Saturday 25 December 2010

Just Call me Jim.

Then the Beatle’s ‘She’s Leaving Home’ came on the radio. No forget it! It was a moment of Christmas aberration. X Factor is shit and Simon Cowell is an evil character from some Dr Who episode that never got made. Compare the Beatle’s beautiful poignant storytelling with our current Christmas number 1’s, “When we collide we come together. If we don’t we’ll always be apart.” 
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Might I suggest an alternative’
“There are five toes upon my fo-ot. On my foot there are five to-o-oes.” Are my emotions really supposed to be stirred by the dictionary definition of a collision? No. And not because I’m a heartless old geezer, but because it’s meaningless, bloody dribble, that’s why! It’s like the biting satirical comment on English Couch potato life in The Royal Family has been taken to our hearts and we all go ahh as Matt Curdle attempts to inject falsetto emotion into it. OK it’s Cardle and that’s cheap, he’s a lovely guy, but forget it Matt. Look at JLS. Nice enough lads but they can’t even fart without some unseen management’s permission. No, stick to pubs where people spill real beer and girls don’t scream at a glimpse of your left shoulder. Otherwise you’ll have to dance to Darth and The Evil Empire and, like the Queen, never be able to use the toilet again. ‘Come on Barb, get that washing o-on, or you won’t have time to make mi te-e-ea.’ Yeh, that fits too. Ahh.

All Hail Matt the Decorator.

 In the spirit of Radio 4’s Christmas Eve service that I’ve just left I wish to relate unto you that, behold I have spoken too harshly of X Factor in the past and wish to recant my heresy here two fourths. (a half or 0.5 in metric) Christianity, it has to be said, has been orchestrating the run up to 25/12 for the past two thousand years and always managed to get its hits sung on the media, dictated the whole image thing and got us to buy lots of stuff. Cheryl and Simon have only been doing it for ten. But truly I say unto you the reason for my recantation is that Christianity and the X Factor have one good thing in common. They both manage to rocket some unknown, unsuspecting member of the general public, us, into stratospheric stardom in a matter of weeks before their brain can adjust. Unlike most public figures who have sold their life and genitals to get there these individuals still have the mindset of the common man. Or woman. It’s like taking Winston Churchill out of prep school straight into the forefront of the war effort. Hitler, straight from art school would invite him to Berctesgarten to play conkers and Winnie’s vinegar soaked sixer would trounce Big H’s fresh from the tree oner. Zey wut larf at the impossible stupidity of killing millions and destroying vast amounts of civilisation. No, X Factor is only resurrecting the old Jewish tradition of throwing up a King of Kings to take over the Christmas Number 1 spot. All Hail Matt the Decorator. If only the Prime Minister could be voted in in such a fashion. We wouldn’t get David Cameron that’s for sure.

Thursday 23 December 2010

Emigrate.

Do it while you still can! Leave us, get on a plane and go. The Cons are legislating to sell off all our forests, all 680,000 acres. They accept they will probably go to a foreign energy company as renewable fuel, but hey, times are hard. Fifty years ago the Beatles sang about the ‘Tax man’ taxing the air but that was when times were good, now they’d just sell it off because we need a low tax economy to attract high earners. The cons may be against euthanasia but it wouldn’t surprise me if they voted for the compulsory termination of people earning under £4,000pa. 
At art college my tutor used to say you have to learn to sell yourself. I wish back then I’d had the presence of mind to say, “but if I do that what will I have left?”
But still we have the young future generation to milk. While they’re drinking, quote, “8 shots, 2 desperados, a corona and 4 pints of blue...” with pride they’re in no fit state to notice their future going down the pan. Or maybe they’ve realised the game is up and an alcoholic haze is as good a way as any to ignore it. So get out of here now, and send me a Christmas card from Belize.

Monday 20 December 2010

School's Out Forever.

So a significant number (15% in Nottingham) of eleven year olds have a reading age of seven after six years of schooling, which suggests, if you’re a Guardian reader, they will struggle to keep up with your precocious four year old. It also raises the question, is a command of English and maths important these days. As even graduates end up serving in Waitrose and the till calculates the change, maybe not. So long as your arse is up to seven hours on a checkout chair and you’ve mastered, “have you got a Nectar Card?” you have a career. So long as you’ve mastered one to ten you’re OK with the remote, and if your log onto Facebook is automatic then after that anything near an intelligible word will do. Ditto your mobile. I think that covers all the essentials. There’s actually no need to count beyond ten or master spelling unless you want to use Wikipedia, which is unlikely. There’s no need for grammar because it’s outdated or logical thought because one has one’s emotions to deal with complexity. And then there’s all the special powers and magic that most young people have been introduced to by TV to come to your aid. I mean it would be totally illogical to expend energy on learning stuff that’s not necessary, wouldn’t it? Lets face it schooling was invented to provide workers for the burgeoning industrial revolution. They needed to be able to write acres of plans, reports and count up accounts. They needed to supply the English language to the world. Now we don’t have much industry and computer programs to do the basic necessities, so why have education? Obviously it’s not deemed necessary by its participants and currently crucifying its providers. It’s interesting, at this time of information overload, that we’re feeling it unnecessary to be able to do anything with it.

Saturday 11 December 2010

Gary Barlow.

Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary   Barlow. Last night Mothermouse and me had our Take That night watching the DVD of their Circus show in Wembley Stadium. Snow, fire, wine, the two hunky ones, the little one and Gary. And a thirty foot elephant and a hundred circus performers and eighty five thousand people and Gary. Totally amazing. Get it for Christmas. When cynicism ravages the land like some bestial banker beast, to see a hundred and seventy arms (2 x 85,000) raised in, “You and me we can light up the world, we can ride on a star….” was wonderful. I mean the technical cynic would say the human body has no mechanism for emitting photons and a star is far too hot to sit on and they’d be right but that’s not the point. It seems to me Take That are the only credible pop act with experience of being over thirty and proof that maturity continues to occur after eighteen, whereas Dappy of Ndubz proves not much occurs before that, but that everyone loves a wanker. Blokes like him because it would be like competing with a malodorous dumpster, and girls like him because there’s SO MUCH they could improve on to make him into a regular human being. Take it from me though girls; intelligence, awareness and charm are extremely difficult traits to imbue. Unlike Gary who is wonderfully gifted in all departments. But I’m still not sure about Robbie.

Thank you Misstequilashots.

This is misstequilashots review for a BlackBerry 8520 Sim-Free Mobile Phone - Black on Amazon.

“just bought this phone and it has come really quickley but no where did it mention before i bought it did it say it was locked to t mobile and i am on orange so not impressed on that but on the other hand i am impressed with how fast its come!!”

I can’t help seeing an Essex couple foxtrotting around a dance floor in a one two, reverse, three four, twirl etc elegant seamless flow, a form of stream of consciousness writing I’d never seen before. And true enough Wikipedia’s list of authors in this category are all male so misstequilashots maybe the very first female. I’m guessing her first novel might begin like this.

“once upon a well last Wednesday if I’m honest which I am most of the time except with Darrel who is a shit not that I don’t like him on a certain level if you know what I mean but don’t tell him that or was it Tuesday Tiddles got a bit run over just a leg not the whole squashy thing but thinking about it it was right what I wrote before Wednesday not before Wednesday that’s silly I’m writing this now so I had to take Tiddles to the vets which closes early on Wednesdays so I was all flustered well you would be with his leg all bent where it shouldn’t be and that reminded me of Animal Hospital on TV where they tied a squirrel to a plank to help it get better like a splint but I’m not good with knots so used gopher tape which is a very silly name for tape unless they used it originally for taping gophers to a plank to get better and possibly why it didn’t work with Tiddles who died. the end.”

Wednesday 1 December 2010

Butt butted from Behind.

