The Vol Abroad

pink flower

2008-07-24T18:16:00.001+01:00

pink flower, originally uploaded by London looks.

I don't know what this one is called. But it has furry, silvery foliage.

Obamania in Germany

2008-07-24T17:59:00.003+01:00

The Germans love, love, love Obama. Seventy-five percent of them want him to be the next president of the United States. See this BBC film on Obamania in Germany, which includes footage from a Deustchland's finest country and western fans enthusing wildly.

Even the BBC (generally in the tank for Barack) point out that a love this great could lead to disappointment later on.

I'd also point out that Germans don't, in fact, have a vote, which is just as well given their historical record on choosing charismatic leaders who know how to whip up a crowd.

Jesus loves you

2008-07-23T21:24:00.006+01:00

Walking down the street today and a man passed me in a rush and then told the man behind me, loudly, that Jesus loved him.

I could hear the guy, perhaps a little bit in shock, chuckling to himself over the unexpected encounter.

I turned to him and said, jokingly "But not me, apparently."

He smiled and said "Jesus loves you, too. You don't need to be told that."

Reverse augmentation

2008-07-23T20:38:00.004+01:00

I had a breast cyst. Apparently they're not uncommon for women. It developed ages ago and it got a bit bigger. I didn't know it was a breast cyst, I just thought it was a lump. I knew it had formed during a fairly classic case of blocked duct, so I was pretty sure it was benign. But it just wouldn't go away. And you know what with all that breast cancer publicity, it does sort of cross your mind.

Here's a clinical description:

Cysts are fluid filled sacs within the breast. These sacs form when normal milk producing glands enlarge. The cause of this enlargement is not definitely known but is very likely related to an imbalance between the normal production and absorption of fluid. Breast cysts may be solitary but are most commonly multiple and can vary in size from microscopic to larger than a ping pong ball.

And let's just say, I was hitting the ping pong edge of the scale.

Today I went to the specialist breast clinic at my local hospital. (Yes, they call it a breast clinic, which I think is kinda funny). I was seen by a male nurse practitioner. Pretty much not all the kind of person I wanted to see. I would have preferred a female doctor, but there you are. The guy had a nice manner about him though and he seemed kinda gay. Don't know if he actually was gay or just affected the slightly gay thing, regardless it was somewhat reassuring.

There's the usual waiting and undressing and breast touching and so forth and then he told me he was going to stick a needle in my breast. I think I made a bit of a face, because he went all touchy-feely and stuff and asked me if it was a problem and did I need the other nurse to hold my hand? I assured him that I wasn't needle-phobic (I'm not) and that I'd be ok. I think they expected me to flip and the other nurse did hold my hand. I'm not the kind of person who finds that sort of thing comforting, but I was too worried about offending her and maybe it's part of their tactic to get in there and hold down a flailing arm if they need to.

Sticking a needle in the old breast tissue doesn't sound good, but it didn't actually hurt. In fact, it was far less painful than a blood draw, way less painful than getting your ears pierced or getting a tattoo. I'd wholeheartedly recommend it to even the most pain sensitive. They didn't even administer any pain relief - and a lydocaine shot almost certainly would have been more painful than the actual procedure.

The aspiration took a while because he pulled out five syringes (58ml) worth of instant-ice tea colored fluid from the cyst. Nasty. But when I saw them all lined up on the little stainless steel hospital trolley I said "I wish I'd brought my camera."

Because I was thinking of you, dear reader.

I'd been led to believe that the needle thing was to be diagnostic, but it turned out to be curative (hopefully). But the best part about the whole episode was that their "calming technique" was basically asking me questions about me. I was happy to comply.

A real live cow

2008-07-23T07:47:00.004+01:00

When I was a sophomore at the University of Tennessee, I took a friend of mine up to Cades Cove. She was beginning her third year, but had never been. It was early Autumn, and though the color wasn't high, I expected we'd see lots of deer. And we did. She'd never seen white tail deer before and she was amazed when I predicted that they'd flash their white tails when I startled them.

But I was even more amazed to find that she was less interested in the deer than in the cattle. There was still at least one working farm in the Cove then and she'd never seen cows before. Not up close like that. See, she was from Philly. A City Girl.

Now, I wasn't raised on a farm or anything like that. But I guess I had a basic working knowledge of cows and certainly I'd been on other people's farms and my granddad sold supplies to farmers. And from a young age I'd been to my cousins' other grandparents and my uncle had let me bottle feed calves as a special treat. You have to make your own fun in small town Tennessee.

