Tuesday, 30th December

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I awake at 6.30am with these lines in my head:


Come to the edge.
It’s where I live –
Come, see the drop below;
Don’t be afraid – here,
Take my hand –
I will not let you fall,
I just want to show you
Where I live.

"I've been to paradise - but I've never been to me."

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So sang Charlene.

And I wondered if I had ever been to me. Is there a ‘me’ somewhere hidden under all the stuff that has been layered upon me? Under all the socialization, the ‘educating’, the moulding etc etc.?

Or is it like an onion? You peel off layer after layer, only to find when you get to the middle – there is no onion left?

Perhaps the only ‘me’ is all those layers. Strip them away, and what have you got left?

I hope it isn’t like this though. But if I am not the layers… what is this ‘something else’ that is the real me?

I think I really know the answer.


It is bloody freezing here. I went to feed the swans and the ducks and the birds and things – Friday, that was. They live on the canal at Spike Island. I understand that this was the first canal to be built in England. It fell into disrepair of course, but they have cleaned it up, and there is a sort of marina there. The canal connects, via a lock, to the river Mersey and thence to the sea. So the boats are sea-going vessels.

I would like a sea going boat. I believe I have an affinity with the sea. Perhaps – if you believe in reincarnation – I was a seafarer in a previous life. Or, if you don’t believe in reincarnation, something may have been carried over in my genes from a distant ancestor who was, perhaps, a pirate.

I haven’t heard from Anastasia. I sent her a Christmas card but I didn’t get one back. Sometimes it is difficult to understand people – don’t you think? I often think about those long legs of hers.

Depression is a much over-used word. Could I perhaps say I am ‘clinically fed-up’? Or ‘clinically pissed-off’. I don’t think either of those diagnoses are in the DSM – perhaps they should be. Or how about suffering from ‘Ups and Downs Syndrome’?

I went to a funeral just before Christmas. His name was John and he did a lot of painting and decorating for us at Wynorin. So much so, that he became a friend.

Being a Roman Catholic, he had Requiem Mass. I just stood up and sat down as instructed. It was John I went for – not a religious ceremony. Nevertheless, one wonders where John is now. It is not a silly question. The priest seemed pretty certain. But then, he’s in the trade – so to speak.

We’re back to the onion again. I mean all the ‘layers’ that I knew as ‘John’ are all gone. But is there a bit in the middle that goes on somewhere? And if so, where does it go? And is that bit the John I knew?

Anyway, I can’t sit here talking to you all night. In fact, it is only six in the evening in America, but in Australia it is 11am tomorrow – which is not here yet, as far as me and America are concerned. So what time is it really?

By the way: one last word on canals. On the Illinois Canal they put the towpath on the right bank. In England – just to be different – we put the towpath on the left bank. Which is why, when the motorcar was invented in England by Maurice Cowley, he chose to drive it on the left hand side of the road. The rest of the world – when they caught up – decided (just to be awkward) to drive on the right.

ON THE ILLINOIS CANAL

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It is not often I devote a post to a comment from a reader. I would, however, like to clear up the small matter of the Illinois Canal.
You were quite right, RJ in taking me to task for failing to mention that national heritage. It was just that the canal is so famous that I sort of took it for granted - if you know what I mean.

In fact, as devotees of folk music will be aware, the canal has been immortalised in song by that doyen of the American folk scene, Long John Jackson (a formative influence on the young Bob Dylan). I myself have a record made at a live performance by Long John at a concert in Chicago in 1950.

There are seven verses, but I will just give the first verse and the chorus:

ON THE ILLINOIS CANAL.

It was on the Illinois Canal,
My wife sailed off, with my best pal;
I can't recall her name, but Joe,
My bosom friend,
I miss him so.

Chorus

With a half hitch, a half hitch,
And a bowline on a bight,
We're bound for old Chicago -
We'll be there by Friday night.


What many people do not know is the the canal was never intended as such. The 'Ditch' as it was originally called, came about as a sort of early YTS scheme to provide employment and get the youth of Chicago off the streets.

The intention was that, once it had been dug, it was to be filled in again. But the Friday of its completion was followd by a weekend of heay rain. When president Polk, who happened to be in Chicago at the time, saw the waterlogged ditch, he had a brainwave: "We could float boats on that, and we've got a cheap transport system." he exclaimed. "Of course we will need more water but the Great Lakes aren't that far away, are they?"

Of course it wasn't quite as simple as that. But with a few locks here and there, and American ingenuity, the Illinois Canal was born.

And it was this famous canal that gave the British the idea for a series of (much smaller) canals, criss-crossing the country and providing transport for coal and such like.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

MAN'S FALSE LEG FOUND UNDER ROLLER COASTER

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I went to see my doctor last week. Well, my real doctor was fully booked: he specialises in gynaecology, and I guess there must be a lot of that about at this time of year.

I saw a lady doctor. She’s very nice. She said, “Perhaps you should up your medication.”
“Up yours” I retorted. No I didn’t, because I think she has a point. I have always been reluctant to increase the dosage, but what the heck: it’s the time of year that always gets to me, so this time I will accept a bit of help – even if it is of the chemical variety.

Ophelia (Actually her name is Helen but I like to think of her as Dr Ophelia Pulse) also agreed to refer me for a course of CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, to any cork-heads out there). I told Ophelia that I call it the ‘Microwave Therapy’ – how she laughed.

Competition news

There was no outright winner of last week’s “Complete the song title” competition.

“There’s a rainbow round my …”

“All the nice girls love a …”

Although there were some pretty inventive entries, the answers we were looking for were, of course: “shoulder” and “sailor”.

And by the way RJ, regarding your post, trivialising my condition: I do not believe a word of your story about a Christmas song. I judge it as another of your flights of fancy – along with your alleged adventures on canals. I have had a look at Illinois with that Google Earth thing, and there is not a canal in sight, let alone a Narrowboat.


I read in the newspaper that a man's false leg had been found under the roller-coaster at Alton Towers, during a cleaning up operation.

Management are appealing for the owner to come forward.

Limping presumably.

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The prize for aphorism of the week goes to Matilde Bonaparte for:

Time flies when you're sedated.

Matilde wins a tin of Highland Shortbreads which will soon be winging its way across the pond.


The big bird of depression spreads his dark wings, as he hovers, low in Christmas skies – they never write seasonal songs about him, though – not like the robin, or those flying reindeer.

This is an Alice in Wonderland world.

I think I'll go fall down a rabbit hole.

"It was Christmas eve, babe/In the drunk-tank..."

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I should say that it is not Christmas eve, nor am I in the drunk-tank. I just love The Pogue's "Fairytale..."

I have had two falls. The first was off a mountain – sort of. And I bashed my right knee.
The second was in a dark car park. I tripped and fell, over a place where a tree had been, but was no longer there, causing injury to my left knee. As I hit the ground a woman who was passing stopped and enquired, solicitously, if I was ok. From a kneeling position I answered in the affirmative. But a man came and picked up my car keys, which had landed some distance away, and asked if I was alright. He was quickly followed by a boy on crutches, and a woman in a wheelchair, pushed by a dwarf.
(I lied about the crutches and the wheelchair people).

But it just shows how close one is to unforeseen trauma. I blame both accidents on wearing boots. But Freud said there is no such thing as an accident. Or was that Jung? Anyway, it was one of them – and if it wasn’t, it ought to have been.

That settles it: I am going back to skating. Clearly I am safer on the ice that on the ground.

As for this Tai Chi I have been trying – well it is ok, and I am sure it will do me some good, but I miss the atmosphere of the rink. Last night I dreamt I was skating. Skating really well, with skill and confidence – even though the ice had turned to slush.

I am eating bread made from spelt and rye. This is because I have a slight intolerance to wheat.

I’ve a slight intolerance to wheat:
When I eat it, it flies to my feet,
And little brown roots
Sprout out of my boots,
And anchor my legs to the street.

Somebody said I should try goats’ milk. So I did – and it’s ok. Also sheep’s cheese. But that is hard to come by. I asked the man in the place where I get my funny bread, and he said the sheep around here tend to yield wool rather than cheese. I wonder if he is trying to wind me up.

I went to a meeting to the MDF last night. That is the ‘Manic Depressive Fellowship’. Not that I am Bi-polar – I don’t think so, anyway. I just went along for the eats. My friend runs the group, and as it was Christmas they were having a sort of buffet. I enjoyed it.
Incidentally, I think the term ‘Bi-polar’ is much better, because people (lay people, that is) confuse ‘manic’ with ‘maniac’.
Anyway, they have invited me to their proper Christmas meal, in January.

I have suffered from depression, as readers of this column will know, and with OCD thrown in for good measure. But I am working on that.

When I fell off the mountain (sort of) I bust my digital camera. Perhaps someone will buy me one, as a Christmas present. I used to quite enjoy photography – perhaps I could do so again.

Anyway, I have used 44 minutes of my 1 hour allocated time on this computer in Widnes library (I could ask for extra time, but I might feel like little Oliver, asking for more

So I will stop there.

GENESIS II

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In the Beginning was the End. And in the End was the Beginning. And there was no end to the Beginning, nor yet was there any beginning to the End. For the Beginning was the End. And the End was the Beginning. Beginning and End were as one. And there was no separation between the two. And it was right that it was so.

Then, from out of the darkness of the void, from the very heart of that great nothingness, there arose a mighty whirlwind: a vortex from which did spring Gravity. And this force, this Gravity, did cause the bending of Space. The very Space in which did exist Beginning and End

And the bending of this Space did cause Beginning and End to be rent asunder. And, from this split, this tear, was born, Time. And the infant Time did grow. And as he grew he pushed Beginning and End further and further apart. Until it was as if they had never been one.

And thus was born Separateness.



(to be continued)

In the family way

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He’s breached the conditions of the injunction – Hector, I mean: he wasn’t supposed to go within 2 miles of old thingy - his partner, or whatever.

He was so agitated on the phone I could scarcely make out what he was going on about. I thought he said he’d gone round to get his jig-saw. ‘I didn’t know you were into woodwork’ I interjected.
‘No, you fool – I mean my jigsaw puzzle. It’s a picture of Tower Bridge - 1000 pieces, and I’d only got the sky to do.’

