You will all, no doubt, be familiar with Rudyard Kipling’s poem November. Except that you won’t, because Kipling didn’t write it. My fuddled and unfocused brain was convinced it was Kipling, but in-depth research (yes, Google) revealed in fact that the poem I was thinking of was written by Thomas Hood. No matter, the poem is the thing and it is a perfect evocation of November. All fog, dankness and an overwhelming sense of crapness. Truth be told, right now, this very second, as I write this, the weather is lovely. Even so, broadly speaking Thomas Hood had nailed it. Don’t wish your life away, but November in the northern hemisphere can be the sort of month best just dealt with and got through as we hurtle towards year end.
So maybe that explains my feelings of unrest. I am fidgety and fed-up, which has manifested itself in my feeling slightly more withdrawn from those around me than usual. As well as the time of year, I think there is also the time of my life, as it were. The ticking clock in my head reminds that we will not pass this way again so time to do what we want to do. And that is…?
Well, I don’t know, but as a former colleague of mine used to say “Nobody’s last words were ever ‘I wish I’d spent more time in the office’.”
Wednesday 10 November 2010
Wednesday 15 September 2010
I'm not angry any more
I've noticed lately that the red mist rarely descends. No rage on the road, at work, at home - anywhere, in fact. I find little things begin to vex me and then I think "Nah, why bother?" So, for instance, the other day I was seeking out a chunk of black pudding from the fridge to have for my breakfast - and a very fine breakfast black pudding is, too - and my tetchiness rating began to shoot up because I couldn't find the said delicacy. I became convinced that the black pudding had been discarded and was just on the point of effing and blinding when I looked in the salad drawer of the fridge. There, still in its bag from the butchers, was my decidedly non-salady breakfast. Yum yum.
Similarly, at the weekend I was on my bike going out for a leisurely Sunday morning ride when some lagered-up tosser and his mate emerged from a Bideford pub for a smoke. The lagered-up tosser then began shouting "Tally Ho" and other inanities at me (I was the only person around, aside from his smoking buddy). The LUT thought this was hilarious and I was on the point of flicking the Vs at him and scuttling off when good sense kicked in. It occurred to me he might genuinely have thought he was being encouraging and he was, after all, causing me no harm - people who offend your personal dignity really aren't causing you harm. So I just carried on, wind in my hair and a smile on my face. And come to think of it, it's an assumption on my part that he was lagered-up.
Sometimes I fear I may just be apathetic. Obviously getting agitated about mislaid black pudding is a ridiculous state of affairs, but my encounter with the man from the pub might be considered to be an example of bad manners from him. Perhaps a friendly talking-to explaining how he should show consideration for other people would effect a change in his behaviour making him a delight to have around. But then, as I said earlier, I think "Nah, why bother."
In my defence, I would observe that if more people were apathetic there probably would be less trouble in the world. People get het up about something and then they won't rest until they've done something about it. That leads to all sorts of agitation and bonkers behaviour like the excitable pastor from America who decided he was going to burn the Koran. Understandably this got people all riled up on all sides of the argument and the next thing the world is looking a lot less peaceful. A bit more apathy all round and none of it would have happened. Apathetes of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your...well, I'm not sure really...your something or others. Incidentally, I am aware that if everyone was apathetic then we wouldn't have light bulbs, sticking plasters, black pudding and other useful things. So maybe I'm calling for a form of rational apathy which stops people from getting too angry.
Anyway, unsurprisingly perhaps, I am going off to sit and think about these things for a while. Do you think there is such a word as apathete? Perhaps best not to worry about it too much.
Similarly, at the weekend I was on my bike going out for a leisurely Sunday morning ride when some lagered-up tosser and his mate emerged from a Bideford pub for a smoke. The lagered-up tosser then began shouting "Tally Ho" and other inanities at me (I was the only person around, aside from his smoking buddy). The LUT thought this was hilarious and I was on the point of flicking the Vs at him and scuttling off when good sense kicked in. It occurred to me he might genuinely have thought he was being encouraging and he was, after all, causing me no harm - people who offend your personal dignity really aren't causing you harm. So I just carried on, wind in my hair and a smile on my face. And come to think of it, it's an assumption on my part that he was lagered-up.
Sometimes I fear I may just be apathetic. Obviously getting agitated about mislaid black pudding is a ridiculous state of affairs, but my encounter with the man from the pub might be considered to be an example of bad manners from him. Perhaps a friendly talking-to explaining how he should show consideration for other people would effect a change in his behaviour making him a delight to have around. But then, as I said earlier, I think "Nah, why bother."
In my defence, I would observe that if more people were apathetic there probably would be less trouble in the world. People get het up about something and then they won't rest until they've done something about it. That leads to all sorts of agitation and bonkers behaviour like the excitable pastor from America who decided he was going to burn the Koran. Understandably this got people all riled up on all sides of the argument and the next thing the world is looking a lot less peaceful. A bit more apathy all round and none of it would have happened. Apathetes of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your...well, I'm not sure really...your something or others. Incidentally, I am aware that if everyone was apathetic then we wouldn't have light bulbs, sticking plasters, black pudding and other useful things. So maybe I'm calling for a form of rational apathy which stops people from getting too angry.
Anyway, unsurprisingly perhaps, I am going off to sit and think about these things for a while. Do you think there is such a word as apathete? Perhaps best not to worry about it too much.
Saturday 4 September 2010
Sexing the cyclist
A colleague of mine recently had a baby which she and her husband had been assured was going to be a girl. So I'd like everyone to give a worldwide welcome to Ewan. Yep, the she was a he and much-loved he is too, I'm sure. The thing is, if only his mum and dad could have waited a few years there would have been a surefire way of determining sex. It's what I call the folded arms test.
Have you ever walked down the road with your arms folded in front of you much as you might do if you were sitting in a chair waiting for something to happen. If you have, then almost certainly you're a woman. I have seen countless women walk down the road like that, but no men. Ever. Well, possibly one or two gay men. This is not some sort of battle of the sexes thing or a little dig at gay men, it's just an observation. You do not see (straight) men walking around with their arms folded in front of them. Or if you do, they look a bit odd.
So that is how I knew from quite some distance the sex of the cyclist who was approaching me along the Tarka Trail the other day. Arms folded across chest, yep, that's a woman. I have to say I was slightly in awe of her being able to cycle like that. The minute I lift my hands from the handlebars I wobble alarmingly, so doing what she was doing is something I will never do for safety reasons, let alone gender. Truth be told, she looked a bit fierce, but she was definitely a woman.
Anyway, that's my contribution to medical science. I know there are other, more scientific approaches, and my way often tells you something that's glaringly obvious on account of the womanly shape etc, but I offer it up for what it's worth. (Bugger all).
Anyway, I now have bigger fish to fry. The thought has entered my head - and won't go away - that I need a better bike. A lighter bike. One that will not be so hard to get moving. I think I'm entering an obsessive phase. The trouble is I know so little about bikes and cycling that I'm venturing in to a whole new world about which I know nothing. I think some research is in order. But where to begin?
Have you ever walked down the road with your arms folded in front of you much as you might do if you were sitting in a chair waiting for something to happen. If you have, then almost certainly you're a woman. I have seen countless women walk down the road like that, but no men. Ever. Well, possibly one or two gay men. This is not some sort of battle of the sexes thing or a little dig at gay men, it's just an observation. You do not see (straight) men walking around with their arms folded in front of them. Or if you do, they look a bit odd.
So that is how I knew from quite some distance the sex of the cyclist who was approaching me along the Tarka Trail the other day. Arms folded across chest, yep, that's a woman. I have to say I was slightly in awe of her being able to cycle like that. The minute I lift my hands from the handlebars I wobble alarmingly, so doing what she was doing is something I will never do for safety reasons, let alone gender. Truth be told, she looked a bit fierce, but she was definitely a woman.
Anyway, that's my contribution to medical science. I know there are other, more scientific approaches, and my way often tells you something that's glaringly obvious on account of the womanly shape etc, but I offer it up for what it's worth. (Bugger all).
Anyway, I now have bigger fish to fry. The thought has entered my head - and won't go away - that I need a better bike. A lighter bike. One that will not be so hard to get moving. I think I'm entering an obsessive phase. The trouble is I know so little about bikes and cycling that I'm venturing in to a whole new world about which I know nothing. I think some research is in order. But where to begin?
Wednesday 1 September 2010
We're gonna need a bigger boat
I think the captain in Jaws (played by Robert Shaw?) expressed the need for a bigger boat on realising the size of the shark he was after. For my part I decided I needed a bigger bell for my bike owing to the seemingly infinite number of people using the Tarka Trail who are hard of hearing.
The original bell was one of those lightweight devices where you flick one bit against the other producing a rather tinny "Ting, ting" sound. This seemed either not to register with anyone or annoy them in some way. The new bell, all shiny chrome and the size of . . .I dunno, an ice hockey puck? . . .makes a reassuring clanging noise similar to a cow bell. I'm still weighing up the correct way to use this in alerting people to my presence. Too far away and they get fed up waiting for you to pass; too close to them and they dive in to the hedgerow, obviously fearful of being mown down.
At least I use my bell, which is more than some cyclists - mainly the ones in the stretchy lycra with lots of writing on it, although that's not meant to be too critical of them. Cycling has been something of a salvation for me this year and although I only commute, and only when it's dry, it has given me something in my life I can focus on which is, largely speaking, mine and mine alone.
The original bell was one of those lightweight devices where you flick one bit against the other producing a rather tinny "Ting, ting" sound. This seemed either not to register with anyone or annoy them in some way. The new bell, all shiny chrome and the size of . . .I dunno, an ice hockey puck? . . .makes a reassuring clanging noise similar to a cow bell. I'm still weighing up the correct way to use this in alerting people to my presence. Too far away and they get fed up waiting for you to pass; too close to them and they dive in to the hedgerow, obviously fearful of being mown down.
At least I use my bell, which is more than some cyclists - mainly the ones in the stretchy lycra with lots of writing on it, although that's not meant to be too critical of them. Cycling has been something of a salvation for me this year and although I only commute, and only when it's dry, it has given me something in my life I can focus on which is, largely speaking, mine and mine alone.
