Kangen Water - A Personal View: Addendum.

There is an obligation sweeping over me to up-date the information from a previous ‘Blog’.

That ‘Blog’ was called “Kangen Water – A Personal View”.

It was written last August.

In that ‘Blog’ there was made mention of a ‘young’ lady who had cancer.

In her latest medical check up the doctors can find no trace of cancer; they are, it seems, unable to declare her ‘cancer free’ until no trace has been found for five years.  

She looks well; she looks fit and, she tells me, she feels wonderful.

An acquaintance of ours has a child who gets epileptic fits every time she has a fever. Every time. 

This child is, maybe, six or seven. The ages of children and the judging thereof is not one of my primary skills!

The little girl—it is a female child, is also immensely shy with strangers and especially going to others’ homes.

Her Mummy comes to our house every Sunday to collect nine or ten containers of ‘Kangen Water’ for them all to drink during the week. My wife does not charge them for it; it is given away because the health of other people is just as important to us as our own health. Supplying the water costs us far less than the good will and potential friendship that we could develop.

The little girl’s Mum informs us, last week, that the daughter went to hospital with a fever. She is required to go as a precaution.

There was no epilepsy and yet the fever was higher than normal—that said, the fever did not last as long as ‘normal’.

The family came to our house to get more water on Sunday and the little girl was quite perky and curious. Most unusual.

Once again I must stress that I was a sceptic. Severely so.

Now, I hear people tell me that this ‘water’ is no better than ‘snake oil’—a scam. They quote me all kinds of scientific proofs; they tell me all sorts of facts about the body and how it works.

Good.

Believe that if you must.

I did.

Now I drink it.

Now I listen to people who drink it.

Now I hear testimonials from an ever-increasing band of souls who drink it and feel better for it.

Perhaps a small lesson should be repeated here.

If you do not care for tattoos—do not get one.

If you do not care for fried calamari squids—do not eat them.

If you do not care for motorcycle gangs—do not join one.

It is the same with products of all kinds. If you think it does not work then do not buy it.

Another lesson here is that you get what you pay for—normally. Buy cheap—get rubbish. 

If you want the best then you have to pay the price. 

You are not going to get a Rolls-Royce or a Bentley for the same price as a Nissan Micra.

My diabetes has gone; the blood pressure is down and I feel better.

Odd thing: Go to the kitchen and drink a couple of large glasses of tap water. You will feel bloated. Drink a couple of same size glasses of ‘Kangen Water’ and you will need a third after a minute or two.

Where does it go?

Ask your ‘scientific friends’ that.

Your choice.

Your life.

Change your water—change your life.

Beanz Meanz Fartz

Terrible wind today. Not outside—me.

Personally.

Yes, I have awful gas. It makes me entirely unsociable. One wonders what was eaten to inspire this outrushing of foul vapours.

“Ye Gods! That is dreadful, man!”

“Great Scott! I can nearly taste that—go outside and shake yourself!”

“Oh, that is ghastly! What on Earth have you been eating?”

I don't know. Really, I do not know.

We have all been through it. We have all had those blushingly embarrassing times when you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole.

But we all do it.

All of us.

Women say that they do not do this, that they can control it. This is false.

Women, like men, are human beings and they also pass wind.

‘Passing wind’ is the nice way to say it, of course.

And yet it is a joke. We hear that someone is about as useful as a ‘fart in a thunderstorm’ or ‘as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit’.

The word ‘fart’ becomes immediately jocular; it precedes or embraces, all the humorous aspect of flatulence.

There is nothing remotely funny about ‘flatulence’ but mention ‘fart’ and people will, usually, smile.

It is because it is so socially awkward that it becomes humorous in the third party telling in the form of a joke or a piece of gossip.

How juicy is it when we hear that someone ‘let one rip’ at a classy function?

Squeaky ones, rumbling ones and those ‘silent but deadly’ ones. We are familiar with them all.

We all do it. We all pass wind and yet it is impolite to talk about it other than between friends and then, often, in jest.

We know about the person in the lift (elevator) who lets one go and then looks disdainfully at someone else to divert attention away from himself.

We like jokes along the lines of:

Posh lady at the table farts.

She looks up smartly and says to the butler, “James! Stop that at once!”

The butler instantly replies, “Certainly, Ma’am. Which way did it go?”

We can, nearly all of us, recite one joke or another about the dog that gets blamed.

We all know about the butler rushing into his Lordship, who is sitting in the bath, with a hot water bottle.

His Lordship says, “I did not ask for a hot water bottle.”

The butler responds with, “But I distinctly heard you say, ‘What about a water bottle, Buttle’!”
(You have to speak that last line as if you are bubbling through water, of course.)

Yes, we all have flatulence from time to time.

It is the subject of humour until it is encountered ‘in the flesh’, as it were.

Even women suffer from it. Or, more correctly, even we suffer from women having it!