Anyway, when he got there he discovered that thingy had broken it up and shoved all the pieces back in the box. Said she wanted to use the dining room table as her family was coming to tea.

Hector went berserk. Well, wouldn’t you, if you’d only got the sky to do?
Anyway, she rang the police, and four coppers came round and dragged him off to the station. He was allowed one phone call, so he rang me.
‘Why ME?’ I expostulated. (We haven’t spoken since that business with the Swedish tart.)

He only wanted me to go round and bail him out! It’s a good 40 miles, and anyway, police stations bring on my Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And like I said, he’s not my real brother: I don’t know who his father is – and neither did my mother.

I’ll go though, I suppose. Don’t know why. Bit of a soft touch, I suppose.

You know, you get more trouble from your own family than you do from strangers. You are 85% more likely to be assaulted by a member of your own family than a stranger – now isn’t that a sad statistic? Also, the two most dangerous rooms in the house are the kitchen and the bedroom. Talk about ‘safe sex’… if you don’t go one way, you go the other.

Do they still sell tripe by the yard?

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It sounds like Kabul out there tonight: bonfire night, a peculiarly English festival, when we celebrate Guy Fawkes almost succeeding in blowing up the Houses of Parliament. If he really had succeeded we would probably celebrate for a whole week.

I have told Gwen to keep Miles indoors. Not that she needs telling – he almost never goes out. And when she takes him for a walk he has to be muzzled: he’ll go for anything that moves. I suggested she donate him to a zoo. But she wouldn’t hear of it.

Talking of fireworks: I think the kids round here must have a supplier in the SAS: what I can hear, as I type this, are not bangs but explosions. Of course they have too much money (the kids, not the SAS). When I was a lad things were different. If our dad was in work – and he mostly wasn’t – our mam would say: you can have a firework this year. And she would take me down to the local grocer and allow me to choose one firework out of a big tub. I usually chose a rocket – because I dreamt of going to the moon one day. The other kids would laugh at me, and say: don’t be daft, the moon is made of green cheese. But how wrong they were. I hated Grammar School.

Our grocer’s was called Nevins, and I used to pass it every day as I walked to school (no school-runs in 4x4s in them days). The door was always open in the summer, and I loved the smell of the sawdust on the wooden floor. And they had a huge ginger cat that was always sitting on the counter, next to the bacon-slicer.

I was thinking – in fact I said to Gwen – that this country, this nation of ours, started going downhill when they began making shirts that buttoned all the way down the front. The shirts that I grew up in, you had to pull them over your head because you only had about four buttons – the rest was all shirt.

Of course we had no central heating. Just a coal fire in one room. And when it was time for bed you had to psyche yourself up and then dash up the stairs and jump straight into bed. The bedroom was an ice-box. In fact, Gwen’s fridge is a few degrees warmer than the room I used to sleep in throughout the winter.

In the summer the bedroom was so stuffy that I couldn’t sleep. I should have said ‘we’ couldn’t sleep, because fifteen people in a ‘two up – two down’ meant some sharing was necessary.

There was another reason I couldn’t sleep – but I don’t want to dwell on my childhood. In any case that is covered in my autobiography. Gwen suggested serialising it, here on this blog, but I don’t think that is a good idea.

Anyway, I have enough going on in the present. My brother, Hector (well, he's not really my brother) has been arrested again.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

Greetings to all Americans (and un-naturalised Americans) on this momentous day in your history - and therefore the history of the world.

I am not a political animal, but that lady from Alaska seems quite nice, and since her house is so close to Russia, perhaps it could be used as an embassy, and therefore save money.

It is 9.50pm here in Britain (which of course is the proper time), so I imagine you will all be sitting down to your evening meal: do you call it dinner? Or supper? (I am sure you do not call it ‘tea’)

Anyway, I guess it is all over now (the election), bar the shouting. And judging from what I have seen on the news, there will be plenty of shouting, whoever wins.

I have spent some time with my financial adviser today - A nice chap called Ron - about the possibility of raising (sorely needed) cash. Please don’t misunderstand me – I am not touting for food parcels or anything like that. But to go on living the lifestyle to which I am accustomed, I need money.

Nothing coming in from my writing, and Tony Blair seems to have cornered the market in lecture tours.

I have tried to discuss this state of fiscal disarray with Gwen, but she does not seem interested – as long as I go on paying the rent.

I have had a touch of the diarrhoea this evening. I don’t know whether this is caused by the uncertain financial situation or whether it is something I have eaten. There is a close connection between body and mind. (Have you read Deepak Chopra?).

Anyway, I have a large Grouse at my elbow. Not the bird – the whisky. I am hoping this will kill or cure.

I am not going to stay up all night to get the election results. I will force myself to wait until morning.

I have been thinking of getting a job, to ease the money situation – the problem is, I am over-qualified for almost everything. So what can I do?

Any suggestions (clean of course) would be welcome.

I have to go now, because one of the chores I have to do (in return for the little extras Gwen provides) is to wash the dog. ‘Miles’ is a cross between a Greyhound and a Rotweiler (have I spelt that right?) and so he is bloody hard to catch – and when you do catch him you wish you hadn’t.

Actually, I am a bit worried about Gwen’s relationship with that dog… Is it normal for a dog that size to sleep in your bed? And also, he farts.

The wisdom of the ancients

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People are always puzzling about things. Like the pyramids. How did they build them? Do they have some links to aliens. And, coming closer to home, the mystery of Stonehenge. Who built it? Why? What is its religious significance?
And before you know it you’ve got a whole industry built around a couple of stone circles.

Well, there’s no mystery. I’ll tell you who built it: a bunch of lads from Amesbury. Why? Because they had nothing else to do: they had no tellies in them days, no iPods, mobile phones, no books, even.

I can imagine a conversation one Friday night, a long, long time ago.

What you doing this weekend, then?
Nothing, as usual. There’s bugger all to do in Amesbury now they’ve demolished the community centre.
Why don’t you come out with me and our Alan, and a few of his mates – we’re going to build a stone circle.
A stone circle? What for?
Well, exercise for one thing. And it gets us out in the fresh air.
No thanks.
There’ll be some maidens coming. Possibly virgins.
What time you startin’?
Depends on our Alan’s leg. It’s been playing up lately – all this fog and damp.
Well if he’s got a bad leg, what’s he want humping bleedin’ great stones around?
He has a vision.
Come to think about it, where are you going to get the stones from?
The old community centre of course.
The council won’t stand for it – you’ll need planning permission.
Ah, our Alan’s sorted all that out. The council’s only too glad to get someone to clear the site, and it fits in with their new initiative: getting the yobs off the streets.
Well, I might come, but no heavy lifting, mind. You know I done my back in with that plough-girl from over Emsley way.

Friday night – one year later.

Comin’ up Stonehenge tomorrow, then?
Another booze up? Nah – the wife won’t let me. And besides, haven’t the council put the block on all that after hours drinking?
Ah, but our Alan’s come up with a brilliant idea. He’s startin’ a new religion?
A new religion?
Yeah, you can get away with murder (literally) if you say it is the name of religion.
So what’s this new religion involve then?
Well, we all meet up at the circle, around closing time, with a few crates.
And then what?
Our god demands that we all take our clothes off (when we’ve finished the beer of course) and dance naked around the circle.
What, the virgins an’ all?
Well, obviously the virgins. They’re an important part in our worship – we have to sacrifice them.
What kill them?
Nah – that was in the bad old days. It’s like… more like their virginity that gets sacrificed.
You’ll never get away with it.
We will. It’s a religion, innit.
And where you gonna get all your virgins from? There’s precious few of them left in Amesbury.
Our Alan’s put flyers out – all over the county.
You’ll be lucky!
Anyway, when we say virgins – we’re prepared to be a bit flexible.
I should think you’ll have to be. Some of them I’ve seen your Alan out with, have been round the block a few times – or should I say circle.
You may mock. We have our faith.
And have you got a name for this religion, then?
We’re going to call ourselves the ‘Fluids’
The council will twig it – from the name – you’re just a load of drunkards.
Ok, so we may have to change the name, slightly.
It’ll never catch on.
You watch. Our Alan says that in centuries to come, tourists will flock to Stonehenge, especially at the solstice (whatever that is) and blokes will write books, full of bullshit about this being a sacred site an’ all that.
In your dreams.


I’m a bit glum tonight. And I’ve got pains in my neck and shoulder. On top of that it’s freezing cold. I hate the cold weather. It’s the only thing that stopped me becoming a lumberjack.
Anyway, I called at the pub on the way back. The Eight Towers – it’s named after a nearby power station that has eight cooling towers. Tonight I had a baked potato with cheese and bacon, plus a couple of pints of lager.
I know how to live

Taking the biscuit

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I don’t really like Hobnobs. Gwen thinks I do. But I prefer Fox’s Butter Crunch. I’m sure I’ve told her. But she goes on buying Hobnobs. I like to have a biscuit – sometimes two – with a cup of tea. I don’t have sugar in my tea – or milk. But I do like a biscuit.
Anyway, I went for my flu jab this morning, and on the way back I bought a packet of Butter Crunch. I also bought myself a packet of Ryvita and two cans of soup

I’m watching my weight. I’m not obese, but I am heavier that I would like to be. I think I need to take some exercise. Apart from anything else I think it would help my glumness (I refuse to use the word ‘depression’). You know, get the old endorphins going. It comes and goes. Like Winston Churchill’s ‘Black Dog’. He would come downstairs in the morning and say to his wife “Black Dog’s here again.”
Of course Winston had a war to take his mind off his depression. I don’t have anything like that. Do you know that the suicide rate drops dramatically in times of war? Of course I am not advocating war – but it makes you think.

Oh, something that cheered me up this morning: a letter from Anastasia. They forwarded it on from Wynorin. Of course it had been steamed open, but at least Norah had the decency to forward it to me.

I am reproducing here – unabridged. I am not included her address because I don’t want any of you perverts out there stalking her

My Dearest Georgie

Hoping this letter finds you as I send your house WYNORIN where we spend such happiness times until spoiled by that bitch – you know who.

