Dad the Impaler

Since it looks as though Daddy is no longer going to update the blog, I have taken it upon myself to attempt a revival of this once mildly popular webpage. According to him, his absence – if you could stretch your credulity that far, given what a gobshite he is – comes from “not having anything to say”, except perhaps to relate a disquieting episode in which he emerged from an ill-equipped public toilet in Rhyl, North Wales, looking conspicuous by the absence of one of his shirtsleeves. “Heroism comes in many guises”, he said to Mummy after concluding his story, and went on nodding to himself with the solemnity of one who has suddenly understood the wisdom of his own words.

Daddy, whose hopes of buying a house in Italy were at one point as high as the midday sun, has watched them describe a descending arc across the sky before setting behind a korma-coloured mountain of soggy nappies. As a result, most of his days are now spent moping around the place. Disturbingly, I have often caught him eyeing me with that intrigued look a creative and adventurous cook would cast upon a previously unconsidered ingredient. Luckily, there is Mummy, who is the one bright light in this otherwise gloomy harbour, though not without blame either as evidenced by a particularly perplexing dance she frequently performs to Boney M’s Brown Girl in the Ring which she has on a loop.

Come to think of it, there is a good deal about these two that is very unsettling. I have now been observing them for the best part of nine weeks and I have to say their parenting skills – not least their ability to provide me with any acceptable form of entertainment – leaves plenty to be desired. For instance, is it absolutely necessary to hover above my Moses basket first thing in the morning with their mouths hanging open like Count Dracula and his dishevelled lady-friend in what I can only hope is a dreadfully misguided attempt to elicit a smile from me? Far from encouraging me to smile back, it makes me want to shriek with fear. A horror show, is what it is.

Then there is the unending stream of visitors who seem to congregate around the place these days. Overnight, the flat has become the stamping ground for a gaggle of women of a certain age and ample breastage who, without exception, wear tops cut much lower than it would have been seemly for someone half their age. (It is my contention that just as a horse’s age can be determined from a quick glance at its knashers, so too can a woman’s age be revealed – or at least educatedly guessed at – by the expansion of her décolletage.) The acreage of exposed leathery skin is then liberally doused with the sickliest perfumes that can be bought at Superdrug without a prescription, on the off-chance that they might one day bump into George Clooney. Of course, if that day ever comes, Georgey boy is in for the motorboating session of his life; in the meantime, however, the dubious privilege of smelling like potpourri remains all mine.

As you can probably imagine, all this has taken its toll on someone so young. I’m not ashamed to confess occasionally daydreaming about the possibility of a terrible mix-up at the maternity ward, and that in time someone will realise their monstrous error and reunite me with my real parents. But even I can see that the odds are stacked against it, as I apparently bear more than a passing resemblance to Daddy. My only hope now comes from the occasional mention of a Nigerian toilet attendant at Spearmint Rhino, though I suspect this to be one of Daddy’s ‘jokes’. I am employing the quotes here because although he makes a lot of these jokes, I am yet to see anyone laugh at any of them, and this particular one tends to cause Mummy to purse her lips further than usual.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, I have written to the Jeremy Kyle show about this matter as I believe all possible avenues should be explored. In the end, it may well be that Peter Cushing and his wild-haired girlfriend here really are my parents and that I’m stuck with them for the duration.

Outside, the world looks an exciting place where people can enter TV talent contests or play online bingo; in here th… ah, there goes the doorbell again. The scent of patchouli oil from the previous visitor still clings to my skin like the tentacles of an octopus with separation issues, but one ploughs on with already characteristic stoicism. Daddy is probably right: heroism does indeed come in many guises.

Moonkelet

In praise of… our armed forces

I don’t know if you heard, but there is a campaign this week which is encouraging us to show our appreciation for all the hard work that our armed forces have been doing in Iraq and Afghanistan. We are being asked by one of the campaign organisers to create a logo for a t-shirt, anything that takes our fancy, and send it to them. The intention is to improve our soldiers’ morale and fill their hearts with warm and loving feelings towards humanity when they realise how appreciated they really are. We should then post the t-shirts to them at the same time, thereby creating one of those Hollywood moments at the end of the film when the poignant music plays while the weary soldiers, having witnessed every kind of atrocity known to mankind, open their packages at the same time. For that extra touch of emotion, they could drape one of the guys who didn’t make it with one of these t-shirts.

An admirable idea, I’m sure you’ll agree. But that was yesterday and since I missed the deadline for sending the t-shirt, I decided to write this post instead because I just couldn’t pass this opportunity to express my feelings of gratitude.

It must be a source of great distress to our brave boys and girls that the latte-swigging, Guardian-reading lefties scoff and roll their eyes whenever an idea as noble as this is suggested. What our soldiers would like is for a bit of appreciation from the British public; you know, perhaps nothing quite as OTT as what the American soldiers get back home; the red carpet treatment would suffice. They do, after all, lay their lives on the line for us, and as Demi Moore once famously said: “They stand on that wall and say ‘nothing will happen to you, not on my watch’” (assuming there are no friendly fire incidents). Stirring stuff indeed. Mr Kipling, as well as making exceedingly good cakes, wrote a bit of kaki-nosed poetry in his spare time too. He called this phenomenon “mocking those who guard you while you sleep”.

Oh and how they mock. What those tree-hugging, sandal-wearing beardy-weirdies don’t realise is that when those impressionable young people joined up, it had nothing to do with the recruitment ads on TV which implied that joining the army is a lot of fun really; all that climbing up and skiing down mountains, “playing” with a lot of hi-tech kit, or even learning to drive through an unlit wooded area instead of joy-riding around the backstreets of Southshields. Nor, as they point out between gulps of fruit tea and mouthfuls of muesli, did they join because of later ads which suggested that being in the army would make them a lot more attractive to the opposite sex. You know the sort of thing: in them, female officers could expect leering men in bars to become completely incapacitated, and sometimes even soil themselves, in anticipation of the kinky sex that lay ahead, after introducing themselves as Captain Dimwit and Lieutenant Spongebrains. Equally, male officers could expect women to become so up-for-it once they listened to the two bragging pilots discussing who was better at landing helicopters in a storm, that a simple tap on the shoulder would automatically cause their knickers to fall down around their ankles.

Nope. They are too bright and perceptive to fall for that kind of trickery. They joined because they wanted to make a difference. Like the gallant Great War soldier, guided by the romantic image of charging at an enemy machinegun turret armed only with a single-shot rifle and bayonet, they wanted to combat the forces of evil. They are also intelligent enough to understand that their superiors know best, and it is not up to them to question orders, however amoral or irrational they may appear. They comprehend at once that their commanding officers are acting on behalf of Queen and Country, and Her Majesty is, after all, the Head of the Church and as such instinctively knows God’s will.

It’s all about courage, you see – a concept which the vegetable protein-munching, raspberry frappuccino-guzzling liberals cannot grasp. It takes courage to press that red button knowing that innocent people are going to die, just like it takes balls the size of watermelons to invade a country to depose a tyrannical regime which we helped implement and supported in the first place. All that, and their faces still manage to retain their usual pallor.

It is about time that we recognised that sort of bravery in this country. For my part, I would like to say a huge thank you to those brave boys and girls out there doing their bit. Thank you for making our country richer with the extra oil. For me personally it has been a huge bonus. Being a curvaceous 25-stone person, I can now afford to fill my two-ton 4×4 with petrol and drive to McDonald’s for my daily extra large big mac, instead of having to walk the twenty-minute round trip. And for all that, I shall be eternally grateful.