Sunday 8 August 2010
Ha! I told you so
Lengthy and largely inexplicable absence, due in the main to going on holiday and then not really getting my shit together on my return to these pallid shores. Anyway, back now and raring to go (on holiday again). However, what has prompted this posting is something I read in a paper/on a website/scrawled on the wall of a toilet cubicle...whatever, I'm sure it's true. What I read was that there has been an increase in accidents involving pedestrians which is being attributed to the growing number of them who wear earphones as they walk. In other words they are making themselves deaf and do not realise they are about to be run down by a juggernaut, incontinent granny on an invalid scooter,cyclist or whatever.
The regular reader of this blog (me, me, me) will know that I've sounded off before about the risks pedestrians subject themselves to by wearing MP3 iPod type things. Well here is incontrovertible proof. I've had personal experience of the way these twats cut themselves off from the rest of the world. As I cycle along the Tarka Trail I ding my bike bell to warn other trail users of my approach. Most step in to the side and smile politely as I pass, and I ALWAYS say thank you. But some carry on as if they are the only people on the planet and it is an odds-on bet that these are the people who will have their ears filled up with earphones and cannot hear a dicky bird. What is worse is the glare they often give me as I pass, presumably because they are surprised at finding me on their shoulder. Ah well, you can't legislate for idiocy.
The regular reader of this blog (me, me, me) will know that I've sounded off before about the risks pedestrians subject themselves to by wearing MP3 iPod type things. Well here is incontrovertible proof. I've had personal experience of the way these twats cut themselves off from the rest of the world. As I cycle along the Tarka Trail I ding my bike bell to warn other trail users of my approach. Most step in to the side and smile politely as I pass, and I ALWAYS say thank you. But some carry on as if they are the only people on the planet and it is an odds-on bet that these are the people who will have their ears filled up with earphones and cannot hear a dicky bird. What is worse is the glare they often give me as I pass, presumably because they are surprised at finding me on their shoulder. Ah well, you can't legislate for idiocy.
Sunday 6 June 2010
You're always in our prayers
Who'd have thought a judge in all his, or her, finery in London would be called upon to decide whether Bideford Town Council - motto: crap and proud of it (yes, I did make that up) - should be allowed to say prayers before meetings. The reason it has come to the point where a leading member of the judiciary is required to decide whether Bideford's finest brains (obviously, I exaggerate) should offer up a prayer to a supernatural being before settling matters of great import such as dog poop, double yellow lines and extra-terrestrial visitations is that the National Secular Society has intervened. Said society claims that it is not right that a body such as the town council should spend any of its time saying prayers. Presumably their argument revolves around the whole purpose of what the town council is for. Well search me, I don't know and I doubt that any member of the town council could give a coherent explanation.
As someone who has sat through many town council meetings - as an observer, not a participant - I have to say I would be at a loss to explain what it is the town council thinks it is achieving ever, let alone when its members say prayers. However, the question I would pose to the National Secular Society is what harm does it do for a bunch of "community-minded" citizens to offer up a prayer before spending up to three, or even four, hours talking drivel. The thing is, if saying prayers is an empty exercise does it really do any harm, on the other hand, if it works, then surely it should be encouraged.
Battle lines are being drawn and, as a Bideford council tax payer, I fear that the end result will be a greater demand for the already exorbitant amount of money I have to stump up for the town council. I suspect that both camps are so determined to win the fight that nothing will stop them doing battle. What a shame, then, that the town council did not pursue the suggestion of veteran councillor Peter Christie. Known in some quarters as "Hot Tub Pete" (for reasons which have no basis in fact or reality) Councillor Christie's idea was that prayers should not be included on the agenda but that any councillors wishing to offer up a few choice words to the Almighty could get together beforehand and do their thing.
It was a sensible suggestion - in my view - which had all the benefits of compromise, but surprisingly, even in this era of coalition government, it was not one which gained any support. Oh well, let battle commence.
As someone who has sat through many town council meetings - as an observer, not a participant - I have to say I would be at a loss to explain what it is the town council thinks it is achieving ever, let alone when its members say prayers. However, the question I would pose to the National Secular Society is what harm does it do for a bunch of "community-minded" citizens to offer up a prayer before spending up to three, or even four, hours talking drivel. The thing is, if saying prayers is an empty exercise does it really do any harm, on the other hand, if it works, then surely it should be encouraged.
Battle lines are being drawn and, as a Bideford council tax payer, I fear that the end result will be a greater demand for the already exorbitant amount of money I have to stump up for the town council. I suspect that both camps are so determined to win the fight that nothing will stop them doing battle. What a shame, then, that the town council did not pursue the suggestion of veteran councillor Peter Christie. Known in some quarters as "Hot Tub Pete" (for reasons which have no basis in fact or reality) Councillor Christie's idea was that prayers should not be included on the agenda but that any councillors wishing to offer up a few choice words to the Almighty could get together beforehand and do their thing.
It was a sensible suggestion - in my view - which had all the benefits of compromise, but surprisingly, even in this era of coalition government, it was not one which gained any support. Oh well, let battle commence.
Wednesday 2 June 2010
Wee will rock you
Bank Holiday weekends require activity so it was off to the North Devon real ale and food fair (or whatever it was called) on the Sunday. It was OK, because, let’s face it, anywhere with beer, food and live music has an above average chance of being at the very least OK. But – always a but – herself is not too keen on real ale, in fact, she doesn’t like it much at all, so it would have been a bit unfair to insist on staying for a session. And also, most importantly in my view, there were no loos.
Now, if you’re going to get people along to drink beer and eat food then it is an inescapable law of nature and hygiene that you need loos. However, owing to North Devon Council’s shortsighted policy of closing down a multiplicity of bog standard (ha ha) toilets and opening a very few super-loos, there was nowhere very close to the Pannier Market where the event was held, where people could drain their spuds and park their breakfasts. I hope the consequence was not a lot of al fresco micturition as the pints were sunk, but nature will take its course…
Anyway, no harm done, we just drank up and left, but not before noticing the huge number of people at the festival who bore a close resemblance to gargoyles, including one mature lady complete with Rolling Stones big tongue tattoo who insisted on having her top shelf on display (but you didn’t really want to look). The beer festival was not the only place at which to spot gargoyles etc as the next day we ventured to Westward Ho! for the potwalloping – an annual event held more in hope than expectation. Again this was only just OK, but no more. So we paid a quick visit to the beer tent, then had fish and chips and got the bus home. Proper grockles. On the plus side there were readily accessible toilets so no need for outdoor weeing.
Now, if you’re going to get people along to drink beer and eat food then it is an inescapable law of nature and hygiene that you need loos. However, owing to North Devon Council’s shortsighted policy of closing down a multiplicity of bog standard (ha ha) toilets and opening a very few super-loos, there was nowhere very close to the Pannier Market where the event was held, where people could drain their spuds and park their breakfasts. I hope the consequence was not a lot of al fresco micturition as the pints were sunk, but nature will take its course…
Anyway, no harm done, we just drank up and left, but not before noticing the huge number of people at the festival who bore a close resemblance to gargoyles, including one mature lady complete with Rolling Stones big tongue tattoo who insisted on having her top shelf on display (but you didn’t really want to look). The beer festival was not the only place at which to spot gargoyles etc as the next day we ventured to Westward Ho! for the potwalloping – an annual event held more in hope than expectation. Again this was only just OK, but no more. So we paid a quick visit to the beer tent, then had fish and chips and got the bus home. Proper grockles. On the plus side there were readily accessible toilets so no need for outdoor weeing.
Thursday 27 May 2010
Won’t get fooled again
Didn’t get the bus I normally catch this morning. No matter, I thought, the sun was shining and Bideford Quay would be as good a place as any to while away the time until the next one. That was a strategic error of no little magnitude. The reason for it being a blunder not to be repeated (hence The Who song title at the top of the posting) is that the next bus allows pupils bound for Park School in Barnstaple to get on board.
I should emphasise that letting these schoolkids on the bus is not akin to bringing the Trojan Horse within the city walls or just allowing the Visigoths to use your loo before they go on somewhere else to pillage, but…. I know this is going to make me sound all Meldrew-ish…. these kids just talked non-stop shite. They were also incredibly noisy and foul-mouthed beyond belief. The group of girls sitting closest to me would have been about 13 years old – no older – so to hear one of them constantly going on about “motherfuckers” was somewhat disconcerting. This is slightly hypocritical of me as I swear at will, but that does not generally include while I am on a bus.
Anyway, could have been worse, I didn’t have to fend off the little heathens with a rolled-up umbrella, gradually retreating to the door of the bus so I could escape, but I did breathe a sigh of relief when I stepped off the bus. How teachers can put up with that sort of stuff day in, day out is a mystery to me. Not much wonder so many of the teachers I have met are either incipient alcoholics or teetering on the edge of insanity, and in some cases are both. Lesson learned, don't miss the bus.
I should emphasise that letting these schoolkids on the bus is not akin to bringing the Trojan Horse within the city walls or just allowing the Visigoths to use your loo before they go on somewhere else to pillage, but…. I know this is going to make me sound all Meldrew-ish…. these kids just talked non-stop shite. They were also incredibly noisy and foul-mouthed beyond belief. The group of girls sitting closest to me would have been about 13 years old – no older – so to hear one of them constantly going on about “motherfuckers” was somewhat disconcerting. This is slightly hypocritical of me as I swear at will, but that does not generally include while I am on a bus.
Anyway, could have been worse, I didn’t have to fend off the little heathens with a rolled-up umbrella, gradually retreating to the door of the bus so I could escape, but I did breathe a sigh of relief when I stepped off the bus. How teachers can put up with that sort of stuff day in, day out is a mystery to me. Not much wonder so many of the teachers I have met are either incipient alcoholics or teetering on the edge of insanity, and in some cases are both. Lesson learned, don't miss the bus.
Wednesday 26 May 2010
50 not out, now for the back 9
Mixed sporting terminology there, which is doubly weird as I haven’t played cricket since school and golf is terra incognita and always likely to remain so. Anyway, there is a point to the cricket and golf language which is…
I had my 50th birthday earlier this month and enjoyed very much the celebrating of it. However, the birthday reminded me of two things I held to be absolute truths about adults when I was just a child. Truth one: adults go to bed at midnight. Well this adult doesn’t – if I can get away with it, it’s much earlier, but then I am an early riser.