Of course you may be domiciled (note big word) in other parts but should not be difficulty for postal services finding you, such is the smallness of your little cramped island.

Things not going too well for your little Anna. This credit crunching with the banking loans not happening have hit hard our Swedish Porn Industry. (Always is essential services suffering in times such as these). Anyway, Anna has been reduced in her circumstances – to working in sweat shop. You have such thing in England? Is little shop selling sweats and chocoletz plus Coke – which is not stuff for sniffing up nose, but American fizzy drink. This also is getting up nose but not having same effect (Little Swedish joke)

Busy times is when little kiddiwinkles coming home from school and buying the MARS BAR and other such shit what is bad for their bodies. And also little buggers looking at Anna’s bottom as she bend down for liquorice torpedo.

Lady what owns shop has dead husband. So is lonely. Sometimes when we shut shop she invite me to flat upstairs for glass of gin, and discuss economic crisis – and other activities.

Anna miss you terrible. How about slipping over on Stenna ferryboat and we make hay while moon shines? I have not had sexual proclivities filled for long time – well, not by male person.

Hoping letter finding you well, as is leaving me. (Little trouble now has cleared up. Thanks I am thinking to the anti-bioptics. Was getting nowhere with live yoghurt although I eat many tubs of this shit.

Thinking of you always as I dish out gob-stoppers.

Your little playmate

Anna


I miss her. I would go over there like a shot, but it is the money – or lack of it! You may ask, what about the money from the house? Well, I was stitched up good and proper by old Sponce; I didn’t get anywhere near its true market value (even allowing for the downturn in the housing market.) And by the time the lesbian had taken her cut, and I had paid legal fees and a few other bills, I had hardly anything left. Which is why I am living in this Bed and Breakfast establishment – subsisting on Gwen’s Hobnobs.

BUT I HAVE A PLAN

Bravely struggling on

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Yesterday, Gwen made me a trifle. It was a trifle unexpected.

I think she did it because she felt sorry for me: I have had a stinking cold for the past week and have been quite depressed, what with one thing and another.

And I had been to the hospital to collect my hearing aid. (Yes, I know: what a sad state of affairs, that one so young should require artificial aids to living. I’m not complaining though; Gwen’s brother has just been fitted with… no, I can’t – it is just too awful.)

As I approached the main entrance, my spirits were briefly lifted as a ray of sunlight broke through a cloud, and glanced off the corrugated iron roof of the consultants’ bike-shed.

The Audiology department is at the end of a long corridor. On the way I passed the various clinics: Orthopaedic, GUM, Dental, Dermatology, Gynaecology, Oncology (and various other sinister sounding ‘…ologies). On past Paediatrics, Podiatry (that’s a posh name for chiropody, isn’t it?)
I never knew it was possible to have so many things wrong with you.
And in the open waiting areas (all seats taken), anxious faces, staring straight ahead or at the floor. No one talking.

People shuffled, hobbled, limped, crutched, wheel-chaired their way past me, many bent and twisted grotesquely. Faces floated by: pale faces, purple faces, scarred and bruised faces, bandaged faces. Faces balanced on top of fearsome neck braces, like an egg in an eggcup. And I thought: we go and build this lovely new hospital, and in no time at all it’s full of sick people.
Does this mean that if you really want to improve the nation’s health you should build fewer hospitals? But seriously folks, I am a real champion of the National Health Service. Perhaps if Mr Obama gets elected you may get one in America

Anyway, if you must have something wrong with you, try and make it in the region of the ‘earoles: the clinic is much smaller, and they have some very pretty young ladies who treat you so nicely.

My hearing aid has cured my paranoia: now I can actually hear people talking about me. No, really it is brilliant. It is like rejoining the world, with the advantage that you can switch of the aid - and therefore the world – when things get too much.

And another strange thing is that I seem to be able to see people more clearly when I am wearing it – no, I really do. Perhaps it’s an illusion but people’s faces seem sharper, more vivid, a bit like those new High Definition tellies – though I haven’t got one myself.

Oh, and this morning Gwen caught me talking to the animals. They’re not real animals, they’re stuffed. There are two bears and two dogs. They really belong to the grandchildren but they have grown too old now to play with them. They just sit there in the bedroom – the animals not the children – and I sort of feel sorry for them. They look so lonely. So I often have a quick word as I am passing.
Gwen said to me “What are you doing?”
“I’m talking to the animals” I replied.
“Well they won’t answer you back.”
“You never know.” I retorted, “One of these mornings… they just might.”
She just looked at me, and left the room.

(Oh and by the way, RJ - I tried that vinegar stuff you recommended. It's horrible. I ate a packet of strong mints and still couldn't get rid of the taste.)

A pilchard is a grown-up sardine

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I woke up this morning feeling like shit. But now, I own a bank – two, actually. Alistair and Gordon bought them for me. And it isn’t even my birthday.
Fancy me, a merchant banker!

Nice to get a comment from Matilde Bonaparte. It’s a bit like that tree falling in a forest: if there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Well, how do I know if my writing makes a sound unless someone hears it, and tells me.

I haven’t heard from that fellow Adams, although I follow his blog (I still dial www.sparrowchat.blogspot.com) with interest. I guess he is too busy campaigning on behalf of John McCain. Personally I don’t think it matters who gets in – I doubt either of them could measure up to Mr Bush.

I accessed Matilde’s blog: www.thebipolarexpress.blogspot.com and read her post where she talks about the word ‘cunt’. A friend of mine once told me that the test of a really good dictionary is if it gives the origin of that wonderful Anglo-Saxon word as a sheath for a shepherd’s knife.
Well, I have not yet found one that gives this definition – and when I asked a shepherd he told me to fuck off.

I haven’t been well this past week but I am feeling a bit better now, although the weather doesn’t help: rainy, gloomy, miserable – enough to depress anyone – especially someone with a stinking cold.

Recently I sought help from the medical profession, in a couple of areas - one of which I will make the subject of a separate post. I have suffered for some time from the itchy legs; there is no rash, no dry skin, nothing visible that one might think would warrant the attention of a dermatologist. It just comes and goes, for no apparent reason.
I saw my doctor some time ago and he said he thought it could be ‘nerves’. But the doctor I saw last week, after having a good look, said that the itching was caused by very close veins. Well that's what it sounded like. When I realised he meant varicose veins I was astonished. 'What, you mean I have varicose veins?' I said.
'Oh yes' he replied.

Anyway he prescribed some capsules called PAROVEN, which apparently help stop blood leaking into the tissues from faulty one-way valves in the veins. They seem quite successful but I have stopped taking them for the moment; I want to find out exactly how they do this.
Enough for now. It is my lunchtime, and I must rise from where I lie supine in this chair, and open a tin of pilchards.
You’re never alone with a pilchard.

The American Economic Crisis

*******************************************************

A possible solution


$700bn sounds a lot, but it goes nowhere these days. I suggest George Bush appeals to the Third World for help. After all, look at the money America has poured into these countries over the years. Well, it’s pay-back time – that’s what I say. And food parcels are not enough.

Why not organise a mail-shot to the likes of Ethiopia, Rwanda and all those other foreign places that have benefited from American aid. OK, so America does not need a fresh-water supply – or a regime change (perhaps that’s not a good example), but what it does need is money.

A mail-shot then, on the lines of the stuff that drops regularly through my letterbox. Something like this:

Photograph of an emaciated banker –

(Obviously you would have to use some unemployed actor, but there must be plenty of those about).

“Just $50000 would renew this man’s golf-club subscription AND pay his Filipino au pair’s wages for the next 5 years… etc etc”… you get the idea.

Then you would have the usual tear-off strip on the bottom –

“My donation is $10000……. $5000…… or $………

Please return in the enclosed envelope. A stamp is not necessary but it would help us to keep costs down.”

I think this is a brilliant idea and I wonder why George has not thought of it.

It's me, George

**************************************************************

BOO! I'm back folks - long time no blog.

Anyway, I have gotten over being rejected as John’s running mate, in favour of the Alaskan tart.

I’m not bitter, but what’s she all about?

Calls herself a fundamentalist – and her seventeen year old daughter is up the duff, and not even married. Still, give the old bat her due, she did campaign against sex education in Alaskan schools, so I suppose you could say she is sticking to her principles.

But me – now I AM a fundamentalist: I do not believe in sex before marriage – and I am not too sure about after.

I think the result is anybody’s guess. These geezers are millionaires, (In John’s case, though, you wouldn’t think there was so much money in oven-chips, would you?), so from a Calvinist perspective you could say that both of them have (in the immortal words of Bob Dylan) ‘God on their side’.

Incidentally, I thought I heard one of the participants in this circus (I think it was Alaskan Alice) say that the Iraq war was ‘God’s mission’
But I couldn’t have got that right – could I?


I have recovered from my recent attack of piles – more on that story later.

Watching the games

***************************************************************


Not writing about myself has given me time to watch television. It appears the Olympic Games have started. Did you see the opening ceremony?
All those fireworks! Just think of the money that must have cost. But where was the bonfire? And the ‘Guy’? Talk about spoiling the ship for a ha’porth o’ tar.

Of course I understand why all the ‘world leaders’ had to be there: every last one of them a former athlete of international standard. And at the party afterwards, Vladimir Putin gave a spirited rendition of that old jazz classic Georgia on my mind.

I’m so glad the security people managed to prevent any unpleasantness from those malcontents who threatened to disrupt the games. Just because some people are starving, being oppressed, imprisoned, blown up, or whatever – that doesn’t mean you can’t have an athletics meeting, does it?

Oh, I have just heard Doris Day assert that they’ve “…got more life in Deadwood City than the whole of Illinois”. Can that really be true, Mr Adams?

above the yardarm

******************************************************

I said I wasn't going to write any more but have just seen RJ's comment.

I was of course, referring to the submarine service, where the tradition is reversed.