Now, since I missed the chance to send the t-shirt that I designed, I thought I might post what I came up with here. I hope you like it:

A ‘V’ for Victory, of course.

Oh and I do hope that you will forgive the placard-carrying, pink champagne-sipping socialists for their unpatriotic dissent. Forgive them for they know not what they say. It says so in the Bible. You understand, I’m sure, that the main reason for wreaking such havoc around the world is so that we can all express our opinions freely without fear of persecution.

Now praise the lord and go kill them all. And remember, it’s not rape if they’re dead.

Happy Peace Day (and please refrain from killing each other today, okay?)

Apparently it is International Peace Day today. Hmm I wonder what the child soldiers in the Congo make of it all.

Now, I hate to sound like a disenchanted and cynical misanthropist, even though that’s precisely what I am, but to me peace is as alien a concept to humans as vegetarianism is to lions.

The human race strikes me as a grotesque experiment which went wrong virtually from the word go. If God hadn’t been so preoccupied with enforcing the correct rules of etiquette around apple trees, I dare say He would have spotted the fatal flaw in His ‘perfect’ creation the moment Cain murdered his own brother. Any child with a rudimentary grasp of mathematics could have instantly pointed out to Him that a world whose entire population consists of four people and a quarter of them turns out to be a murderer would be unlikely to ever amount to much at all. I suspect even the most enthusiastic supporter of this new creation would have to concede that such alarming statistic did not auger well for the future.

And yet here we still all are happily murdering each other thousands of years later. Sure, we’ve come a long way from the dusty Fred Flintstone days of sticks and stones and crude trebuchets. We may now enjoy space age cyber sex and playground bullying via text messages, but ultimately the fact remains that the great technological advances which we could offer as scant mitigation for thousands of years of mutual slaughter have come from those whose intelligence have been devoted to ensuring we continue to blow each other to smithereens in ever more spectacular ways. From the internet to satellite communication; from nuclear energy to precision engineering, the great driving force behind it all has always been military development. For, and let’s not get our celebrity-obsessed brains in a muddle about it, mankind’s business is war; to murder, to conquer and to enslave, and then to erect borders to ensure that only a few benefit from the loot.

Take for instance our self-regarding sense of awe and wonderment at our intellectual achievements. Our ability to think, we are told, is what distinguishes us from the animals. But as soon as someone takes the parking spot for which we had been patiently waiting, or implies that our mothers enjoy sex with a variety of strangers for cash, we are ready to sink the blade into their bellies. The point that I am labouring here, I suppose, is that we are just as enslaved to our primordial animalistic impulses as any grizzly bear in the woods. If our intellects were truly in control, all the great problems that afflict humanity today would be solved quicker than you can say ‘unilateral agreement’.

I can see you reading this now and pursing your lips, maybe even shaking your head with an indulgent smile. Or you may simply dismiss me as a terrible pessimist. I can tell you, nothing could be further from the truth. I am at heart an incurable optimist. And my optimism stems from the poetic notion that one day a huge meteorite will, as it must, strike this planet of ours and wipe out this particular race of war-mongering dinosaurs forever. You know, start afresh. Maybe the next lot will do a better job of things. We have failed miserably.

(For a more encouraging view, take a look at Lucy’s lovely picture here.).

“Oooh it’s posh in Harrogate”

I go out for a walk in town. I descend the first floor steps, out into the courtyard and under the archway which supports the working clock tower complete with signature weathervane. Apparently it was built by a man named Samson Fox – an ancestor, it turns out, of James and Edward Fox, for those of you who only believe in the value of something if it has a celebrity connection – as a stable block for Grove House with the intention of not only lodging the future King Edward VII’s horses on his visits to Yorkshire, but also to provide them with that modern essential, the equine Turkish bath.

As I step out onto the street pavement I instinctively look over to my left towards the house which a few months ago was the focus of intense concentration by the police. They were there for a good three days, a car parked adjacent to the house with two police officers standing behind it staring intently towards the house. The rest of the street was cordoned off and the residents were told ‘not to go out’. It transpired that a man inside the house was armed and refusing to come out. The residents became prisoners in their own homes for those two days or so. Today everything seems to be back to normal, apart from a mixed group of teenagers perched on the bench drinking what looks suspiciously like lager. Over the years they went from pesky children shouting abuse at passers-by to much more threatening near-adults.

In town I visit the only two bookshops, if you count WHSmith. They seem of late to have been invaded by books with emotive covers featuring angelic looking children and bearing titles which are variations on “Please Daddy No”. In the pedestrianised Cambridge Street, Rudy, the local ‘character’, walks around shouting into a karaoke machine what sounds like a rock version of Bright Eyes, stopping occasionally to chat to teenagers. On my walk, he is the only person to look me directly in the eyes and say hello. He calls me ‘brother’, which I haven’t been able to ascertain whether it is because of the connection between our skin tones or whether this is how he addresses everyone. On sunny days, he tends to sit in the middle of the walkway cross-legged and staring into the sun.

Harrogate seems to possess that dangerous combination of sheltered provinciality and a past associated with nobility and royalty. Indeed, one often has the impression that everything in Harrogate has a royal connection: streets, pubs, hotels, squares. Perhaps for this reason, it has always struck me as a town with ideas above its station; something acquired, no doubt, through hundreds of years of royal schmoozing. In the days when its foul-tasting sulphur and iron rich water was seen as a blanket cure for any illness beyond the grasp of medicine’s rather petite hands, it became a haven for medical lost causes, not least the members of whichever royal household happened to be reigning at the time. They still come now, though no longer to drink the water. Prince Charles visits every year, apparently, on Valentine’s Day. I’ve seen him in one such occasion, coming out of Betty’s tearooms to plant a tree in the Cenotaph square under the adoring gaze of a crowd of royal groupies frantically waving their miniature Union Jacks.

Nowadays Harrogate has little more to boast about than the International Conference Centre and the Great Yorkshire Show, which plays havoc with the already heavy traffic system. But its previous history has left its citizens with a disproportional level of hubris and quaint old-fashioned values. In the cafes, demure old ladies daintily eat their sponge cakes and sip their tea, while no doubt discussing the latest royal visit and speculating on the next one. For me, Harrogate’s a rather neat metaphor for life: you shuffle between banks and shops, ignoring the significance of the war memorial, until eventually, overcome with tiredness, you end up down in the Valley Gardens for a long rest.

When I return home, I notice the teenagers have dispersed. As I reach the archway entrance, I see a girl crouched down, her back against the wall. She looks like she is in trouble and I prepare to ask if she needs help. But as I approach, I notice a stream filling in the gaps between the smooth cobbles, the source of which appears to be somewhere under her skirt. Steam rises from it like fog hovering over a river. She looks up and sees me, and although she reacts in a suitably sheepish manner, manages simply to say:

“As if…”

Under the Copper Beech

I approach the garden with a certain amount of trepidation. The grass, which is usually trim, hasn’t been cut in a while. At the bottom of the garden there is a copper beech tree whose branches droop almost as far as the ground, creating a secluded canopied area underneath. 

“Through there”, she says pointing to the tree. I make my way in gingerly, pushing the branches aside with one hand and holding the spade with the other. The earth here is dry, unaffected it would seem by the recent diluvial weather. I examine the body: in surprisingly good condition considering it has probably been here for a week, when he was first reported missing. 

I half-heartedly begin to dig but this is not the kind of work that accommodates half-heartedness, and the arid ground refuses to yield. Why now, I think aggrieved by recent events. His stubbornness and refusal to respond to reason is quite exasperating. For someone who spent his entire life regularly exercising and eating healthily, why would he give up so easily? 