And truth two? Well that was that adults live to be 100. Look, I was only a child. Let’s face it when you’re a kid you think people in their 20s are pretty decrepit. So this all led me to thinking that if I had been correct when I was a child then my 50th birthday marked the halfway point and therefore, in golfing terms, I am now on the back nine. Seeing as I know most people do not live to be 100, in reality I am probably quite a long way through the back nine, but as I have pointed out before I am very aware of our fragile mortality so it’s not really anything to worry about.
Earlier this week I dusted off the bike and rode to work and then back again at the end of the day. All told a distance of slightly under 20 miles. The only trouble is I hadn’t ridden my bike since last autumn (what a slacker) and the next day my knees mounted their own protest at the unexpected exercise by giving me gyp every time I went up stairs. Now that’s definitely a sign of being grown-up.
I had my 50th birthday earlier this month and enjoyed very much the celebrating of it. However, the birthday reminded me of two things I held to be absolute truths about adults when I was just a child. Truth one: adults go to bed at midnight. Well this adult doesn’t – if I can get away with it, it’s much earlier, but then I am an early riser.
And truth two? Well that was that adults live to be 100. Look, I was only a child. Let’s face it when you’re a kid you think people in their 20s are pretty decrepit. So this all led me to thinking that if I had been correct when I was a child then my 50th birthday marked the halfway point and therefore, in golfing terms, I am now on the back nine. Seeing as I know most people do not live to be 100, in reality I am probably quite a long way through the back nine, but as I have pointed out before I am very aware of our fragile mortality so it’s not really anything to worry about.
Earlier this week I dusted off the bike and rode to work and then back again at the end of the day. All told a distance of slightly under 20 miles. The only trouble is I hadn’t ridden my bike since last autumn (what a slacker) and the next day my knees mounted their own protest at the unexpected exercise by giving me gyp every time I went up stairs. Now that’s definitely a sign of being grown-up.
Wednesday 19 May 2010
Dead cat, definitely no bounce
I found a dead cat this morning, or rather the dog did. I had seen a rather shapeless white thing on the ground in the middle of the small park where I was walking the dog, but it was not until I realised she was approaching said shape with very cautious interest that I thought I ought to investigate. And there was a cat looking for all the world as if it was sleeping, except that it wasn't. Dead things give off a dead vibe. I don't mean things like smelling horrible and so on, it's more a complete absence of life. Duh, you say, of course a dead thing isn't a live thing. But there is more to it than that. I've only once ever properly seen a dead person. It was someone I knew who died unexpectedly and the last time I had seen this person alive would have been no more than 48 hours before. Neither of us would have had any inkling that one of us would be dead before long, but there's no doubting it when you see it. By the way I am not a doctor and I do know that the medical profession do not go around saying: "Yep, he's dead. You've only got to look at him." But sometimes - the cat and the person I'm talking about - that's all it takes, just a look.
I made sure my dog did not interefere with the cat's body and left it where it lay. Aside from burying it myself, I couldn't think of what else to do. The poor old puss looked forlorn in the drizzle, but I expect it will be missed sooner or later. Maybe its owner lives in one of the houses near the park, will find their pet and take it home for a proper burial. And that's it really, a memento mori in the drizzle, in the park. That old clock is ticking for us all.
I made sure my dog did not interefere with the cat's body and left it where it lay. Aside from burying it myself, I couldn't think of what else to do. The poor old puss looked forlorn in the drizzle, but I expect it will be missed sooner or later. Maybe its owner lives in one of the houses near the park, will find their pet and take it home for a proper burial. And that's it really, a memento mori in the drizzle, in the park. That old clock is ticking for us all.
Sunday 16 May 2010
The coatpeg coalition
I've been a bit busy the last week turning 50 and celebrating my half century while at the same time watching the Mother of Democracies (their words, not mine) twist and turn. It seems the dust is beginning to settle, but for how long? I was pondering this while walking the dog through the early morning mist on Saturday and, somewhat bizarrely, it brought to mind woodwork lessons I had at school.
Being judged too dim for Latin lessons, I was assigned to woodwork instead. Big mistake, but never mind, it's all in the past. Anyway, one of the projects in woodwork was to design and make a coatpeg. This I did and then our long-suffering teacher, a real gent called Mr Jackson, mounted all the coatpegs on a long piece of wood so that we could compare them side by side. Mine looked as if it ought to be a coatpeg, it was on a plaque with a piece sticking out on which, in theory, you could hang a jacket. Mr Jackson then tested the capabilities of our hooks by the simple method of taking his own jacket and hanging it on each peg. I suspect you can see where this is leading. Sure enough, most coatpegs were more than adequate for the task, indeed some had so much bracing on them you could have hung a suit of armour on them. Then Mr Jackson reached mine, put the loop of his jacket over the little peg thingy on my coatpeg and let it take the weight. Or rather, watched his jacket fall to the floor as my coatpeg disintegrated.
What does this have to do with the Lib-Con Con-Dem whatever it's called coalition? Well my coatpeg was bodged up. Being an idle feckless type (Mr Jackson never complained, but I must have tested his patience) I just used nails to assemble the various bits of wood until they resembled a coatpeg. Clearly such a method was entirely unsuitable for the task and the whole thing fell apart. I know it's obvious where this coatpeg metaphor is going, but I have to admit that I'm wondering whether the coalition might just as easily fall apart. Are the Tories and Lib-Dems suitable materials for bonding into one thing which will be strong enough to lead the country back to less stormy waters?
I suppose putting aside my own prejudices, which suggest that, broadly speaking, all politicians are twats, I ought to be hoping that the coalition will deliver us from evil and yet I feel uneasy. I suspect that neither side will ever really trust the other and that if things get tough it will always be someone else's fault. Even so it's early days and they ought to be given a modest period of grace to try to stop Great Britain plunging into the abyss. In greater North Devon we can now say that both our MPs are on the Government side. Will that make any difference? Well, what do you think? I know, I know, cynicism is unhealthy, but then so are repeatedly dashed hopes.
Being judged too dim for Latin lessons, I was assigned to woodwork instead. Big mistake, but never mind, it's all in the past. Anyway, one of the projects in woodwork was to design and make a coatpeg. This I did and then our long-suffering teacher, a real gent called Mr Jackson, mounted all the coatpegs on a long piece of wood so that we could compare them side by side. Mine looked as if it ought to be a coatpeg, it was on a plaque with a piece sticking out on which, in theory, you could hang a jacket. Mr Jackson then tested the capabilities of our hooks by the simple method of taking his own jacket and hanging it on each peg. I suspect you can see where this is leading. Sure enough, most coatpegs were more than adequate for the task, indeed some had so much bracing on them you could have hung a suit of armour on them. Then Mr Jackson reached mine, put the loop of his jacket over the little peg thingy on my coatpeg and let it take the weight. Or rather, watched his jacket fall to the floor as my coatpeg disintegrated.
What does this have to do with the Lib-Con Con-Dem whatever it's called coalition? Well my coatpeg was bodged up. Being an idle feckless type (Mr Jackson never complained, but I must have tested his patience) I just used nails to assemble the various bits of wood until they resembled a coatpeg. Clearly such a method was entirely unsuitable for the task and the whole thing fell apart. I know it's obvious where this coatpeg metaphor is going, but I have to admit that I'm wondering whether the coalition might just as easily fall apart. Are the Tories and Lib-Dems suitable materials for bonding into one thing which will be strong enough to lead the country back to less stormy waters?
I suppose putting aside my own prejudices, which suggest that, broadly speaking, all politicians are twats, I ought to be hoping that the coalition will deliver us from evil and yet I feel uneasy. I suspect that neither side will ever really trust the other and that if things get tough it will always be someone else's fault. Even so it's early days and they ought to be given a modest period of grace to try to stop Great Britain plunging into the abyss. In greater North Devon we can now say that both our MPs are on the Government side. Will that make any difference? Well, what do you think? I know, I know, cynicism is unhealthy, but then so are repeatedly dashed hopes.
Wednesday 5 May 2010
X could finally mark the spot
Barely 24 hours to go and we can all get busy voting and exercising our democratic rights and that kind of thing. Won’t it be grand? However, as I have droned on already, don’t expect some radical transformation. Instead of waiting for some motormouth gimp in a suit to restore the gaiety of nations why not get out there and sort things out for yourself? Take control now.
First of all stop watching television at least some of the time and preferably all of the time. Even better, destroy your television. Never mind the garbage it pumps out in to your home, a television will suck the life out of you. You have been warned. Secondly, stop buying stuff. You might argue that there are some things you need and cannot do without – food I’m thinking of here. I won’t dispute that. But at the very least, buy real food and then cook it, with love, lots of love. Most other things you can do without. You really can. In a way, I’m trying to bring down capitalism but I really don’t want to have to go around shooting people. In fact, can I just make clear that shooting people is not an option at all? It’s a bad thing to do.
Basically we all need to withdraw our support from the massive edifice that is global capitalism and then gradually watch it collapse under its own weight. While we all suffer huge anxiety over trying to acquire a new and shiny thingumajig we are ignoring the fact that life is literally passing us by and we should get on with loving our nearest and dearest, smiling at the trees and counting the stars. Broadly speaking none of those things need the backing, financial or otherwise, of a gonk in the City setting up leveraged buy-outs, whatever they are, or selling short, whatever that means. It’s times like this I wish my dog was in the office with me, she'd know what to do.
First of all stop watching television at least some of the time and preferably all of the time. Even better, destroy your television. Never mind the garbage it pumps out in to your home, a television will suck the life out of you. You have been warned. Secondly, stop buying stuff. You might argue that there are some things you need and cannot do without – food I’m thinking of here. I won’t dispute that. But at the very least, buy real food and then cook it, with love, lots of love. Most other things you can do without. You really can. In a way, I’m trying to bring down capitalism but I really don’t want to have to go around shooting people. In fact, can I just make clear that shooting people is not an option at all? It’s a bad thing to do.
Basically we all need to withdraw our support from the massive edifice that is global capitalism and then gradually watch it collapse under its own weight. While we all suffer huge anxiety over trying to acquire a new and shiny thingumajig we are ignoring the fact that life is literally passing us by and we should get on with loving our nearest and dearest, smiling at the trees and counting the stars. Broadly speaking none of those things need the backing, financial or otherwise, of a gonk in the City setting up leveraged buy-outs, whatever they are, or selling short, whatever that means. It’s times like this I wish my dog was in the office with me, she'd know what to do.