A brief glance at "When a Loose Cannon Flogs a Dead Horse There's the Devil to Pay" does confirm that the expression refers to the officers' custom aboard ORDINARY SHIPS sailing in the north Atlanticto have a sort of 'happy hour' when the sun rose above the upper yards, around 11 a.m. Since this coincided with the forenoon 'stand easy,' officers would take advantage of the break to go below for their first tot of spirits for the day.

But, as I say, I was talking about submarines.

Untitled

I suddenly thought, this morning, how self indulgent to be forever writing about yourself: what you are doing, what you think, what you feel.

So I'll shut up.

Seriously, though...

I don’t think I am taken seriously.

I said as much to Gwen. ‘I don’t think I am taken seriously.’ I said.
‘I’d just like to be taken – seriously, frivolously, casually…whatever’ she replied.
‘See what I mean?’ I cried, frustratedly.

I think that one of the reasons I don’t get many comments is that there is no political content on this blog. When I look at other people’s blogs (which I do, Mr Adams!), I find that they deal with serious issues. Issues that affect us all.

It is not that I do not ponder these issues myself. In fact I have, in the seventies and eighties, written several political pamphlets. (Sometimes being referred to as ‘the 20th century John Paine’.) Perhaps my best known is: What happened to Kier Hardie’s cap? In which I address the question: why, a century after the birth of the Labour Party, wealth and power in Great Britain is still in the hands of the same elite?

The psychology of politics was a brief synopsis of my thesis that political affiliation – just like religious ‘persuasion’ – comes down to what I call ‘psychological type’.

The American Republican Party, I would suggest, is made up of a different psychological type to the Democratic Party. Yes, of course there is some overlap, just as in our Conservative and Labour Parties. (Although, being British, and masters of the art of compromise, we have a third party: the Liberal Democrats, who are a bit of both – and yet, neither)

In religion, you have the Roman Catholics and the Protestants (each with their left and right wings), and in between, a whole spread of … well… ‘in betweens’.

It would be nice to think that we choose our religion, after a careful appraisal and analysis of what is on offer – but of course we don’t. It is a fact that most of us follow the religion of one or both parents, in the same way that the majority will vote for the same party of our father (or mother). There are exceptions – which only prove the rule.

Sociologists explain this as having to do with some sense of class or family solidarity; I think they are missing the point. Yes it does have something to do with family but it is genetic rather then any indoctrination (by family or community).

Sometimes a son or daughter will take a diametrically opposed view to parents in the matter of politics or religion. This is often seen as ‘rebellion’ against parental pressure, or having ‘seen the light’. In my view it is because they have inherited a slightly different mix of genes, leading to a different personality. Yes, I know that ‘nurture’ is important but not nearly as much as we would like to think.

Arguing religion or politics rarely converts anyone. You are not just challenging a set of beliefs, upon which a person may have built their life; you are threatening their sense of self. And that is why they may be prepared to kill: to preserve their self, rather than their beliefs.

The Buddhists say two things should be avoided at all costs: fear and hope.

Fear is at the base of all conflict, personal or global. Fear that your next- door neighbour might steal two inches of your garden when he erects that new fence. Fear that some country that you have barely heard of, let alone know where it is, intends to wipe you off the face of the earth.
Politicians understand fear, and they use it: ‘Weapons of mass destruction’ is only a rather crude, clumsy example; it is the subtler, insidious fears of which we need constantly to be aware.

Anyway, if you want to know more, read my pamphlet. It’s almost time for my tea (I know this is a B&B but I get special privileges). Gwen is making ‘toad in the hole’ – with real toads! Only joking; it’s one of our quaint English dishes, involving sausages.
Incidentally, in parts of the West Country you may find some folk who still follow this traditional meal with the medieval game of ‘Hide the Sausage’.
But that is the subject of another of my pamphlets.

Act III, Scene ii

For Gordon is an honourable man


Am I the only person to detect a touch of the Mark Anthony about David Milliband this week?

Boils law

Whatever happened to boils? Nobody seems to get them any more. When I was a lad everybody had boils – well, that’s an exaggeration, but there were a lot of them about.

People seemed to get them mostly on the back of the neck, which, I suppose, was very painful if you had to wear a collar and tie.

As far as I remember, they were treated with ‘mustard plasters’ (whatever they were; some sort of poultice? I haven’t heard of those lately, either. Perhaps when the affliction disappeared, so did the treatment).

I imagine penicillin had a lot to do with it: the disappearance of boils – and carbuncles, you never hear of those nowadays. They were worse, as I understand: my dictionary defines a boil as: an inflamed pus-filled swelling on the skin, whereas a carbuncle is a severe abscess or multiple boil in the skin.

I don’t know why I woke up (in my room at Number 6, Cloister Walks) thinking about boils. But there you are. You are there, aren’t you?

I have a pleasant room overlooking the ASDA car park. It has a double bed, bedside cabinet, wardrobe, chest of drawers and a small armchair. Oh and of course it has its own tiny bathroom: lavatory, washbasin and shower. I think it is so important to have one’s own facilities.

Yesterday afternoon, Gwen, my landlady, asked me it I would take a look at her waste pipe; it has been smelling a bit in this hot weather. (I had noticed but hadn’t liked to say). I readily agreed and, although I am no plumber, ten minutes vigorous application of a broom handle cleared the blockage.

She was so grateful. She lit a cigarette and invited me to sit down at the kitchen table and partake of a glass of gin. I don’t normally drink until the sun has gone below the yard-arm (my old naval days coming back there), but decided I would make an exception as I felt I deserved a drink after my exertions.

She began to confide in me as she refilled our glasses. It turns out that she is not a widow – her husband disappeared on a holiday in Thailand, some ten years ago. She doesn’t know whether she ought to report him missing. What did I think? I said that I had read a statistic somewhere that thirty five thousand people are reported missing in Britain every year, and a third of those are never found. I said I imagined it was pretty much the same for Thailand. She said she wouldn’t bother then.

Although she did confidde how much she misses sharing her bed, having someone to hold onto in the long winter nights.

I excused myself, as I had to take my library books back. I have been reading a thriller called ‘Flesh and Blood’; I don’t normally read thrillers but sometimes you need a bit of escapism. I am also taking back a book of short stories by Jeffrey Deaver: 'Twisted'. I’ve only read three; they’re clever, but a bit too contrived for my liking.


Isn’t life strange?

Do you ever wonder how you came to be where you are today? I do. And do you try to unravel the threads of your own Bayeux tapestry. And if you could do so, would you re-embroider a different story?


Life is like water: it will find its own level. (I am not quite sure what I meant by that but I somehow know it is profound).

Down on my uppers

We did it in the potting shed. She took me by surprise, (story of my life). It was only a kiss. Well, a bit more, perhaps. I suppose it was what Jeremy Kyle defines as “sexual contact”, when he is about to give out the results of a lie-detector test.
“You were asked if you had sexual contact with Charlene,” (pause, and a stern look) “sexual contact being anything between a kiss and sexual intercourse. You answered ‘no’; the lie-detector said…”

Anyway, I will leave to your imagination what happened in the potting shed. And no, it wasn’t Grace; it was Lady Sponce, wife of my employer. So perhaps you can understand why I was taken by surprise. She had asked for a tour of the vegetable garden, and commended me on the size of my pumpkins, remarking that she had not had much success in that area. I offered her a bag of my special fertilizer; she followed me into the shed – and leapt upon me!

Honestly, what is it with these upper-class women?

Anyway, in the middle of all this, the door opens and it’s Tobias.
“Sybil what the hell do you think you are doing?” he shouts.
She calmly gets up, dusts down her knees and says “Now don’t get yourself all worked up, Toby, you know it only brings on a malaria attack.”
But he is worked up. So I try to defuse the situation. “Is this your wife, sir?”
He seems unable to speak, so I quickly follow with, “Well you ought to be ashamed of yourself; the poor woman is starved of affection.”



He’s thrown me out. Well, it was his chauffer, Lawrence, who did the throwing. He’s never liked me. I think he’s had his eye on Norah for a while; in fact she did admit to having had a ‘fling’ with him at some time in the distant past – well she says it was distant - it's all rather academic now).

Anyway, he took great delight in manhandling me through the front door – my own front door – and down the steps, whence I fell in an undignified heap. ‘I’ll have you charged with assault, you oaf’ I shouted when I had picked myself up. For reply he threw my suitcase after me, and in trying to dodge, I tripped over the iron boot-scraper and landed flat in the drive, suffering gravel rash to my hands and face.

I picked myself up and, taking a firm grip on my (heavy) case, limped as nonchalantly as I could down the drive.

I went and sat on a park bench for a while, and read the Financial Times, which some yuppie must have left. Then have found myself a nice ‘bed and breakfast’ (very reasonable), run by a pleasant lady: Gwen – a widow apparently. She asked me if I would like the ‘full English’. I said yes, of course; you can last for the best part of a day on a good cooked breakfast.

I am typing this in the local library (or information centre, as it is now called).

No need to worry about me. I am okay. I shall dance again.



Thank you, RJ. I am pleased to be identified as a sixty-year-old schoolboy – with the emphasis on schoolboy.

Yes, I do value your comments – indeed, what need have I for a ‘counter’?

Also the posts from Matilde Bonaparte and Girl Zoot (whatever happened to her?) are very welcome, and encourage me to carry on in the face of adversity and the vicissitudes of life.

It's all in the mind (?)

I awoke this morning, full of wind as a pipe organ. A series of small explosions followed me into the bathroom.

I felt unaccountably depressed. I say “unaccountably” – I had had a rather disturbing dream. And that may have contributed. Now, I don’t believe I go on the “astral plane” but my dreams are so vivid, so complex that it is hard accept that it is “all in my head.”

But I am sure that it is.

Of course, the astral plane may be just another way of saying something: another explanation. I sometimes think that we weave explanations, like a spider weaves its web, and that the “truth” lies not at the centre of the web – or indeed anywhere on the web – but in the weaving of the web.

Anyone who wants to extend this metaphor to the Internet, feel free to do so.

Oh, come on! Stop all this post-modernist nonsense, and change the subject.

Okay, I will.


CHAMPIONS have no sense of humour. In fact I would go so far as to say that if you have a sense of humour you have no chance of becoming a champion.

