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In Topic: REH Word Of The Week

25 May 2015 - 08:01 AM

The Word of the Week for May 25, 2015 is scintillant




Scintillant appeared only a few times in REH’s poetry and letters. While the meaning of the word doesn’t change, it’s context makes it stand out in each of his poems. Altars and Jesters is a poem of endless images.  In these quoted verses I noticed the alliteration of the letter “s”


Far below lay the golden ditches.

Laughing, taunting, I saw them fly,

A shimmering arc of naked witches,

Like a silver bridge in the broken sky.


Then with a flick of his wrist, the devil

Flung me over a frozen sun,

And I fell and lay on a scintillant level,

Watching dancers that reeled and spun.


Each of the women was wearing only

High heeled slippers and black silk hose.

Their laughter rose but the sound was lonely,

And each of them tossed me a great black rose.


The untitled (“The iron harp that Adam christened Life) was the featured poem on May 4, 2015 for the word “cannonade.” but it was the type of cannonade that makes it so interesting:


And they that bear the harp revere their lords,

The blind uncertain gods that smite the chords.

Like some Manchurian gong of keenest jade

Into the brazen bowl the brazen tones

Drum out a hard scintillant cannonade

As in a skull were shaken precious stones.

And she who holds the bowl still knows the spur

Of they who smite the harp and ravish her.


A hard sparkling cannonade? The use of the scintillant which means sparkling becomes clearer in the next line: “As in a skull were shaken precious stones.” Still, an awesome use of the word.


In “Tiger Girl”, this week’s poem, her eyes were scintillent jet. In the prose poem “Flaming Marble” they are grey.


Now her fine, scintillant grey eyes flashed like white flame under ice, and she lashed me with words like silver daggers and diamond-pointed spears. The language she spoke I do not know, for the sound of it was as familiar to me then as is the language I speak in my waking life, and whether she reviled me in classic Latin, purring Ionian, clashing Doric, or sibilant Egyptian, I do not know. Nor do I remember what she said, or I scarcely heard, as I stood there scornful, with arms folded on my mighty breast—for my eyes were devouring the beauty of her marble limbs, the cold splendor of her haughty face, regal now like a goddess in her wrath.


Scintillant not only appeared in the three poems and a prose poem, it was a part of REH’s vocabulary in a couple of his letters. The first was to Harold Preece, dated Jan-Feb 1928. The interesting thing is both these letters contain famous and important passages:


The characters I write about in my fiction are all primitive, see. The one I like to write about best and which I have sold best is kind of a combination of Jack Dempsey, a Zulu chief and a prehistoric man. To hell with these damned polished snobs — “sophisticated” — hell. These birds that stand around making sarcastic wise cracks at everything, and sneer at all feelings as old fashioned, and think they are scintillant luminaries of an advanced - “sophisticated” - hell. I’ve studied psychology and not in school. They are just a flock of shallow, selfish tramps who are unconsciously seeking an excuse for their shallowness and selfishness. They ain’t even men, really. I write about men with primitive faults and failings and even if I am nothing but a dub writer, still the faulty characters I make are more real than most of the young intellectual fools with their egoist hooey. I mean my characters are more like men than these real men are, see. They’re rough and rude, they got hands and they got bellies. They hate and they lust; break the skin of civilization and you find the ape, roaring and red-handed. That’s the way men are. I ain’t upholding them; I despise the whole race, as a whole, but that’s the way men are.


The second time scintillant appears was about three and a half years later in a letter to Tevis Clyde Smith, ca. August 1931.