I understood that not everyone had experiences like that, but I thought everyone had seen a cow. But I took real joy in her fascination. I did have to explain to her that it wasn't such a good idea to hop the fence and get in with the bullocks trying to pet them.

I don't know what they have in Philly, but around the UK there are City Farms. Back when the Vol-in-Law and I were first married in Sheffield and had no money we used to regularly visit Graves Park and city farm. That was a great city farm. There was a petting area and they had acres of pens stocked with rare breeds - heritage pigs and the woolly mammoth looking highland cattle.

When we lived in Coventry, we took one sad, sorry visit to a city farm in what's described in policy circles here as a "deprived area". Apparently, they'd had some unfortunate incidents in the past and so visits to the animals had to be supervised. We were escorted around the livestock by a sickly looking ten year old who kept a close and suspicious eye on how we petted the pony.

Buddy likes animals and I certainly wouldn't want him growing up to be a young adult who's never seen a cow up close and personal.

Early agricultural training

Where we live now, there's a city farm within walking distance of our house. It's a long walk, but it's doable. On Sunday, we went there, breaking our trip with a stop at an Italian restaurant and a glass of wine overlooking the River Wandle. (Sounds swish, but the Wandle is little better than a drainage ditch in some places).

Deen City Farm isn't exactly a petting zoo, but if you go at a certain time (2 to 3 and some other window in the morning hours) you can buy a plastic cup full of feed pellets to coax the goats and sheep and alpacas close enough to the bars of their pens. to stick your hand in and stroke their woolly coats.

We didn't spend much time on the cows this last visit, as they're not really on eye level with the baby.

Buddy's happy to see the animals, but he's not amazed and he's not cowed. He kicked a greedy goat in the head.

And stuck his finger in the aviary, much to the delight of some hungry, curious parakeety type things. The bird bit him on the finger, which freaked me out a little (I have a slight avian phobia) but phased him not at all. He withdrew his finger, considered his position and then poked the bird again.

Pay to pray

2008-07-22T22:34:00.003+01:00

It costs dearly to go to a church in this country. Not just any old church, but one of the big famous ones. Like St Paul's or Canterbury Cathedral. Like the kind of money you pay and expect to get rides.

But here's a little tip. If you actually go into church at the right time and sit there for a service you can pray for free. Oh sure, they pass the basket around, but believe you me you can respectably drop in a pound coin or two and that'll save you at least a fiver off admission. But once you're in, sneaking off to look at the statuary is considered uncouth.

I happened to going past Westminster Abbey today, which is filthy with tourists right now. I overheard an American couple asking about the free admissions (I guess for evensong) and the tabard wearing attendant said "Yes, you can come in for free for the service if you plan to stay the whole hour."

_______
At Canterbury you pay a lot, but the ticket is good for a year - so not so bad on the locals.

Battersea zoo

2008-07-17T23:34:00.001+01:00

Otters playing with a hose
Originally uploaded by London looks

Having a kid means being able to, at last, unashamedly go to places like Battersea Children's Zoo.

Worth the price of admission just for the otters

Come up and see my etchings

2008-07-12T19:02:00.001+01:00

At last. A free day. My normal work schedule got flipped around, so I had a day off when Buddy was in daycare.

I could have lounged around the house and played video games, but we decided to make the most of the day and planned a museum visit, dim sum in China Town and a swimming/sauna/spa trip to a swanky gym in the center of town.

Although we've been to the British Museum many times, we decided to go there because there were a couple of special exhibits on. A Chinese Garden in the forecourt (lame), flowers and insects in Chinese art (lame) and The American Scene: Prints from Hopper to Pollock. Brilliant.

Prints and etchings from the first half of the 20th Century, including works from Hopper (always great) and Pollock (yeah, whatever) and some iconic works like George Bellow's A Stag at Sharkey's. They were all stark and dark and social-commenty and stuff, the Vol-in-Law declared they were not quite Hogarthian, but he could see where they were going. But mostly they were just really powerful images playing with light and shadow in a really striking way.

I sort of forget that British Museum has stuff like this. Although I've been many times, I'm usually going with a visitor and it's a quick look at the big Assyrian thingies, a gander at the Rosetta Stone (if you can press through the throng) and maybe check out the Elgin marbles or the big hall of Egyptian mummies. If that's all you have time for, that's probably a good way to go.