Well the farm was under eight inches of snow today, a veritable Christmas card. I could just imagine baby Jesus in with the sheep and goats. And thanks to the snow no shit shovelling, it seems to magically absorb shit like cat litter. But the needs of the other end never stop so silage all round. As I noticed silage goes mouldy in its compressed state I teased it out into a wonderfully light soufflĂ© of candyfloss and filled the cow racks. Though delighted the cows demolished it in minutes so back to piling it high. On to the sheep. Now sheep tend to stand and look at me like I’m a Church of England choir master or, if I make advances, run around in panic like a group of Cheltenham spinsters on holiday in San Fransisco. Except in this case for one that I later learned was a French Charollais, very friendly and intelligent looking for a sheep. He followed me around eager for a pat and a chat as I filled their rack. Obviously sheep can’t smile but I sensed in his face an affable knowing camaraderie. I carried on teasing the silage into their rack. Until that is I was violently butt butted from behind, the bastard! I turned to see the same affable expression. Chris later apologised for not telling me the reason why one sheep was different from the rest and why I shouldn’t turn my back on it. It was a Charollais ram in with the ewes and it was shag time in sheep land. So it wasn’t friendly camaraderie it was French for, “Zea is no room pour vu wis my ladies, you filty English scum.” I tell you, never trust the French.

Sunday 28 November 2010

Knee Wounded by Mouth.

1890, Wounded Knee, South Dakota. 300 Lakota Indians massacred, the last in a long line of shameful acts committed by the American immigrants on the indigenous people.  A present day descendant says to camera, “The white man lives by his mouth.” Indians obviously invented sound bites well before TV and radio. Nevertheless this isn’t a great advert for immigration. The immigrant arrives displaced and dispossessed, a self-chosen refugee with their roots elsewhere. Their imperative is to forge something for themselves in this new context, to make use of it as best they can. To the indigenous it is their home, to the immigrant it is simply a new usable circumstance, a sort of holiday hire car. The trusty Renault Scenic lovingly maintained and MOT’d back home is replaced by a sexy Suzuki jeep that can be thrashed without concern for its longevity. It’s quite different. So where the Indians lived ‘’on the land’ the immigrants made a living off it. That’s where the mouth comes in. From assembly line to boardroom Americans, and now the world, are paid for how much they, and now we, use our mouths. Apart from a few super star mime artists, and there aren’t many, it’s a straightforward linear relationship; farmers, postmen, fishermen, assembly workers at the bottom, presenters, salesmen, and market traders at the top. It’s not that we need financial futures more than food and fish, it’s that what emanates from the brain through the mouth we deemed more worthy than the silent use of blood, muscle and heart. It’s as if the creations of our own imaginations have taken precedence over the necessities of our actual existence, living off rather than on the land. The sound bite was well put if a little too succinct.

Friday 19 November 2010

The Trombone of Economic Meltdown.

Imagine you see a trombone in a shop window priced £100. It could be a trombone or a strimmer I don’t mind, I’m just not restricting it to musical instruments, or for that matter garden equipment. Lets just say it’s a trombone. But you don’t have £100 so you borrow it off me. As it happens I’m also strapped for cash and lending you the money has zeroed my account so I borrow £100 to tide me over. My good friend lends me the hundred but finds he needs it to pay the builder for his house extension. Being a nice builder he relents and loans him the £100 in loo of what my friend owes him. The builder then finds he’s £100 short of paying for the materials for his next job. You can see where I’m going with this. Anyway there’s no problem because if all else fails you could sell the trombone, pay me back, I’d pay my friend, he’d pay the builder and the builder would pay for the materials thus saving the builders merchant from bankruptcy. BUT what if the trombone was run over by an articulated lorry on the A47 near Newark? You couldn’t pay me, I couldn’t pay etc etc etc. There’s not just the £100 debt you owe me. I owe £100, my friend owes £100, the builder owes £100 and so on. The builders merchant’s declared bankrupt because the trombone of someone he’s never met was squashed on the A47. So how much debt is in the system, a hundred pounds or six hundred? Now if a falling domino produces 1 joule of energy say then a row of a hundred will produce overall 100 joules but the last will fall with 1 joule, the same as the first. That’s very different from say a hundred story building obviously being a hundred times taller than a single story. If one took this additive approach with a million dominoes one would expect the cumulative effect to give rise to a medium sized tsunami but they don’t. They just go topple topple topple. So when we’re X billion pounds in debt is it really X billion or a £100 debt passed on Y million times? In other words, “Which careless bastard allowed his trombone to get run over on the A47 and got us into this mess?”

Tuesday 16 November 2010

Taught by Cows.

Tuesday is farm day and as a welcome respite from shovelling shit we spent the morning getting the highland calves used to wearing a halter. A halter is much like a thong made of rope i.e. it’s anybodies guess which bit goes where, and a calf is a quarter ton reception child. Simon talked me through it. Scratching them just in front of their tail calms them down, put your leg next to theirs so if they kick they push it rather than sledgehammer into it, avoid being between the reception child and an immovable object or you’ll get squashed, and finally talk to them. If you’re a trainee therapist I strongly advise you have this experience. OK cows don’t respond to, “and how did that make you feel?” but they do to your eyes, your tone of voice and the core of where and who you are. There is no lying to a cow; it’s just you and them in a kind of thoughtless union. They will respond immediately to how they feel so if they’re anxious stay away, but they will respond to your pool of tranquillity and affection if you can provide it. They will teach you the real congruence of thoughtless honesty because it’s all they know, if you let them. Talk to them as you would your love and they will respond in simple clarity. They will strip away your bark of flattery, cajoling or bullying and in some wordless fashion ask, “where are you?” And, as if by counterpoint, I watch ‘Making it’ after tea, a superb NHS real-com where our multiple mutual deceptions abound in our rational pseudo efficiency. It’s as if each human animal is obscured by its own conscious thoughts, confining its animal nature into continually scratching its square foot of soil less patch like a factory chicken. That is no way for an animal to live. So give me a cow to talk to to teach me of my own animal nature so I might see my deceptions for what they are.

Thursday 11 November 2010

Wernher Von Brown.

Every six months in desperate boredom I play ‘Return to Castle Wolfenstein’, a PC game where you shoot Nazis and their diabolical creations. OK they didn’t make megazoids and stuff but Tesla, Shauberger and other German scientists were doing amazing work at the time, much of which was lost at the end of the war or went, like Wernher Von Brown, to the US of A. Cut to 1958 and the launch of the first Explorer 1 mission from Cape Canaveral. It went up fine but due to the limited number of tracking stations was out of contact for about 90 minutes as it went round the back of the Earth. Meticulous calculations had put its reappearance at 12.30am but as 12.30 came and went the team were deeply troubled. But it appeared at 12.42am so all were overjoyed. Apparently Wernher’s calculations were a bit wrong and the rocket went higher than expected. Phew! Well that’s what Von Brown said publicly. But the error was inexplicably way outside expected tolerances. Several following missions showed the same error that simply couldn’t be explained by normal science. Then came the race to the moon. Von Brown realised unless this phenomenon could be quantified they would likely as not miss the moon and fire three good men into outer space, especially as the Russians had already tried and missed with an un-manned probe. Wernher secretly contacted other top scientists. One Maurice Allais reported bizarre pendulum effect during a solar eclipse that too was not explainable by normal science. He suggested the laws of gravitation be reconsidered, inferring Newton and Einstein might be wrong. Von Brown continued to say publicly there was no problem and as if to confirm this the lunar mission went off perfectly. It is now being suggested this secret ‘problem’ has covered up a significant advance in scientific understanding. Back to Tesla. He made initial investigations into what has later been called ‘Zero point’ energy and anti-gravity, as suggested by installations in Germany at the time. Also possibly mass reduction where objects in a particular state react as if they have no mass or momentum. As I say, these scientific results may have gone to the US back in 1945. Now since the 70’s there have been reports of ‘flying saucers’ thought to be alien UFOs, but there are also apparent first hand reports of secret ‘planes’ with amazing capabilities. They could noiselessly hover and disappear in seconds at very high speed and rates of acceleration. There are drawings and scientific explanations of how these craft might work, all based on Tesla’s principles. Zero point energy is being utilised by researchers to provide apparently free, limitless energy by high speed switching of current through an assembly of coils. Then again there’s a raft of unbelievable bollocks on the Internet. “You decide.”