      Well, I doubt if this missile will be very scintillant. Gone are the gay and festive days when I could instill sparkle and wit into a letter.    I just got a letter from Farnsworth hinting Tamerlane as a fit subject for an Oriental Story story. He likewise mentioned my “The Thing on the Roof” which is not only the best story by far that I ever wrote, but which is, in my honest opinion a really first-class weird story judged by any standards. That sounds conceited and probably is; just the same, I hold to it. Several months ago Farnsworth rejected the tale saying it seemed too erudite for the general reader, though he liked it himself. Claytons likewise rejected it, saying the plot was too thin etc. etc. also etc. There was no attempt at plot. Like most real weird stories, it had no plot. Argosy rejected it with the usual stereotype. Then Farnsworth asked to see it again, when he accepted my “The Sowers of the Thunder” for Oriental Stories. In his latest letter he accepted it for $40. Not much money, but in this case I wasn’t really thinking about the money and he could have had the story for nothing, if he’d made me that proposition. I’d have given it to him free, just to get it in print. Now I’ve got to get hold of something on the Big Tatar and try to pound out a novelet; I’ve been thinking of writing a tale about him for a long time. And Babar the Tiger who established the Mogul rule in India — and the imperial phase in the life of Baibars the Panther, the subject of my last story — and the rise of the Ottomans — and the conquest of Constantinople by the Fifth Crusade — and the subjugation of the Turks by the Arabs in the days of Abu Bekr — and the gradual supplanting of the Arab masters by their Turkish slaves which culminated in the conquest of Asia Minor and Palestine by the Seljuks — and the rise of Saladin — and the final destruction of Christian Outremer by Al Kalawun — and the first Crusade — Godfrey of Bouillon, Baldwin of Boulogne, Bohemund — Sigurd the Jorsala-farer — Barbarossa — Coeur de Lion. Ye gods, I could write a century and still have only tapped the reservoir of dramatic possibilities. I wish to Hell I had a dozen markets for historical fiction — I’d never write anything else.


 Unfortunately for his fans that he didn’t write that novelette or even an historical fiction novel but Conan and others were still to come.


This week’s poem “Tiger Girl” was never published in REH’s lifetime.


Your eyes, as scintillant as jet,

Dare my uncertain fancy rove;

And you are mine, strange girl—and yet

I almost fear that tigress love.


You would endure a thousand whips

As meek as any Moro wife—

But let me look on other lips—

And die beneath a Sulu knife.


In it REH mentions that “Tiger Girl” is “as meek as any Moro wife.” According to Wikipedia, the Moro are a population of indigenous Muslims in the Phillippines, forming the largest non-Catholic  group in the country, and comprising about 5% of the total Philippine population. The Moro are divided into 13 ethnic groups. When the Spanish made incursions into Moro territory intending to colonize it, they ordered Jews and Muslims to convert to Roman Catholicism or leave or face the death penalty. The Moros challenged the Spanish and began to conduct raids on coastal towns. These Moro raids reached a fevered pitched during the reign of Datu Bantilan in 1754. They were never subjugated by the Spaniards during the entire 350 years they ruled the East.


The US claimed the territories of the Philippines after the Spanish-American War. Again, the Moro resisted any attempts by them to colonize their lands. On July 4, 1902, President Theodore Roosevelt issued a proclamation declaring an end to the Philippine Insurrection and a cessation of hostilities in the Philippines "except in the country inhabited by the Moro tribes, to which this proclamation does not apply.”


Subsequent negotiations with the Moro resulted in peace although raids by individual Muslims continued until the success of new aggressive American tactics. According to Rear Admiral D.P. Mannix, who fought the Moros as a young lieutenant from 1907–1908, the Americans exploited Muslim taboos by wrapping dead Moros in pig's skin and "stuffing [their] mouth[s] with pork", thereby deterring the Moros from continuing with their suicide attacks.


The Sulu knife was one of three weapons used by the Moro. (For a description and photo of this weapon, see “Robert E. Howard: The Sword Collector’s Sword Collection” 7/27/12 on Black Gate website: It appears in the article toward the end under “Knives”.)



REH refers to the Battle of Manila Bay in his untitled poem (“Oh, the road to glory lay”). The note for this poem states:


A poem that is contained in “The Pit of the Serpent”, attributed to Steve Costigan’s fictional shipmate Hansen; appears to be a short takeoff from “The Battle of Manila Bay”, 1904, an epic poem about a American sea victory; poem has appeared with the story in all publications, and has not been published separately


Oh, the road to glory lay

Over old Manilla [sic] Bay

Where the Irish whipped the Spanish

On a sultry summer day.


The Battle of Manila Bay took placed on 1 May 1898. It was the first major engagement of the Spanish–American War. The battle was one of the most decisive naval battles in history and marked the end of the Spanish colonial period in Philippine history.


A lot of background in one REH poem “The Tiger Girl.”


In Topic: REH Word Of The Week

18 May 2015 - 07:31 AM

The Word of the Week for May 18, 2015 is leal




The featured poem this week is “The Adventurer’s Mistress 2. “The fogs of night.” It was unpublished during his lifetime and according to HowardWorks online, the alternate title is “The Dance With Death.” It’s a great poem to examine filled with stark images, great alliterations and interesting metaphors .