But checking out the special exhibit meant we headed off the north side, where apparently we've never been - because very little of it looked familiar. We'll have to go back again, because after a tour around the Korean room and quick jaunt through a great hall of Asian treasures, it was time for our lunch. Besides, too much museum in one day gives you artifact daze.

Besides the special exhibit, I think the Korean room was a favorite. There's a definitely a cool style vibe going for the Koreans - simple and pragmatically beautiful everyday objects. In some way it reminded me of Finnish design sensibility (though not the same look at all). My favorite was a simple green ewer with a leaf pattern (though I didn't think to take a picture).

Korean fans

In the great big Asian hall that I can't believe we've never been to

A boy and his doll

2008-07-11T09:36:00.001+01:00

watchful, originally uploaded by London looks.

At Buddy's weekly playgroup, I've seen that he has an interest in the baby dolls. I was keen to encourage this because he's never shown the slightest attachment to any kind of cuddle or cumfy, despite having been given an impressive collection of cute stuffed animals from pigs to cats to polar bears. He's always preferred hard edged plastic toys.

I guess the baby dolls have enough hardness about them and he loves to finger their eyes and ears and toes.

So, I went on the hunt for a doll that he could call his own.

It's very hard to find an appropriate doll for a very little boy, I've discovered. I didn't want one that weed or cried or shed "real" tears. And not just because they cost a lot more. I already have a baby that wees and cries and sheds real tears. And I have a rather painful early childhood memory of a doll whose mechanical cries scared the wits out of me. It was relegated to a drawer and even seeing it in my late childhood elicited a little frisson of fear. I'm uncomfortable even remembering that thing with her non-removable pink polka dot outfit and the drawstring wail of death.

I finally found one that didn't cost too much and doesn't do too much (apparently this one will say Papa and Mamma if you insert some batteries into its chest cavity which we will not be doing.)

That was Baby Hannah.

I'm trying not to play too much into gender stereotypes, but Baby Hannah came in a sickeningly sweet, cotton candy pink sleeper outfit. It was just a little bit too girly for my boy.

Baby Hannah was stripped down and changed into one of Buddy's old outfits and became Petey. Petey isn't anatomically correct, so no one need know about his gender dysmorphic past.

Sadly, and very much unlike us, we were quite organised about putting away Buddy's earliest outfits. So although Petey should be wearing newborn sizes, he tends to wear a few outsized 0 to 3 month garments that were hidden in the dark recesses of our dirty clothes basket. We just roll up the legs and pull the waistband high. And Petey can't go naked because he has a non-washable cloth body and Buddy sometimes likes Petey to join him at meal times.

Running on empty

2008-07-10T23:09:00.001+01:00

We have an old car. It a good runner, but it's old. There are some thing wrong with it. Chief amongst them, perhaps, is that the gas gauge doesn't work. We had a spell of humid weather and it sort of stuck in the half-tank position.

We discovered this when we were trying to make a ferry to Germany (and didn't have much time) and the gas light came on. It's fair to say that I'm a nervous traveler. I was freaking - I could just see us (me, my husband and VolBro) stuck on the side of the motorway somewhere in Norfolk as our ship sailed.

There are often many, many miles between motorway stops and rest stations in the UK.

The Vol-in-Law, optimist that he is, figured that we not only had enough gas to get to the next refueling point, but also enough to get us to the ferry port.

I did not agree.

Fortunately, we found a petrol station before the car went pfft, pftt, pluuutttt.

All throughout our road trip through Germany, Denmark, Sweden and Norway I topped up the car whenever I could. I knew it was a little more than necessary, but I didn't fancy coming to a dead stop on one of those high mountain roads with the mountains on the left and a plummet to the sea on the right. The Vol-in-Law kept insisting that the light came on when the fuel level reached a quarter of a tank. Meaning miles and miles and miles of driving ahead.

He told me that his father had told him this.

That's the same man who ran out of gas on the Forth Road Bridge. The same guy who has apparently a relatively long and sorry history of running out of gas.

You don't want to be stuck here.

So anyway, our argument has lasted many years now. With me immediately wanting to fill up after I see the gas light and him saying there's no need to worry, that we could run our errands, go to the park, have a little tootle round London and still have no worries about running out of gas.

So who knows who's right? (Me obviously, but let's stick with the question for a rhetorical point.)