“I am my own doctor”, he had said, clearly irritated by our concerned badgering. People in their sixties, even their seventies, are not considered old anymore, and yet at the first sign of trouble he expects the worst. Confronted with the headlights of a potential death sentence delivered by a doctor decades his junior, he becomes paralysed by fear. 

“Doctors are young and would have no interest in treating someone my age. If I went into hospital, I probably wouldn’t come out alive”, he had said looking emaciated like a prisoner of war. His distrust of doctors seems to stem from his belief that they are directly responsible for his wife’s death nearly fourteen years ago, when she had slipped into a hepatic coma. The doctors, having given up on her, withheld food and water, which, although counterintuitive since the liver is an organ capable of regeneration, is apparently standard practice in England. 

I look up at her through the leaves. She is standing on the concrete path that surrounds the house, arms anxiously folded across her chest. I didn’t know her when her mother died. Despite her unflagging cheerfulness, I have often noticed a well concealed sadness in her eyes and an almost imperceptible quiver of the lips, disguised by a solemn look of remembrance, particularly whilst relating a recurring dream: in it her mother is still alive, having made a full recovery from her coma, and life has once again returned to normal. But her narrative ends there. She doesn’t speak of the pain that each time she awakes to realise it was only a dream must cause her. Now expecting her first child, our first child, this. I stab at the soil with renewed vigour, bitten again by the untimeliness of events. 

The hole looks deep enough (how deep is deep enough?) and I gently scoop the animal up. He is lying on his side in a languid stretch and disconcertingly has his eyes open, staring unseeingly ahead. It must have been one of those cases often told in cat-lore in which the poor animal, sensing his time was up, decided to make his way to a secluded spot to accept his fate. Apparently he was around fifteen years old. Had he shown signs of illness, I wonder? Even if he had, it is unlikely his owner would have taken him to a vet, no doubt worried that they might put the animal to sleep. 

My job here is done and I walk back across the long grass to where she is standing. In the distance the accusing whirr of a lawnmower is cranked into life as we leave the garden in a silent embrace.

The Grand Old Lady of the Adriatic

Full of tricks, this old girl. Even before you arrive, you are already bound by her demands and caprices. They shall only reach me by boat, she determined, evidently understanding the romantic appeal conveyed by this simple trick. She also insists that you approach her from a certain angle, the light catching her just so during what is a vulnerable moment in the traveller’s suggestible heart. There she sits, devastatingly beautiful, in a pose that is at once demure and provocative, the cityscape equivalent of the Mona Lisa.

She is dressed in the finery designed for her with the natural rhythms of daily life; style and colour coordination cunningly interwoven for maximum visual effect. As well as the long liquid emerald necklace carelessly draped over her body, she is adorned with the treasures created by her many artistic sons. And thus she bloomed like a flower ready for the bees, and after surveying her reflection on the green waters of the Venetian Lagoon and approving of what she saw, she declared: Let them come. And come they did in their droves.

Throughout the centuries, she has ensured that she mingled with the right sort of people: traders and noblemen, powerful families and the clergy. All those years spent in the company of illustrious patrons have given her a charismatic air of intrigue. But all that was a long time ago, in the days when the delicate flower of youth still coloured her soft cheeks. In more recent years, she has had to make do with a different brand of visitor, in unsightly shorts and baseball caps bearing sports logos charging through her streets in a manner which closely resembles a stampede of bulls, digital cameras dangling from their lanyards. But it doesn’t matter to this once high class lady of the night; perhaps not realising that, if anything, her appeal has only increased with age, she decided not to be too picky about the sort of people she receives into her arms – as long as they are capable of keeping her in the manner to which she is accustomed.

And I, who despite being able to see through her array of searing stares and studied gestures of seduction, am no less susceptible to her charms than any other punter. Of course, I fall for the old girl – we all do. I readily surrender my heart and my wallet, throwing money at her with the abandon of a sailor docking at some port after months at sea. But beware: in the morning, still heady with her scent and dishevelled from the previous night’s excesses, and with the insides of your pockets turned out, do not expect her to return your amorous advances – this flighty girl, having hollowed her pound of flesh out of your chest, will have moved on to her next conquest.

Exhausted from all the exertions and expense of getting to know this grand old lady better, I stop on the Rialto Bridge for a contemplative cigarette. I stare out over her liquid emerald necklace, at the tourists trundling back and forth and the bustling industriousness of the Canal, and the pathos of this beautiful old tart hits me. Yesterday I was ready to surrender all my worldly goods and move in with her without a thought for where my next meal would come from. Today I am just another washed-out shipwreck, thinking of a way to avoid the boat that is poised to whisk me away.

I peer behind me at a down-and-out who is sitting on the steps of the bridge. He sits with downcast eyes, smoothing his hair with the last bit of pride that is left in him. Propped up against him is a sign with a message in Italian: no home, no family. please help. Clearly another soul loved and rejected by this fickle lady, hollow-chested and unable to let go. The city is littered with them, and I am suddenly seized by a rush of empathy for the poor bastard. I know how you feel, old chap, I know how you feel…

“It’ll be a glorious summer (if you’re a fish or a duck)”

Shortly before leaving for our recent holiday in Venice we made the mistake of checking the weather forecast for that region and our hearts sank: thunderstorms were predicted for every day of that week, with the exception of our last day when the skies would again return to their customary acrylic blue and the temperatures would then soar above 30 degrees centigrade. So it was with a heavy heart but wearing the stoical expression the British reserve for such occasions, that we resolved to make the best of our holiday. 

But the bad weather never came. We enjoyed sunshine and sweltering heat throughout, with the exception of our last day when it was a little overcast. Surely a practical joke perpetrated by malevolent weather centre staff frustrated that their more glamorous TV counterparts got first pick of the holiday rota? Or incompetence? 

Although, really, what are the consequences of getting it wrong? Weather forecasters, alongside English football referees, must rank as one of the few classes of ‘professionals’ who appear to be fully exempt from the consequences which would befall professionals of any other field who consistently get things wrong. Imagine, for instance, the same level of leeway afforded to, say, air traffic controllers or surgeons: “Swiss Air flight 510, make a hard left now please, there’s a Luftan…. Oops. Too late. Oh well, never mind.” Equally, it would be a huge relief for stressed and overworked NHS staff, who under the same relaxed and pressure-free work environment of the weather forecaster, would quickly reduce NHS waiting lists to zero. NHS flyers and press releases could boast five-minute operations as a sure way to quickly fix that particularly nasty spinal chord damage or the various types of cancerous growths currently available on the market. You never know, we may yet live to see this more relaxed modern approach to healthcare implemented when David Cameron finally ascends to the job towards which the bucolic ‘dark forces’ of this country appear to be shepherding him. 

Did the weather forecasters not tell us, long-suffering denizens of these waterlogged isles, that in 2007 we were in for the hottest summer since records began? Who compensates the cautious inhabitant of some arid land who, based on those reports, chose this of all summers for his or her holiday of a lifetime in the United Kingdom? And who compensates those who on watching Michael Fish’s frankly patronising dismissal of an eye-witness who called the weather centre to report a hurricane heading across La Manche straight for Britain, decided that a picnic in the woods would indeed be a splendid idea? Did any heads roll then? Did any roll this year? With none of the accountability that most other professionals must face, their careers must be one long idyll of practical jokes, and impersonations of Ian McCaskill, with the hardest decision of the day being whether to have a BLT or prawn mayonnaise sandwich for lunch or which horse to back for the 2.15 at Ludlow. Oh how they must sleep soundly at night. 