The fogs of night

Fling banners red

To cloak the fading sun.

And I haste to the height

Of the mountain head;

O’er somber valleys silently spread

Where murmur the ghosts of forgotten dead,

Through the star-gleam glance

I go to dance

With my mistress, the Hooded One.


Now, as the night winds drone their dree

From the hidden caves of the ghostly sea,

And trees below wave dim in the vale,

And shadows flit through the starlight pale,

Weird night-tunes peal as we weave and reel

Like a maiden leal

And her cavalier.

But a grisly maid

Is the flitting shade

That sways with me through the moonlit glade;

And the boldest knight

Like the poorest wight would flee the sight

With a ghastly fear.

But on we dance ’neath an eery sky

And light we prance, old Death and I!


He calls Death “the hooded one” and a maiden leal (true and loyal) and her cavalier. There is no illusions regarding her appearance. He calls her a grisly maid. All the things he compares her with are dead or based in horror.


Ah, beldame Death, old beldame Death!

We’ve tripped it many a time!

Our flying feet have weaved their beat

From the line to the Arctic clime.

I’ve felt your kiss in the gulf’s abyss

And the ooze of the tropic slime.

Your barren bones

Gleam a dreary white.

Through your lank ribs drones

The wind of the night.

An eery glimmer gleams and lies

In the empty sockets of your eyes,

Bleached as white as the wings of a gull

And you wear a garland upon your skull

Of ferns that grow through the swampy fen

Through the hidden bones of murdered men;

Of moss from the shores of the midnight sea

Where hulls of ships strew the silent lea.


But then the tone of the poem changes. He is no longer concentrating on her. He is looking at the times he has danced with Death and seen her presence. And during their dances he sees the many times the dance could have ended but didn’t.


Now first with the left foot,

Then with the right;

Footing it featly through the night.

Soul to demon and fiend to man

We’ve danced this dance since Time began.


Around the world

Have flown our feet

In a dizzy whirl

But our lips ne’er meet.

’Tis a grisly play

And I trip and sway

With her fleshless face a span away;

And her skeleton hand is at my wrist

But I swerve aside with a dexter twist

As she seeks to press her grim caress

Upon my lips. And she hops and skips.

And she leaps and trips

With her bones a-clank

Over barren stone

And waving grass

And the night-winds drone

As we meet and pass

And whirl again where the reeds grow rank.

Through the witch-light haze

We tread our ways

In a weird, fantastic, wizard maze.


But Death waits. She knows one day he’ll slip and the dance will end.


Ah, beldame Death! Her love is grim

And she leads to trails that are long and dim.

She is aloof from loves and hates—

She bears my taunts and she waits! She waits!

And a single instant off my guard,

A foot-a-slip on the pallid sward,

A saddle-girth loosed, a rended sail,

A hand that misses a wave-lashed rail,

A reef that lifts ’neath the plunging strakes,

A horse that falls or a sword that breaks—

And the music stops and the whirl is o’er

And my feet are still for I dance no more.

But I’ll not grudge the game, I trow,

As I feel her kiss on my fading brow.

For I hold her dance is the only joy

That thrills the years and fails to cloy.

Aye, I hold her measure above all treasure

And I’ll only laugh as she bends to destroy.






The lines:


And the music stops and the whirl is o’er

And my feet are still for I dance no more.

But I’ll not grudge the game, I trow,

As I feel her kiss on my fading brow.


are also reflected in his poem “The Day That I Die”


That I drained Life’s cup to its blood-red lees
And it thrilled my every vein,
But I did not frown when I laid it down
To lift it never again.


That the Dance with Death came to an end for him on June 11, 1936, is well known to REH fans. He wrote many poems about longing for death. “The Adventurer’s Mistress 1 “The scarlet standards of the sun” is another good example. The focus here is on embracing death, not the dancing or the close calls.


The scarlet standards of the sun

Are marching up the mountain pass,

The whispers of the dawn-winds run

Across the oxen-booming seas

And shimmering in the waving grass

Are webs the ghostly spiders spun

When strange shapes glided in the trees

And shadows dusked the silent leas.


Why should I leave my towering walls

To tread the path about the earth?

Fair girls are dancing in those halls,

Their breasts are round, their arms are white,

And light and luring is their mirth,

And yet, for lust that ever calls

I tread the trails of eery light

A phantom, through the phantom night.