Sunday 2 May 2010
This floating voter is sinking fast
In recent months I might have given the impression that I didn't think it would be worth voting in the general election. I might have suggested that there was little point as all politicians are as bad as each other, only in it for what they can get, don't give a toss about the electorate etc etc. Well, I'd just like to clarify my position, but the trouble is I can't. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to determine why I should vote, for whom I will vote and what I hope this will achieve.
But, having said all that, I think we, the electorate, have two choices and one very important truth to absorb. So, the two voting choices are vote or don't vote. What? Did you think I was going to tell you who you should vote for or even who I would vote for? Do grow up. But what I mean by saying vote or don't vote is that it is something we should all do as one. Imagine if everyone entitled to vote just didn't. No slacker "I meant to vote, but forgot, got there too late, thought it was the next day". Just real intentional "I'm not giving any of you my support". But let's face it, that won't happen. So the only option is to get out there and vote. Cast your vote on whatever basis you like - political conviction or the candidate's nice smile or even sticking a pin in a bit of paper.
Having cast your vote, the important truth to take in is. . .it won't make a blind bit of difference. Sorry to disillusion you, but the grim reality is that we as a nation are in such a deep shithole that merely changing the political complexion of the government will have barely any effect. To be brutally frank much of the reason we are in such a dire situation is entirely down to us. Yes, politicians have played their part, particularly in allowing banks and big business to roam at will feeding off us as if they were monstrous parasites, but we have encouraged them because of our insatiable desire to have "things". As long as we've been able to go on buying and consuming we've not really cared too much about what's been going on and now we have no option but to pay attention. And what we are likely to see in the coming months and even years will not be pleasant.
I live in the Torridge and West Devon constituency, almost literally a stone's throw from the boundary with the North Devon constituency. They could be twins, deeply rural, low income, housing shortage, and virtually invisible to central government. That, I fear, does not depend on the party allegiance of the two seats' MPs. When we've had MPs of the ruling party it hasn't made the slightest difference. The sad fact is that we are peripheral (in sight of the end of the world, as it says at the top of this blog) and we have no clout, and politics is rarely about doing the best one can for everyone, but doing the best one can to keep yourself in power.
I am sorry, when I started writing it, this posting was intended to be quite whimsical, and that's how it would have turned out were it not for the fact that the more I think about this the more I think that as a nation we are in denial about our situation. We hanker after "change" but we are not ready to change ourselves. Sorry to sound so bleak. Roll on May the 6th.
But, having said all that, I think we, the electorate, have two choices and one very important truth to absorb. So, the two voting choices are vote or don't vote. What? Did you think I was going to tell you who you should vote for or even who I would vote for? Do grow up. But what I mean by saying vote or don't vote is that it is something we should all do as one. Imagine if everyone entitled to vote just didn't. No slacker "I meant to vote, but forgot, got there too late, thought it was the next day". Just real intentional "I'm not giving any of you my support". But let's face it, that won't happen. So the only option is to get out there and vote. Cast your vote on whatever basis you like - political conviction or the candidate's nice smile or even sticking a pin in a bit of paper.
Having cast your vote, the important truth to take in is. . .it won't make a blind bit of difference. Sorry to disillusion you, but the grim reality is that we as a nation are in such a deep shithole that merely changing the political complexion of the government will have barely any effect. To be brutally frank much of the reason we are in such a dire situation is entirely down to us. Yes, politicians have played their part, particularly in allowing banks and big business to roam at will feeding off us as if they were monstrous parasites, but we have encouraged them because of our insatiable desire to have "things". As long as we've been able to go on buying and consuming we've not really cared too much about what's been going on and now we have no option but to pay attention. And what we are likely to see in the coming months and even years will not be pleasant.
I live in the Torridge and West Devon constituency, almost literally a stone's throw from the boundary with the North Devon constituency. They could be twins, deeply rural, low income, housing shortage, and virtually invisible to central government. That, I fear, does not depend on the party allegiance of the two seats' MPs. When we've had MPs of the ruling party it hasn't made the slightest difference. The sad fact is that we are peripheral (in sight of the end of the world, as it says at the top of this blog) and we have no clout, and politics is rarely about doing the best one can for everyone, but doing the best one can to keep yourself in power.
I am sorry, when I started writing it, this posting was intended to be quite whimsical, and that's how it would have turned out were it not for the fact that the more I think about this the more I think that as a nation we are in denial about our situation. We hanker after "change" but we are not ready to change ourselves. Sorry to sound so bleak. Roll on May the 6th.
Thursday 29 April 2010
You've got to admire their optimism
To Instow beach yesterday afternoon with the dog and while I accept it was a pleasant enough day it was hardly scorchio. So imagine my surprise - as they say in certain publications' readers' letters pages - when I spotted people just lying on the beach. Admittedly they were fully clothed, but it was obviously premeditated because they were on blankets. I have to say I do respect the British holidaymakers' boundless hope that things won't be too bad. No doubt they are all saying to each other "mustn't grumble".
Our would-be leaders are another bunch showing apparently inexhaustible optimism. They continue to prance around the country convinced of their right to our vote. Of course this approach went seriously wrong for Gordon Brown when he managed to suggest that a random old lady was a bigot. Fleet Street's finest are now in meltdown about a "turning point" in the election which has doomed Labour's chances of gaining power. They may be right about Labour's chances, but I'm not so sure an unwise comment is necessarily what will do it. However, much of journalism turns on being able to create the general from the specific. One incident becomes an example for everything.
In any case, I'd be surprised if politicians didn't spend a lot of time slagging us off behind our backs. Let's face it, the electorate must be an awful nuisance for most politicians. I'm sure we, the voters, just simply don't understand the pressures and difficulties of being a talking arse. Having to go out and secure people's votes must be an awful chore, so much so that Peter Mandelson manages to occupy one of the most powerful roles in British politics and yet he's unelected. And the piles of festering ordure standing in my constituency seem to be adopting a policy of keeping a very low profile presumably in the hope that we'll inadvertently vote for them without first discovering that it would be more pleasant to get the clap than spend an hour in their company. Anyway, mustn't grumble.
Our would-be leaders are another bunch showing apparently inexhaustible optimism. They continue to prance around the country convinced of their right to our vote. Of course this approach went seriously wrong for Gordon Brown when he managed to suggest that a random old lady was a bigot. Fleet Street's finest are now in meltdown about a "turning point" in the election which has doomed Labour's chances of gaining power. They may be right about Labour's chances, but I'm not so sure an unwise comment is necessarily what will do it. However, much of journalism turns on being able to create the general from the specific. One incident becomes an example for everything.
In any case, I'd be surprised if politicians didn't spend a lot of time slagging us off behind our backs. Let's face it, the electorate must be an awful nuisance for most politicians. I'm sure we, the voters, just simply don't understand the pressures and difficulties of being a talking arse. Having to go out and secure people's votes must be an awful chore, so much so that Peter Mandelson manages to occupy one of the most powerful roles in British politics and yet he's unelected. And the piles of festering ordure standing in my constituency seem to be adopting a policy of keeping a very low profile presumably in the hope that we'll inadvertently vote for them without first discovering that it would be more pleasant to get the clap than spend an hour in their company. Anyway, mustn't grumble.
Friday 23 April 2010
George? That's a nice name
And a happy St George's Day to you. But what's it all about? As a nation we seem to struggle with celebrations of our identity, veering from complete indifference about the whole affair to using the flag of St George as a banner under which all manner of vile prejudices can be unleashed. Me? I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk. That's from a pre-Phil Collins Genesis and just popped into my head. I've never taken acid (so far as I know), but sometimes I just get flashbacks.
Anyway, back to St George, what should we do about him and his day? Well, first of all completely and utterly ignore the fact that he almost certainly never came anywhere near England. And then, in the manner of Ian Dury, look for Reasons To Be Cheerful. So here are things I think we could reasonably take some pride in, even if we've had no hand in their creation. In no particular order: good beer, Shakespeare, a wonderfully flexible language, tea-drinking, good food, beautiful countryside, public libraries, cakes, kindness, trips to the seaside, dogs, washing lines, You've Been Framed, football, cricket, stamps, newspapers, poetry, roses and shyness.
I am not claiming that these are all English or that some overbearing sense of pride should accompany all of them, but is it so wrong to take some pleasure in these things? I don't think so and while I know that we're all hurtling headlong towards the grave and oblivion, it's not necessarily utterly complacent to enjoy what we've got, while we've got it. One last thing, I am well aware that it is easy to find examples of things in that list that can be truly horrid, but maybe, just for one day, we shouldn't be too hard on ourselves.
Anyway, back to St George, what should we do about him and his day? Well, first of all completely and utterly ignore the fact that he almost certainly never came anywhere near England. And then, in the manner of Ian Dury, look for Reasons To Be Cheerful. So here are things I think we could reasonably take some pride in, even if we've had no hand in their creation. In no particular order: good beer, Shakespeare, a wonderfully flexible language, tea-drinking, good food, beautiful countryside, public libraries, cakes, kindness, trips to the seaside, dogs, washing lines, You've Been Framed, football, cricket, stamps, newspapers, poetry, roses and shyness.
I am not claiming that these are all English or that some overbearing sense of pride should accompany all of them, but is it so wrong to take some pleasure in these things? I don't think so and while I know that we're all hurtling headlong towards the grave and oblivion, it's not necessarily utterly complacent to enjoy what we've got, while we've got it. One last thing, I am well aware that it is easy to find examples of things in that list that can be truly horrid, but maybe, just for one day, we shouldn't be too hard on ourselves.
Thursday 22 April 2010
But what do they think about volcanoes?
Week ten of the general election campaign (it must be at least that, surely?) and the excitement and anticipation in North Devon, by which I mean everywhere north of the A30, is palpable. That is, if palpable means as limp as a discarded condom. So far the Lib Dems and the Tories have pushed one leaflet each through my letter box and then buggered off. No candidates have girded their loins enough to knock on the door and seek my vote, which is a bit of a pity because I have issues I wish to raise with them.
At least that is how I feel now, but possibly by the time the doorbell goes I'd just as soon get hold of the dog's collar and take her, snarling, with me to the door and then the candidates can leave. It works with the Jehovah's Witnesses and the funny bloke who tried to get me to take out a Sky TV subscription. None of these people know that despite the lunging and growling that the dog is doing all she really wants to do is sniff their crotches and present them with a rubber ball.