I say enough is enough. Let us take to the streets in protest, this time not wielding brightly coloured and pithy protesting messages that demand these malevolent pranksters be relegated to a status similar to that enjoyed by astrologers or healers, but armed with this year’s as yet unused cricket bats and shiny gardening implements, and put an end to the weather forecaster’s reign of tyranny. Let us place them in hard labour camps, picking watery strawberries or pumping out water from flooded towns. 

And you, sir, who watches the weather forecast with a box of Kleenex and a tub of hand cream nearby; or you madam, who settles down to watch the forecast by plugging in a vibrator so powerful that it causes the lights in your house to dim – don’t be discouraged: we shall spare those weather presenters who inhabit your fantasies and give them starring roles in porno films instead. Just imagine: Helen Willets and John Ketley in Man Rain or Francis Wilson and Sian Lloyd in 12 Inches Deep. I can hear people collapsing into convulsive fits of orgasmic pleasure even as I type the words. 

Of course I am not suggesting that we blame them for our unremittingly appalling weather. We just need to put the blame for the misery the weather causes us on someone. Just look at it as no different than our blaming foreigners for all the ills that afflict this country based purely on the geographical accident of their birthplace, or shouting obscenities and throwing half-empty beer cans at a passing prison van that is transporting someone on trial for child murder. It is merely something to make us feel better.

Ironically, as I finish typing this cathartic exercise for my weather-weary soul and contemplate what is left of the summer disappearing inside yet another low pressure black cloud, the weather has since shifted and the skies are clear.

Georgie Boy and Stevie Boy

The White House. The 43rd president of the United States, George W. Bush, meets Steve Hadley, National Security Adviser.

SH: Mr President, I have some good news and some bad news.

GWB: Okay, give me the good news first.

SH: Sir, our analysts have looked at the situation in Iraq and concluded that if things continue as they are, the people will end up eating shit.

GWB: I asked for the good news first, Steve. Gee!

SH: That is the good news, sir; the bad news is that some experts have already pointed out that there won’t be enough shit to go around.

GWB: No problem. We’ll send them some of our own shit, American shit, the best shit in the world. Hell, we could even have a Shit for Oil Programme, kill two terrorists with one shot, as it were… Anything else?

SH: Well, I have also been consulting members of the senate and the news is that the Republicans are revolting.

GWB: You’re telling me… I myself only joined because of daddy.

SH: I mean on Iraq. They want troops withdrawn as soon as possible.

GWB: I don’t get these people. Since this conflict began probably as many innocent people have died as would have under Sadam anyway, give or take a few hundred thousand.

SH: Give or take… No, sir, the main concern they cite is the possible loss of votes for the party.

GWB (exasperated): If only we could find a strong leader for Iraq, Steve, someone able to keep Sunnis and Shias alike in check.

SH: Someone like Sadam, perhaps?

GWB: Yeah! Where’s Sadam when you need him?

SH: We executed him, sir.

GWB: Couldn’t one of our scientists bring him back to life? What sort of decomposition state would he be in now?

SH: Uh, I don’t think our science is that advanced yet, sir.

GWB: What about re-animation through some kind of electric shock therapy? Worked with Yeltsin.

SH: I think one of the requirements is that the ‘patient’ is at least breathing for it to work, sir. And anyhow, the public wouldn’t buy it. Witnesses filmed his execution with their cellular phones, remember?

GWB: Maybe we could say we executed one of his stooges by mistake. Things get confused in war, Steve.

SH (incredulous): Yes, Mr President.

GWB (wistful): I miss the good ol’ days when Daddy was president… Back then we could do anything we liked and no one cared. Hell, we even carpet-bombed Panama without too much hassle from the media. Now you can’t break wind without the New York Times sniffing the air.

SH: Technology has shrunk the planet, sir. Everyone agrees it’s a good thing.

GWB (not listening): Tell you the truth, Steve, I never was very fond of those Iraqis.

Steve gets up to leave.

GWB: You’re a smart man, Steve. You have all these degrees and you even know when to insert an apostrophe in ‘its’. Can you answer me this one question?

SH: Sir?

GWB: Just how did our oil end up under Iraqi soil?

SH: …

Wimbledon, rain and other interruptions

I am watching a Wimbledon tennis match on television, grateful that for once the rain has stayed away, when she walks in, her usual energetic self, an English jumping bean caught in a hurricane, and, as usual, still buzzing from quotidian office events. She is one of the few people I’ve ever come across who appears physically reinvigorated through work. 

“Good day?” I ask. 

She gives me a cheerful “Uhu” before embarking on her habitual meticulous description of it, who said what to whom, jokes told, problems remedied – including, sadly, dull technical detail. I have become an expert at filtering out the unnecessary bits, switching off then on again at appropriate moments, responding accordingly.  

Engrossed with the tennis, I make polite listening noises while keeping my eyes on the television. Roger Federer is in imperious form, the epitome of elegance, dishing out a master class to his wretched opponent. Sometimes he gives the impression of superhuman invulnerability, a messiah with a tennis racquet in his hand. One can’t help but feel that if Jesus himself had opted for a career on the ATP tour instead of saving the ungrateful bastards, he would play exactly like Federer. 

“… but you know I didn’t think anything of it…”, she is saying. 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, I thought I’d run a check, just in case…” 

Federer now makes an impossible cross-court shot look like the most natural thing in the world. He appears to be operating in a different space-time continuum from us mere mortals, finding time to ensure his shots are not only perfectly timed and placed, but that they are executed with casual elegance. 

“… It was actually the first time I used the kit…”, she is saying. 

It’s the change-over break, and the camera hovers, then settles on a shot of Virginia Wade in the crowd prodding a top molar with her little finger then eating whatever she managed to dig out. 

“Ughh”, I groan. 

She stops talking mid-sentence, then says coldly, “You don’t seem interested in what I’m telling you”. 

“I am! Please continue”, I say, without looking away from the TV, then back at her when no further sound is emitted. Clearly sulking now. But it will have to wait, Federer is in the middle of a fantastic rally, this time seemingly incapable of finding a clean winner or forcing an error from his opponent, who looks like a man rescued from a drowning accident, his hair plastered to his face with sweat. Federer’s headband, on the other hand, looks obsolete, an affectation. 

Still silence. I glance back at her. An accusatory stare now. 

“What’s wrong?”, I ask. 

“Nothing, I hope. I just thought you’d be a little more thrilled at the prospect of becoming a father for the first time”, she says in a husky monotone. 

I look back at the TV slack-jawed, now barely able to take in what I’m looking at: the rally has finally come to an end, and the big champion, the man seemingly able to predict where his opponent’s shots are going to land before they are even played, looks stunned too as a clean winner fizzes past his nose.

Don’t Look Now

I stumble into the kitchen still asleep and she immediately engages me in a conversation about where we are going on holiday. I absent-mindedly place a bowl of cheerios on the floor for the cat and pour myself a generous portion of whiskas biscuits. Not bad as it goes, though next time I shan’t add any sugar. 

My mission today, it transpires, once this fog of grogginess and confusion has dissipated, is to book a holiday departing this Sunday. We never were the plan-well-ahead-of-time types. 

“So, where shall we go?”, I say, already knowing I want Italy. 

The cat shakes a paw and leaves the kitchen with a pointed gesture of disdain for his breakfast.  

“Anywhere, as long as it’s Spain”, she says with a karate chop for emphasis. 

Who says she is inflexible? 

“Spain? But we’re already going to Alcudia in August! How about Italy?”, I say, widening my eyes as though the idea had just occurred to me. 