For this, my lust is stronger far

Than demon’s charm or witches’ spell.

It heeds not wall nor dungeon bar

Nor anything that hindereth.

For it was born for One from Hell;

And she rides her Yellow Star—

She fires my love with Hades’ breath—

My ancient mistress, beldame Death.


She beckons me from every hill,

I see her standing by the sea;

I follow fast, I follow still

By horse and foot, by keel and sail

With all the winds that drone or dree.

I match her cunning with my skill

As fierce, alert, I keep the trail

Through desert sands and ocean gale.


The combers crash along the shale;

The seas are crimson with the dawn.

A ship with scarlet-spreading sail

Swings into view with lurch and list.

Somewhere the red abysses yawn

And though the slain years have their tale

Of broken swords and spears that missed,

Somewhere we have a secret tryst.


Soon shall I leap from shore to deck

And ride into the sky-line’s haze

To follow my old lover’s beck.

Aye, swift will fade the hill, the tree;

And moons will wane and suns will blaze

And stars will leap, nor shall I reck—

For she waits on some distant lea

And at the last will come to me.


Word of the week for 7/16/2012 was beldame. Here is the link:



The poems embracing and dancing with Death are different in tone from “The Years Are As a Knife” which has a depth of despair to it. Again, he talks of death but this time it’s a better alternative than life.


The years are as a knife against my heart.

Of what avail the labor and the sweat,

To hammer on the anvil men call art,

A soulless, gleaming tinsel, sparkling wet

With drops of salty blood, black agony

Has wrung from out the gagging soul of me.


Better the silence and the long black rest;

Better the gray grass growing through my brain—

Far better to be done with this unrest,

The hope, the horror, pleasure and the pain.

Life is a liar and a drear-eyed *****—

Death has his hand upon a silent Door.


What if I tear the wings from shifty Fame,

Or, swine-like, wallow in a waste of gold?

Oh, hollow, hollow, hollow, men’s acclaim,

And silver never warmed a heart grown cold.

Better the shot, the fall, the growing stain,

Than one long blindness, shot with crimson pain.


The pain is so deep not even his work can compensate; in fact there is no value in either recognition or money.


But REH was a complex man and there is another side to his poems about death, delusion, cynicism and pain. One of these is “The Ages Stride on Golden Feet.”


The ages stride on golden feet,

The stars re-echo to the beat;

And o’er the peaks across the vales the sea-winds seek

       the dawn;

The east is tinted like the rose, a light breeze through the

       tree-tops blows


And through the dawn the red deer goes to meet the

       timid fawn.

Through the forest on to the smiling dawn.



“Earth Born” is another example.


By rose and verdant valley

And silence I was born;

My brothers were the mountains,

The purple gods of morn.


My sisters were the whirlwinds

That broke the dreaming plains—

The earth is in my sinews,

The stars are in my veins!


For first upon the molten

White silver sands I lay,

And saw the ocean beckon

With eyes of burning spray.


And up along the mountain,

And down along the lea,

I heard my brothers singing,

The river and the tree.


And through the ocean’s thunder,

And through the forest’s hush,

I heard my sisters calling,

The sea-wind and the thrush.


And still all living voices

Leap forth amain and far,

The sunset and the shadow,

The eagle and the star.


From caverns of the ocean

To highest mountain tree,

I hear all voices singing

Their kinship unto me.


Don’t be deceived by the title of this next poem “Hope Empty of Meaning” is actually is one of his most positive poems.


Man is a fool and a blinded toy—

The Fire still flickers and burns,

Though the cobra coils in the cup called Joy,

And ever the Worm returns.


Life is a lamp with the glimmer gone,

A dank and a darkened cave;

Yet still I swear by the light of dawn,

And not by the grip of the grave.


And surprisingly, the poem “A Moment” sings with joy!


Let me forget all men a space,

All dole and death and dearth;

Let me clutch the world in my hungry arms—

The paramour of the earth.


The hills are gowned in emerald trees

And the sea-green tides of grain,

And the joy, oh God, of the tingling sod,

Oh, it rends my heart in twain.


My feet are bare to the burning dew,

My breast to the stinging breeze;

And I watch the sun in the flaming blue

Like a worshipper on his knees.