Tuesday 9 November 2010

The David Atenbro of Shit.

Attenborough was too long. Yesee, back on the farm after a summer layoff and a full on day of poo. First off preschool Highland calves. With their big trusting lost look eyes they’re just like first-day-at-school five year olds missing their mums. Three concrete pads to scrape in the rain. Next up cleaning out the chicken layer shed. David, myself and around 60 chickens, all glad to be out of the rain, made cleaning it like sweeping Euston station in rush hour. Everything I touched or tried to move had a chicken on it, under it or in the place it needed to be when I put it back. Still, another three barrow loads of shit to add to my collection. And finally the donkeys. Betty is a super model donkey, tall, skinny with a personality and fan club to rival Lady GaGa. The only draw back is she can’t tweet, which I suspect is more down to her not having a computer than anything else. So a rainy day shovelling cow shit, chicken shit and donkey shit. The strange thing is after feeling a bit down these last few days I now feel much better. It seems doing certain things will play this trick on me. I suppose I could have talked things through, got things off my chest or tried to find the cause of my feeling but just doing this particular thing worked wonders. A friend of mine dug the hell out of a patch of ground for no reason other than an art project and he often talks about its wonderful effect on him. They might seem stupid, pointless, unreasonable, even irresponsible, but if they do the trick they’re worth doing. So what stupid, pointless, unreasonable, even irresponsible thing does it for you?

Friday 5 November 2010

Fun with Tyrants.

Another month, another shamanic meeting, this time about tyrants. Not your Caligulas but things, places, situations and people who just seem to get the better of you. Like when I go out the front door and it’s raining and cold and there’s a moment when I almost decide to shiver and be miserable ‘cos it’s crap. That’s the moment the weather tyrant’s caught me off guard and won its little battle with me. It’s all down hill from there. I kick the cat, stomp around with my head just above my naval and generally think life’s a bitch and then I’ll die. And a passer by says, “Don’t you love these rainy autumn evenings, really make you feel alive.” I resist the temptation to punch the smug son of a bitch but all he’s done is beat this particular tyrant that I have succumbed to. That’s the drift of it but humans are a bit more complex to deal with than weather. On the wheel of tyrants there’s North (air, mind and intellect), East (fire, spirit), South (water, emotions) and West (earth, physicality) each with their own version of people who can catch you off guard. The aim is not to lose or to fight them, but to win the little battle they’re presenting you with. For example in the south the tyrant is the little pest who whittles at you till your emotions are frayed and then steps in to have their way. Answer, keep your emotional composure and just observe what they’re doing. In the north there are those who use intellectual arrogance to undermine, in the east their position of spiritual or hierarchical superiority, and in the west their physical presence. In essence if someone approaches you with a submachine gun don’t go ‘oh my God’ and collapse, don’t whip out your pistol and make a fight of it, just turn the light off or suggest, “You look so incredibly strong I bet you can run miles further than I can carrying that gun, show me.”  In Indian speak that’s ‘counting coo’ or taking their dream. That sounded too airy-fairy to me till I thought about it. Their ego wants its way, you know like world domination or whatever, which is the dream, and this dream, being their internal construction is based on a set of assumptions. If they get you to accept them too it’s good night all, but if you confound an assumption, prove it’s invalid, the dream falls like a pack of cards and its, “Not so clever now are we Mr Goldfinger.” So next time I’m all miserable and insinuating it’s all your fault don’t take it on, smile and say, “Sorry Stiffmouse I thought you were just doing your impersonation of Tony Hancock, which is excellent by the way.” And now the difficult bit. What sort of tyrant are you to other people? And how are you a tyrant to yourself? Go figure. 

Wednesday 3 November 2010

We want America Back.

The Teapot’s inarticulate call has trumped Obama’s professorial performance. It’s as if the Teapot sees the elephant in the room while Obama is doing his serious best to curb something he can’t emotionally grasp to stop it breaking too much crockery. Oh no that’s a bull. Anyway. It feels strangely reminiscent of inter-war Germany; a proud people reduced and made fearful by unfair reparations. The ordinary people of Germany didn’t start the war, they suffered greatly during it and were then required by the victors to pay for it afterwards; a three fold injustice creating a tinderbox ready for ignition by Hitler’s sparky rhetoric. Once again the Teapot of injustice is primed and ready for the right spokesman. What the people of America see is unemployment, un-payable bills, wasteful urban decay, and the wealthy and powerful classes untouched by this impoverishment. Their sense of fair play has been shredded and spat out by economic, commercial and political contortionists. At times like this a measured approach is not enough, their howl of pain only satisfiable by hearing another. I suggest that there are realities here though, far more subtle than a simple move towards Republicanism. There is a reality somewhere between blind, inarticulate emotion and pragmatic, self-serving intellect, a reality of truthful presence and honest, ego-less purpose. This is what the Teapot wants back, a change in the warp and weft of social fabric, possibly a Perestroika for capitalism but where a market economy moves towards a socially cohesive economy. Not a centralised Soviet style one but one based on the most basic drives of the individual. OK I admit it; I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. 

Tuesday 2 November 2010

Bad Radiator.

The radiator in the cellar is old and hasn’t worked for years. As it’s fed by 8mm micro-bore pipe, probably blocked up, I decided to replace it and the pipes by standard 15mm. Knowing the benefits of organisation I sketched out the new layout, measured everything and made a list of all the bits needed. Thus equipped I went to Grahams the plumber’s merchants, bought everything and brought it home. I then set about taking out the old rad. I tied off the header tank ball cock, pushed the garden hose onto the drain point and drained the system through the front door into the street; congratulating myself that meticulous planning is the key to an easy job. Back at the rad I tried turning one of the control valves I could have sworn I’d checked many times before. It was closed. The bloody thing wasn’t working because the supply to it was turned off! Damn! How stupid. With all the new stuff in the kitchen I decided to refill the system and see if worked with the valve open. It didn’t. Damn again. Back to the replacement plan. OK one last try. I turned off the other rads nearby. It worked! So I took all the parts back to Grahams and got my money back, came home and prepped the system with the nearby rad valves partially closed and everything’s fine now. I’m sure there’s a moral here somewhere. 

Monday 1 November 2010

Tea Party America.

Don’t discount the Tea Part movement in America. It may thrust Sarah Palin into the White House. It’s a strange beast, a grass roots uprising of the impoverished middle ground organised in Washington and funded by the wealthy. This though isn’t philanthropy. Once upon a time that never was America was a land of freedom and abundance, zero taxes and equality; a land that John Wayne had in the back of his mind when he acted in films. And the Tea Party wants it back. Now most therapists and all ad men will tell you emotions drive conscious decisions. They’re in place before our conscious processes have a chance to apply their flimsy justifications. In a time of austerity this ‘time that never was’ has a powerful emotional draw and stirs one’s emotional imagery into action. One somehow knows the truth of it deep in one’s soul. This is the stirring that millions of good, God fearing Americans can feel, nebulous, nameless, structure-less maybe, but the honest to God truth. They see it, the empty houses, unemployed and urban decay, every day with their own eyes. They have been motivated, but to do what? Their emotional direction has been primed and needs conscious justification but they’re not interested in the painstaking detail of policy. They simply want action and a direction that rhetoric can provide, which in this case is supplied by a rejuvenated, almost fundamentalist Republicanism. In the wink of an eye it is forgotten that the last Republican administration was in large part responsible for the deficit they are all suffering from, whose free market stance made the wealthy even richer and caused the banks to fail, who pawned middle class homes to unscrupulous lenders. Nope, all gone, don’t remember a thing. So the wealthy provide the funds, because they want to be wealthier, Washington provides the direction, because we want to be back in power, and millions of good Americans provide the emotional power, because they want a better life. If only these three directions were in alignment, but they’re not. 