Anyway the election is sort of passing me by, but I am fully engaged with spring. Primroses, celandines, violets, blossom of all kinds, they're all putting on a big show for us which is far more impressive than the ridiculous charging around of the candidates. Add to that the birds singing their hearts out and, as ever, nature is doing what it does best - just getting on with things. I suppose that even includes the volcanic eruption in Iceland which has brought chaos to the nation's air travellers. I met some people walking their dog the other day, one of whom said of the volcano: "You can't beat nature." Indeed you can't, but volcanoes seem much more elemental than birds tweeting in the hedgerows. Lava spewing out of the ground is a direct reminder of our links to the formation of the solar system and there's little enough that our politicians have to say about that. By the way, that wasn't one of the issues I was going to raise with any candidate that called at my home, but maybe I will now.
At least that is how I feel now, but possibly by the time the doorbell goes I'd just as soon get hold of the dog's collar and take her, snarling, with me to the door and then the candidates can leave. It works with the Jehovah's Witnesses and the funny bloke who tried to get me to take out a Sky TV subscription. None of these people know that despite the lunging and growling that the dog is doing all she really wants to do is sniff their crotches and present them with a rubber ball.
Anyway the election is sort of passing me by, but I am fully engaged with spring. Primroses, celandines, violets, blossom of all kinds, they're all putting on a big show for us which is far more impressive than the ridiculous charging around of the candidates. Add to that the birds singing their hearts out and, as ever, nature is doing what it does best - just getting on with things. I suppose that even includes the volcanic eruption in Iceland which has brought chaos to the nation's air travellers. I met some people walking their dog the other day, one of whom said of the volcano: "You can't beat nature." Indeed you can't, but volcanoes seem much more elemental than birds tweeting in the hedgerows. Lava spewing out of the ground is a direct reminder of our links to the formation of the solar system and there's little enough that our politicians have to say about that. By the way, that wasn't one of the issues I was going to raise with any candidate that called at my home, but maybe I will now.
Friday 16 April 2010
Smokin’ In The Boys’ Room
But, as Brownsville Station told us, “everybody knows that smokin’ ain’t allowed in school”. The weird thing about that group and that particular song – Smokin’ In The Boys’ Room – was that the group were probably all in their thirties so why on earth were they worried about what nasty old teacher was going to do if they got caught smoking – sorry, smokin’ – in the toilets?
Anyway, I digress. My musings on smoking arose from a recent pub session in Barnstaple. Because the early evening was pleasant we went on to the roof terrace (how grand), which, because it is outside, is also the smoking area for this bar. The only trouble is that in our group only one person smoked and she considerately moved away from the group when she lit up. The area where we were sitting also had those overhead heaters which have become so popular with pubs since the smoking ban was introduced and which we needed as the evening wore on and temperatures fell.
And now, getting to the point, perhaps all this explains the hostile looks our group got from a quartet of middle-aged ladies who emerged on to the roof terrace with their fag packets in hand only to see that their prime smoking spot under the heaters had been taken by a group of about ten people, only one of whom smoked. I have to admit that none of this dawned on me until I was half-way home on the bus, and then I wondered if we had been unfair to the smoking fraternity. And then I realised I didn’t care, life is too short, which is definitely the case for some smokers.
Anyway, I digress. My musings on smoking arose from a recent pub session in Barnstaple. Because the early evening was pleasant we went on to the roof terrace (how grand), which, because it is outside, is also the smoking area for this bar. The only trouble is that in our group only one person smoked and she considerately moved away from the group when she lit up. The area where we were sitting also had those overhead heaters which have become so popular with pubs since the smoking ban was introduced and which we needed as the evening wore on and temperatures fell.
And now, getting to the point, perhaps all this explains the hostile looks our group got from a quartet of middle-aged ladies who emerged on to the roof terrace with their fag packets in hand only to see that their prime smoking spot under the heaters had been taken by a group of about ten people, only one of whom smoked. I have to admit that none of this dawned on me until I was half-way home on the bus, and then I wondered if we had been unfair to the smoking fraternity. And then I realised I didn’t care, life is too short, which is definitely the case for some smokers.
Friday 9 April 2010
Three days is a long time in politics
It was Harold Wilson who said that a week was a long time in politics and even though, as I write this, we are not quite 72 hours in to the General Election campaign, I’ve had enough of it already. Every TV I walk past, every newspaper I pick up, every website I glance at is droning on about the election, which I understand is their thing, it’s what they do.
But the campaign itself is dull as. The Falklands War was described as two bald men fighting over a comb and I think the 2010 General Election is much the same. Make it two-and-a-half bald men if you count the Lib Dems. The sad fact is that politicians in the major parties have more in common with each other than they do to differentiate themselves. Hence their tedious, meaningless campaign slogans. They remind me of the crap adverts for Petroc, which those with any sense will know as North Devon College. The adverts pick three words and stack them up over each other.
It looks something like this:
CONCEIVE
INSPIRE
ACHIEVE
Or maybe like this:
ARTICULATE
PENETRATE
EJACULATE
Anyway, nobody really did it better than the Japanese motorcycle industry as it began to overtake the British version. They simply said:
ADOPT
ADAPT
IMPROVE
What has any of this to do with the General Election? Well, nothing really, but that’s how difficult I’m finding it to focus on something which is either so important we should all concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else, or means so little that we might as well study the entrails of roadkill to determine where we are headed. As they say in the Big Brother house: “You decide.”
But the campaign itself is dull as. The Falklands War was described as two bald men fighting over a comb and I think the 2010 General Election is much the same. Make it two-and-a-half bald men if you count the Lib Dems. The sad fact is that politicians in the major parties have more in common with each other than they do to differentiate themselves. Hence their tedious, meaningless campaign slogans. They remind me of the crap adverts for Petroc, which those with any sense will know as North Devon College. The adverts pick three words and stack them up over each other.
It looks something like this:
CONCEIVE
INSPIRE
ACHIEVE
Or maybe like this:
ARTICULATE
PENETRATE
EJACULATE
Anyway, nobody really did it better than the Japanese motorcycle industry as it began to overtake the British version. They simply said:
ADOPT
ADAPT
IMPROVE
What has any of this to do with the General Election? Well, nothing really, but that’s how difficult I’m finding it to focus on something which is either so important we should all concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else, or means so little that we might as well study the entrails of roadkill to determine where we are headed. As they say in the Big Brother house: “You decide.”
Friday 2 April 2010
Spit or swallows
Really that should say spit and swallows, but I like to get smutty where I can. So, the spit comes from walking on Instow beach this morning - early, before the rain came - and finding a huge dog turd on what was otherwise pristine sand. It made me want to spit in an uncharacteristic rage against my fellow dog owners. How stupid are they? I was walking my dog and yes, she unloaded on the beach, but it can only have been there for seconds before I swooped with the little tie-handle bag and scooped the still warm dog eggs off the sand. (Sorry if you're eating as you read this, but really it's not as bad as it sounds, just don't breathe in while you're doing it.)
But as a result of spotting Dog Poop Mountain on the beach my walk was marred somewhat as I fulminated against the stupidity, idleness and thoughtlessness of those people who let their dogs loose to drop their turds wherever they will without following behind their pet to pick up. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Don't blame the dog, blame the owner. Also, to a lesser extent, blame local councils which have the power to fine dog owners who do not clear up after their animals, but rarely use it. A law which is not enforced doesn't really count. Drivers with mobiles jammed against their ears while negotiating traffic prove that point.
I walked up the beach conducting an internal dialogue with myself about selfish dog owners and whether I should pick up the offending excrement as I walked back along to my car. The "in-my-head" jury was coming down very firmly on the side of "Sod it, leave it, it's not your responsibility." But then I happened to glance up and there, flying about 20ft above the water's edge, were three or maybe four swallows. They'd come back from Africa to Britain, where, let's face it, the weather was not being the most welcoming, and while, as the saying tells us, one swallow does not a summer make (nor do three or four, by the way) it's certainly a cheering sight. Therefore, I reasoned that if they could make the effort to come all the way back to the UK, I could overcome my aversion to picking up someone else's dog's massive turd. Which I did, even though it weighed a ton. (Yes, I know that's ridiculous exaggeration, but you should have seen it. It had it's own stinky micro-climate.) So well done swallows, you cheered me up and made me do something positive. That must be some money in the karma bank acccount, surely?
But as a result of spotting Dog Poop Mountain on the beach my walk was marred somewhat as I fulminated against the stupidity, idleness and thoughtlessness of those people who let their dogs loose to drop their turds wherever they will without following behind their pet to pick up. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Don't blame the dog, blame the owner. Also, to a lesser extent, blame local councils which have the power to fine dog owners who do not clear up after their animals, but rarely use it. A law which is not enforced doesn't really count. Drivers with mobiles jammed against their ears while negotiating traffic prove that point.
I walked up the beach conducting an internal dialogue with myself about selfish dog owners and whether I should pick up the offending excrement as I walked back along to my car. The "in-my-head" jury was coming down very firmly on the side of "Sod it, leave it, it's not your responsibility." But then I happened to glance up and there, flying about 20ft above the water's edge, were three or maybe four swallows. They'd come back from Africa to Britain, where, let's face it, the weather was not being the most welcoming, and while, as the saying tells us, one swallow does not a summer make (nor do three or four, by the way) it's certainly a cheering sight. Therefore, I reasoned that if they could make the effort to come all the way back to the UK, I could overcome my aversion to picking up someone else's dog's massive turd. Which I did, even though it weighed a ton. (Yes, I know that's ridiculous exaggeration, but you should have seen it. It had it's own stinky micro-climate.) So well done swallows, you cheered me up and made me do something positive. That must be some money in the karma bank acccount, surely?
Sunday 28 March 2010
The blues had a baby and they called it paunch 'n' roll
The question used to be: Can white men play the blues? I suppose over the years enough white men have proved that yes, they can play the blues (have any white women taken up the challenge?) Putting the point beyond doubt at the Queen's Theatre, Barnstaple, were The Blues Band comprising Paul Jones and, er.... some other blokes. It is to my shame that I can't remember their names, but whereas Paul Jones looked much as he did in the 1960s, his fellow musicians rather resembled aging geography teachers let loose on stage. This is to do them a profound disservice as they were all top notch and cranked out a lively set that went on for a good two hours with a short interval and an encore.