Now perhaps there's a website that could help answer that question. Tank on Empty. The idea is that you self-report how long it took you to completely run out of gas after the warning light came on. Problem is, many of the self reporters are liars, with a disturbing number of 99 miles votes for a disturbing (statistically disturbing) number of cars.

Here's a hint. When you see the light - just fill up the tank.

(Hat Tip Sharon Cobb)

Photo credit: Forth Bridge from Patrick Down shown here under a Creative Commons license.

Fete

2008-07-06T18:44:00.003+01:00

The school where I do some volunteering had its annual summer fayre or fete or fair or whatever it's called. So, of course, we went down to have a look. Without Buddy, I think our visit might have lasted fifteen minutes. But Buddy loves to see other children and so he had a grand old time.

There was a big BBQ, with women in hijab serving lamb kebabs with spicy Indian sauces. There was a bouncy castle (Buddy's too little for that), and cotton candy (candy floss in Brit-speak) and a baked good stall and bric-a-brac and books for sale and various other ways to fleece money out of fayre-goers.

And there was the money-making scheme that I remember so well from my school-going, church youth-group attending days.

Krispy Kreme donuts.

And they tasted better than I remember. (I've been sort of down on Krispy Kreme since I got thrown out of the one in Knoxville - for singing. As I recall, the other patrons loved it.)

The man at the donut stall (a parent)had gotten a very good deal on the donuts (I wasn't clear if he got them free or not). And he got a lot of balloons, too. One of them he gave to Buddy, who was thrilled!

Happy Independence Day

2008-07-04T09:32:00.002+01:00

Being an American in Britain on the 4th of July is a very strange thing. Celebrating Independence Day in the land of our former colonial masters is a little like celebrating the anniversary of a divorce in your ex-in-laws' beach house. You can still have a good time, but you're always aware.

What can Brits do to ease the awkwardness and ensure a Happy Fourth?

no snarky comments about impertinent colonists
no jibes about how we've made a mess of our independence - especially over the last eight years or so
no general anti-Americanism (yes, I know it's hard)
sparklers should be on sale at every corner store
bring us a brownie
a paid day off work would be nice

and last but not least....

tax free tea all day

Nary a crow to be seen

2008-07-03T19:56:00.002+01:00

We saw an amazing display of scarecrows at the RHS Wisley today. They seem to have all been put together by various Women's Institutes around the South East of England. Many of the figures were women and a number celebrated women's suffrage. And one was of the cat in the hat.

terra cotta day lily

2008-06-30T22:32:00.001+01:00

P1030183-1, originally uploaded by London looks.

in my garden

Our brilliant and brief career as pageant parents

2008-06-29T12:37:00.000+01:00

The local Catholic church* had its summer fayre yesterday. Among the fundraising activities, was a Bonny Baby competition (entry fee £2). When I saw the flyer, I thought:

"Heck yeah, that cash prize/blue ribbon/certificate/goldfish in a bag is as good as mine. Surely, we have the bonniest baby this side of SW19."

I mentioned it to the Vol-in-Law who I thought would surely dismiss the idea out of hand, but he was keen. Eager, even. "I know we have the best looking baby, but it would be nice to have some official recognition."

We even discussed outfits and bemoaned the fact that it was unlikely that we could get him to wear a hat for the period of the judging for maximum cuteness and to cover his still somewhat lumpy head - a potential point loser. Even so, we figured as long as he was in a reasonable mood and we dressed him in bright colors we'd walk the contest.

But then he had the "accident".

Oh, it wasn't much at first. I noticed a scratch on his nose when I picked him up from daycare. But overnight the scratch inflamed a little and scabbed over in a most unsightly way. And in Bonny Baby competitions, I reckon they generally look for a child without blemish.

The Vol-in-Law immediately suspected sabotage. Some other parent, with some less attractive, but still quite cute baby got their child to scratch Buddy's nose in some Tonya Harding -esque bid to knock out the stiffest competition.

Quite clearly he wasn't competition ready - and though I briefly considered smearing a little concealer over the scratch - I couldn't quite bring myself to do that. I didn't want to be that kind of parent.

But I needn't have worried about becoming one of those obsessive pageant parents. The scab fell off and there was but the merest hint of a scratch, but I just couldn't be bothered find a clean, cute outfit and struggle with him over the hat. So we went to the playground instead.

photoshopping away the imperfections

________

*I'm not sure it's technically our local. We probably fall outside the boundaries of the dioceses or parish or whatever it is even though it's definitely the closest Catholic church to our house.