It is a matter of distress to me that she has little interest in my favourite country in the world. Some time ago, we began discussing buying a holiday place abroad. A year later, we haven’t got beyond the Italy or Spain bit. High words and black looks have been exchanged since with no concrete signs of agreement. Really, what chance do the Israelis and Palestinians have? 

“So? We can go to the mainland”, she says, popping the balloon that had formed over my head in which I follow in the footsteps of Donald Sutherland in Don’t Look Now, but hopefully without being cornered in a blind alley by a murderous dwarf disguised as a little girl. 

“Spain it is then”, I sigh in resignation. “Barcelona alright for you?” 

“Yes, fine”, she says and displays no sign of triumph. She wins so often, she takes it for granted. “I’ll leave you with that then”, she says, like a boss delegating tasks before leaving to attend important meetings. 

As the front door closes behind her, I remember I have in my possession an important bargaining chip, nay, an unbeatable Royal Flush, and I move all-in. 

I dial the number for the holiday company. 

“Hello? Yes, I’m looking to spend a week in Venice, please.” 

Brave, I realise, but Sunday is my birthday, after all.

Roadkill

The journey is punctuated with roadkill. They flash past in a blur of fur and lurid crimson, staining the tarmac, unwitting victims of a river of projectiles which cannot be stemmed day or night. Soft flesh and brittle bone is no match for implacable metal and velocity, and there is only ever going to be one winner. But the gods must be appeased and the birds must eat too. 

I wince as I drive past a dead rabbit, now picked at by a murder of crows, and silently pray that it didn’t suffer, as if violent death wasn’t suffering enough. I spot the lonely magpies perched on the metal barriers or hopping along the hard shoulder, and chuckle at the memory of her greeting them. It is strange that someone so scathing of those given to superstition should adhere to this particular one. But she has experienced sorrow too. “Hello, Mr Magpie, how’s your lovely wife?”, acknowledging there is another, one for sorrow, two for joy. 

As a boy who spent his formative years in a Catholic country, I lugged around a bagful of superstitions, discarded one by one and replaced by cold, analytical British cynicism as the years wore on, like clothes that no longer fit or became unfashionable. Chief perpetrator was my father: you mustn’t eat meat on a Good Friday; you mustn’t whistle at night; you mustn’t bring a peacock feather into the house; if you drop salt, you should throw some over your shoulder; you mustn’t mix watermelon and wine, or mangos and milk. The list is as long as it is preposterous. 

My journey is spent spotting roadkill and lonely magpies, and there are plenty of both today. On my way home, late at night, I rush up the M1 thinking only of arriving home, and just before I reach junction 36, at the brow of the hill and tucked behind a bend, something goes pop and in less than a second I am heading for the central reservation, my brain in a tumble drier, the world upside down, sliding along the road. So this is how it ends, no life flashing before my eyes, no moment of clarity or regret. Ridiculously, I scream. Why? Anticipation, perhaps. I wait for a blow that never comes, the van slides on its side and comes to a stop of its own accord, facing the oncoming traffic. 

That was just over two and a half years ago, and to my dismay I now find myself mentally greeting the lonely magpies.

Clowne (at the junction)

The trouble with standing at a street corner in a small northern town for more than, say, two consecutive hours, is that it quickly sends the local residents into panic mode. Granted, being endowed with the appearance of a Colombian drug cartel member may bump up their anxiety levels ever so slightly, maybe even send one or two neighbourhood watchers to the casualty department to be treated for hyperventilation, though I suspect anyone who hasn’t been drinking in the local pub for at least five years would be gazed at with similar distrust.

“Counting queue lengths? I would much rather be taken prisoner by the Khmer Rouge”, I told my boss when he tentatively enquired about my availability for the job. “It’s just not going to happen.”

“Please,” he said cajolingly, “it’s only for one day. We can’t find anyone else to do it”.

“Tough”, I said unsympathetically, and determined not to cave in this time.

A substantial increase on my usual rate of pay later, and we came to the agreement that perhaps, after all, the prospect wasn’t as bad as it had seemed at first.

Clowne is as unremarkable a town as anyone could dream up. And I, the fool, stood on an equally unremarkable street corner, an alien from outer space, a mowgli, captured and displayed on the town’s autopsy table for the residents to gawk at, counting the number of vehicles queuing at the traffic lights each time they changed to green, while reflecting that spending time with Pol Pot would indeed have been far more preferable.

It is just as well that my parents are safely tucked away in Brazil, or they might demand I refund them the money they invested in my education.

Almost blue

watch the video here.

Cannibal Housemate

The new Big Brother series is upon us, and given my lowly status within my household, I have little or no say in the delicate matter of choosing channels or even whether or not the television should be switched off, the remote control fiercely guarded like a bone under her snout.

Originally, I confess having expressed a ‘journalistic’ curiosity in it, feeling that I would not be able to eloquently criticize it if I didn’t know what the brouhaha was about. But Big Brother has been around for a while now and I can’t help but feel that the format has become somewhat jaded. After giving the matter considerable thought, here’s what I’ve come up with for spicing things up and rekindling public interest:

The housemates would be voted into the house by a public phone-in where they would be able to choose from a variety of candidates from all walks of life, ranging from bellicose world leaders and aspiring WAGs to convicted child killers and tv chefs. During their stay, no food would be provided, only water and a wide arsenal of weapons: commando knives, sniper rifles (the house design would include hidey-holes and high vantage points), shotguns, chainsaws and samurai swords would be carelessly scattered around the house. Hundreds of cameras equipped with Super-Slowmo would ensure all angles were covered and none of the action was lost. Last man or woman to evade being slaughtered and eaten is crowned Cannibal King (or Queen) in a spectacular finale whereupon the house is immediately napalmed, followed by a fireworks display.

Just picture the scene: the long-awaited face-off (literally) between Tony Blair and Ian Huntley.

Huntley (with recently acquired skills, swiftly sticks his knife into Tone’s abdomen): “this is for all the arse-fucking I’ve had to put up with in your prisons, Tony!”

Blair (grinning while recovering his footing and picking up the chainsaw): “Ian, you rank amateur, I’m directly responsible for the deaths of more children than you’ve had hot dinners, Sunny Jim!”

As he’s about to strike, he is taken down with a single sniper shot to the head by George Bush who jumps up and down and shouts wildly: “Yo Blair, sorry but there’s no friendship in Cannibal King! Hahahaha!”

It is only the prototype of an idea and I’m sure the creative among you would be able to easily tweak and improve on it. What do you reckon? Would you watch such a show? Japanese television producers have already expressed an interest in the concept, though they insist that the only weapon to be used should be a harpoon.

In the meantime, you could always go and have a look at Big Blogger.

Shaggy Blog Stories Podcast

Ever wondered what the prat who writes the ubiquitous nonsense you read here sounds like? Would you like to know? Didn’t think so.

Even so, Mike has compiled a podcast featuring 14 of the 100 contributions to Shaggy Blog Stories, read by their authors, and it is available to buy over at Lulu’s for a measly £2 with 80% of it going to Comic Relief.

Judging from the snippet I heard on Lulu’s site, it’s clear that my contribution is dwarfed by the sheer verve and gusto with which the other contributors perform their piece, which, in my opinion, makes the podcast well worth the money.

So go over to Lulu’s and check it out. You may then come back here and taunt me in the comment box about how rubbish I am.

