For Gordon is an honourable man
Am I the only person to detect a touch of the Mark Anthony about David Milliband this week?
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
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).
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).
Monday, July 28, 2008
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.
“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.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
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’.
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’.
Monday, July 14, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
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’,
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’,
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
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’.
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’.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
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
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
Thursday, July 03, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
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.
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.
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