Fortune favours the Dogs.

I share my musical mediation on the ship breakers of south asia, and the Guardian struggles to catch up.

Or something like that.


The Bones Of Titans Rotting In the Sun


There was a time when Great Britain was uncontested mistress of the seas.

She asked for nothing, but with the mightiest navy in the world, she took what she wanted.

And then, her empire faded, and her great ships rusted. So she sold her ships, for the price of the scrap in their bellies, and for the steel in their bones.

And so they are torn limb from limb, dissected and vivisected, by men who were unwilling servants of the empire in times past. 

These men now work, with no tools stronger than a blowtorch, in the baking sun, far from their families and homes. 

But they must cut, and burn, and tear, and melt, until the titans are dead on the beach. 

Their last remains rotting in the sun.

And I urge you, know their graves.

Know the price that is still paid, by helpless men, for the ambition of the Empire.

Alang, Chittagong, Gadani….