Flight of the Bumblebee

The van cabin is overrun with insects. The yellow Dayglo jacket I wear while working on my cameras attracts all sorts of bugs, who seem to think they’ve discovered a giant flower. Bees, wasps, daddy-long-legs, arachnids and assorted minor bugs cling to the jacket, and when I go back inside the van, they come with me.

A spider has been living in the top right corner of the windscreen for the good part of a year now. Self-satisfied and sadistic (it knows I don’t kill spiders), it grows fatter every day, quickly rushing out of its mysterious hiding place to expertly wrap yet another hapless victim in its sticky thread. I roll my eyes disapprovingly and grimace in disgust. The spider winks at me conspiratorially, in acknowledgement of our unspoken agreement of mutual interest, before disappearing again.

That’s what I’ve become: a bug cultivator and spider accomplice. I take care not to kill anything while setting up my cameras, delicately avoiding the orb-weavers, waiting for a passing ant before plonking the equipment down on the ground, coaxing greenflies out of harm’s way. The other day, I was horrified to discover I accidentally trod on a butterfly, damaging its wings while its useless body twitched helplessly. Last week I was almost grief-stricken when I inadvertently squashed my van’s resident ladybird after winding the window shut.

But it wasn’t always so. As all boys worth their salt, and reassuringly displaying the cruelty that uniquely characterises our species, my brother and I took great pride in the sophistication and inventiveness of our methods for killing insects. A favourite was to set fire to saúva ants (large black ants with a hard bulbous body and a very painful bite) using only a magnifying glass and the hot Brazilian midday sun. We marvelled at the spectacular way in which they burst into flames with a fizzing rasp, like the striking of a match. There may have been countless victims before we were spotted by our father, who wasn’t impressed.

“If you haven’t given it life, what gives you the right to take it away?”, he asked, quite reasonably but with fire in his eyes. The remark hit home, and from then on we resolved to make amends by providing crickets with helicopter rides: a maximum of two crickets (for extra leg room and comfort) would be placed in the see-through cockpit of the toy helicopter followed by a swift tug of the fishing line wrapped around the base on which the helicopter sat, rotating the propellers and sending it skyward. It’s the least we could do.

Last night, arriving home late, I noticed a dead bumblebee on the otherwise bare dining table. It lay on its back motionless with its satin black and Dayglo furriness and powerful short legs facing the ceiling. I tentatively give it a tap to ascertain it is dead. Nothing, completely stiff. Tired, I leave the room and forget about it. This morning I sit down to eat breakfast and as I place the cereal bowl on the table I notice with distaste the bumblebee is still there, now under a patch of sunlight. I resolve to deal with it after breakfast. I put some yoghurt on the cereal and then drizzle it with honey, and since it is impossible to transfer honey from its jar onto another utensil without dripping it, some of it ends up on the table, a good six inches away from the dead bumblebee. Right on cue, it begins to twitch. I flip it onto its legs but all it can do is raise them pathetically without going anywhere. I push it closer to the honey and it locks its sucker onto it. Its wings vibrate, suddenly kicked into life again, like Popeye after eating a can of spinach. Fascinated, I watch it for a few seconds, then go into the bedroom and fumble around the drawers. When I return brandishing a magnifying glass I am just in time to watch it fly out of the window.

Trowell Services

I am on my way home after setting up cameras in Long Eaton near Nottingham. The fuel gauge hovers tantalisingly between just-enough-to-get-me-home and not-quite-enough. Trowell Services is a mile away and I resolve to stop as I also need to pay the loos a visit.

I have been avoiding Trowell Services since a peculiar incident which took place there a couple of years ago. It was around 3 a.m. when I went in and the station was deserted, a grotesque Mary Celeste with inedible food and unpalatable prices. That day I could have served myself with the most expensive revolting food money can buy for free as the place looked literally abandoned. “No doubt asleep on the floor behind the counter”, I reasoned to myself as I made my way to the toilets.

Standing facing the urinals, there was a deathly silence broken by a sudden shuffling sound. I turned and looked towards the cubicles. All doors were open apart from the one furthest away. My gaze automatically dropped to the gap under the cubicles and there came that shuffling sound again followed by a mop of blond frizzy hair sliding under the partition into the neighbouring cubicle. I stood motionless for a second as the mop then, exorcist-like, slowly rotated to look me directly in the eyes. Had I not been weeing already, it is quite probable I would have done so at this point. Even so, as I ran from the toilets, I didn’t care whether or not I had quite finished what I had gone in to do.

Now facing the same urinal I did that night, I glance over my left shoulder at the cubicle once again, and it then becomes clear I must have imagined the whole scene: the partition gaps are not wide enough to fit a head through it. Could I really have been hallucinating?

Presently at the pump, I hold the trigger until it clicks to signify the tank is full. I thrash it about to clear any fuel left in the nozzle and as I draw it out a stream of diesel dribbles down my expensive Diesel jeans. I look up and notice I am being observed by a woman with blonde frizzy hair who is using the other side of my pump. She smiles half amused, half flirting.

“No matter how much you shake it, some always ends up down your trousers”, I say.

“Your flies are open”, she says.

Seven Random Things About Me

To quote the cripplingly funny Enidd, ‘that dratted Mr. X’ has tagged me for seven random things about me. I can only apologise in advance for this despicable offering.

* * * 

I am terrified of snakes. Had I been born in England, where snakes are pretty scarce, and if you do come across one it is likely to be convivial enough for you to be able to invite it home for a cup of tea and a biscuit, I suspect I wouldn’t give them a second thought. But I grew up in Brazil, where snakes are either as sadistic as a Komodo dragon, sinking their teeth in then sitting around yawning and checking their watch while you slowly lose consciousness, or tend to swallow you whole as a mid-morning snack.

* * *

As a direct result of good old-fashioned nepotism (my late ex-father-in-law was a well known British actor), I once appeared in a movie that featured at the Oscars. It soon became clear to me, however, that this was to be a short-lived career move after I was pulled to one side by the director’s assistant. According to him, I was shouting my lines, and could I say them a little more quietly please, mime them in fact, as it was interfering with the dialogue taking place between the story’s two main characters.

* * *

I could, given the inclination, competently haggle in a convincing accent and with adequate syntax with brothel owners in at least four modern western European languages. Phrases such as ‘but she’s seventy five and has a five o’clock shadow!’ could easily be articulated by me, should the need ever arise, with the inflexion and intonation of a local.

* * *

Standing outside Amsterdam’s central station while waiting for my girlfriend to return from a visit to the loo, I was once accosted by a charming and professional-looking young lady who asked if she could borrow my lighter. My habit of opening my Zippo and striking it alight in one swooping movement must have caused a strange chemical reaction in her as she then fixed me with a searing stare, blew out the smoke like she had a bit of fluff on her shoulder and asked with disarming directness: “you wanna fuck?” I thanked her profusely for this random act of kindness, suggesting as I did so that my girlfriend, who I could see approaching out of the corner of my eye, might take a rather dim view of things were I to accept her offer.

* * *

I was a promising footballer in my early teens and played for my local club until I was fourteen, when, prodded by my parents, I gave it up to study accountancy, on account of football ‘providing a rather meagre living’ in those days. I lasted a year before informing my parents that if I was forced to attend another class on bookkeeping, I would commit cold-blooded murder, reasoning that inmates serving life sentences make even less money than footballers.

* * *

I was sacked from my previous job for gross misconduct after a frank exchange of views with a representative of the lowest common denominator of Yorkshire – someone I strongly suspect of being incapable of brushing his own teeth unaided – ended with me punching him squarely in his big fat pie-eating face for the following final racist straw that broke this camel’s back: ‘the only thing Brazilians are good for is playing football, apart from being bone-idle lazy fucks’. The company agreed and, given the previous random fact, I do too.