I am not a champion. (Although I have excelled in almost everything I have undertaken). But I have met many champions, and have found them so single-minded, so concentrated on their narrow field of endeavour, that there is simply no space in their head for anything else.

Furthermore, having a sense of humour means being able to laugh at yourself. And that is one thing an aspiring champion must never do. Everything has to be taken seriously, if you are going to win.

An example from the world of ice-skating: I was watching ‘patch time’ (for the uninitiated that is when then ‘serious’ skaters have the rink to themselves to practice and hone their skills). One girl made a slight miscalculation during a spin, and took a tumble. ‘Oops’ she said, and laughed. She will never be a champion.
Another girl, attempting an axel, failed to recover properly on landing, and went down on her bottom. ‘Fucking Hell’ she snarled. She has the makings of a champion.

But what has this to do with the price of fish? I hear you ask. Well, everything has to do with everything else. It’s all about ‘connections’. If only we understood the interconnectedness of things we would be well on the way to understanding what life is all about.
You know that thing about if you tread on a beetle in the Australian rain forest it has repercussions for the whole ecological system? Well, I have never been to the Australian rain forest but I understand what this means: it is all about ‘connectedness’.
Remember the John Donne quote: every man’s death diminishes me? Well, I am connected to every man – past, present and future. Of course when I say ‘man’ I mean woman too. (in JD’s time they hadn’t a properly developed sense of sexual equality).


I’ve decided I’m going to write to Anastasia; try and explain things. I mean about my behaviour. Maybe in writing it down I will come to understand it myself.
When I was in that place… you know… they used to encourage you to write down your thoughts and feelings; it was part of the therapy. I really believe it helps – for me, anyway. It doesn’t really matter if you never read it again; it is the writing down that is the therapy.

I’m still going to have a go at chatting up Grace. I know why she is here now. She will be ‘having an input’ – as they say in this game – into future courses at our super-duper conference centre.
So my offer was rejected, and now she is here. Fair enough. I can live with that. Remember what I said about the trick being knowing how to turn a disadvantage into an advantage? Watch this space.

Jenkin's ear

Mr Adams - re your comment.

Although I would be the first to applaud your scholarship, I take issue with you on your assertion that every schoolboy knows about the battle of Jenkin’s Ear. I can only assume this was one of the careless generalisations to which you are prone.

Being a social scientist I do not content myself with anecdotal evidence, and I decided to test your dubious claim. I therefore stationed myself outside the gates of our local high school and put the question to a selection of pupils in the 11 to 16 range (in the interests of sexual equality – something of which you seem unaware - I included girls in the survey).

After correlation of the statistics thus obtained (in the final stages using Cooks coefficient to allow for obverse weighting), I arrived at the following result: Not one student – boy or girl – had heard of this battle.

(Whilst pursuing my enquiries, I was arrested by the police for ‘loitering with intent’. Naturally I was released when my purpose was made clear, and my academic credentials had been checked.)

Of course, I myself am well acquainted with the incident that occurred in 1731 and led to war some eight years later. The war, of course, had little to do with Captain Robert Jenkins, or his (allegedly) severed ear. As I am sure you know, the ‘ear’ incident was an excuse to whip up feeling by those with trading interests in the region. (A bit like ‘weapons of mass destruction’), Walpole eventually being forced to yield to said interests and go to war with Spain.
Do things ever change? Once again I refer you Naomi’s excellent book, ‘The Shock Doctrine’.

I am, however, disappointed that you, of all people, should have been taken in by the propaganda of ’99 year leases’ and such nonsense.
I invite you to check whether Guantanamo is not, in fact, ‘twinned’ with Galveston and, furthermore, whether on the outskirts of this city there is not a very large building with an inordinate security presence for a ‘canning plant’.
I leave you to draw your own conclusion.

And by the way: I have visited your old blog on two or three occasions and until quite recently, found a blank page. Then I tried again and got the ‘no longer known at this address’ thing.

Thank you for you tip re the ‘counter’ – I shall try this.

On the other hand... if I did not have a counter I could imagine this site being visited by THOUSANDS of people!

This and that

I’ve missed her. I never thought I would, but I have: that pale Swedish body, those long legs, reaching up into the aurora borealis.

The Irish have a saying ‘You’ll never miss your mother ‘til she’s laid beneath the sod.’

Very wise: the Irish.

Looking back, I realise how many relationships I have sabotaged, how many friends I have ditched because they failed to come up to my expectations, never considering for a moment whether I came up to theirs.

Sometimes I just cannot believe I have done some of the things I have done. But I expect that is the same for everybody, and trick is not to be too hard on one’s self. Or as somebody said: learning to forgive yourself without letting yourself off.
I think Anastasia loved me – in her own, Scandinavian way.

I blinked, and wiped a tear from my eye. Then I saw that it wasn’t her. It wasn’t my Anastasia – here on the croquet lawn with Norah.

Norah introduced us. ‘George, this is Grace – Ralph’s partner.’
‘Haven’t we met before?’ I asked, taking the slim hand with long lacquered nails, which floated up towards me.
She laughed. ‘A lot of people say that to me. You’ve probably seen me on the telly. That’s the thing about television: it is so intimate. There you are, in people’s living rooms, night after night – it’s no wonder they think they know you.’
‘Television?’ I said, stupidly.
‘Yes, I’m a regular on “News Night”, “Any Questions”, and of course I make frequent appearances when they need an ‘expert’ to pronounce on the government’s latest economic balls-up’.

Turns out, ‘Amazing Grace’ is a real “blue stocking”: Rodean, Oxford, the L.S.E.; author of several best selling books on politics, economics, globalisation – you name it.

There’s an old song, which goes “If women like that like men like those/Why don’t women like me”.

And that just about sums it up. No it doesn’t – this does: What’s a woman like that doing with a prat Ralph?I mean, it can’t be for the money: this woman can practically name her own fee for television appearances, besides holding a chair in politics at some prestigious university. I just don’t get it

There I go again – not getting it! I told you that was my problem.

She didn’t say why she was here. (Nobody tells me anything). So I went inside, had a shower and came down to watch the News on television.

Our prime minister, Mr Brown is in Iraq (Lots of sand and flies.) He has gone there to help them sort out their elections. Well, I hope they are grateful – that’s all I can say. He’s there, in that blistering heat, with his dark suit, and collar and tie: the epitome of all that is British.

When you come to think about it, we have exported our system of democracy all over the world – and often got a dagger up the Khyber for our pains. But we never give in. Frequently vilified, often misunderstood, we continue to pass on our traditions of justice, fair play and sportsmanship, granting self-government to our colonies when we feel they are ready.

And, by and large, this has been a great success. Admittedly, America has experienced difficulties in absorbing some of the niceties of the British way of life. I mean look at their disgraceful behaviour at the infamous ‘Boston Tea Party’: just because they preferred coffee they dumped a whole boatload of the finest British tea into the ocean. But we have forgiven them; that’s another thing about the English: so ready to turn the other cheek.

There’s one thing I’ll say for the Americans though: they make wonderful musicals. I mean it. I know some people deride the ‘musical, but I see it as a legitimate art form, dealing, as it often does, with some of the most important issues of what might be called ‘the human condition’ (personal, political, moral, psychological – they are all there). And it does this by engaging the heart as well as the head. Musicals entertain, and, as all good teachers know, if you really want to instruct then you must entertain.

Just two examples: Kiss Me Kate and West Side Story. How many thousands of people have seen these two shows (live or in the cinema) who would not dream of attending a production of The Taming of the Shrew or Romeo and Juliet?
I can imagine a young couple leaving the Globe theatre on a Saturday night in 1594.

She: What an experience. I was so moved. I don’t mind telling you I was in tears by the last act.
He: I know you were. You’ve drenched my doublet.
She: And you – you don’t half show me up. … chomping on those chicken drumsticks throughout the whole of the last Act. Didn’t you enjoy the play at all?
He: Well it was alright, I suppose. But a couple of tunes, a few songs… would have lightened the mood a bit. Anyway, I don’t know about you, but I could murder a pint of mead.


I’m going to chat up this Grace bird. I'm sure she would be glad of some intellectual stimulation, as a welcome respite from the sort she gets from old Ralphy.

On the ice

Yesterday, I went to visit my auntie: the one in Sheffield. She wasn’t in. So I came back. But before I came back I called at the excellent ice rink they have in that city of steel.

I always keep my skates in the car, and I wanted to see if I could still perform a double axel.

Now, for those of you who don’t know their arse from their axel, this is a forward jump, invented by the Norwegian speed skater, Axel Greise. You take off from the front outside edge of the right skate, execute two and a half spins and land on the rear outside edge of the left skate.

But I felt a cold coming on, so I decided against it. Instead I contented myself with several brisk laps of the rink and a few simple jumps and spins.

Of course I am no longer eligible for Olympic selection since (ill advisedly) taking part in that professional ice show at the Alhambra in 2004. I thought that, because it was for charity, my amateur status would not be jeopardised. Not so.

That’s what’s wrong with this country: hidebound with creaking tradition… ‘Gentlemen and Players’. All that nonsense. I tell you, we are still mired in a class system that dates from William to so-called conqueror.

You know, come to think of it, I would probably fare better in the States.
There you get ahead on merit, and merit alone. As Paul Getty said, “It does not matter if you wear a Roman toga instead of a business suit, and drink yak’s milk instead of martini -Ability is a calling card no man dare refuse.” Well it was something like that.
And anyone can become president. You don’t have to have been to Eton or Harrow; Yale or Harvard will do just fine.

Why they even had a ‘B’ movie actor as president! Now who, in their right minds, could see Hugh Grant becoming prime minister?

Oh, and you don’t have to speak with a plum in your mouth; just listen to Mr Bush – surely one of the greatest war leaders of the 20th century, on a par with Churchill.


When I got back I found Norah on the croquet lawn with a tall languid blonde who looked vaguely familiar. My heart skipped a beat.



Note to Mr Adams. Thank you for your comment, which, although a trifle insensitive, did let me know that my words are reaching the Americas.

Incidentally, I got quite a shock when I logged on to ‘sparrow chat’ and found the notice saying you had moved. At first I thought that you had been lifted by the CIA, and were currently blogging in orange overalls.

