struggle had borne fruit at last, though the happiness was marred by the fact that the country was divided into India and Pakistan and the violent communal riots had left the countries permanently scarred. That was the price that India paid for her dearly bought freedom. The British government declared the country independent and left for their own shores.

On the 15th of August, 1947, India became completely independent. It was on this historic date that Jawaharlal Nehru, the first prime Minister of India, unfurled the Indian tricolor on the ramparts the magnificent Red Fort, symbolically marking the end of the British colonial rule.

Women tend to forget, and men to ....

Happy 25th Birthday to the PC

Happy 25th Birthday to the PC
Wed Aug 9, 2006 4:18AM EDT
August 12, 1981. If you were ready to plunk down about $1,600, you could have owned a piece of history: The original IBM 5150 PC, generally considered to be the "first" PC.
At 25 years old, it's fun to look back on how far we've come. At 21 pounds (without drives), the 5150 wasn't much fatter than the PCs of today. Under the hood, things looked a bit different: 40KB of read-only memory and 16KB of RAM (upgradable to 256KB). You could configure the machine with one or two 160KB floppy drives, but a jack for a cassette player was included. Users certainly loved the "power-on automatic self-test of system components" and "built-in speaker for musical programming." And the keyboard (included) weighed six pounds. The 11.5-inch monochrome monitor, capable of displaying 25 lines of text, weighed in at 17 lbs. and supported both upper- and lowercase characters. Whoa.
Mock it if you must, but remember that the 5150 was unlike anything anyone had ever seen. The Apple II, released a few years earlier, came close, but it was more of a hacker toy and game-playing machine than something that would be at home in a business. The 5150 had built-in BASIC and Pascal support for writing programs, and it included a ton of business software: VisiCalc, Peachtree accounting software, and the EasyWriter word processor. And yes, Microsoft Adventure, a text-based adventure game, was available for diversions.
So that was 25 years ago. Looking ahead 25 years is almost impossible (and the further we get from the birth of the PC, the harder and harder it gets), but let's imagine. Magnetic storage will still be around, and your average hard drive will hold something in the vicinity of 30 terabytes (30,000GB) and cost $50 or less. CPU architecture will be vastly different. If we're still using silicon wafers, you could have a 32-core CPU with dedicated encryption and graphics components. In 25 years, graphics will have evolved to the point where Toy Story will seem quaint. You'll be able to compose a production like that in real time, and it'll look perfect on your wall-sized display. And dare we dream of something in true 3-D? Memo to Silicon Valley: Better get busy!
For another walk down memory lane (or rather, a walk down a lane filled with computers that predate the PC most of which you have probably never heard of), check out this page of personal computer milestones, dating back to 1950. And let's hear your memories of the early days of the personal computer. What was your first machine, and how did it change your life? The comments are open!
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VEST's lament

The first thing I remember knowing,
Was a lonesome whistle blowing,

And a young un's dream of growing up to ride;
On a freight train leaving town,

Not knowing where I'm bound,
No-one could change my mind but Mama tried.

One and only rebel child,
From a family, meek and mild:
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store.

Despite all my Sunday learning,
Towards the bad, I kept on turning.

'Til Mama couldn't hold me anymore.
And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.

No-one could steer me right but Mama tried,
Mama tried.Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.

That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.
Instrumental break.

Dear old Daddy, rest his soul,
Left my Mom a heavy load;

She tried so very hard to fill his shoes.
Working hours without rest,

Wanted me to have the best.
She tried to raise me right but I refused.

And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.