* * *

Once upon a time, it seems like an eternity ago now, I fell in love with a girl I met over the internet. She lived on Long Island, New York, and her family’s – including her husband’s – entire social network consisted of people for whom sentences like ‘Vince got whacked last week’ were as commonplace as ‘a cup of tea?’ is for your average English host. Even so, I went over to see her four times in one year before seeing sense. I am not proud of it, but in my defence all I will say is that love has no morality.

* * *

Like the lovely Cream, I shan’t tag anyone. If you would like to be tagged instead, leave a comment expressing an interest and the first five to do so can consider themselves suitably tagged.

Dissolved

bridge parapet
bungeeless jump
sodden love letter
slowly unclenched
unsent
afloat

Soliloquy

To blog or not to blog, that is the question.
Whether ‘t is nobler in the mind, to suffer
The sticks and stones of caustic comment;
Or to take arms against a sea of trolls,
And with cutting wit, kill them? – To delete the blog, -to fall silent,
No more; -and, by deleting, to say we end
The manic monitoring of site traffic and technorati updates
That afflicts the denizens of blogland, – ‘t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To delete,-to release oneself:-
Release! Perchance to write a novel instead:-ay there’s the rub;
For with freed up time what inspiration for lengthier prose may come,
When we have pinged off this publish-and-comment coil
Permanently seeking approval and applause. There’s the respect,
That makes calamity of too many years of blogging:
For who would bear the whips and scorns from those with a life,
The popularity of Sexxxy Sandy because she likes to party,
The prevailing sycophantic cliqueyness that abounds,
The vomit-inducing Walt Disney sickliness
That is the looming prospect of Web Two-O?
When O’Reilly might his name make
With the invention of the clean-cut and toothless blogger
Free to rant as long as it is within the Rules,
Thus the sheriff star does a mockery make
Of blogging’s unique selling point:
The right to libel, offend and argue
If that’s what one wishes to do.

Climbing up the walls

I know, I know. I’ve not been writing much at all lately. And it’s hugely inconsiderate to those of you who pop by occasionally (bless your cotton socks) to read the noxious fumes I foist upon you. But you have to understand, I am a man who’s been without cigarettes for, erm, two weeks now. Yes, my previous attempt didn’t last long. I thought I would go insane, and this drug which is more addictive than heroin eventually reeled me back in after three or four days. It wasn’t my decision and I wasn’t ready for it, but this time it’s different: I chose to quit, I made the decision myself.

I have not had much proper sleep in the past fortnight. The nicotine patches, you see, they are the equivalent of eating a block of blue stilton before going to bed and you just can’t rest like that. Normally, six and a half hours’ sleep is plenty for me but I am sleeping more than eight and when I wake up I feel dreadful. No lucid moments at four a.m., only preposterous dreams: last night I was a hungry street kid in Brazil, trying to survive by my wits with two other unfortunates, an all-night saga, believe me. I am grumpy and restless. I am unable to concentrate, reading is impossible – I get lost halfway through simple sentences and during my waking hours all I think about (once I resisted the urge to smoke) is food.

I realise it’s awfully poor form to burden you with this kind of nonsense. After all, you don’t come here for that; you want to read something interesting, perhaps even amusing, but I am struggling. I can’t even think straight, let alone utter coherent sentences that those around me could decipher. Words won’t flow, they are lodged in my brain but refuse to be coaxed out by conventional means. More forceful digging breaks them up and fragments my sentences even more than usual.

I am constantly seized by the thought that I don’t care if I don’t live to be an old man, that I’d rather clog my arteries with fatty acids than clog up the supermarket aisles or the roads during rush hour forty years from now, imparting invaluable pieces of wisdom to the young and losing control of my bladder during special family occasions. Sooner or later I am bound to be claimed by some common or garden disease anyway and what’s the point of depriving myself if that’s what I ENJOY? See, you can’t reason with someone who talks like this. I am beyond reason or reproach.

Here’s the great Bill Hicks discoursing on the subject. Oh how I miss him. But be warned, his language is more than a little fruity. Those of a sensitive nature are discouraged to watch. Have a great week all.

The Unthinking Blogger

Easter Sunday, and first thing in the morning I am confronted by a
Thornton’s chocolate gorilla wielding a banana (what’s she trying to say?), who was swiftly dealt with in the only humane and acceptable manner for dispatching leering chocolatey simians: he got his head bitten off.

As well as chocolate gorillas, Easter also has something to do with, erm, crosses and some dude named Jesus, an excellent blogger apparently, though presently I can’t provide you with the link to his website. Anyway, this blogger, it is said, not only was made to drag a cross around town in forty degrees heat without being offered so much as a beverage, but also got nailed to it for his troubles. Good thing then that he wasn’t hanged or you lot would all be kneeling in front of a gibbet.

But this isn’t an Agnostic’s Easter sermon. I’ve been tagged by the thinking blogger’s delicious bit of crumpet, waspgoddess. She has awarded me the Unthinking Blogger Award. I didn’t have the heart to point out to her that she misspelt ‘unthinking’, forgetting, as one does, to add ‘un’ to the word by way of a prefix, but as you are all probably aware, I’ll take flattery even if it comes via the happy accident of a typo.

I am told that I must list five other bloggers who are more thinking than me, and I rather like that, since an impromptu pin-the-tail-on-the-blogroll game will instantly yield a more than adequate list. I would have Jesus on the list too but as I’ve already explained I’ve mislaid his url.

So, without further verbal masturbation, here is the list of bloggers who are more than merely capacious in the art of cerebral manipulation of information:

1. Ariel [from fuck up to] fab*. No fuck-ups here. She’s just fab.

2. Known Turf. A recent serendipitous discovery. If you haven’t read her, you’re in a for a great treat.

3. Maryam in Marrakech, whom I am madly in love with, and who rebukes my advances by dressing up in catgirl outfits and hissing ferociously, only inflaming my passion even further. Terrible thing, unrequited love. Oh and her ability for cognition is pretty vast too.

4. Sarsparilla. She doesn’t know I exist, and I doubt she’ll even acknowledge being tagged, such is the lofty nature of the world she inhabits. All the same, she’s the equivalent of LSD without any of the side-effects: enjoyable, addictive and mind-expanding. I only wish she’d post more often.

5. The Overnight Editor. To quote Bertie Wooster: “if I had a brain the size of Jeeves’, I would have a shot at being Prime Minister.” This guy would reduce Jeeves to a dithering and incoherent shambles. The only male on the list, but he makes up for it by probably possessing the most impressive intellect I’ve ever come across in the blogosphere.

I am duty-bound to point out that this isn’t some free-for-all make-it-up-as-you-go-along tag bonanza. Nope. There are rules, you know: 

rule number one: you do not talk about memes.  Sorry, wrong list. This is it:

 1. all members of the Order of Satanists… hang on, that’s not it either. I must remember to get rid of these rule books from clubs I’ve been expelled from.

These are the rules:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.

2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.

3. There are no rules. Did I get that right? Oh wait, here we are:

3. Optional: Display the ‘Thinking Blogger Award’ with a link to the post that you wrote. 

Thank you waspgoddess.

I like…

 If you haven’t seen The Big Lebowski yet, how come? 

This song by Carlos Paredes ‘Anos Verdes’ (Tender Years) always moves me:

And I love these. What I love about gypsy culture, and in particular their music, is that it transmits so much happiness despite, as a race, having been persecuted for centuries.

Pida me la

Hable me 

Trista Pena

what music moves you?