I don’t really understand why the U.S.A. has a prison in Cuba. Is it some sort of reciprocal arrangement? And does Cuba have a similar penal establishment in the States? Somewhere in Texas, maybe?

As someone with his ear to the political grindstone, I am sure you would know the answer to that one.

Re your comment about the ‘word recognition’. Do you mean those funny bendy letters you have to copy when you make a comment? They just appeared on my blog so I left them there.
I would, though, like some advice as to what I might do about my missing ‘counter’.

Sat Nav

And of course he’s got satellite navigation. (Ralph, I’m talking about) He calls it ‘sat nav’ it (why do people have to abbreviate everything?)

I’ve got to admit, it’s pretty amazing. Spooky though; the idea that some woman up in the sky knows where your auntie lives in Sheffield!

Nobody needs maps any more. (You can buy beautiful road atlases in the ‘Pound Shop’). But every gain has a loss: there is something romantic about maps: they give you a real sense of adventure: the idea that you are going somewhere. And also you get a perspective: you can see where everything is – even the places you are not going to pass through. You get a sense of scale.

Oh, and Ralph was also telling me about something called ‘Google Earth’. Apparently with this you can home in to any part of the world you want – and see what is happening.
‘You can even zoom in and watch your neighbour sunbathing in the garden.’ Leered my employer.
‘What’s wrong with a good pair of binoculars in the back bedroom?’ I retorted.
‘Luddite’ he scoffed.


I’m not knocking technology though – where would we be without it? You wouldn’t be reading this, for a start! Which reminds me: my ‘counter’ has disappeared – so I don’t know how many actually log on to this blog now. Nobody posts a comment. For all I know this deathless prose may be floating around somewhere in cyber space.

Cyber Space. What a mind-boggling concept. I believe you can actually have cyber-sex now. How do you do that? Do you get a virtual orgasm? Well it’s probably less messy.


The sun is shining as I type. That makes a change. It has been like winter here for the past week or so: cold and rainy. I may get a chance to go for a spin on my motorcycle today; I’ve still got it: my 30 years old Honda Benley – practically in showroom condition. It’s very ‘low tech’: 4 gears; carburettor instead of electronic ignition; drum instead of disc brakes, and six instead of twelve volt electrics. Very comfortable though.




I spend a lot of time on my own – even though I am cohabiting. Sometimes I think you can be more lonely when you are with someone that when you are on your own.

But all this philosophising won’t get the cows milked – as my old grannie used to say. (I don’t know why she said this – we didn’t live on a farm).

Anyway, I must be about my business: first stop, the lavatory – or as Ralph would call it: the bog.

Waiting for something to turn up

Yesterday, Norah’s father came to look at his new convention centre.

He brought his son with him: Ralph (or as he likes to be known, Raefe), heir to the Sponce empire.

Raefe was born in the Chinese 'Year of the Twat'.

Now I am not jealous. Let’s nail that one, for a start. The fact that he is six foot two, with a mane of golden hair, permanent tan and the looks of a Greek god in no way colours my judgement. The man is an intellectual pygmy.

He is always flaunting his money, and position.You know how some people have those ‘nodding-dogs’ on the back shelf of their car? You usually get behind one in a traffic queue and its inane bobbing drives you mad? Well Ralph has a real dog on the back shelf of his Bentley - one of those miniature things, about the size of a large rat. And he’s trained this dog to nod its head at the car behind.

Can you believe it?

He calls me ‘matey’. ‘Park the old bus for me, matey’ he said, tossing me the keys as he came up the steps of Wynorin.

He likes to think of himself as a socialist: buys the Guardian (I found a copy on the passenger seat) but I doubt he actually reads it.

Anyway, his dad wanted to make sure that everything was in place for the weekend ‘bonding session’ for his senior executives. (Ralph refers to it as a ‘bondage weekend’ – what a wit!)Of course he doesn’t get involved in these sessions – he is above that sort of thing.

I had offered my services as a ‘group leader’ (after all I am a professional lecturer) but Tobias politely declined, saying he was bringing in ‘specialists’ in the various areas he wanted covering. So it’s my job to make sure the rooms are ready, pads and pencils laid out, flip charts and marker pens, bottles of Perrier water etc., oh, and of course the obligatory laptop connected to a projector (not forgetting the screen).

A bit of a comedown for a man of my academic qualifications, but I don’t complain. Although I have to say it is somewhat discouraging how an accident of birth can place one on the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak. It wouldn’t be so bad if you were unaware of the injustice of it all – perhaps some people are - but me, being a thinker, and acutely conscious of the sheer randomness of life – well it is sometimes hard to stop oneself connecting a hose up to the exhaust of the car, closing all the windows and – goodnight Vienna. Of course I would never do that; I am, like Mr Micawber, always hoping for ‘something to turn up’,

Not getting it

“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Norah quoted that at me – after she’d read what I wrote about the Jeremy Kyle Show. I told you she was educated. Apparently it is from an essay by a bloke by the name of John Donne.

Anyway, I thought it sounded good: really profound. So I asked her to write it down for me.
‘I don’t know what it’s got to do with Jeremy Kyle, though.’ I said.

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ she said.

She didn’t realise it, but in that once sentence she had encapsulated my real problem: ‘not getting it’.

I may have written some of this before, but for as long as I can remember I have always felt a bit of an outsider; an observer – looking in on life but never really being part of it.

And a lot of that is to do with this fear of somehow failing to grasp what everybody else seems to know instinctively: of simply not getting it. And with it comes the feeling that people are ‘making allowances’ for me, tolerating my lack of the most basic of social skills.

No, not a lack of social skills – I think I have plenty of those – more like it’s a kind of ‘emotional illiteracy’ – yes, that more aptly describes it: emotional illiteracy.

I have usually put it down to being an only child. But I think it is more than that. I think I may have been over protected. But more, even than that: we were a family that ‘kept ourselves to ourselves’; we were a cut above the rest of the people in our road, in our village. We weren’t really, but I was always encouraged to believe it to be so.

I’ll say one thing for those people who go on the Jeremy Kyle Show: at least they’re ‘up front’ about their stuff. It’s all in the open.


No member of our family would have gone on the Jeremy Kyle show – even if it had existed then. We did not believe in washing out dirty linen in public – we didn’t even wash it in private. So it never got washed. And I’ve ended up with it.


I sometimes wonder if the ‘bad’ examples are not really the ‘good’ examples – if only we realised.


Amy Winehouse, Pete Doherty, Britney Spears, Gazza, Alex Higgins, the late George Best, Janice Joplin, Keith Moon, Freddie Mercury – all these people with a huge talent “wasted lives”? NO, THEY ARE NOT.

These people have really got the handle on things. They refuse to “play the game”. Life is absurd anyway. Grab it by the scruff of the neck, and shake it, like a terrier. A young woman, dying of cancer, who had packed more in her short life than most of us will in twice her lifetime said of life “Gulp – don’t sip”.

And these folk on the Jeremy Kyle show, whilst maybe lacking the talent of the above mentioned, are “gulpers” and not “sippers”.


Anyway, I have been out for a pint of beer and something to eat – and feel the better for it. So who cares if the rain is bouncing off the asphalt on this July evening – and, who knows, some day I might just ‘get it’.

On the bus

I occasionally like to travel by public transport. It helps keep me in touch with ordinary folk.

My vehicle of choice is the omnibus. It is a novel experience to be able to sit there and have someone else drive you. You can look out the window and see things you never saw whilst driving a car or riding a motorbike. But, more importantly, for me at any rate, it is being able to study people. I often jot down my observations and thoughts in a small notebook, and I was wondering whether or not it might be appropriate to share some of these writings with you.

I will need to think about it.

I still drive of course. In fact, a few weeks ago I was caught on camera doing 37mph in a 30 zone. They give you the option of 3 points on your licence or attending this one-day course. (You still have to pay the fine).

I opted to go on the course. Yesterday it was.
You have a 3 hour ‘theory’ session and then go out on the road with an instructor. He said to me, before we started, ‘I don’t have the time to change the bad habits of 30 years driving, but I will point out to you areas where you might like to consider giving some attention.’
Fair enough. Of course there were one or two areas where I found room for improvement. In fact the whole experience, although hard work, was quite illuminating.
But it set me thinking. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could go on a one-day ‘LIFE Awareness Course’? Where, although the instructor did not have time to change the bad ‘living’ habits acquired over the years, he could give you some pointers as to where you might be going wrong?
I would apply for that.

Norah and I are still having problems. She suggested seeking ‘couple counselling’ but I tried that with Georgina; it was a waste of time. I jokingly replied ‘Why don’t we go on the Jeremy Kyle Show, as ‘a family in turmoil’? She accused me of being facetious (I looked it up – and discovered that I was).

I have nothing against Jeremy. I think the man is a saint. How he puts up, morning after morning, with that never ending stream of wastrels, whingers, spongers off the welfare state – not to mention the random breeding of teenage unmarried married mothers – without losing his patience, I shall never know.

Of course it isn’t just teenagers. The other morning there was a woman who had had five children with four different husbands. She obviously believed in job-sharing.

But even Jeremy sometimes reaches the end of his tether. Then he shouts at them, things like “Why don’t you get off your backside and get a job - instead of letting me and this audience pay for your £50 a day drug habit?’ And “Haven’t you heard of condoms?’ Or, “Well why don’t you learn to keep it in your trousers then?”
But you can tell when he has had enough: he says ‘Let’s get Graham on the show.’
And on comes Graham.

Graham is some sort of a psychologist, and Jeremy calls him a “genius” – even if he does have a silly little ginger goatee. (That’s me saying that last bit – not Jeremy).

And Graham will say something to one of these young layabouts like “You do not have a physical addiction. You have a psychological addiction.”
And you can see the poor guy’s face when he knows he’s been rumbled. And I’m shouting “Go on Grahame, put the boot in.”

But he can’t hear me because I’m not in the studio – I’m watching on telly.
Actually, I think I might apply to be part of the studio audience. I expect you have to ‘BOO’ when the producer holds up a card – and ‘APPLAUD’ when he holds up another one. But so what? I bet it’s fun. You’d get to hear all the swear words they bleep out before transmission.