-Vest

EXCERPTS from my book


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EXCERPTS
It was a beautiful summer morning in late July 1932. A lightly scented breeze wafted over the myriad of summer flowers near the cottage. We hurried down a long path and crossed the road over to ‘Turners’ farm, where I was subjected to other unfamiliar smells. I saw the brook flowing over a slippery wooden causeway. Hanging over the brook were bushes with white marble-sized seeds that looked like small snowballs, which sheltered the fish in the brook from the sun. As I looked around at that moment, I could feel only happiness. My six-year-old mind focused on the tranquillity of my surroundings and said, “This is where I belong. I never want to leave it… ever.”
My elder brother, Christopher and I had arrived here at the village of Charlham in Oxfordshire the day before. We had travelled by train and bus from London, where our earlier years had been a succession of uncertainties and disappointments.
I was close to home when I saw the coalman open the front gate with a sack of coal on his back. I watched as the big lurcher dog that lived near the mill mounted one of Auntie Parker’s Scots Terriers in the spring flowerbed. Auntie flapped her arms, yelling, “Someone do something!” The coalman promptly dropped his sack of coal and grabbed and squeezed the lurcher’s goolies. The poor dog, his coitus having been interrupted, let out an unearthly howl and shot off down the road, its back legs hobbling in a three-legged sprint.
His local nickname was ‘Ram,’ which I used only once. I wondered what dark secret Ram was hiding. I believe the answer came to me during my first career while listening to sailors’ stories about lonely sheep farmers, particularly those in New Zealand. Their peculiar romantic liaisons with their woolly charges had me thinking that ‘Ram’ may have had intimate contact with the woolly maidens he was entrusted to shear.
As we approached the church, we would form file and then single file and march into the church like a colony of ants. My favourite march was ‘Colonel Bogey’ when the boys would whistle and sing “Bollocks and the same to you.”
Emily took my hand and guided it down her back. After saying; “Ah, that’s better,” she guided me around to the front and told me to “scratch softly, dear boy.” I told her that to touch such beautifully smooth skin was pleasing. She replied, “You are such a darling with words.” After kissing me, she said, “John, dear boy, would you rub the other spot that is itching?”
HMS King George V, a large battleship that was commissioned on 1 October 1940, weighed more than 35,000 tons. It was armed with 10 x 14-inch guns, 16 x 5.25-inch guns, 8 x 8-barrel two pounder pompoms, several 40mm-bofors and 20mm-close range, plus a crew of approximately 1,800 grossly underpaid naval personal.
I saw King George V for the first time while it was undergoing a refit in Gladstone Graving Dock in Bootle, Liverpool. It looked smaller than I thought it would be. Its upper deck was about level with the road surface. The whole ship was a hive of activity, with power lines, pipes, and miscellaneous equipment cluttering both upper and lower decks. There were many navy blokes in uniform or overalls, as well as miscellaneously dressed dockyard mateys moving at a slower pace.
The bookie said “Yeah okay, Jack. I’ll take your bet” and stated that I’d stand a better chance of winning the Melbourne Cup on crutches than I would with a Sydney jockey on a South Australian horse which had recently escaped from the knackers yard. After ‘Rainbird’ beat the field with Billy Cook on board, I felt quite smug. The odds were about twelve to one, I think. These winnings were added to from my 14/1 each way bet on the third horse to finish, its name ‘Leonard’ I just could not resist, but my first ever bet and win never made me addicted to the sport.
Penny lifted the net. I stood there, agape. I felt an unusual tingling throughout my body. Upon reflection, I had last seen a totally unattired female form during my pre-adolescence around the age of ten while swimming in the back brook at Charlham.
It was a beautiful morning with a slow southerly breeze blowing away the early summer heat. An unattended horse was trotting down the shopping street – a stallion with its pendulum swinging in hopeful mode.
My nose guided me towards the source of the aroma of cooking food. When I entered the café, a middle-aged woman with a broom said, “What will it be, young man?”“Bacon and eggs with all the trimmings please, Ma’am.”“Sausages?” she asked.“No, thank you. Did you see that horse go by?” I asked.“Big, wasn’t he. Did he put you off?”“No,” I replied. “It’s just that a lady friend of mine is allergic to them.”“You’re English, aren’t you,” she said. “Do you live around here?”