With the joys of the sun and love and growth

All things of the earth are rife

And the soul that is deep in the breast of me

Sings with the pulse of Life.


Another poem that changed its internal focus is a favorite of mine: “The Ride of Falume.” Bahram’s response in the last verse of “The Ride of Falume” contains some of the most beautiful images he ever wrote IMO. But it’s also about seeking life instead of the death he sought in earlier lines when he confronts Bahram’s ghost and asks:


My beard is white and dim my sight and I would fain be gone.

Speak without guile: where lies the isle of mystic Avalon?”


And Bahram responds:


“A league behind the western wind, a mile behind the moon,

Where the dim seas roar on an unknown shore and the drifting stars lie strewn:

The lotus buds there scent the woods where the quiet rivers gleam,

And king and knight in the mystic light the ages drowse and dream.”

With sudden bound Falume wheeled round, he fled through the flying wrack

Till he came again to the land of Spain with the sunset at his back.

“No dreams for me, but living free, red wine and battle’s roar;

I breast the gales and I ride the trails until I ride no more.”


He held opposite views on most subjects and I think that has a lot to do with his appeal to a wide variety of people. There’s something there that each of us can relate to.


In Topic: Who thinks REH is on par with Tolkien?

11 May 2015 - 11:33 PM

Johnnypt: "REH will be dead for 79 years next month and we have exactly one direct adaptation of one of his stories in a widely distributed visual medium (Pigeons From Hell from 1961)"


Although enjoyable and entertaining, Peter Jackson's LotR was not a faithful adaption. Neither was his "The Hobbit." REH might not be as widely known as JRRT, but Howard's character Conan is very famous. Also to be considered are adaptions of REH's work in other media such as comic books and graphic novels. They reach many more fans than the movies, and some of them are pretty faithful to Howard's stories. 


I re-read LotR about once a year and The Hobbit probably not quite that often. I'm a big fan of Middle Earth and when LotR came out I bought all the maps and poured over them. On the other hand, REH's stories cross many genres. They are filled with poetic prose as well as passion and exuberance. His heroes and heroines are bold and daring and Howard's vivid writing places me right in the middle of their adventures.


I'm grateful for both these authors (and many others).



In Topic: REH Word Of The Week

11 May 2015 - 07:20 AM

The Word of the Week for May 11, 2015 is acolyte




This week features the prose poem “The Gods That Men Forget.” It is one of the five prose poems that REH created: Flaming Marble, Skulls and Orchids, Medallions in the Moon, The Gods That Men Forget, and Bloodstones and Ebony. Glenn Lord estimates they were written “…comparatively early in his career as a professional writer, sometime around 1928 or 1929, to judge from the manuscripts. “(Donald Sidney-Fryer’s Introduction to Etchings in Ivory, Poems in Prose, 1968)


In the prose poem, REH quotes the ancient god himself: “Where now are the lute-voiced neophytes, the wonder cinctured acolytes who sung before me the feast songs and the wine songs, the song of the seasons and the chant of the nuptials?...” On January 19, 2015, WotW featured “neophyte.” (http://www.rehupa.com/?s=neophyte) While neophytes and acolytes are both followers, a neophyte is different from an acolyte in that the neophyte is a new convert, a novice or a beginner while the acolyte is someone who assists the priest in the ceremonies.


Acolyte was featured only in the prose poem “The Gods That Men Forget.” Neophyte on the other hand was used in this poem as well as in four others. The descriptive adjectives he uses are varied and intriguing. For instance, in “Baal,”


These jeweled eyes of mine have unthought deeps—

There many a mystic dream of ages sleeps,

That I can rouse. The forms are mirrored there

Of ghostly neophytes and gliding priests,

Of naked women dancing on the stair

And all the revelry of bygone feast.

The wine they tendered me I yet can taste—

See these my eyes? Like mighty, ancient seas!


There are two versions of “The Cats of Anubis” and each has a separate description of neophyte—both of which reflect the tone of that version. Here are the last two verses of each:


In “Cats of Anubis1”:


A shadow ’mid dark ruins glides and creeps,

A thing from which the shuddering moonlight leaps;

Like witch-ridden winds from darkened hinterlands

A thousand light-footed shapes skirt the sands.

Skulls gripping monstrous dreams of naked feet

That moved in painted patterns at the feasts,

Of trumpeted rites that for such gods were meet,

Of fawning neophytes and scolding priests.