Also you would see some of the fights. (The camera always cuts away when a brawl starts, and the bouncers are trying to sort it out; you just get a big close up of Jeremy’s face, with a sort of mystified look; as if he just cannot believe people would act this way – although he sees it every morning.)

What is the world coming to? I despair, I really do
















I occasionally like to travel by public transport. It helps keep me in touch with ordinary folk.

My vehicle of choice is the omnibus. It is a novel experience to be able to sit there and have someone else drive you. You can look out the window and see things you never saw whilst driving a car or riding a motorbike. But, more importantly, for me at any rate, it is being able to study people. I often jot down my observations and thoughts in a small notebook, and I was wondering whether or not it might be appropriate to share some of these writings with you.

I will need to think about it.

I still drive of course. In fact, a few weeks ago I was caught on camera doing 37mph in a 30 zone. They give you the option of 3 points on your licence or attending this one-day course. (You still have to pay the fine).

I opted to go on the course. Yesterday it was.
You have a 3 hour ‘theory’ session and then go out on the road with an instructor. He said to me, before we started, ‘I don’t have the time to change the bad habits of 30 years driving, but I will point out to you areas where you might like to consider giving some attention.’
Fair enough. Of course there were one or two areas where I found room for improvement. In fact the whole experience, although hard work, was quite illuminating.
But it set me thinking. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could go on a one-day ‘LIFE Awareness Course’? Where, although the instructor did not have time to change the bad ‘living’ habits acquired over the years, he could give you some pointers as to where you might be going wrong?
I would apply for that.

Norah and I are still having problems. She suggested seeking ‘couple counselling’ but I tried that with Georgina; it was a waste of time. I jokingly replied ‘Why don’t we go on the Jeremy Kyle Show, as ‘a family in turmoil’? She accused me of being facetious (I looked it up – and discovered that I was).

I have nothing against Jeremy. I think the man is a saint. How he puts up, morning after morning, with that never ending stream of wastrels, whingers, spongers off the welfare state – not to mention the random breeding of teenage unmarried married mothers – without losing his patience, I shall never know.

Of course it isn’t just teenagers. The other morning there was a woman who had had five children with four different husbands. She obviously believed in job-sharing.

But even Jeremy sometimes reaches the end of his tether. Then he shouts at them, things like “Why don’t you get off your backside and get a job - instead of letting me and this audience pay for your £50 a day drug habit?’ And “Haven’t you heard of condoms?’ Or, “Well why don’t you learn to keep it in your trousers then?”
But you can tell when he has had enough: he says ‘Let’s get Graham on the show.’
And on comes Graham.
Graham is some sort of a psychologist, and Jeremy calls him a “genius” – even if he does have a silly little ginger goatee. (That’s me saying that last bit – not Jeremy).
And Graham will say something to one of these young layabouts like “You do not have a physical addiction. You have a psychological addiction.”
And you can see the poor guy’s face when he knows he’s been rumbled. And I’m shouting “Go on Grahame, put the boot in.”
But he can’t hear me because I’m not in the studio – I’m watching on telly.
Actually, I think I might apply to be part of the studio audience. I expect you have to ‘BOO’ when the producer holds up a card – and ‘APPLAUD’ when he holds up another one. But so what? I bet it’s fun. You’d get to hear all the swear words they bleep out before transmission.
Also you would see some of the fights. (The camera always cuts away when a brawl starts, and the bouncers are trying to sort it out; you just get a big close up of Jeremy’s face, with a sort of mystified look; as if he just cannot believe people would act this way – although he sees it every morning.)
What is the world coming to? I despair, I really do

Life is like a pencil

Life is like a pencil: there’s no point to it, unless you put one there yourself.

I thought of that this morning, on the lavatory. I get a lot of my ideas in the bathroom. A psychiatrist once told me, I had “the philosopher’s temperament”. I think I also have the “philosopher’s bowel”.

I was also told I had been abused as a child. I don’t know about that but I have certainly been abused as an adult.

But let us not dwell upon the past; it is a lovely July morning and “the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye.”

Poor people always look better in summer. Have you noticed? On the streets, I mean. They don’t seem quite so bedraggled. Perhaps it’s because they don’t need as many clothes. Also, I suppose it is healthier for them.

I am reading a book at the moment: “The Shock Doctrine” by Naomi Klein. Pretty scary. Is this what “the free market” is really like? It gives one a whole new perspective on Iraq and the “war on terror”.

In fact my reading of this book gave rise to a contretemps in the bedroom last night. Norah was looking for a bit of… well, you know… attention. And I had just reached page 106 where Naomi is talking about how the Chilean junta in the sixties targeted the leadership of trade unions active in the factories and the large ranches.
I said to her ‘Look, this is an important book – you should read it yourself.’
‘I don’t want to read it.’ she replied crossly.
‘Why not?’ I was getting angry. ‘I mean it’s not as if you’re stupid.’(She’s not; she has a PhD in philology – the same as Joseph Goebbels had. Only his was from Heidelberg, while Norah got hers from the University of East Anglia. No matter – a doctorate is a doctorate.

‘Do you love me?’ she asked.
‘Of course I love you – you silly cow’, I murmured endearingly, if somewhat distractedly (I had lost my place in the book).

She flounced out of the room and went to sleep in the old nursery.

I just do not understand women.

My ex wife, Georgina, once bought me a book: “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus”.
I said ‘Why have you bought me this? You know I don’t believe all that extra-terrestrial stuff.’
She said ‘Read it. It’s about us.’
I skimmed through it. It seemed to be about how men were different from women. Well, I could have told him that.

But that’s the thing about books, isn’t it: you could pick up the general idea in the first couple of pages, but they have to go on and on, giving more and more examples (it’s even true of old Naomi’s book, the one I was telling you about) to ram their point home. I feel like saying ‘Alright, alright, I get the message – now can you tell me what to do about it?’

They never can. Or am I being too hard on them? Me being an author myself?

I’m a bit depressed this morning. I mean, I know I began by saying Life is like a pencil, and you have got to make your own point. But it can be really difficult some mornings.

Hello again

Well, I’ve finished chapter Five – perhaps that will keep Walter Greenbaum quiet for a bit.

And now, I could do with a damn good Blog. I think I’ve earned it.

Me and Norah have got a good relationship going; surprising really, since we are so different (and I don’t just mean that she is a woman – although, heaven knows, that’s often a problem in itself).

We give each other space – and that is so important in a relationship, don’t you think? We share the same bedroom at Wynorin but have separate beds; well I believe that what a person does in the privacy of their own bed is between them and their conscience.

And I get on quite well with her father. When we first met, he was standing on the steps of Sponce Hall , a ferret tucked under each arm. He greeted me with,
“Well, lad, so tha courting our Norah then? Be sure tha treats her reet or tha’ll get one or these ferrets up tha trouser leg – Oni jokin’ lad. Am reet pleased to meet thee” And so saying he extended his arm to shake hands, dropping one of the ferrets, which immediately ran towards Norah. She skilfully kicked it into the bushes.

“Father, why are you speaking like that, when you were educated at Eton and Oxford?”
“Am just tryin’ t’mek lad feel at ‘ome. ‘Is from up t’north, in’t ee?”

“Actually, sir, I was born in Surbiton” I interjected.

Well, after that little misunderstanding was cleared up, Tobias (he insisted I call him by his first name – although I don’t know why, with a name like that) said he would see us at dinner, and strode off into the bushes calling ‘Charlie, Charlie, where are you, you silly bugger.’

And so Norah and me are installed in my old home, which has been renovated from top to bottom – you can say what you like, but money is a very useful commodity, and the Sponce family has plenty of it.

Anyway, I must go now, Norah wants me to take her shopping. I don’t mind, it means I get to drive the Jaguar (I think calling it a ‘Jag’ is sooo vulgar). I know it leaves a big carbon footprint but we compensate by not using plastic bags; Norah bought three of those Hessian bags that Tesco sell for 90p each. A good investment, I think.

AS ONE DOOR SHUTS, ANOTHER DOOR CLOSES

Well, you will, I am sure, be as surprised as I was to see Norah’s comment.

Just as I was about to plunge into the abyss of despair, up pops a face from the past, with a possible solution to my immediate problem.

Actually, I hardly know the lady; she was, as she has intimated, a friend of my ex wife: the lesbian. It appears, however, that she has broken free of that demon’s clutches, and so it is time for me to put my mouth where the money is – so to speak.

I am, therefore, taking up her father’s offer for Wynorrin. This will kill several birds with one, well aimed, stone. Sir Charles Sponce (or Charlie, as I am sure I will soon be calling him) has appointed me resident caretaker/administrator of the Wynorrin Conference Centre. This means free board and lodgings for the foreseeable future – plus a generous salary.

So I shall be back in my old home, and I am sure the comfort and security thus afforded will now enable me to concentrate on my autobiography. I have not mentioned this before, but my literary and media agent (Walter Greenbaum, of Greenbaum Associates) has been badgering me for months to “Get the old finger out, Georgie love, I got three National Dailies fighting for serialisation rights.”

So you may not be hearing from me for a while. I am, however, taking the unusual step (having cleared it with Walter) to give my readers here in Blogland, little ‘taster’ of what promises to be a bestseller on both sides of the Atlantic.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------


THE BOY’S STORY

Chapter I


“My mother groaned, my father wept,
Into the dangerous world I leapt:”

I don’t know if William Blake’s words accurately describe my entry into this “dangerous world.” But I was later informed by my mother “I nearly died having you.” Now if I were a psychotherapist – which I am – I would say that that might have had some bearing on my subsequent “guilt” problems.

Anyway, I was born during one of the worst thunderstorms Yorkshire had ever seen. My mother was living in Lancashire at time, so it didn’t really affect us; but it was in all the papers.

A little mining village called Haydock, (in what was then Lancashire, but is now Merseyside) had the privilege of welcoming me into the world. Alas, no plaque adorns the outside wall of the “two up, two down”, in whose front bedroom I first made my appearance. The day may yet come.