The scientists who study such things—really? Those scientists tell us that everyone farts, on average, fourteen times a day. Well, in the last hour…

Pass the beans, please, my dear.

Immigration

I was among the foreign masses washed up on the shores of Malaysia. In this case the ‘shores of Malaysia’ were represented by counter 24 of the Immigration office in Kuala Lumpur.

But masses there certainly were. The office that we were contained within was packed to capacity. 

There were other offices. For those that wished, like my beloved wife, to renew their passports there was another, considerably less crowded, office.

Another office was for the renewal of Foreign Worker Permit Renewal—mostly for maids and construction workers, it seems.

There is a lot of construction going on around us.

There are rules posted around the walls and behind most of the Immigration Officer’s desks. These rules concern the type of dress code that is expected when you visit this Government establishment. There was also, I noted, a poster at the main entrance with a similar form of pictorial description of the sort of clothes that one should not wear.

Of course, once you get there it is now a bit late to go home and change, is it not?

Consequently there were several young ladies (I saw no men wearing short skirts or sleeveless tops) that might be regarded as being inappropriately dressed.

But what is their alternative? They usually leave coming for their visa renewal or application at the last minute so turning around and going home to change is not a real option.

I did note that the attention of several men was upon a couple of those young ladies—especially the couple that were, how shall we say, a shade more buxom than the others. Some of the men hid behind their mobile ‘phones to look, others used newspapers but all were certain that they did not want their wives to notice that their attention was straying. You can imagine the conversation on the way home would be a little… sensitive?

Some people brought children. Children? Here? Did they not believe that the little ones might become bored?

A few of these children were supplied with sugary treats to try and purchase their good graces. This fails on two counts.

Firstly, the child does not understand blackmail or enticement. It only understands ‘want, gimme, got, more—now’. If some treat was available then there must be more available now. NOW!

Secondly, the child is now in the valuable possession of what is called a ‘sugar rush’. This leads to even more excitable and physical behaviour. The wild antics of the child will soon degenerate into the well-known ‘tantrum’ that can only be assuaged by the application of even more sugary treats.

I wonder if they have a dental plan!

A guy in front of us started coughing. I had visions of Beloved and I spending time under medication three days hence. We moved. The guy behind me had gas. It was rank. We moved again.

They shut the office for lunch. It is impossible to blame the staff. Rather than closing down some counters and keeping the flow going they had a plan to shut everything down, turn off the lights and lock the doors. After looking at a succession of sad faces and endless sob-stories they had had enough. Close up and go for a meal.

Good plan.

We went to the restaurant downstairs. The food was ‘done’ rather than ‘cooked’. But it was food. It was also a respite from the packed odours of the office upstairs. The level of noise hardly abated but it was not so odiferous and the space between people was rather more distant.

An hour later the doors burst open and we poured, like a glutinous stream of human detritus, back into the office to await, once more, our turn to see an official.

As usual the one we saw was polite, kind, helpful. How do they do it? By this time of day, having been subjected to this torrent of anguish for several hours, I should have been willing to leap over the counter and pummel the applicant into the ground.

We left.

Freedom.

We have to go back in the next few weeks but, for now, we are out in the sunshine. We are not pressed up against some foreign person who has yet to be instructed in the use of toilet arrangements in this, civilised, World.

Next time you see a photo of an idyllic, sun-drenched beach in a tropical paradise and yearn to lie on it in your retirement remember that it is not all sunshine and roses.

Sometimes it is diseased foreigners and screaming children.

Donald Trump and 'Coca-Cola'

Once again we are reminded of the power of the media.

I am, at once, in awe and, in equal part, terrified of what the media has to tell us—the common person, the ‘man on the street’, as it were.

We are assailed from all corners about the progress of one ‘Donald Trump’ through the corridors that lead to the position of ‘Leader of The United States’; also known as POTUS, I am led to believe.

We are assured that he is the devil’s spawn and, therefore, the least likeliest person possible to attain the Presidency.

Of course, those of us that inhabit the ‘Free World’ that exists outside of the United States only know this Trump fellow through the television show of ‘The Apprentice’ where his autocratic bawling of “You’re fired!” had the mindless gawkers on the edge of their seat to see which sad person had been expunged from the show this time.

However, this ‘Least Likely’ title seems to be wearing away into ‘Most Likely’ if the reports are to be believed.

The media coverage would appear to be supporting his cause rather than that of the, apparently, intellectual Mr. Bernie Sanders whose cause is, in any case, likely to be collapsing under the weight of certain delegates whose task is to make sure only those who will bend to their will attain the ultimate power. And so rises the status of one Mrs. Hilary Clinton.

But what of Europe?

Shock! Horror!

So much has been printed and expressed on the media of the trials and tribulations experienced there.

Rape, murder, riots across Scandinavia; Germany filling with refugees—both genuine and economic; the French threatening to open Calais to a flood of people wanting to cross into Britain.

We are told that these refugees are all from Syria but what is the truth? Will we ever know?