Happy (late) (British) Veteran's Day

2008-06-28T16:16:00.002+01:00

Happy Veteran's Day.

In Britain.

Yesterday.

Yes, I let it pass unremarked, but so too did the rest of the country. Apparently. My British colleagues had no idea.

It's a new thing here. And I have to say it's much needed. Remembrance Sunday is a big thing here, but technically you have to be dead to be honoured - which takes a little bit of the fun out of it. Veterans - until a couple of years ago - had no official celebration.

I'm not a big fan of Gordon Brown, but good for him for bringing this in.

So, let me say - thanks to all the British Veterans.

-0-

Technically the Vol-in-Law qualifies as a British veteran, given his 14 months or so in the British Territorial Army (reserves). I think he was mostly in it for the subsidised beer, though.

Get to work

2008-06-26T12:19:00.001+01:00

Get to work, originally uploaded by London looks.

Buddy is obsessed by brushes. Hairbrushes, nail brushes, brooms and scrub brushes.

The Vol-in-Law has fantasy in which he's going to train Buddy to clean up after us. I think he's nuts, but it looks like we're off to a good start.

The Widow Radomski's bouquet

2008-06-26T11:25:00.003+01:00

This morning I took Buddy out for a stroll in the nearby cemetery. The grass was so high the tombstones were barely visible in some places. There were yellow meadow flowers in bloom (I'll go back with a camera later if I get a chance UPDATED - I did!)) and it was lovely in a sad kind of way. I started to sing "Where have all the graveyards gone? Gone to flowers every one. When will they ever learn (to mow)."

We ran into a woman who was there to tend the grave and she said, quite unprompted, "It's disgraceful, isn't it?"

Now, I'm not much one for chit chat in the cemetery, because those conversations never end on a particularly joyous note. But I agreed and asked which plot was hers. She pointed out what I presume must have been her husband's grave. It was a bit overgrown, but not as bad as some of the other graves. She told me that she'd brought flowers to put on his grave and I asked her if they were from her garden and told her how lovely the bouquet was (see I was trying to bring it back to a happy note).

She then gave the bouquet to me. I refused, of course. But she said the grave was in such bad shape that she'd rather I enjoyed them at my house than leave them amidst the untidiness. And she misted up, visibly upset, and on her way to complain to the cemetery office and Lambeth council.

I left the cemetery, clutching the flowers and trying not to look like a grave robber. (But really there's no other way to look when you leave a graveyard with a bouquet in hand).

Buddy met a little lamb

2008-06-25T22:32:00.001+01:00

Buddy met a little lamb, originally uploaded by London looks.

We walked a very long way today to the Deen City Farm, which turns out is quite a long way away. I don't know why I didn't drive. I guess I just fancied a long stroll.

We'd been once before and Buddy could only summon up a bit of interest in some chicks. This time he loved everything. The sheep, the goats, the ducks, the geese, the chickens, the guinea pigs, the rabbits and the ferret. Especially the ferret.

He screamed so for the ferret that the sullen looking teenager who was messing with it (and who was probably there by some community service order) let him pet it.

In retrospect, slinky, bitey rodenty things are probably not best put into the paws of an exuberant one year old. But he loved it.

I would have taken a picture, but I didn't want to be that parent. You know the parent that takes the picture instead of staunching the flow of blood from the gushing ferret bite wound.

(There were no bites. Baby and ferret parted unharmed)

Love those rental rates

2008-06-24T20:58:00.003+01:00

Hey kids it's Wimbledon - and this is the first year that we have full service on a bus that runs from spitting distance from my front door (but not right on my street) straight to the Wimbledon tennis grounds. Seriously, it's less than 20 minutes* and practically zero walking.

And do you know what that means? That means if I could get my act together we could rent out our house or do a house swap during Wimbledon for some seriously fab locale. I hear rich people with nice houses like Wimbledon.

But, I don't get my act together. Our house is a tip. A tip filled with baby and baby accessories. Maybe next year.

_______
For you folks with cars with America, maybe 20 minutes doesn't sound that close. In London it is.

Choosing from the dregs?

2008-06-23T22:10:00.002+01:00

I do love the European Football Championship, but without England, it's just joyless. Yes, I know I've said this before. But for months after England failed to qualify, every time I thought about it I wanted to throw up a little.

As the first of the knock out games began, I started to watch a little more. But now all the teams I might have liked are gone.