But what really got me about this gig was the audience. For a while I thought I was the youngest person there and then some other 49-year-and-11-month-olds turned up. Then I spotted a family group with some children so I knew I definitely wasn't the youngest. Not that it would have made much difference, because the majority of adult males were dressed almost identically - neat jeans and casual tops. The women, who were probably slightly in the minority, were more adventurous. All of us were of a certain age with added weight and inches around the middle, but for a little while on Friday night I suspect many of us were - in our minds, at least - snake-hipped young rockers again. Ah, if only...
One real plus point about the performance - and this really shows my days of being a snake-hipped young rocker are far behind me - was that it wasn't too loud. No ringing ears after this gig; the music was assertive without forcing you back into your seat. Werthers Original anyone?
But what really got me about this gig was the audience. For a while I thought I was the youngest person there and then some other 49-year-and-11-month-olds turned up. Then I spotted a family group with some children so I knew I definitely wasn't the youngest. Not that it would have made much difference, because the majority of adult males were dressed almost identically - neat jeans and casual tops. The women, who were probably slightly in the minority, were more adventurous. All of us were of a certain age with added weight and inches around the middle, but for a little while on Friday night I suspect many of us were - in our minds, at least - snake-hipped young rockers again. Ah, if only...
One real plus point about the performance - and this really shows my days of being a snake-hipped young rocker are far behind me - was that it wasn't too loud. No ringing ears after this gig; the music was assertive without forcing you back into your seat. Werthers Original anyone?
Saturday 20 March 2010
Nice cup of tea, anyone?
Much distress in Bideford - and understandably so - after a young man called Steven Cloak was assaulted and left with serious head injuries, putting him in Derriford Hospital in Plymouth. He seems to be making some sort of recovery and we can only hope that he will return to full health. These concerns have prompted some of Mr Cloak's friends to organise a march in Bideford protesting at such attacks and calling on people in Bideford to show more respect for each other. So far, so good. However, my eye was caught by a line in the report of this in the North Devon Journal in which local police have promised to look at the way they police the "night-time economy". The what? This will no doubt be done paying full regard to the sensibilities and rights of the "binge-drinking community".
Dear God, what will they come out with next? The night-time economy might suggest that of an evening Bideford is thronged with people making their way between theatres, cinemas, chic bars, happening restaurants and "lovely pubs, where the locals are so friendly". Well, those of us who have endured a night out in Bideford will know the truth of it. While it might be a cause for celebration that Bideford has not gone "all trendy", the reality is that many Bideford pubs are dying on their feet, relying on customers whose basic rule of thumb when it comes to alcohol is that if you haven't actually vomited or passed out yet, you should probably keep having a round of shots until one or other of these outcomes occurs.
This is not to support the view that Bideford is a violent town, which some people claim, just that in Bideford, and much of the UK, many drinkers can have only the haziest idea of what they do on a night-out because their consumption of alcohol is so great it threatens to shut down their central nervous system. In the main, the truth about violence at night in Bideford is that it is between young men who have consumed too much booze. I doubt that there is anyone who takes a drink, who in the course of their lives has never done anything which they do not later regret (yes, me most definitely included). But the unassailable point with alcohol is that for too many young people the lowering of inhibitions results not in some cheery singing and feelings of bonhomie, but aggression, rage and violent acts which can have permanent consequences. On that basis, unsafe sex with casual acquaintances might seem the lesser of two evils, but that is hardly a recommendation.
So, anyway, the "night-time economy", if we must call it that, needs some looking after and let us hope the police can do that effectively. I know it makes me sound old, but I am less and less inclined to go out in places which require large numbers of police to maintain order and I really don't like drinking in pubs which need bouncers to control the clientele. Bloody hell, I only want a couple of pints. The sad irony of all of this is that, so far as I have been able to ascertain, Steven Cloak was a young man who had not been partaking of the "night-time economy". He was on his way home from a friend's house with a takeaway meal. Whether his assailants had been drinking, I do not know, but he has been described to me as someone who would never provoke trouble. All in all, it leaves me wondering if the so-called night-time economy is in just as much trouble as the "real" economy.
Dear God, what will they come out with next? The night-time economy might suggest that of an evening Bideford is thronged with people making their way between theatres, cinemas, chic bars, happening restaurants and "lovely pubs, where the locals are so friendly". Well, those of us who have endured a night out in Bideford will know the truth of it. While it might be a cause for celebration that Bideford has not gone "all trendy", the reality is that many Bideford pubs are dying on their feet, relying on customers whose basic rule of thumb when it comes to alcohol is that if you haven't actually vomited or passed out yet, you should probably keep having a round of shots until one or other of these outcomes occurs.
This is not to support the view that Bideford is a violent town, which some people claim, just that in Bideford, and much of the UK, many drinkers can have only the haziest idea of what they do on a night-out because their consumption of alcohol is so great it threatens to shut down their central nervous system. In the main, the truth about violence at night in Bideford is that it is between young men who have consumed too much booze. I doubt that there is anyone who takes a drink, who in the course of their lives has never done anything which they do not later regret (yes, me most definitely included). But the unassailable point with alcohol is that for too many young people the lowering of inhibitions results not in some cheery singing and feelings of bonhomie, but aggression, rage and violent acts which can have permanent consequences. On that basis, unsafe sex with casual acquaintances might seem the lesser of two evils, but that is hardly a recommendation.
So, anyway, the "night-time economy", if we must call it that, needs some looking after and let us hope the police can do that effectively. I know it makes me sound old, but I am less and less inclined to go out in places which require large numbers of police to maintain order and I really don't like drinking in pubs which need bouncers to control the clientele. Bloody hell, I only want a couple of pints. The sad irony of all of this is that, so far as I have been able to ascertain, Steven Cloak was a young man who had not been partaking of the "night-time economy". He was on his way home from a friend's house with a takeaway meal. Whether his assailants had been drinking, I do not know, but he has been described to me as someone who would never provoke trouble. All in all, it leaves me wondering if the so-called night-time economy is in just as much trouble as the "real" economy.
Wednesday 17 March 2010
Change is in the air, but some things stay the same
Crocuses and daffodils are popping up everywhere so surely spring is not far off. But what really confirms that for me is seeing the Hockings ice cream van near the Kingsley statue at the end of Bideford Quay. It's never too early in the year for a Hockings and never really too late in the year either. Having said that, on the day I spotted the Hockings van I was walking the dog and heading for Victoria Park so I didn't stop. Even so there were a few people who decided an ice cream was just what they needed despite the chilly east wind blowing across the Torridge.
There were also a good few people in the park, mums and dads with their kids on the play equipment, some lads kicking a ball around in front of a goal and a group comprising three girls/young women and a youth ie boy/man - not a little boy, but not a grown-up man. One of the females had a buggy complete with child of indeterminate sex. One of the young women had a bottle of cider, one of those big three-litre jobs, with about half gone. They were all - apart from the child in the buggy - passing round a joint. One of the women said she was determined to get "one last toke" out of it. I suppose that shows that while we may not like the idea of mum, or big sister, getting boozed up while taking junior to the park, at least Bideford's weed smokers are not spendthrifts and like to get value for their money.
So, yes, the rotation of the seasons continues. You don't see it happening, but you can't help notice that suddenly you're a lot further forward in the year than you realised. But in the meantime, Bideford's young people seem intent on blotting everything out. Oh dear, I am getting old or maybe I'm just increasingly conscious that time is not for wasting.
There were also a good few people in the park, mums and dads with their kids on the play equipment, some lads kicking a ball around in front of a goal and a group comprising three girls/young women and a youth ie boy/man - not a little boy, but not a grown-up man. One of the females had a buggy complete with child of indeterminate sex. One of the young women had a bottle of cider, one of those big three-litre jobs, with about half gone. They were all - apart from the child in the buggy - passing round a joint. One of the women said she was determined to get "one last toke" out of it. I suppose that shows that while we may not like the idea of mum, or big sister, getting boozed up while taking junior to the park, at least Bideford's weed smokers are not spendthrifts and like to get value for their money.
So, yes, the rotation of the seasons continues. You don't see it happening, but you can't help notice that suddenly you're a lot further forward in the year than you realised. But in the meantime, Bideford's young people seem intent on blotting everything out. Oh dear, I am getting old or maybe I'm just increasingly conscious that time is not for wasting.
Thursday 11 March 2010
Do we want to be like Belgium?
Well do we? Former Chief of Defence Staff Lord Guthrie wants to know. At least I assume he does seeing as he asked the question on the radio this morning. I took him at his word. When I think of Belgium I think of superb beer, wonderful chocolate and shooting a nun with a pellet gun.
The first two of these speak for themselves: some of the best beers in the world – in my opinion – come from Belgium and likewise for chocolate. As for shooting a nun with a pellet gun this was a youthful transgression on my part and the nun escaped unharmed. I suspect she was also oblivious of the grievous assault seeing as her capacious habit absorbed the projectile which was shot from behind. Before anyone worries too much about the nun, the weapon used was a spring-powered gun sold to children and I was a child at the time. My friends and I all had these guns, which we bought during a family holiday in Belgium and we all shot each other with them with no harmful effect. Having said that, it’s just the sort of incident which these days would see a police armed response vehicle showing up with the likelihood of the cops firing off a few rounds because, as we all know, the war on terror must never cease.
So to get back to the noble lord’s question: on the basis that beer and chocolate get a yes vote and nun-shooting gets a no that’s still a majority verdict in favour of being like Belgium. Of course, I suspect that Lord Guthrie wasn’t thinking of beer and chocolate, although strangely enough shooting (but not of nuns) was probably more on his mind. So basically what he wanted to know was does Great Britain want to be a force on the world stage with enough military muscle to still be considered a bit tasty or would we settle for a smaller military capability and consequently a reduced role in international affairs. Lord Guthrie made his view fairly plain and wants more money for the Army, in particular, so we as a nation can carry on doing what he clearly considers to be good things around the world (also known as other people’s countries).