Saturday 30 October 2010

Nature, Nurture, Torture.

Having had parents, been one and now in semi retirement, parenting being a kind of Hotel California situation where success and leaving don’t appear on the menu, here are some pointers for new recruits. 
Kids: Make allowances, they only think they’re Gods gift to maturity. They are, as they wipe your bottom and send you off to school, in fact struggling just as much as you are. Dinner party failures, unexpected bills and even talking to each other will get them down, but the code of parenting decrees one must never show weakness in front of the children. They are nicer to other people, not because they don’t love you, but because they do. They’re simply more afraid of them than they are of you. Generally don’t listen to them when they go all wise on you, best to smile benevolently and carry on. The only exception is they tend to know about personal safety. Then again instant death is not caused by running about in the playground, pushing small objects up your nose or even throwing a javelin at your mate, though our PE teacher didn’t see it that way.
Parents: They WILL do what you do. They won’t do what you say because they’re not listening. They’re like the most aggravating mirror of all the faults you don’t even realise you’ve got. When you shout, which of course you’re not doing because you don’t shout, they will shout back. When you fake anything, like the smile of the parent you would like to be, they will simply recognise it as your inability to cope and exploit it against you. Just as you hope they don’t know the inner workings of your pathetic excuse for a life you don’t know the inner workings of theirs. If you love them never believe you do. There is far greater power in curiosity than assumption, so ask. Offering your skills and experiences is fine but giving them your insights into wisdom only makes them precocious and instils all the hang-ups you wish you didn’t have yourself. Their lessons will be all the harder for believing they understand what they haven’t experienced. There’s only one positive to draw from all this. No one is a perfect parent. The best you can hope for is to make enough mistakes for them to all cancel each other out.

Marshal Management.

I am now an officially trained I.O.M. TT marshal, which allows me to marshal at motorcycle race meetings on the island and in the UK; a very small cog in the best management structure I’ve ever experienced over forty years in industry. It requires over five hundred people, mostly unpaid volunteers, spread out over 37 miles of track to respond instantly to any incident. Race Control goes to Chief Sector Marshals, to Section Marshals and their teams, six Travelling Marshals, two Coarse Cars and two Airmed helicopters, all connected by a network of over a hundred Tetra radios. The result is an injured rider can be in hospital in less than 20 minutes from the moment he or she falls. I am so impressed with the clarity of purpose of the whole thing. No inter-departmental rivalry or buck passing, no vying for promotion, no levels of self-importance other than the importance of one’s role. Everyone is friendly but intensely focused on doing his or her best. Industry would do well to study its example. It appears this very high level of effectiveness is largely due to there being no profit involved, just the saving of lives. Profit, differentials of salary, differentials of power and the resulting competitive hierarchy all seem to militate against effectiveness. Maybe when we can be promoted to the place of our best contribution rather than our level of incompetence we can unleash our true human capabilities. And maybe the happiness from making that contribution is a better form of wealth than salary, and in the case of the city, bonuses.

Monday 25 October 2010

Don't Believe the Pilot.

In the South Korean F1 race today the BBC coverage had David Coultard reporting from the Maclaren factory ‘Mission Control’ here in the UK as well as Martin Brundle on the grid at the track. Martin, keen to keep viewers abreast of the very latest developments, relayed as it unfolded that there would be a ten minute delay. David in the UK said, “we knew that two minutes ago”, which was strange seeing as Martin was present in real life and David was half way round the world on a satellite link; a perfect illustration of a recent finding that somewhere unbeknown to you your brain makes decisions around a second before ‘you’ make them. In fact some things are being put into place up to seven seconds before you’re consciously aware of them. So like Martin your conscious awareness is the last to know what’s actually going on. Of course it is you making the decisions but not the part of you you’re conscious of. Ever burnt yourself? Isn’t your finger out of there before you’ve even thought about it? The evolutionary parts of your brain governing your body and your emotions do all the preliminary work before the results get passed on to your conscious frontal cortex. And when, a bit later, the frontal cortex gets the messages it makes the best sense it can of them. Having played little part in forming them it rationalises them after the event. Talk about the cart before the horse. Yes ‘you’ are just a post justification of yourself. But then we all to some extent perceive people who’re drowning in after-the-event rationalisations. They actually believe their conscious mind is the pilot, unaware it’s the cabin staff in control of the aircraft. This creates a tricky situation. The pilot does after all have all the knobs and dials, the stick and the vital view out of the front window, where as the crew are in the galley stuffing a microwave with breakfasts. This seems absurd. But wait. Consider a three-week flight to the moon. What use would perfect navigation and a finely executed landing be if the passengers had all already died of hunger? Or rioted because their supply of duty free spirit was unavailable? So on a trip of three score years and ten there’s a lot more to be aware of than to think about. Leave it to the pilot and he’ll get you there but without spirit and sustenance and a big smile from the stewardess it’s likely to be a fruitless journey.

Tuesday 19 October 2010

Pound sign Nightmares.

OK I’ve got a degree in maths but as soon as there’s a pound sign in front of a number I become a worrier. Maybe in my long forgotten youth I was castigated for forgetting my dinner-money. Millimetres, kilograms, torque and acceleration in imperial or metric and I’m fine, but currency…. my brain freezes over. Brrrr. In the last few days of having to make some important financial decisions I’ve tried to look at how it affects me. I sense that my conscious brain can’t get hold of the nebulous value of money; nebulous not only because it’s actual value is negotiable but because everyone has their own ethic of valuation. Though my conscious does its best to make sense of all these imponderables its efforts lead to a continuum of failure. I have an unanswerable anxiety, a sword of Damocles twitching above my left eyeball. This only reinforces my conscious focus on its aforesaid failure. I find myself yearning to measure a piece of wood with a ruler. I find myself cut off from my energetic encounter with life by a foggy wall of unease. OK I accept I’m a hopeless case, each to his own and all that, and some bankers might have trouble weighing out half a pound of mince, but even with some finance guys I’ve met, who’re totally comfortable with pound signs, I sense that same lack of energetic encounter with the life. They’re enthusiastic, ebullient, intelligent and skilled but lacking in some quality I find in plumbers and midwives. When one’s hand and eye grapple daily with the quirks of reality, the grain of wood, the gurgling air of a central heating system, the blood of birth, one is in touch with the basic rationality of the physical world. It is ponderable, and a centimetre will always be a centimetre. Today I heard someone comment, “Leave the Fed in charge of the Sahara and in six months there’d be a shortage of sand.” Someone give me a piece of wood to measure. 

Monday 18 October 2010

Stiffmouse University.

Lets say I start a university. Small scale to start with, just one subject. Two lecturers on £40k and a room big enough for twenty students. On a 40 hour week, for easy maths, and contact time of 10 hours there can be 80 students. (4x20) My two lecturers would have 20 hours contact time and 20 hours prep, marking etc. With a room cost of say £10,000pa and a total yearly outlay of £100k fees would be £1,250 plus my cut, so lets say £1,750pa. I could undercut Cambridge by 80% and still walk away with £40k pa and endless holidays for just thinking up this wizzo idea. I’m going to sell it to Carphone Warehouse as every prospective undergraduate will have been a frequent visitor since the age of ten. ‘You’ve got the phone, now get the degree.’ No, no, no, no, no. What am I thinking! Students could text in their work to a call centre in Mumbai. Further calculator work. £5k for staff and a hundred rupees for the sweatshop and fees could be £62.50, plus my cut of say £1,687.50 and you guessed it, £1,750. If they’re a bit strapped for cash I could do loans at 200%APR and still be the cheapest uni in Britain. Ah but they’re going to need beer. OK, five containers of Kingfisher lager and advertise, “Free beer for the duration of your course!” Irresistible! 100% mark up and lump it in with the fees so they don’t realise they’re paying for it. Isn’t capitalism wonderful! 