Have a nice Easter break, everyone.

Chavs R Us

From the perspective of a newly-arrived foreign observer, Britain must seem an impenetrable and baffling array of unspoken rules and traditions. From a distance, the archetypal British male still wears a tweed jacket and sips his tea with his pinkie firmly erect. American films and TV programs even now, whenever called upon to include a British character in their story, insist on the cliché of the anally-retentive and pompous snob, invariably settling for either the humourless and morally upright bore who is quick to express disgust at those incapable of observing arcane codes of etiquette, or the evil baddie hiding behind a façade of suave and urbane charm.

A few months ago I happened to be glancing at one of those TV programs that records police officers in action as they pursue drunken and drug-crazed thugs at eye-watering speeds, mostly on American public roads. A scene had just finished during which a brave American officer of the law, after a high-speed chase, catches up with the fugitive as he slows down and pulls into a petrol station. The quick-thinking police officer then decides to ram into the side of the crook’s car (who was seemingly about to stop of his own accord anyway), forcing him to smash into a petrol pump which immediately bursts into flames. In the background, we watch as children from a neighbouring school flee in terror. The narrator, one Sheriff Burnell, surely the campest man ever to reach the higher echelons of the macho American police service, then ends it with one of his trademark quips and we move on to an aerial shot of the Houses of Parliament. ‘London, England’, chimes Burnell in an admonishing tone, ‘home of sophistication and good manners… but listen to the language that this outlaw uses’. The scene then shows your typical Burberry-capped chav being cornered by a police car. As he opens his car door and begins to hurl abuse at the police officer, he turns and notices the camera. He then points his finger at the cameraman and with all the verbal alacrity and rich poetic texture you’d expect from a cultural descendant of Shakespeare, warns, ‘If you don’t turn that fucking camera off, I’m gonna shove it up your ring-piece’.

What Burnell and most of his countrymen probably don’t realise is that that type of nylon shell-suited thug who marches proudly around our high streets, looking for trouble from anyone who might make eye-contact, is far more prevalent and ubiquitous in British culture than the genteel, elbow-patched and stiff-pinkied snob.

Television and pop culture, aside from their enduring pointlessness, foster and encourage this very brashness. Banal celebrities don’t only spill out from the hundreds of ‘celeb gossip mags’, but make headline news. Thuggish and brain-dead footballers are revered, and the public wants to read about what their airhead girlfriends bought on their latest shopping spree. Big Brother contestants become, overnight, people whose opinions are prized (if the amount of air time they are given is anything to go by), despite never having anything of value to say. In the north of England, where I live, xenophobia and racist remarks pass for wit and insightfulness. If I had a pound for every time I heard someone say ‘I’m not racist but… I hate Pakis, hate the French, hate the Germans’, etc etc, I would be taking a daily dive, Uncle Scrooge McDuck-like, into a tall pile of money.

I suppose my point (if there is a point here) is that modern Britain is essentially brash and rude. It doesn’t resemble, even mildly, the stereotype cultivated in the minds of foreigners. Whether in big cities or chocolate-box quaint little towns, youths (children, ostensibly), patrol the streets and assert their authority with aggressive intent, ritually abusing or attacking anyone who may seem suitable prey. And this is not confined to gangs of teenagers in town centres. Teachers are habitually threatened, harassed and sometimes even stabbed; asylum seekers, not having suffered enough in the countries from which they fled, are forced to endure verbal abuse at best, and sharp implements imbedded into their skulls at worst. People have become prisoners in their own homes. The snob has been given a thoroughly good kicking by the inverted snob, and now speaks with a pronounced lisp.

So, what I’m calling for here is that other cultures update their databases as to the reality of Britain in the twenty first century, and relay this message back to us by portraying the archetypal British figure more accurately. By pointing a mirror back at us and thereby embarrassing us into seeing how truly grotesque we have become may yet be the only way to reverse this journey to becoming the chavs of Europe.

Kingston-upon-Hell

The city of Hull is not for the lily-livered. Before arriving, while driving past the spectacular engineering achievement that is the Humber Bridge you may be forgiven for expecting a modern and exciting city. This notion is quickly dispelled, however, once you find its landscape littered with monstrous derelict factories. They all seem abandoned, these gigantic structures. The only evidence that some of them may still be operative is the air density, which is thick with gaseous and toasted grains smells. It is intoxicating. Literally. And may go a long way to explain the creatures well on their way to becoming the mutants that shuffle listlessly about the place.

Hull was apparently heavily bombed during World War II and rebuilt with the hideous concrete boxes that the 1960s architects were so fond of. It’s really not possible to over-emphasise how ghastly the place is. Some parts of Hull would easily reduce your average tough Baghdad ‘insurgent’ to a convincing impersonation of the Cowardly Lion. In these dodgier areas, even the pets carry commando knives (always a sign of a bad neighbourhood), and I don’t need to tell you the consequences of straying into one of these areas by accident…

Your bosom will then be swelling with pride and admiration to hear that the other night you would have found your intrepid and all-round hard motherfluffer of a blog-keeper perched perilously on a roundabout in said city setting up his cameras in order to earn a crust. 

In such a vulnerable position (my boss refused to cave in to my request for a stab-vest), you can imagine I am a little wary of my surroundings. I am setting my cameras up late, it’s past midnight, and here I am, a lonely figure parked on a large roundabout. For company, I have Radiohead’s OK Computer blasting out of the speakers.

A six-wheel juggernaut pulls up on the approach to the roundabout. I turn and watch the driver hop out. ‘Airbag’ has just ended and now ‘Paranoid Android’ is in full flow. He strides purposefully towards me. Did I cut him up earlier, I wonder? He has something in his hands – possibly a weapon of some kind? There is something familiar about his look and gait, something Napoleonic in that low-centre-of-gravity kind of way. I glance past him at the lorry and read the writing on its side. It’s a Portuguese lorry. Once within earshot, he starts talking excitedly in Portuguese while waving his piece of paper and pointing to an address on it. They sent him thousands of miles to deliver goods to another country without even bothering to equip him with a map. When I calmly reply in Portuguese, with the intro to ‘Subterranean Homesick Alien’ for accompaniment, he frowns and shakes his head almost imperceptibly and takes a step back, with the startled look of someone who has just witnessed his wife remove her mask to reveal she is in fact a grotesque alien from outer space. He turns and looks at the buildings on the edge of the dual carriageway, as though to ascertain that he has indeed travelled to the right country. Days on the road can play tricks with the mind. I can see him thinking ‘yeah, come to think of it, this place doesn’t look like England at all’. Once he realises that my speaking Portuguese is no more than a coincidence, he lets out a little relieved laugh, presumably thinking what a great piece of luck this is. But that’s where his luck ends: I have no idea where his intended destination is.

‘I don’t live here, you see. Only here for the day’, I explain.

‘Oh, can’t you phone one of your friends and ask if they know it?’, he asks.

Now, I don’t know about the company you keep, but I think if I went around phoning friends after midnight on a weekday to ask if they know the address to an obscure industrial estate in a city hundreds of miles from where they live, it is fair to assume it wouldn’t be long before I found myself devoid of the few friends I still have.

‘They’re not likely to know either’, I say, with the chorus to ‘Let Down’ in the background, and feel quite sorry for him as I watch him walk dejectedly away. Who knows if he’ll ever be seen again? I picture his bloated body being winched out of the Humber, and me arrested and charged with his murder on account of being the last person to see him alive.

I turn away and carry on working. ‘Sing us a song, a song to keep us warm… Today, such a chill, such a chill’…