It becomes apparent that there will, soon, be no room for Europeans in Europe. The whole Continent will be chock-full of people from North Africa and the Middle East. Every one of them, we are informed, with crime on their minds.

Every individual refugee is filled with hatred towards the people of the country that they are begging to give them solace; every single one of them is hell-bent on some criminal activity—not one of them has an ounce of gratitude towards the benevolence of the Western countries that take them in.

Indeed, the aforesaid Donald Trump has decreed that every single one of them is a Muslim and must be prevented from entering the USA.

Muslims are, it is generally agreed in the media, nasty people who should be prevented from going anywhere.

How much of this is true?

Donald Trump can be seen and heard addressing crowds at his meetings in the U.S. but how much of what he says has been blown up and misinterpreted by an agile minded media with vested interest?

How many media outlets, and we have mentioned this previously in these pages, can be entrusted with the truth? Several times recently a ‘news’ channel on American television has been shown to be reporting false information.

But, above all, is the idea of what are they not reporting?

How much of what they are telling us is a case of ‘watch the right-hand—never mind the left-hand, just look at the right-hand’?

‘Coca-Cola’ did this with heir marketing plan to promote one of their drink products. They sold this product in a white can that, should you buy it, sent a percentage of the price of that tin to an organisation that was trying to save the Polar Bear. Everyone loves Polar Bears. One of the meanest killing machines on the planet but, somehow, we love them. Possibly because most of us will never meet one.

So ‘Coca-Cola’ is ‘green’?

Just watch the right-hand.

What happens to all those millions (billions?) of aluminium cans and plastic bottles?

This is what the media is doing. It is psychological warfare and you, gentle soul, are the enemy.

Hand Phones, Computers and Tablets

Something extremely obvious occurred to me while I was sitting waiting and, therefore, physically unemployed.

The mind wandered off on its own into some dark corner of the establishment where I was temporarily imprisoned in an interminable wait to see some equally bored Government official.

While my mind was over there in the corner peering out at the great unwashed masses seated around me it noted two things:

1.                 That they were equally bored.

2.                 That everything it saw came from the ground.

Number one shall be dealt with later, for the time being we shall be content with looking at Number 2.

From its vantage point over in the corner underneath the seat where an Indian lady of generous proportions was studying her husband’s documents, my mind saw shoes.

The shoes appeared to be leather.

Following that train of thought, the leather came from a cow—or, possibly a sheep, goat or pig. Cow skin is the strongest. Of course, you could always slaughter a horse for its meat and skin but that might raise a clamour among the ‘horsey-people’, they would object to their favourite animal being killed like a common cow. Of course, in India…

The point is that these animals are all herbivores. It is a sad reflection on our society that we are inclined to feed our herbivores with animal’s products ground down into bite-sized chunks as well as stuffing them with petro-chemicals.

Herbivores eat plants, as well you know. Plants grow out of the ground—they are from the earth. Does this make herbivores vegetables? They are only processed grass, really.

But the point is that those shoes were derived from earth—dirt. The earth was processed through plants, into animals and became leather.

Your car started out in the ground. Everything in it was under the surface of the earth at some point. The aeroplane that you go on holiday inside started out underground.

The fuels that drive these machines came from under the ground. We shall not, here, moot the idea that fossil fuels are not, as some scientist(s) have claimed, compressed and antique animals and vegetables but a complete, and separate, mineral unto themselves.

Your hand phone and computers are the same. Anything organic, and there is very little of that, in them came, as did everything else, from under the ground.

Hand phones, computers and tablets contain rare earths. They are called ‘rare earths’ because they are hard to find in commercially viable quantities such as are required for the manufacture of hand phones, computers and tablets. But find them they do, so that you can have the latest technology with which to play games and ‘What’s App’ your friends.

People die getting these rare earths. They are, for the most part, dangerous. Processing them is a toxic procedure that risks communities but, fortunately, these are poverty stricken communities that are disadvantaged with regards to hand phones, computers and tablets.

Around about this point in time, my mind emerged from under the seat that was now occupied by a tall, thin Chinese gentleman who appeared to understand very little of what was going on around him, and soared upwards, out of the building, and into fresh air. Luckiest of minds—I was still stuck in the waiting area.

My mind relayed back another thought.

Why are we still here?

“Look,” it said, “Look at all those cars, lorries, motorcycles, aeroplanes, hand phones, computers and tablets. Look at all those clothes, shoes, bags, watches and watchstraps. We are surrounded—personally and as a group and as a Nation, by manufactured items. Trillions and trillions of socks, rings, necklaces, hand phone cases, steering wheel covers, brushes, buckets, shovels, heaters and air conditioning units.

“Why are we not, all of us, walking on a huge cavern under the ground where all this came from?” it asked me, plaintively.

“Because,’ I replied, somewhat testily I might add, “The ‘cave’ under the ground is full of waste that we throw away on a daily basis. The hole is refilled with discarded hand phones, computers and tablets.”