All my family were miners, except my mother: she was a spot-welder. No, she wasn’t really – I don’t know why I said that. My dad used to be a miner but - as he told me later - one day he saw a collier get crushed by a runaway tub. And he made a promise to himself that if he ever saw the light of day, he would never again go back down a mine; he never did. He became an insurance agent.

When I was five years old the Second World War started. As I said, I had a fully developed ‘guilt complex’ at an early age, but I don’t think I saw the start of hostilities as being my fault. But my dad seemed to think it was his business to do something about it. He joined the Air Force; apparently telling my mother before he went “I could lay on Hitler wi mi cap”. Actually, it took him until 1945 to do it, so I did not see him again for the next five years.

In those five years a lot happened in my little life. Events, which – I was to learn later, when I studied psychology – helped shape my malleable personality.


The Little House Slightly Off The Prairie

I lived in a house with three women. (something I have never since been able to replicate)

The three women were: my mother, her mother (my grandmother) and a female cousin who was ten years older than me. I slept in the front bedroom with my mother, and Winnie (my cousin) slept in the back, with my grandmother.

Such a sleeping arrangements would be frowned upon today, and I have no doubt they were less than healthy – mentally or physically. Incidentally we did not have a bathroom: we had a lavatory at the end of the yard (my family was posh compared to the people across the road: our lavatory actually flushed – whilst the houses across the road had a privy midden which was emptied every so often by a man with a horse and cart).

Having a bath was an event rather than a routine. Water was heated in something called a copper and then laboriously ladled into a zinc bath, dragged in from the shed. You bathed in front of the fire (which also heated the copper – being a mining village, coal was plentiful).

I can’t really remember, but I suppose you must have been given some privacy in your ablutions. Although I do recall visiting my friend across the road, being invited in, and there was his mother having a bath in front of the fire. It was the first time I had seen breasts: hairy ones, at that!

The house must have had elastic walls, the number of people it could contain. I dimly remember ‘uncle Jack’; he was my grandma’s brother (don’t ask me where he slept!) and he had a ‘bag’ (I still have a picture in my mind of this strange, and rather sinister contraption being taken off, or put on – in the kitchen). I don’t know how old I would have been – two or three maybe – and I was not given any explanation. I realise now that ‘uncle Jack’ must have had a colostomy.

I never knew my grandfather. He worked in the pit, and it killed him – slowly. My mother used to tell that, as he grew older, when he came home he was so exhausted that she would have to wash him. This was in the days before ‘pit-head’ baths.
Strange then, that years later, she was heard to remark to her one of her sons, ‘Evan, hard work never killed anyone’. My uncle, quick as a flash, retorted ‘No, mother, but it’s made some a queer bloody shape.’ That’s working-class humour, for you.

We had a tiny room called a ‘pantry’, where all the food was kept – and prepared. Nobody had a fridge: we had a ‘meat-ssafe’. This was a sort of cupboard, the doors of which had panels of zinc mesh, to allow air to circulate and, at the same time, keep out the flies. I can also remember sides of bacon being hung in this place. Later on, when I took up photography (aged about twelve) the pantry was also my ‘darkroom’ – until a kind man (more of him later) built me a proper one, in the shed.

Yes, we had a shed – and a coal shed, too. The coal shed didn’t have a door, and the cats (my grandma had three) used it as a lavatory. The smell of cat shit comes wafting back, over the years, as I type this.


(to be continued)

MY COVER IS BLOWN

When I got home the following note had been pushed through my letterbox:


We know were you live – you English plinker and we will be calling agen and when we do you had been better to having the merchandises ready for our collecting less you wanting to look like jagsaw pizzle what has got few pieces missing – a well wisher.

I am not a timid person, but although I put on a brave face to Sydney, I have no wish to have my physiognomy tampered with by these oafs. And as for the ‘merchandises’ to which they refer, these items are no longer in my possession. I threw them overboard, just before we docked. I had ‘cold feet’ at the last minute. If customs had found them that would have been me booked for a longish stay at her Majesty’s pleasure. And prison, for a good looking fellow like myself, would be no laughing matter.

Of course the turnip-heads won’t believe me. And even if they did, Sven would still want recompensing – and I don’t have that sort of money. In fact I don’t have any sort of money.

I don’t understand how they found out where I am. Gupta said that this was a ‘no questions asked and no information given’ house.
What do I do now?

ADVENTURES IN ASDA

ADVENTURES IN ASDA

Yesterday, I told the girl on the ASDA checkout that I had just been released into the community.

She had asked me if I needed help with my packing. I had replied ‘No thanks’. I only had three items: a large roll of cotton wool, a tub of Vaseline and a packet of disposable rubber gloves (more on that story later).

Anyway I took one of those plastic carrier bags but I couldn’t find the opening. I tried rubbing it between my fingers – like I had seen other people do - but no go. I thought I had perhaps got a faulty one, where the machine that makes them had sealed both ends, by mistake.

So I took another. That was the same.

Meanwhile, the conveyor belt behind me was groaning under the weight of the next customer’s shopping - a woman, of course - who looked like she had had prior warning of an imminent famine. She was glaring at me in a most unfriendly manner.

And that was when I said it.

It just came out. The assistant (they do employ some nice looking girls in ASDA) smiled encouragingly, and the plastic film suddenly unsealed itself.

I thrust my purchases into the bag and made for the exit. Janice, a large lady who was ‘Here to help’ as it said on her badge, smiled at me as I left the store.

I retain a certain ambivalence vis a vis supermarkets. On the one hand I enjoy wandering up and down the aisles, looking at all the wondrous merchandise, in the air-conditioned atmosphere. But I also feel sickened by the great trolley-loads of food being pushed by grim faced shoppers; their single-minded search only relaxing as they pause to cuff a screaming infant.

And I think – what about the Third World? I expect they have much smaller trolleys in their supermarkets.



As I turned the corner of my street, I saw a blue Volvo, cruising slowly by the kerb. I am sure it was a ‘left-hand drive’. I darted quickly into the ‘Frog and Strumpet’. I felt my legs shaking as I walked up to the bar to order a large ‘scotch’.

RELIGION: A dying trade?

When I was in town the other day I saw a man wearing one of those huge plastic aprons, with “Repent, for the day of Judgement is at hand.

And across the road, a man with a sign saying “Darwin was right. Repent all you Creationists before Natural Selection snuffs you out”

No, there wasn’t – but it was a nice idea.

And it got me thinking about Religion

When you think about it, if people were not afraid of dying there would be no religion. Religion deals in death – even though it sells ‘eternal life’.
Some people are so afraid of facing this great leap into the unknown that they will clutch at any bent straw; swallow any old load of nonsense, if it promises them ‘eternal life’.

I am afraid of dying – but I am trying to get along without religion.
I find it hard to conceive of a time when I will not exist. In fact, I consider it a damn shame if I cease to exist; what a waste of talent.

But I have to consider that if I can survive death then so can my cat; and so can all the other animals, and the worms in my garden, and all the insects and the fishes. And, I mean, where are they going to put us all?

This is not a trivial question. And here is another important question: suppose I have been married three times, my first two spouses having died, then to whom shall I be wed in the afterlife?

Ah, but – say the clerics – there is no ‘marriage’ in heaven (I am not so sure about Hell).
Oh, so it’s ‘free love’ then? ‘Fraid not – they tell me – you won’t need sex because you won’t have a body; bodies are only for this earthly plane. Fair enough. But my friend, Gervaise, says he lives for sex – so he’s going to be disappointed then. Best take Andrew Marvel’s advice to his Coy Mistress, and get it on while you can.

Also if you have no body then you can’t drink beer, or wine or whisky – so Come landlord fill the flowing bowl/Until it doth run over.

And you can’t ride a horse or a motor-bike, or swim or skate or play tennis. Then what exactly are we going to do? Sing hymns all day? Sounds bloody boring to me.

So you need to think carefully about the eternal life package they are selling you: read the small print, get a second opinion.

Wise words

“Always try to turn a disadvantage into an advantage.”

That is what my old commanding officer used to say. I never saw him again after his court marshal, but his words will remain with me always: a stirring precept by which to live one’s life.

And here I am, doing just that.

As you know, I am stuck in this place (which shall remain nameless) but I have discovered there is an ice rink in the town. So what have I done? I’ll tell you what I’ve done: I have enrolled for some skating lessons.

I have a great coach: Sam. She encouraged me, at the start, to take “little penguin steps”, and later showed me how to adopt the correct posture: “Imagine you have a spoon clenched between the cheeks of your arse”, she told me.

I have had a couple of nasty falls. It has shaken my confidence but I hope to get this back by keeping at it – the skating, that is.

Oh, and I am on a course of antibiotics – no, it isn’t for some sexually transmitted disease: a gum infection. I can’t drink alcohol whilst on these tablets but I have only got one more day to go. Anyway, I am feeling much better.

I have a lot more to say but will leave it at this for tonight.

FOR SYDNEY

(This post is for my son Sydney. It is the only way we can communicate during these troubled times. So if you are not my son Sydney – don’t read it. Thank you.)

Hello son. Good to see you have your Dad’s interests at heart. But hey – don’t be so downbeat: it will take more than a bunch of fading porn actors to put the frighteners on me.

I’d best not ring though –even from a pay phone. You never know with these Scandinavian buggers: they might have one of their illegal immigrants working for British Telecoms.

No, this is by far the best way to communicate, for the time being.

Anyway, Syd, let us apply our minds to more filial matters: how are you keeping? You must remember to take your vitamin capsules, even though it is May – especially having to exist on that diet of herrings.

And I feel the need to touch upon a rather delicate matter: SEX. I do hope you are practising the safe variety. I fear you may be in some danger, living as you do, in a hotbed of vice and corruption. Just remember everything your dad has told you – and you won’t go far wrong. (if you do go wrong… well there are plenty of clinics over there)

There is not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. Only this afternoon, I was recalling the night you were conceived: New Year’s Eve, it was – and the condom machine in the pub toilets had run out.

Still, as they say, “It’s an ill wind…”



Look after yourself – and “chin up”.