I suppose it would be naïve of me to suggest that shedding our reputation as a nation ready to wade in, usually behind the USA, with all guns blazing need not be a bad thing. I expect Belgium has its moments, it certainly is a country with a grim colonial past, but by and large it seems to keep itself to itself – except for the beer and choccies. Having said all that, and having suggested I might not vote in the forthcoming General Election, I was impressed by the enthusiasm in Iraq for those voting in their recent elections, despite the worst efforts of bombers believed to be linked to Saddam’s Baath party. The question Lord Guthrie might then reasonably ask is: would elections in Iraq have been achieved using only copious applications of beer and choccies?
The first two of these speak for themselves: some of the best beers in the world – in my opinion – come from Belgium and likewise for chocolate. As for shooting a nun with a pellet gun this was a youthful transgression on my part and the nun escaped unharmed. I suspect she was also oblivious of the grievous assault seeing as her capacious habit absorbed the projectile which was shot from behind. Before anyone worries too much about the nun, the weapon used was a spring-powered gun sold to children and I was a child at the time. My friends and I all had these guns, which we bought during a family holiday in Belgium and we all shot each other with them with no harmful effect. Having said that, it’s just the sort of incident which these days would see a police armed response vehicle showing up with the likelihood of the cops firing off a few rounds because, as we all know, the war on terror must never cease.
So to get back to the noble lord’s question: on the basis that beer and chocolate get a yes vote and nun-shooting gets a no that’s still a majority verdict in favour of being like Belgium. Of course, I suspect that Lord Guthrie wasn’t thinking of beer and chocolate, although strangely enough shooting (but not of nuns) was probably more on his mind. So basically what he wanted to know was does Great Britain want to be a force on the world stage with enough military muscle to still be considered a bit tasty or would we settle for a smaller military capability and consequently a reduced role in international affairs. Lord Guthrie made his view fairly plain and wants more money for the Army, in particular, so we as a nation can carry on doing what he clearly considers to be good things around the world (also known as other people’s countries).
I suppose it would be naïve of me to suggest that shedding our reputation as a nation ready to wade in, usually behind the USA, with all guns blazing need not be a bad thing. I expect Belgium has its moments, it certainly is a country with a grim colonial past, but by and large it seems to keep itself to itself – except for the beer and choccies. Having said all that, and having suggested I might not vote in the forthcoming General Election, I was impressed by the enthusiasm in Iraq for those voting in their recent elections, despite the worst efforts of bombers believed to be linked to Saddam’s Baath party. The question Lord Guthrie might then reasonably ask is: would elections in Iraq have been achieved using only copious applications of beer and choccies?
Sunday 7 March 2010
Are we nearly there yet?
The question children ask their parents on journeys could equally be posed by the electorate as we inch towards the General Election. For God's sake, how much longer must we wait until...well, until what? The election campaign has got under way, it's just that nobody will really admit it. It is typified by each of the three main parties - or the two main parties and the Liberal Democrats - saying that the others are pants. So in a sense, we are "there", the election is under way in everything but name.
And to make matters even better, the parties have started coming up with some slogans. Labour said "A future fair for all" and the Tories said "Vote for change". I'm not sure if the Lib-Dems have come up with anything at all - maybe "Don't forget us". Anyway, as slogans go the ones we have been informed about so far cannot be said to be too edgy. Did Labour toy with "A future fair for some of you and the rest can f*ck off". Were the Conservatives considering "Please, please, please vote for us - we want a go now".
Here in North Devon - the geographical area covered by two constituencies, that is - will any of this make any difference? It's not rocket surgery to suggest that Lib Dem Nick Harvey will hang on in North Devon, the political seat, as the Tories and their wayward offspring - Independent Rodney Cann, UKIP and a smattering of right-wing groups with their eyes too close together - bitch and moan at each other and tumble over the Reichenbach Falls. In Torridge and West Devon, I suppose the safe bet is sitting Tory Geoffrey Cox, if only because he hasn't done anything you could specifically point your finger at and say "You clown, what's that all about" or alternatively "Well done, Geoffrey, you're just the sort of bloke in a tweed jacket we need round here".
But, as I have said before, I am contemplating not voting at all. My head says I should, my heart says "Sod that, what's the point". This is a point of view that I have begun to hold more strongly since MPs awarded themselves a £1,000 a year pay rise. After the shitstorm MPs went through over their expenses, this move is the equivalent of a chavvy crim in a magistrates' court flicking the bench the V-sign as he leaves, having been let off once again. The thinking of the MPs/chavvy crim goes: I've been done for the more serious crime (fiddling my expenses) at this late stage in the hearing (Parliament) are they really going to haul me back for more punishment. The difference being, of course, that the chavvy crim has received some sort of sanction; by and large, MPs have got off Scot free and seem intent in carrying on in their merry way.
Anyway, someone once said (I think it was poet ee cummings) "A politician is an arse upon which everyone has sat except a man". If he were still alive, I expect cummings would have found some way to add "or a woman".
As a complete aside, I went to the Plough, Torrington, the other night to see Tavaziva Dance perform Wild Dog which was completely baffling, but the women dancers were fit as and the men dancers put fat slobs like me to shame. Dance, it's just a bit weird for a bloke like me.
Just reflecting on the Reichenbach Falls bit, that was where Sherlock Holmes and arch-criminal Professor Moriarty tumbled to their deaths in each other's grip. Holmes' death, even though of a fictional character, caused such a stink that Conan-Doyle had to bring him back to life. Would that happen to the Tories in North Devon (not forgetting disgruntled ex-Tory Rod "Rodders" Cann)? Nah, let's hope not.
And to make matters even better, the parties have started coming up with some slogans. Labour said "A future fair for all" and the Tories said "Vote for change". I'm not sure if the Lib-Dems have come up with anything at all - maybe "Don't forget us". Anyway, as slogans go the ones we have been informed about so far cannot be said to be too edgy. Did Labour toy with "A future fair for some of you and the rest can f*ck off". Were the Conservatives considering "Please, please, please vote for us - we want a go now".
Here in North Devon - the geographical area covered by two constituencies, that is - will any of this make any difference? It's not rocket surgery to suggest that Lib Dem Nick Harvey will hang on in North Devon, the political seat, as the Tories and their wayward offspring - Independent Rodney Cann, UKIP and a smattering of right-wing groups with their eyes too close together - bitch and moan at each other and tumble over the Reichenbach Falls. In Torridge and West Devon, I suppose the safe bet is sitting Tory Geoffrey Cox, if only because he hasn't done anything you could specifically point your finger at and say "You clown, what's that all about" or alternatively "Well done, Geoffrey, you're just the sort of bloke in a tweed jacket we need round here".
But, as I have said before, I am contemplating not voting at all. My head says I should, my heart says "Sod that, what's the point". This is a point of view that I have begun to hold more strongly since MPs awarded themselves a £1,000 a year pay rise. After the shitstorm MPs went through over their expenses, this move is the equivalent of a chavvy crim in a magistrates' court flicking the bench the V-sign as he leaves, having been let off once again. The thinking of the MPs/chavvy crim goes: I've been done for the more serious crime (fiddling my expenses) at this late stage in the hearing (Parliament) are they really going to haul me back for more punishment. The difference being, of course, that the chavvy crim has received some sort of sanction; by and large, MPs have got off Scot free and seem intent in carrying on in their merry way.
Anyway, someone once said (I think it was poet ee cummings) "A politician is an arse upon which everyone has sat except a man". If he were still alive, I expect cummings would have found some way to add "or a woman".
As a complete aside, I went to the Plough, Torrington, the other night to see Tavaziva Dance perform Wild Dog which was completely baffling, but the women dancers were fit as and the men dancers put fat slobs like me to shame. Dance, it's just a bit weird for a bloke like me.
Just reflecting on the Reichenbach Falls bit, that was where Sherlock Holmes and arch-criminal Professor Moriarty tumbled to their deaths in each other's grip. Holmes' death, even though of a fictional character, caused such a stink that Conan-Doyle had to bring him back to life. Would that happen to the Tories in North Devon (not forgetting disgruntled ex-Tory Rod "Rodders" Cann)? Nah, let's hope not.
Tuesday 2 March 2010
Apparently I am not the centre of the universe
Do you ever get the feeling that events, things and people are all out to get you? That life is just a bit rubbish and it's much worse for you than anyone else. Well, tough. Who gives a monkeys? Nobody. And the reason is, it's not all about you, me or anyone else. Things are just the way they are. I am sorry this is slightly incoherent, but I haven't really had the time to work out exactly what it is I wanted to say, other than a day, a week, a month can, in some situations, seem like a lifetime, but a lifetime is just a flash and then it's gone.
If you get the chance to break away from blubbing into your beer, look up at the stars. Just remember all that stuff about how the light from some of them started its journey to earth before Christopher Columbus set off to grab a bit of territory on the other side of the Atlantic - and he's been dead ages. What I'm sort of vaguely bumbling my way towards is that you must try not to worry about stuff that in time won't really matter much. Oh, and by the way - you are a piece of insignficant crap.
If you get the chance to break away from blubbing into your beer, look up at the stars. Just remember all that stuff about how the light from some of them started its journey to earth before Christopher Columbus set off to grab a bit of territory on the other side of the Atlantic - and he's been dead ages. What I'm sort of vaguely bumbling my way towards is that you must try not to worry about stuff that in time won't really matter much. Oh, and by the way - you are a piece of insignficant crap.
Friday 26 February 2010
Men behaving inappropriately
There’s something about the word inappropriate that gets to me. That and its near relation appropriate. They really do cover a multitude of sins. “I would like to apologise for my inappropriate behaviour at the ambassador’s dinner. I recognise that what I did could not in any way be considered to be appropriate.” Roughly translated that means “I’m sorry I drank enough to sink an aircraft carrier and then groped any woman in arm’s reach. I realise that I am lucky not to find myself in a cell facing charges for a serious sexual offence.”
Instead we use appropriate/inappropriate. While I suppose that is quicker than my rather long-winded translation, the words lack detail. Someone whose behaviour is described as inappropriate could be a sexual predator, violent psycho or raving nutter who likes to sing a version of the Sex Pistol’s God Save The Queen during the committal at a funeral.
Anyway, what brought this on was watching a TV programme which was a sort of rude grandson of Candid Camera. In this instance the clip showed a young TV presenter interviewing people in Hollywood, but instead of a microphone she had a flesh-coloured dildo with all veins up it (as they say). While interviewing a young film starlet, one of the said starlet’s assistants pushed the “microphone” away and said: “That is not appropriate” - no, but it was quite funny.