Who's left to love? Russia, Turkey, Spain and Germany. The evil axis of footballing? Maybe Spain. I had a pretty good time there. Maybe Germany, I got a lot of free drinks there one time.

Smells like...

2008-06-22T16:45:00.003+01:00

There's been some heavy advertising on tv lately for a new men's fragrance from Dunhill called London.

Now, I do love this city. But I don't know if you want to smell like diesel fumes and stale chips and the rush hour Underground on a wet day or maybe a little whiff of something icky coming off the Thames.

And Dunhill - don't they make cigarettes? I don't know if you want to smell like that either.

But hey, splash that cologne all over if you want to.

America's got Mongolian throat music

2008-06-21T12:42:00.002+01:00

Because I was missing Britian's Got Talent so much, we watched a little bit of America's Got Talent - with British judges. It's not nearly as good - and I keep watching it trying to figure out why.

Partly, I think it's poor chairing. The Hoff is just a bit too chaotic, he votes before he's supposed to vote, he speaks out of turn. The panel is supposed to have a rotating chair, but Hoff seems to think he's always chairing. On Britain's Got Talent, it worked. When Piers was chairing, Piers chaired. When Amanda was chairing, the other two followed her lead. And when Simon Cowell chaired, of course, he was in control.

I haven't been to an American business meeting in many, many years. I do know they're different. I know they have a different rhythm. From what I hear, there's more "get down to business" and less of the introductory weather related chit-chat that occurs in almost every British business meeting. (It doesn't last long, don't worry.)

Some time ago my friend Vol-K was over on business, and she asked me and another ex-pat what she should expect for her very first business meeting. We told her about the chit-chat. Later she said she was grateful for the advice as she felt herself getting impatient during the blather phase.

But what about American chairing? Are Americans less likely to follow the lead of the chair? Or is it just a David Hasselhoff thing?

-0-

One of the acts last night on America's Got Talent was a guy who played the banjo and did the Mongolian throat singing thing. He didn't make it too far. He was amiable, but rubbish. It was really worse than it sounds. And banjo + throat singing doesn't seem like a good combo on paper. But I could sort of peer through this particular artist's crapness to see that maybe banjo and whistle-tube singing could work. Just not with that guy.

When I was Amsterdam a number of years ago, not touring the red light district and not smoking myself into a daze at the "coffee shops" but visiting museums and viewing Dutch masters I came across a troupe of Mongolian throat singers. They were busking underneath an archway that lead to the National Gallery of the Netherlands (or some similar type museum). It was pretty darn amazing. I was entranced.

I bought a CD with a fistful of Euros. Then I had a little buyer's remorse. What if it was crap? What if that archway provided them was some sort of amazing acoustics that didn't translate to CD?

Anyway, I listened to it at home. Let me say this - it doesn't exactly have a great beat and it isn't easy to dance to, but it's cool in a weird sort of way.

The throat singing guy last night made me want to see if I could dig out the CD and by the fates, it happened to be the second CD in the giant stack of un-put-away CDs just sitting by the stereo. So I played it again - yeah, it was pretty cool.

Buddy thought so, too. He was transfixed and stomped his feet and wanted to get closer to the speakers.

The band was Altai Hangai and here they are with Barrelhouse.

Why I haven't been blogging much of late

2008-06-21T12:35:00.003+01:00

Why I haven't been blogging much of late

Dunno, really. I've been blogging more at work. Don't bother looking for it, it's not that interesting. Well, for one or two readers, it might be kind of interesting, but not really.

I've been doing lots of Web2.0 things at work and I guess one only has so much to give to social media.

Plus, I'm tired. Still very tired. Buddy still doesn't sleep through the night.

Islamism and fascism, happy bedfellows

2008-06-21T12:25:00.002+01:00

Here's an interesting post from Harry's Place which captures some interesting conversions from the far right to extreme Islamism.

I reckon it's not that big a step - particularly if you're fueled by hatred of the joos.

Commenter Wardytron nails it:

Plus they’ve seen that you get far more indulgence and less outright hostility as an Islamist as opposed to a neo-Nazi, the ideological leap is tiny - you get to keep all your enemies - gays, Jews, liberals, women - and you’re joining a movement which, if not actually flourishing, isn’t down to nearly single figures. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.

I guess one thing that makes it hard to make the transition to Islam - even the violent, nasty political hate-filled kind is having to give up beer.