Sunday 17 October 2010

Three Brain Therapy.

Recent neuroscience is finding that the brain is particularly adapted for movement. Much goes on in our, for want of a better word, autonomic brain/body connection that, though we constantly use it, we are unaware of. Vision and our other senses provoke general conscious plans for movement and then leave the actual movement to this autonomic connection. Only when sensory feedback indicates something is not going to plan do they begin to play a part again. One can look to pick up a cup and then continue talking while the action ‘automatically’ happens. Pick up a cup from your own hand and your hand won’t move, but get someone else to pick it up and your hand move upwards because the other person is not part of your autonomic system. This in many ways should be expected because the older parts of our brain that pre-date and precede our human conscious were predicated on movement for survival. When our survival depended on our agility the brain will have evolved to provide the sophistication required. Monkeys are amazingly agile but can’t do sums. Sports men and women ‘in the zone’ are probably subduing their conscious brain almost entirely so that it doesn’t interfere with this far more direct interplay of brain/body/senses. Professors on the other hand are renowned for their inability to dance. Where Deep Blue can beat a grand master at chess it would be childlike in terms of agile movement.
In these earlier times of our brain’s development survival will have evolved mechanisms of flight, fight or freeze and our drives to feel safe, eat and breath. These, like movement, will be part of this autonomic brain/ body response.
We often talk of ‘the unconscious’ as a part of the conscious mind below our awareness; that they are a continuum of a similar cognitive substance, but what if they are in a sense mechanistically different or belong to different layers of overall consciousness? ???? describes these layers in terms of the reptilian, mammalian and human brain each contributing in that order to our reactions. Simplistically the reptilian brain is the source of our emotional responses, the mammalian of our physical responses and the human our conscious responses. Recent experiments where respondents were asked to indicate their answer by both a physical movement and verbally found the two answers were often not the same; a raised finger might indicate yes where the voice said no. Might these two answers have been generated by different parts of the brain, the finger from the autonomic mammalian part and the voice from the human conscious brain? Might mirroring and anchors used in therapy be ways of connecting with a person on an autonomic level? Might the UPR and empathy of Rogers be ways of connecting on the reptilian level where the basic motivations of fight, flight, safety and food are the driving consciousness?
I begin to see these three layers providing their functions independently of each other.
The conscious brain of the sportsman is incapable of awareness of how he can play so well, the musician of what are the means of her appreciation. We all experience the results of all these layers yet insist on straining everything through the sieve of our human consciousness brain as in, ‘I think therefore I am.’
I wonder if we might, in experiencing another person, consider them and ourselves as having three independent brains each contributing their own particular aspect of consciousness and response. In this model a therapeutic relationship would wish to in some way directly address each on its own terms. Talking ‘about problems’ addresses the conscious human brain but not the other two. Talking as part of physically ‘being with’ a client can contribute to the mammalian consciousness in the same way as touch, mirroring and grooming. (observe a women’s hairdressers) It may also contribute to the feeling of safety required for the reptilian consciousness, but mostly how one ‘is with’ a client must address how one makes connections with each of these three different forms of consciousness. None of the different therapeutic approaches contain this view explicitly. Person centred approaches it in terms of Unconditional Positive Regard and empathy, NLP in terms of physical awareness of ‘state’, relaxation and hypnosis, while CBT considers the human consciousness to be a portal to the other two through controlled experiential feedback. Every therapist is though aware of how a comfortable and calm quiet room, of a mellifluous tone of voice and even smell contribute to effectiveness. I’m suggesting here that these aren’t simply niceties or ‘the norm’ but that they are ways of allowing communication with these deeper, different forms of consciousness. Further I’m suggesting that we might consider structuring our awareness in terms of these three different forms of consciousness. How might one metaphorically ‘talk’ to each of them explicitly and directly?

Friday 15 October 2010

Trust the Force Luke.

Last evening we had a shamanic evening lead by a therapist and good friend. Two young women, interested but sceptical, my motorcycle buddy and me. Towards the end of the evening one of the young women asked if Therapistmouse could cut her ties to an old boyfriend. The theory is we are all connected to each other by ‘chords’ of energy coming from our naval. In a simple ceremony she lay on the floor and thought about her old boyfriend. Therapistmouse felt a thin chord and symbolically ‘cut’ it with a knife a couple of inches above her naval. Now who’s to know whether it did anything more than make her feel a bit better? I hatched a plan. Knowing I have a strong connection with Mothermouse, I said OK I’ll think of Mothermouse and see if the rest of us can feel it. So, I lay on the floor and conjured her up while they all had a go. Therapistmouse felt a thumb sized chord. The two young women were then sent into giggles of amazement as they also felt it, and even my motorcycle buddy felt ‘something.’ To be honest I felt a bit peeved I couldn’t prove it for myself but it convinced everyone else. So? Who knows? Therapistmouse said he cut a woman’s chord to her ex husband once and two hours later, he being on the other end of it, appeared at her front door with a bunch of flowers. Probably garage but still. He also said Don’t do this yourself or let anyone else unless they know what they’re doing. In a group test a while back we tried in pairs to ‘guess’ whether the other person was thinking happily or angrily about someone. I found I could do it with my eyes closed, in silence, just my hand an inch above their hand. But I couldn’t tell you how. 

Wednesday 13 October 2010

A Question of Polymers.

How’s your plastics knowledge? Know your fluorides from your azides? Well today’s GCSE science students are required to learn about the complex chemistry of plastics. I was impressed. I mention this because today Middlesonmouse recanted the following exam question on this subject. “Polytetrafluoroethylene is a fluorocarbon solid. Its properties are a/ it is stable at high temperatures and b/ it is very slippery. Select its use from the following 4 options, 1) fridge door, 2) shoe laces, 3) coating for a non-stick frying pan, and 4) brassieres.” OK1, 2 and 4 are fictitious but anyone with the IQ of a twig and no knowledge of plastics what so ever will have a pretty safe bet with 3. And probably a GCSE in science. Apparently there are four GCSE examining bodies, each setting exams and vying for schools to use them, and the schools are vying for good exam results. Even said twig could figure out the examining body with the easiest questions will be the most successful. It’s win win win all the way, and comforting for parents to know their children are striding to ever greater knowledgeable success. Other interesting facts about PTFE. PTFE was accidentally invented by Roy Plunkett in New Jersey in 1938. In 1954, French engineer Marc GrĂ©goire created the first pan coated with Teflon after his wife urged him to try it on her cooking pans. Kansas City resident Marion A. Trozzolo marketed the first US Teflon coated frying pan called "The Happy Pan," in 1961. The Manhattan Project used it to coat valves and seals in the pipes holding highly reactive uranium at the enrichment plant at Oak Ridge, Tennessee. PTFE is also the only known surface to which a gecko cannot stick. 

Monday 11 October 2010

Success on X Factor.