I told her I was staying with friends and that I was on leave from a ship in the harbour and would be going to England shortly.“Been on a cruise, have you?”“Sort of,” I replied, remembering the past wartime carnage. “But today I’m buying a sweet young lady a parting present.”
A man with an apron said, “Are you in the Pommie navy, sport?”“Yes, sir!” I answered.“Well here then, get stuck into this. It’s on the house.”“Thank you, sir.”
He shook my hand and said, “There’s no need for you to thank me young man, it’s me who should be thanking you.”
As I left the café, the woman blew a kiss. I returned the compliment, as I waved back to her walking smartly up the street, supported by two walking canes.
All that food was starting to have an effect on me, so I asked a bloke who was hosing down outside of the first pub I came to if I could use his dunny.
He looked at me for a while. Then I said, “I’m in serious strife, mate.”
He pointed and mumbled, “Well, you’d better get a move on, sport. It’s over there. Make sure you pull the bloody chain.”
Afterwards, I washed my hands and waved goodbye to a thousand flies. After much deliberation during my sojourn on the dunny, I had made my decision: a gold plated sausage on a chain was out, and a new swimming cossie was in.
The next shop was the green grocer. His sign read ‘Fruitologist.’ Maybe he is, I thought. Emma ordered a lot of vegetables and arranged to have them delivered, explaining that relatives had commandeered our transport and were on holidays in the mountains. Once we were outside, she said, “We forgot onions. Nip back and order three pounds.”
The Fruitologist said, “She must like her onions. Are your relos coming back soon?”“I hope not, mate. I think my Auntie was pleased to see them go; as we have a few problems to discuss.”“She is a very pretty Aunt,” he said. I agreed that they didn’t come any prettier. “How about I add two pounds of carrots for free?”“Are they any good?” I asked”“The best,” he said, smiling.
Several loud bangs outside woke me from my dream. I had been saved from being boiled alive by savage, dark-haired Amazons wearing gold earrings, who had finished having their way with me. Their chief named Auntie had rescued me.
After dinner, Emma and I retired to the bedroom and played submarines in the large bath. Then we lay on the bed with the electric fan blowing. I whistled a tango.“Is it ladies’ choice?” she asked“Yes, please,” I replied. “Go ahead.”
The arrival of the iceman stirred me from my slumber. I used the loo and cleaned my teeth and flossed out the fairy floss.“Tea, lover boy?” she asked.
When we arrived at the hotel, we were greeted by an industrial-sized bloke, who may have also doubled as a chucker-outer.
Emma admired a picture on the wall as I approached the bloke.“How may I help you, sir?” After he spoke, I knew he was a king- sized Albert.“My Aunt and I would like accommodation for one night, preferably for two singles,” I answered.“Sorry, one double only,” he replied.“That will be fine, Albert,” Emma chirped.“The name is Edward, Ma’am, and may I suggest you lay head to toe, you being closely related. By the way, who is Albert?”“He’s the Uncle of a sailor who is my nephew’s friend. He’s a very nice person like you, only thinner,” Emma replied.”How intriguing,” said big Eddy. Looking at the register, he said, “Leonard Hornblower. What a fascinating name.””Yes,” I replied. “I thought you might like it.”
Her bathroom was stunning, complete with one of those French bidets, a shower and a large bath. I showered. Soon after; when Caroline emerged from her session in the bathroom, I said, “Chanel Number Five.”“Yes,” she replied. “Emily’s favourite, too. I’m hoping it will bring back memories.” Caroline topped up our glasses. After removing the towel from the settee, she sat down closer to me. We crossed our glasses. “Drink,” she said. When we had finished each other’s drink, she asked if I knew what that meant. I told her I had no idea. She said, “I hope you enjoy finding out, dear boy. Now come along with me, and don’t look so concerned.”
Although Emily had been inches taller than me when we first met eight years earlier, she was now dwarfed by my growth of twelve inches (thirty cm). My weight had increased accordingly. Emily remarked on my overall transition in size. Later, she beamed an appreciative smile after dominating the proceedings during our first full on love encounter and riding me home like a demented jockey on her first derby winner.
Emily was always prone to tears during emotional situations, and occasionally after making love would ask, “Was that good, darling?” as if she had made all the effort. I would tell her that only Emily Squires (her married name) could produce such a mind-bending performance. I would then spend the next few moments drying sweet little Emily’s eyes.
