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.
Thursday 29 April 2010
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)