Whilst laid out on a sun lounger in Greece Mothermouse got through the X Factor auditions. I asked if she got through to the live shows. “Der, of course!” Apparently comatose to the outside world she had picked out a dress, shoes, tights etc, decided on “Cry me a River”, the old version, and stunned the judges. So much so Cheryl Cole became a close friend and agreed to give her all her dresses after the show because she couldn’t be seen in them twice. Then off to Simon Cowel’s house in Bermuda, a knockout performance of the Arctics, ‘Florescent Adolescent’ to show her versatility and through. The last time we spoke she was stuck on her song for the Big Band night. I’m no better. I’m regularly interviewed for the Today Program on the motorway. I’m particularly proud of my contributions to ‘The Moral Maze’ because they always have such twats on and my incisive comments are a total breath of fresh air compared with the turgid claptrap of the rest of the panel. I tried the X Factor but to be honest I couldn’t get excited about it, not having spent all my working life serving in Burger King or being an unmarried mother of two. Looking at this year’s crop we’d probably be excluded for not still living with our parents, because they’re dead. That’s not a criticism by the way. So we’re both dreamers, although I’d like to think of it as preparation. Mothermouse would indeed scrub up very well and sell a song on X Factor, she’s elbowed me out of the limelight enough times on our gigs at the Gardeners. But I would win on the Breakfast Show and Question Time. It’s all about preparation, putting the effort in. Like lying on a sun lounger in Greece and deciding what to wear. 

Saturday 9 October 2010

Giving up Self Esteem.

Amazon has just sent me a list of their hot new books, one being, “Overcoming Low Self Esteem.” There is a simple, if paradoxical, answer to this implied question. ‘You’re not that important.’ One’s low self-esteem is in fact only the recognition of one’s abject failure to reach the dizzying heights of one’s own high self-esteem. It is after all only you who have posted the tenets of success and failure on a billboard that follows you around like the Mona Lisa’s stare. Think about it; she may have just been staring vacantly into space wondering what to cook for tea, and your billboard just the crazy jottings of a teenager’s harridan. I was the worst moto-cross racer in history but nothing appertaining to this fact appeared on my billboard, even when I was so slow in one race I nearly lead the pack into the first corner of the next. Mothermouse is the first to remind me I in fact suffer from obsessively high self-esteem. This is not true. I just have such low levels of self-importance that I continually transcend my own expectations. When I strode out to face a group on a course, clad in little more than my own honesty, and they all laughed my immediate assumption was I had pleased them with a nonchalant pose. Humiliation doesn’t come easy to us sufferers of OCSE, not least because I have trouble spelling it. And that in large part is from my parents saying, ‘so long as you just try your best.’ By never telling me what my best ‘aught’ to be I was free to just focus on trying, irrespective of the result. So if you do suffer from low self-esteem don’t talk yourself up with messages of ‘I CAN do this’, far better to say, ‘What the hell, I’m only human’ and keep just trying to do the best you can.

Wednesday 6 October 2010

Mills and Boon and Me.

Now I’m not a part of Mills and Boon’s core audience but a beautiful program last night got me wondering if I should read one or two as sort of textbooks. Those of us not homosexually inclined will sooner or later find ourselves with a woman and as a result become to some degree singularsexual. It’s not that men can’t multitask, I often pick my nose while watching television, it’s that men are one track minded; we can only pursue one objective at a time. After pursuing our woman we go on to other things, earning a living, home improvements, rock climbing and the like, enjoying as it were the camaraderie of the trenches with other men. As such ‘our woman’ can be left in a cupboard like a fondly remembered cricket bat. Now there are spectacular differences between a woman and a cricket bat. Whilst they both like being periodically oiled a woman is not an inanimate object. Yet as our singularsexuality takes hold, singularsexuality being the total immersion in one sided sexuality, men can easily perceive them as simply requiring maintenance. Provided one can get her through her yearly MOT with a birthday card that will satisfy one’s duty as a registered keeper. But Mills and Boon apparently lays bare this fallacy. Women are in fact living, thinking creatures with a disturbingly different approach to the world. They can hold a hundred different objectives all at the same time. In fact men with their singular objective are, in evolutionary terms, far closer to cricket bats. Women continue to hold the pursuance of that initial romantic adventure long after it has been superseded by a promotion or a supporter’s season ticket for their man. They want continual romancing. This is damn near impossible for a singularsexual male to conceive of. He’s got the T shirt and he’s now too fat to wear it and so using it to clean his mid-life-crisis motorbike. It’s not sufficient to be heterosexual; one must also be multi-sexual. One must embrace Mills and Boon as a sort of Wikipedia of the phantasmagorical inner workings of the female mind. With a little effort one can also learn to keep one’s balls in the air and learn to pursue more than one thing at a time. 

Tuesday 5 October 2010

Socio-political Football.


Who would have thought Gary Liniker would make the most significant socio-political documentary EVER? “Why can’t England win The World Cup?” BBC, 3rd October. Football is not just a game, it’s where a nation dreams, not as in winning X Factor, but those messy phantasmagorical nigh time creations of one’s unconscious let loose, where a multitude of buried concerns are reassembled into a flow of honest nonsense like a Nostradamus prediction. This summer’s World Cup was one such nightmare. Like a client in therapy England is being forced to look past its comfortable conscious constructions to peruse the malaise of its underbelly. We have the best league, good players, the most expensive manager and a legion of fans; how could we lose? But we did, badly. Where David Cameron’s brief appearance showed the paucity of politicians awareness of this area of national incongruity Jose Mourinho, in the simplest of language, gave an exposition of our dream that Jung would have been proud of. In the decline phase of any human endeavour expectations remain long after current resources fail to meet them. We plunder our reserves like a farmer choosing to eat his seed corn. Our desire to plant and play the game is replaced by a frantic need to win as if we’re at the gambling table with our farm as the stake. Clubs expect to buy success from foreign players, players expect a superstar life style, and fans expect success, but expectation is the currency of failure. It removes one from present action into the fiction of a rosy future. England’s present is extreme levels of club indebtedness, overworked players, minimal coaching of young English talent leading to only 23% of English players in the Premiership compared with Spain’s 70 %. That’s not just football, that’s England itself. As Jose said, the players are English just like plumbers and postmen. England can win if you lose all your expectations and deal with the problems of your current reality. AND he looks gorgeous too. No wonder he gives Mothermouse damp knickers.

Red in the USSR.


Wow, 97 page views yesterday! Russia 25, US 12, Kazakhstan 10, Poland 9, UK 5 and 3 in Kenya. It’s nice to know people around the world are being prompted to ask themselves such questions as “Do Cows Flirt?” and whether we should fight wars by supplying fitted kitchens or sending in battalions of clowns to make our enemies see the funny side. Or maybe “Me and Red Sal” has come to the attention of the KGB. They though, like those guys from penisenlargement.com will find only a disappointingly small willyed Clark Kent. But then world domination does seem to require a large amount of suspicion. Strange that, it’s as if the world doesn’t actually want to be dominated. It’s as if the world wants to be friendly and equal and fair, and anyone who goes against those principles simply acquires enemies that they need to be suspicious of. I mean if Kim Jong-il adopted the policies of Bhutan he could probably spend much more time line dancing and playing darts and be an all-together happier fellow rather than a suspicious little sod. I think he owes it to himself. I have to say though, my knowledge of North Korea extends no further than watching ‘Team America’. But this policy has worked for me. ‘I will be friendly, equal and fair and I’ll make damn sure you are too.’ So if Kimmy is listening why not come for a pint in the Vine, we could have a laugh and you could sing “I’m ronry, so ronry…” and I’ll play guitar. And by the end maybe, “We are the champions, we are the champions. No time for losers ‘cos we are the Champions, of the World!” Fancy it?

Friday 1 October 2010

Me and Red Sal.