Egypt, white land black-flecked from priestly past,

Thy ghost-gods in thy deserts still are massed.

And many a sad, lost shape still glides and peers:

These phantoms, stealing down the slaughtered years,

From out musty tombs of remembered Thule,

Brooding upon the ancient, bestial rule—

Phantom freedom is naught for such as this,

Who would curl again on shrines of Anubis.


And in the alternate variant:


A shadow ’mid those ruins glides and creeps,

A thing from which the shuddering moonlight leaps;

Like witch-rid wind from out of the hinterlands

A fog-like aura haunts the sombre sands.

Grim, dreaming monstrous dreams of naked feet

That danced in worship many a frightful feast;

Unhallowed rites that for such god were meet,

Unholy neophyte and grisly priest.


Egypt, thou land still chained unto the past,

Thy ghost gods in the deserts still are massed

And many a fearful shape still glides and leers.

The phantom, stealing down the slaughtered years

From out the fastness of some unthought Thule,

Brooding upon his ancient bestial rule—

Freedom is naught, till men have conquered this,

This undying fiend, the Cat of Anubis!


And, last of all, “Let the Gods Die”:


Shatter the shrines and let the idols fall;

The gods are dead; Time totters to His end.

Let the gods die.

Smoke of destruction blots again the stars;

Again the roaring oceans reel and rise.

Men flee with faces hidden from their doom;

Men slaughter men and die and know it not.

The high-priest falls beside his shrine and dies,

The worshipper and sacrifice are one.

The neophyte sinks down amid the flame.

Let the gods die.


And so the wonder-cinctured, ghostly, fawning and unholy neophytes of previous poems sink amid the flame.


“Time totters to His end” is one really great image too!


Neophytes and acolytes were not the only "clergy" that REH mentions in his poetry. There are these also. In fact, it’s a pretty comprehensive list.


bishops, The Cry Everlasting


chaplain, The Song of a Fugitive Bard


deacon, L’Envoi 2.


druids, The Ballad of King Geraint, Devon Oak, The Winds That Walk the World


Evangelists, Black Dawn, How to Select a Successful Evangelist, To the Evangelists


Friars: The Chinese Gong, The Harp of Alfred, The Road to Hell


Mullah, Black Dawn (WotW 10/14/13 http://www.rehupa.com/?s=mullah)


Nun, Black Dawn


pontiff, Revolt Pagan


pope, Altars and Jesters


preacher, A Dungeon Opens, Good Mistress Brown


prelate, The Cry Everlasting, Empire, The Gods I Worshipped


priest, Am-ra the Ta-an, Baal, Black Chant Imperial, Black Dawn, Candles,The Cats of Anubis 1&2, Dancer, Dreaming in Israel, A Dungeon Opens, The Dust Dance 1, Empire, A Far Country, Futility 2, The Gods I Worshipped, The Gods That Men Forget, Ju-Ju Doom, l”Envoi 2, Let the Gods Die, Man the Master, Moon Shame, My Sentiments Set to Jazz, The Odyssey of Israel, The Plains of Gilban, The Poets, Rebel, The Return of the Sea-Farer, Revolt Pagan, Shadow Things, Silence Falls on Mecca’s Walls, Singing in the Wind, A Song for Men That Laugh, The Song of a Mad Minstrel, To Certain Orthodox Brethren, Two Men, Untitled (“A beggar, singing without”), Untitled (“The tall man rose and said…”), Untitled (“This is a young world”), The Weakling, The Worshippers


Some of the poems related to the words have interesting titles so I included them. Have fun reading!


In Topic: Taranaich

08 May 2015 - 06:03 AM

Al has been heavily involved with the Scottish National Party. He has been working very long hours for almost two years. At first in favor of the Scottish Independence referendum. When that was lost last May, they geared up again. This time to vote SNP MPs to the Parliament. The British election took place today. Results in some areas are very close. Still, it looks as if Al and his co-workers have won the day for the SNP. Even though Scotland holds only 59 seats total in Parliament, it is anticipated that the SNP has won 56 of those. Millibrand who is the leader of the Labor party has stated he will refuse to work with the SNP. It's been an exciting election. I've read several articles that the British Press is blatantly in favor of the Conservative party to the point it has been coloring press reports to reflect that.


Truthfully, I am not very well acquainted with the British election process so perhaps once Al catches his breath, he will post about his experiences!