Instead we use appropriate/inappropriate. While I suppose that is quicker than my rather long-winded translation, the words lack detail. Someone whose behaviour is described as inappropriate could be a sexual predator, violent psycho or raving nutter who likes to sing a version of the Sex Pistol’s God Save The Queen during the committal at a funeral.
Anyway, what brought this on was watching a TV programme which was a sort of rude grandson of Candid Camera. In this instance the clip showed a young TV presenter interviewing people in Hollywood, but instead of a microphone she had a flesh-coloured dildo with all veins up it (as they say). While interviewing a young film starlet, one of the said starlet’s assistants pushed the “microphone” away and said: “That is not appropriate” - no, but it was quite funny.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
A tale of two questions
"Excuse me, mate. Could you help me with my zip?" Good Lord, it's not often walking the dog at the beach ends with someone posing that question. OK, it's not EVER. I suppose people who hang around dogging sites are used to such queries, but I don't and I'm not. Anyway, no point in getting excited. The question came from a rather burly aging surfer who was struggling to get his zip all the way to the top of his suit before plunging into the water at Westward Ho! I suppose only in my rather sordid imagination would it be a comely lady surfer needing help to get out of her suit.
And then, guess what? On the way back from the beach I call in at the vets where an attractive veterinary nurse asks if I need a packet of three or even a packet of six. Blimey, but we hardly know each other and....Oh God, I'm turning into Finbarr Saunders, except mine are single entendres. Still, at least the dog is protected against fleas and worms for the next six months.
Could all these thoughts of raunch be to do with the slow onset of spring. The birds start singing earlier and earlier in the mornings, bulbs are showing signs of poking up through the soil and catkins are appearing on trees. Yup, that's it - the natural cycle of things.
And then, guess what? On the way back from the beach I call in at the vets where an attractive veterinary nurse asks if I need a packet of three or even a packet of six. Blimey, but we hardly know each other and....Oh God, I'm turning into Finbarr Saunders, except mine are single entendres. Still, at least the dog is protected against fleas and worms for the next six months.
Could all these thoughts of raunch be to do with the slow onset of spring. The birds start singing earlier and earlier in the mornings, bulbs are showing signs of poking up through the soil and catkins are appearing on trees. Yup, that's it - the natural cycle of things.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
Seven days make one weak
That's the punchline to some sort of seaside postcard featuring a weedy looking man and a pneumatic blonde on their honeymoon. But in my case, it's all about seven days of sobriety because, yes, we're in Lent and during Lent I give up the booze. No real reason, certainly nothing to do with the approach of Easter. I suspect it's more to do with testing my powers of self-control, which might be foolishly stiff upper lip of me - I don't know. It does, however, make a surprisingly pleasant change to remove alcohol as a factor in some of the things I do.
Going out, for instance, is a lot easier in some respects (no relying on buses, taxis, lifts or Shanks's Pony to get back from somewhere). That being said the company of people who are hell bent on getting tanked up when I am stone cold sober is not high on my list of favourite things to see and do, but then I'm sure I'm just as scintillating when I've had a few.
I also have very vivid dreams - Jacques Cousteau urinating down a well and Denise van Outen hanging up a skimpy dress in a cemetery are just two such dreams. The other thing I notice is that I get quite fidgety. Not because I'm desperate for a drink, but because I just want to get out and do stuff.
So anyway, I've given up drink (but only for Lent) and, sadly, work has given up three of my colleagues. In other words they've gone for a combination of reasons which all have the recession at their root. And if anything is an excuse for a good old piss up, it's people leaving work, but no, not for me. I'm on lime and soda, BUT ONLY FOR LENT.
Going out, for instance, is a lot easier in some respects (no relying on buses, taxis, lifts or Shanks's Pony to get back from somewhere). That being said the company of people who are hell bent on getting tanked up when I am stone cold sober is not high on my list of favourite things to see and do, but then I'm sure I'm just as scintillating when I've had a few.
I also have very vivid dreams - Jacques Cousteau urinating down a well and Denise van Outen hanging up a skimpy dress in a cemetery are just two such dreams. The other thing I notice is that I get quite fidgety. Not because I'm desperate for a drink, but because I just want to get out and do stuff.
So anyway, I've given up drink (but only for Lent) and, sadly, work has given up three of my colleagues. In other words they've gone for a combination of reasons which all have the recession at their root. And if anything is an excuse for a good old piss up, it's people leaving work, but no, not for me. I'm on lime and soda, BUT ONLY FOR LENT.
Monday 22 February 2010
In which I fall among hippies
Strictly speaking I suppose they weren't hippies in the historical sense of the word, but they had the air of people who had once been closely acquainted with cheesecloth, patchouli and the occasional exotic cigarette. The encounter took place at a party celebrating someone's 70th birthday and I suppose if I am honest I didn't want to be there (which sounds terribly rude - why did I just not politely decline?). Anyway, I was there and it was rather like stepping back in time, but the hippies had aged and withered. The bright summers of the 1960s - when I was just a boy - had turned into the wet and cold winter of 2010 and the passage of time had knocked us all about to some extent.
As someone whose musical puberty was spent in the punk era I suppose I have a residual - and entirely unreasonable - antipathy towards hippies. Sorry for continuing to use that word, it's very lazy of me. And I continue to warn "Never trust a hippie." I'm not sure why now. Could it be that love and peace turned into stuff and nonsense and then just plain old power and money. If that is the case I have to put my hands up to the fact that such transitions seem to affect all movements and punk was no exception. "Tempora mutantur" as the wily Romans were often heard to mutter before then observing "but not much".
As someone whose musical puberty was spent in the punk era I suppose I have a residual - and entirely unreasonable - antipathy towards hippies. Sorry for continuing to use that word, it's very lazy of me. And I continue to warn "Never trust a hippie." I'm not sure why now. Could it be that love and peace turned into stuff and nonsense and then just plain old power and money. If that is the case I have to put my hands up to the fact that such transitions seem to affect all movements and punk was no exception. "Tempora mutantur" as the wily Romans were often heard to mutter before then observing "but not much".
Sunday 14 February 2010
Waiting for the other shoe to drop
I've never quite to grips with what that expression really means. Anyway, there was no waiting for the other shoe to drop this morning as I walked along Bideford Quay. Just near where the Oldenburg is moored was not one, but two, bright red ladies' platform shoes, laying on their side, looking rather forlorn. Because they were so close to the lip of the quay I feared that their unfortunate owner might have pitched headlong over the edge and into the river. I peeked down in the gap between the Oldenburg and the quay wall, but, I'm glad to say, there was no sign of a bright young thing (drunk young thing?) in the water.
Maybe whoever the shoes belonged to had found them too uncomfortable to bear and simply abandoned them. I am often surprised at the amount of footwear and clothing that can be found discarded on our highways and byways. Do the people to whom this stuff belongs not realise that suddenly they no longer have their trousers/shirt/socks on? What excuse do they offer to anyone who politely inquires: "Didn't you have a pair of trousers on when you went out?" Maybe they are like a South American footballer I was reading about recently. I think he played for a Peruvian team - Quito, possibly? - and was arrested by police who had found him running stark naked down the street. His explanation to his wife for how this state of affairs had arisen was that he was "being chased by a ghost". Brilliant, I think some of the grubbier types who infest the Premier League could learn from that. Certainly beats blaming "sex addiction".
Maybe whoever the shoes belonged to had found them too uncomfortable to bear and simply abandoned them. I am often surprised at the amount of footwear and clothing that can be found discarded on our highways and byways. Do the people to whom this stuff belongs not realise that suddenly they no longer have their trousers/shirt/socks on? What excuse do they offer to anyone who politely inquires: "Didn't you have a pair of trousers on when you went out?" Maybe they are like a South American footballer I was reading about recently. I think he played for a Peruvian team - Quito, possibly? - and was arrested by police who had found him running stark naked down the street. His explanation to his wife for how this state of affairs had arisen was that he was "being chased by a ghost". Brilliant, I think some of the grubbier types who infest the Premier League could learn from that. Certainly beats blaming "sex addiction".
Friday 12 February 2010
Is that the time already?
Six weeks in to 2010 and so far I've notched up one funeral and a birthday party for an 80-year-old. I've also been invited to a birthday party for a 70-year-old (can't say who, it's a secret, but suffice it to say he was once ultra-bearded) and to put the cherry on the cake - or to poke the lolly stick into the dog poop - there are question marks over my job.
So, one by one, I don't relish going to funerals, although as long as you are aware you're there it's better than the one you go to of which you are oblivious ( because you're dead, obvious innit?). And I hope this doesn't sound too rude, but I don't really like going to birthday parties for people who can be described as a whatever-genarian. Trouble is, I'm not too keen on birthday parties for people much younger than me, either. In fact, if I'm honest, I'm not too keen on parties at all which makes me sound like a miserable git, but frankly I don't care.
And the job thing? Well, I think I'll be OK in that I'll keep my job, but that does open up the prospect of having to run even faster to stay on the same spot. Those immortal - and frankly fatuous - words "We'll be working smarter, not harder" were trotted out. Presumably that means my lords and masters think we all currently work like a bunch of dumboes.
An added cloud on the horizon is that the Greek economy is looking decidedly shaky so the dream escape plan of fleeing there looks somewhat remote. Anyway, mustn't grumble. [Sound of hollow laughter receding into the distance.]
So, one by one, I don't relish going to funerals, although as long as you are aware you're there it's better than the one you go to of which you are oblivious ( because you're dead, obvious innit?). And I hope this doesn't sound too rude, but I don't really like going to birthday parties for people who can be described as a whatever-genarian. Trouble is, I'm not too keen on birthday parties for people much younger than me, either. In fact, if I'm honest, I'm not too keen on parties at all which makes me sound like a miserable git, but frankly I don't care.
And the job thing? Well, I think I'll be OK in that I'll keep my job, but that does open up the prospect of having to run even faster to stay on the same spot. Those immortal - and frankly fatuous - words "We'll be working smarter, not harder" were trotted out. Presumably that means my lords and masters think we all currently work like a bunch of dumboes.
An added cloud on the horizon is that the Greek economy is looking decidedly shaky so the dream escape plan of fleeing there looks somewhat remote. Anyway, mustn't grumble. [Sound of hollow laughter receding into the distance.]
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