Back in the 60’s when me and Red Sally were teenagers we were at it. No I mean fermenting ideas about changing the world to the sound of The Who and the Beatles. This was ‘My Generation’ and we were up for it. Mods and Rockers and rollers, Beba, Carnaby Street, Apple and the Maharishi. That’s what teenagers are for, arguing the toss about stupid society, religion and politics with dim-witted decrepits. And now as we reach frosty top status ourselves it’s like we’re having to come out of teenage retirement because the current crop are as passive as a wet fart. Give them a TV and alcohol and they’re as disputative as a stick. The pinnacle of their discourse on moral ambiguity is hair straighteners. Questions like ‘Is there a God?’ would only become relevant if he was featured in a new primetime sit-com series. Catholicism would only achieve cachet if it ran adds where a guy knocks on an attractive woman’s door and asks, “Hi I’ve just moved in, do you have a cup of the blood of Christ I could borrow?” Without adds for walking, sports, hobbies, debating and playing music, which there won’t be because there’s no profit in them, they just won’t feature on a teenagers agenda. Wake fucking up! They will always only prompt you into paying for things. You’re not here just to supply Carlsburg and Clairol with money! You’re not just the cash cow for unis, landlords, Microsoft and skunk growers. This is ‘Your Generation’, your life and your society. Start thinking or they’ll happily enslave you. Maybe Gordon Brown did save the world from financial ruin, or maybe he just capitulated to commercial forces, choosing to save the banks and saddle you with debit rather than take the more difficult, messy option of fighting for fairness for ordinary men and women. It’s your fight now; Red Sal and me have our bus passes and want to grow old gracefully. Yeh right, like that’s going to happen.

Thursday 30 September 2010

David's Great Escape.

So Ed’s made his first speech as leader of the Labour Party. He won them over with, 1/ humble origins, 2/ struggle, 3/ other people did stuff wrong, 4/ England is fab, 5/ I am your leader now and 6/ I offer a new beginning. It’s not a million miles from what his brother would have said, what Gordon, Tony and David did say, and I’d imagine what Adolph Hitler said when becoming Chancellor but without the stylish arm movement. At any rally of the faithful the first few rows are reserved for fellow politicians and the further back you go the more ordinary people see it from a distance. There’s a sort of fog that descends on these politicians from the years it’s taken them to progress the twenty five yards to front of the hall, all that experience of other politicians, of political thinking and how politics works. They applauded Ed’s speech because it ticked all the political boxes yet it’s content is as bland and futile as Miss World’s desire for world peace and an end to poverty. And just as Miss World is preoccupied with her beauty and the length of her eyelashes so too politicians consider their appeal and standing in their own beauty contest. It’s not that they aren’t intelligent, hard working and well intentioned, it’s that the process of getting to where they are has induced in them a collective delusion that they have with power great responsibility. They are the one who will shoulder the personal responsibility of millions and mistakenly gather it into a position of great importance. One after another line up to take on the role that will make them old men. It’s as if they don’t recognise their future in the hollow eyes and drawn faces of Tony Blair and Gordon Brown. They study history as though it won’t happen to them. But it does. It will. Maybe in ten or fifteen years David Miliband will look back and see a merciful release.

Monday 27 September 2010

The End of Time.

I feel the world slowing. Not the real world, the human world. Humanity is slowing. How can a species slow down on its own? We will stop in real time around 2150. It began slightly with TV and mass media but really got going with computers. We began to perceive through digitised connections. We speak, it is digitised and we hear. What we hear on the phone is not our friends voice but a series of sound packets that most closely resemble the voice looked up in their phones memory store. What is transmitted is not sound but a series of store locations and your receiver reconstructs them into what you hear. In more obvious ways text, e-mails, TV and radio do the same. Algorithms in mp3 and mp4 reduce the content of music and video to the barest intelligible minimum so file sizes and bandwidth are minimised. But how does that slow the human race up? Already many youngsters speak in a slew of syllables as if it’s irrelevant whether or not you understand. Though their typing skills are amazing their handwriting is scrawny because we are beginning and will soon interface more directly with our digital gadgets. Our audio and visual senses will connect directly by digitised connections making speach and writing redundant. Just as we have a human brain on top of a mammalian brain on top of a reptilian brain we will develop a digital brain. But this digital brain will connect via unchanging algorithms much like your phone's predictive text was originated during the Second World War and you’re still using it. Already we are watching old films and episodes of Friends made ten years ago. Music is grinding to a stop. We will achieve full digital integration with X Boxes and play games as part of our real lives. Every desire will be satisfied by what already exists. As we meld with the digital we will increasingly redo what has been done until all we do will be rehashes of what has been done before by others. We will slow until nothing is new and for us time will stop. It will continue for cats and dogs and fish and for the earth, the sun and stars, but for us if we don’t have the courage to resist our digital fascination, time will end. 

Friday 24 September 2010

Black History Month.

Radio 4 tells me we’re coming up to ‘Black History Month’ in schools. Well ain’t dat de time for celebration. Apparently black people have heroes too and in their own small ethnically challenged way have done some pretty good things, almost equal to us whites, and black children need to know this to bolster their low self esteem from being the sons and daughters of poor ignorant savages. Isn’t it good to know we can offer our pitying hand to these unfortunates one month a year and tell them about ML King, Malcolm X even Rosa Parks so they know they’ve been born into the losing side of this struggle for equality with the white man; so they know their place in society. In fact being born north of the line from Liverpool to the Wash I am probably descended from Vikings and I’d like a ‘Viking History Month’ so everyone knows I come from raping, murdering and pillaging foreigners and should be treated as such. Because in this multicultural society of ours we celebrate diversity. Stop. The middle class, middle age, middle white who thought that one up should be shot! It justifies the individual’s inclination to differentiate themselves from all those ‘diverse’ from themselves. Black people are different, Jews and Muslims are different, Vikings and Angles were different. All ‘celebrating diversity’ does is maintain differences. Only when the Vikings and Angles stopped celebrating their differences did they become the unified English we are today. So forget multiculturalism, we are one society in which we are all different. There are some people I like and some I don’t. I couldn’t give a shit what colour they are.

Wednesday 22 September 2010

I miss Greece.

Greece must be a hot bed of terrorist activity. I mean I didn’t see any signs of it while I was there but if the UK with all our special measures can’t keep our own citizens from suicide bombing us, Greeks must be like lambs to the slaughter. The same with teenage violence, drugs and binge drinking. They don’t have CCTV, police patrols or speed cameras. The only police car I saw looked like he was going home for his dinner. And they sell alcohol like its, well I won’t go into that. No, Greece must be overrun with social problems. But it isn’t. Young children play in the streets in the evenings, young people have unproblematic fun, cars without a hope of an MOT, motorcyclist without helmets carrying five year olds on their knees, it all works fine. But surely it shouldn’t. It’s paedophile heaven, an insurers nightmare, drunken teenage joy riders paradise, and fertile Alkida breeding ground. It’s not. But it illuminates the amount of fear, frustration and latent anger in the UK’s social multicultural zeitgeist. On the radio yesterday a woman was complaining about the sound of children in a nearby school playground. What a freak! That is until she described the noise. It wasn’t of children having fun but children shrieking in emotional frenzy that might pass as joy but isn’t. In these little seedpods of our coming generation the zeitgeist is fermenting. It will flower into broken relationships, obesity, unhappiness and the inability to cope. Good times for therapists and policemen but not so good for everybody else.

Tuesday 21 September 2010

The Pope's Visit.

So the Pope has come and gone in our absence leaving behind, “Paedophilia is an illness in which free will cannot function” or words close to that effect. As effective in a court of law as saying, “I’m a good bloke really your honour, I just wasn’t myself when I murdered my parents.” I’m left wondering why milkmen and plumbers don’t, as a result of their profession, also succumb in appreciable numbers to this paedophilic illness: Or perhaps the Milk Marketing Board are keeping a closed lid on it. And then there’s his aid who was left at home due to ‘illness’ for saying, “landing at Heathrow airport was like entering a third world country.” Yet I’m left thinking Britain will shortly be a third world country if we don’t regain some faith in the core of the Christian message. A dilemma that, as it takes shape in my mind, is strangely between politics and science. Christianity began as one man talking to individual men and women about their place in this bountiful complexity. Science, though it is tainted by our human intents, is somewhat similar, with individuals sharing their finding with others. Politics however is for mass consumption, a deal between establishment and society, and unfortunately what binds a mass together, be it an establishment or its society, is usually our lowest common denominator, fear. In this instance the Pope was the politician and his aid a scientist sharing his honest findings. The two cannot be seen together. I’m wondering if Britain’s cultural decline, and possibly Catholicism’s, is in this dichotomy. So much of what we think and do is as a member of a mass, be it fashion, music, media, poverty, illness, news or politics. And with each membership comes its own fear to not be the wonderful, perverse individual that you are. I don’t think Jesus wanted us all to be ‘good’ but for us to process the fears that withhold our own goodness. Maybe the Pope made a good point clumsily. That paedophilia is an illness, a deep animal fear of not seeding one’s genes due to an establishment denial, and that without the imposition of such fears one’s ‘free will’ or ‘beautiful self’ will be Godly. Or maybe he was just being a politician talking on behalf of a frightened establishment.