Going ashore in Gibraltar and seeing Barbary apes sitting on the walls outside the dockyard masturbating in public was quite amusing. On the other hand, the conventional entertainment was super. The Spanish singing and dancing ‘Flamenco dancers’ were great, but ‘must not touch or else.’
The bullfights in La Linea were the best entertainment, especially if you happened to be a cruel, insensitive bastard. Dressed in civilian clothes and with visas, we crossed into Spain. After getting stuck into the Spanish brandy at five shillings a bottle, we were soon chanting “Viva El Toro” – ‘long live the bull’ – which infuriated the local Spaniards.
While dashing across the parade ground to get our pay – which created some confusion around the cannon – an unknown person inserted an extra charge down the barrel. At about five o’clock pm, the visitors watched with baited breath as Henry Harker and the cannon crew appeared in splendid 1800’s attire. Henry then yelled, “Fire!” The cannon belched fire and smoke. The cannon ball missed the canvas and hurtled across the roofs of two Nissen-type army huts that housed Indian and Pakistani naval trainees, leaving a trail of dents and finally plopping into a static water tank. Fortunately, all the occupants had seen fit to watch a hockey game final – Hindus versus Moslems – at the time the cannon ball arrived.
Keeping it in the family was not what I expected when calling on Caroline Courtney-Cowper. It had been my intention to simply honour the invitation that she had made six years before. I made a social call so she would know I had survived the war. Tea and biscuits were all I expected. Shortly after arriving at this very remarkable lady’s home, however, I knew it was going to be difficult to escape. She seized the opportunity to illuminate a period of darkness within her dull love life. This lady was cool, open-minded, very attractive, and generous. She was also a force to be reckoned with within the bounds of her boudoir – a leading lady worth following. You might wonder why I went back for more. However being that I was a free agent at the time and committed to no one. And my needs no less greater than hers, ‘why not’
Our ship also visited Colombo and Trincomalee in Ceylon (Sri Lanka) where I did more exploring and thoroughly enjoyed myself, Sri Lanka is such a beautiful place.
Spunky Chunky Bevan an able seaman aboard HMS Marlbone, was commonly referred to as ‘Chunky with the pineapple balls.’ Most of his conversations were centred on his sexual appetite. His wife in England was with child, as was a Portsmouth bus conductress. It was also learned that a French woman and a Maltese lady Gharry driver had joined Chunky’s pudding club.
I suppose it had to happen eventually. My curiosity got the better of me. Only I knew why I drove through Brighton-Le-Sands.
We passed by the house I had known twenty-five years ago in 1945, where I had stayed with Emma Penny and their uncle, It had hardly changed over the years. A garage was standing where the peach tree had been. Brighton-Le-Sands looked similar to other seaside places we had visited.
I parked the car, bought ice cream for the children, and surveyed the local scenery. I walked past the old house and touched the wrought iron gate that I had so often opened and closed in the past. Mary and I sat on a seat under the Norfolk pine trees, where I had sat twenty-five years before. When I held her hand, I had a strange but beautiful feeling when Mary said, “We have been here before; haven’t we John Spencer?”
I looked at my beautiful wife with the pretty face, brown hair, and brown eyes and replied, “I believe we have, love. I really do.”“I thought it looked familiar,” she said.
Only recently – thirty years after that day with Mary and the family at Brighton-Le-Sands in 1972 – did I tell my wife Mary about my 1945 love escapades. Mary just smiled and said, “Kiss me, John Spencer.”
The wonders of the past have a habit of not returning, but remembering them brings back the warmth and love that never leaves us.
I was quite surprised when Bruce turned up at the club looking quite fit and healthy. Bruce told me he had met his wife, Shirley at the Lady Jane Nudist beach in outer Sydney, where he said she had fallen in love with him at first sight. He said it was a match made in heaven, as Shirley was young and beautiful, owned a logging business in Tasmania, and was ‘stinking rich.’
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This site was last updated Saturday, 28 January 2006
Copyright © 2004-2006 John Leonard Spencer. All rights reserved.

