And, to follow on from the apt reading detailed below, a timely shot in the arm of ormskirk oddity as I went to buy breakfast. The gambling arcade (free tea and coffee!)was open at ten past nine in the morning. It was full. Every single one of the players was a woman in her seventies, and the entire lot of them were listening to Muse. Very loudly indeed.
I note, somewhat wearily, that creepy old men are back in the news, being creepy. Creepy old men, and their apologists and enablers, who argue that their creepiness is somehow the natural order of things. Old men would have you believe that it is difficult to not be a creepy old man. That it is a task of epic proportions. It is not that difficult. It is a matter of intention. As yet more of the grimness of Epstein unfolds, creepy old men are, sadly, a flaccid topic once again. Whether it be pursuing students thirty years their junior, or simply not asking too many questions about the background of the probably legal young woman who you've just been introduced to by your good pal Jeff. To be clear, I am not referring to criminal creepy old men, the ones who actually committed statutory rape, the ones who fucked trafficked hirls. That is not something which is allowed to get away merely with the contempt of the observer. That deserves prison. No , I'm referring to the hinterla...
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