grafiti saturday again, post any shit u want

Sharukh Khan speaks out

VEST and others and COKE good riddance

NEW YORK - "I was SHOCKED to see a giant breast on the cover of your magazine," one person wrote. "I immediately turned the magazine face down," wrote another. "Gross," said a third.
These readers weren't complaining about a sexually explicit cover, but rather one of a baby nursing, on a wholesome parenting magazine — yet another sign that Americans are squeamish over the sight of a nursing breast, even as breast-feeding itself gains greater support from the government and medical community.
Babytalk is a free magazine whose readership is overwhelmingly mothers of babies. Yet in a poll of more than 4,000 readers, a quarter of responses to the cover were negative, calling the photo — a baby and part of a woman's breast, in profile — inappropriate.
Story continues below ↓
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the baby and the boobs http://msnbc.msn.com/id/14065706/?GT1=8307

http://imnutsincaps.blogspot.com/2006/07/well-fuck-me-dis-ass-vest-has.html

Good Old days

A little bit of nostalgia....

To the wonderful kids who were born in India and survived the 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's.
First, we survived being born to mothers, some, whose husbands smoked and/or drank while they carried us. They took aspirin, ate whatever food was put on the table, and didn't get tested for diabetes.

They were mothers who did not check their blood pressure every few minutes.Then after that trauma, our baby cribs and bassinets were covered with bright coloured lead-based paints. We were put in prams and sent outwith ayahs (maids) to meet other children with ayahs, whilst our parents were busy. We cried, were picked up and cuddled by the ayahs" (maids)and were quiet again.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets, and when we rode our bikes we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking or going out on our own. As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or airbags. We sat on each other's laps forGod's sake.

Riding in the back of a station wagon on a warm day was always a special treat. We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from abottle. We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.

We would share a dosa, dip a chapatti into someone else's plate of curry without batting an eyelid. We ate jamsandwiches or pickle on bread and butter, raw mangoes with salt that set our teeth on edge, and drank orange squash with sugar and water in it.We ate at roadside stalls, drank water from tender coconuts, ate everything that was bad for us from mumfalees to Bhel Puri to bhajias and samosas,

but we weren't overweight because WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDEPLAYING! There was never a child - not one single child -who was obese!We would leave home in the morning and play all day during the holidays, we were never ever bored, and we were allowed freedom all day as long as we were back when the street lights came on, or when our parents told us to do so. No one was able to reach us all day by mobilephone or phone. And we were O.K. We would spend hours making paper kites, building things out of scraps with old pram wheels or cycle rims,inventing our own games, playing traditional games called hide and seek,kick the can and rounders, ride old cycles and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes.After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve theproblem.

We swam with an inflated tube which we got from somebody who was replacing their car tyres. We ran barefoot without thinking about it, if we got cut we used iodine on it which made us jump. We did not wash our hands ten times a day. And we were OK. Our parents trusted us to go on picnics with everyone and anyone, a friend of a friend would be OK and we survived.

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games atall, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound,no mobile phones, no personal computers, no I-Pods, no internet or internet chat rooms, no TV, full stop.We did not have parents who said things like "what would you like forbreakfast, lunch or dinner". We ate what was put in front of us and bestof all, there was never any leftovers. We polished the lot.

WE HAD FRIENDS, great friends, whose parents we called Uncle and Aunty, and we went outside and found them!We fell out of trees numerous times, got cut, broke bones and teethand there were no compensation claims from these accidents. We ate fruit lying on the ground that we shook down from the tree above. And we neverwashed fruit. We had a bath using a bucket and mug and used Lifebuoysoap. We did not know what conditioners meant.We made up games with sticks and tennis balls. We rode cycles everywhere and someone sat on the carrier or across the bar to school or the pictures not cinema, or you walked to a friend's house and knockedon the door or rang the bell, or just walked in and talked to them! Not everyone made it into the teams we wanted to. Those who didn't had tolearn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!! The idea of a parentbailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!

This generation of ours has produced some of the best risk-takers,problem solvers and inventors ever! The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas. We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!

Please pass this on to others who have had the luck and good fortuneto grow up as kids in India, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives ostensibly for our own good, who changed what was good into bad and what was bad into worse.

Those were the days my friend !!

a forward from Fr Anil


Are The Good Times Really Over

I wish a buck was still silver and it was back when the country was strong.
Back before Elvis and before the Vietnam war came along.

Before the Beatles and yesterday when a man could still work and still would.
Is the best of the free life behind us now and are the good times really over for good ?

Are we rollin' downhill like a snowball headed for hell?
With no kind of chance for the flag or the liberty bell?

I wish a Ford or a Chevy would still last ten years like they should.
Is the best of the free life behind us now and are the good times really over for good?

I wish Coke was still cola and a joint was a bad place to be.
It was back before Nixon lied to us all on TV.

Before Microwave ovens when a girl could still cook, and still would.
Is the best of the free life behind us now and are the good times really over for good ?

Are we rollin' downhill like a snowball headed for hell?
With no kind of chance for the flag or the liberty bell?

I wish a Ford or a Chevy would still last ten years like they should.
Is the best of the free life behind us now and are the good times really over for good?

Stop rollin' downhill like a snowball headed for hell.
Standup for the flag, and let's all ring the liberty bell.

Let's make a Ford and a Chevy that'll still last ten years like they should...
The best of the free life is still yet to come and the good times ain't really over