Parga 3.

I was date raped by a Canadian Club in the Island Bar. The club was a three foot bottle that Michael had laid on for his leaving party and regularly decanted into a pitcher, the type they use for table beer in the US; not whiskey. The initial slopes were gentle conversations about living in Parga. They steepened with a difference of opinion about Van Morrison with the feisty Scottish, attractive owner of the establishment. But she downed the Club like a Scot and disappeared early.  Michael, a gentle bear of a body below a sun-browned egg, drank from a thimble sized glass. I apparently did not. As the party broke up Mothermouse et al appeared from their girls night out equally damaged by three Brandy Alexanders and we all went to the Rock Bar. By now the slope was getting steep. Janemouse decided a dance was a good idea so she and I split to find an unmarked door in a back street. Behind was a large room with small lights, big speakers, few people and lots of floor. Here was a perfect opportunity to show one’s style. Being nearer 70 than 60 and on the moguls of a black run style wasn’t the right word. Janemouse fielded me from tables, walls and the other dancers. It appeared to me my reverse wasn’t working. I could do the wibbly wobbly arm waving front and side but there was no stopping me in reverse till I met an immovable object. A teacher once said dance as if you’re on the point of falling over; OK in a class but pissed it came all too easy. I was near falling over standing still. Janemouse thought leaving was a good idea. The rest was a crazy zigzag home fielded by Mothermouse who could walk straight but had her own cross to bear. So date rape, a truly despicable and cowardly offence, wouldn’t work on men; we’d be no use to man nor beast, but I might condone its use by women for getting their own back on dickheads.

Parga 2.

After an early beer, 2 Blue Bar cocktails, 3 ouzos, 2 retzinas and a brandy on my side Mothermouse and me talk about masculinity. Masculinity is bull headedness. Women name call it that like it’s a failing but that’s what it is. Some men are quiet and go about it in secret and others it’s just written on them. Some have it knocked out of them and avoid snapping a twig and others have it knocked into them and knock down a forest. A few talk about their feelings in a feminine sort of way which is pleasing to females, at least at first, but make no mistake, men are bull headed whatever the covering. It runs like root sap up into our branches. It seems to me our brains have far less room for controversy. We don’t have the capacity to flurry through conflicting confusions like women. A stick is a stick and its use is dependant on the situation. Faced with a confusion of feelings my brain blinks to a white spot like when you turn off the TV. Thread thoughts in a neat line like meat on a kebab skewer and I’m fine. But it’s a terrible misconception that men don’t have feelings. We do, we just don’t do it with confusion that needs talking about. We have a feeling and that’s it and talk about something else. Like music; you hear it till the song is over. But then it must be frustrating, like being with someone listening to their iPod with the only clue as to the song being how they tap their foot. We must work on it.

Parga 1.

Parga is on the Greek west coast opposite Corfu. It is its own little state within the country, a bit like the Vatican only with a Mayor instead of the Holy Pontiff, and like Catholicism it changes slowly. In fact the only upheaval in these numerically choppy times was more due to rain. Stefanos whose character and taverna dominate Parga life had a winter collapse. The two balconies of his taverna that shelved from the scrubby cliffs a hundred feet above Voltos bay collapsed in the winter rains onto the rocks below. His new tabled shelves are wider and stronger but still perilous. Stefanos’s restaurant is the best fish restaurant in Parga because Stefanos is a fisherman first, a cavalier second and a restaurateur third. His dry leather glove of a hand that welcomed me was testament to daily salt and ropes. Costas had moved from his usual beach bar due to a fall out, and Michael, whose bar was always a little too aloof to be profitable, is moving back to Canada with wife and winter baby. Elli who tends the sun loungers next to the stream that shyly slots the sand is as ever Elli. Five feet and nothing more with her purposeful feminine shape tends family rather than tourists, playing with babies and bringing everyone up to date with Parga news since their last visit. Mothermouse and Elli loved each other from their first conversation. These are mostly about her dealings with the pontiff, her female account of God and the workings of Parga being a constant thorn in his side. If Elli has ever been untrue to her heart and mind it’s a well kept secret. Catholics take note. An uncomfortable woman is worth a hundred clerics. So Parga where we sleep in and out of the sun bundles up our unwanted cares and posts them along its golden trail to the setting sun one more time. 

Saturday 11 September 2010

Big Brother is Dead.

I’ve just left BB to die in peace. Unnoticed by the majority its attempt to rekindle our capacity to prey has come to an end. That’s a strange thought. Other than Nasty Nick, who has spent the last ten years trying to live down his alliterative tabloid title gained from mistakenly believing BB was a game show one was supposed to try to win, all the other contestants have gladly exposed their warts and personality in the hope of lucrative post-game contracts. More importantly 99% loved and gained a great deal from the experience of rubbing against other people 24/7 without the intrusion of all our modern communicative gadgets and being able to share their ups and downs with a faceless, non judgmental voice when things got too much. This, strangely enough, is as close as we get these days to being a fly on the wall of a monastery. The only difference being God speaks with a Geordie accent. What we have been lasciviously watching these past ten years has been the progress of novice monks and monkesses towards gaining sufficient self-awareness to create a community. OK some couldn’t manage it but as each series progressed one could see the community immerging in honesty and friendship with periodic help from the ‘confessional’ diary room. In the same way that no one would have guessed a film about singing nuns would become one of the most popular films ever BB has turned out to be the monastery epic of modern television. So if you don’t want to miss out stick one of those little key ring torches on a wall opposite a comfy chair when everyone’s out and talk to it for a while. It doesn’t matter whether you think it’s God or Big Brother, just let it all out and you’ll feel much better. Me and Mothermouse have even talked to the torch once or twice with one of us being the voice of BB. Far better than Relate and much cheaper too. But then we’ve both trained as therapists, which helps. Off on holiday. By :)

Friday 10 September 2010

Koran Burning.

All I’ve heard the entire day in the news is some US pastor is going to burn some Korans for 9/11. This has got up the noses of some Mosies. Oh and a Sikh is suing an airport for the unbearable shame of making him take his turban off to see if there’s a bomb in it. Well if I was on his flight I’d want to know. No, God must have a pretty good sense of humour to not smite these jokers down in their socks for being so stupid in God’s name. Surely if anyone joins a religion just to feel hard done to by people of other religions they should have their application form whipped away from them in the blink a smote. God would appear and suggest, “Sorry fella you’re not ready, best go join a Hell’s Angels gang; they do angry belligerence better than me.” But I will fight for my belief in you to my last breath! “Get lost retard. No, better still, Smite.” Poof. Argh! It seems we’ll always take the easy option and wear a silly hat, read ‘our’ book, prey for stuff, say the right words and blame others for being wrong. It should be that easy! So the Mosies are incensed by the, er Pasties, and the Sikhies with the Bomb sniffers. Well this week the Pope is coming to the UK where there are more Catholic factions than you can shake a stick at. God help him. Remember God is ineffable, God isn’t in words, God’s not a writer, all Gods book have been ghost written by humans.

Thursday 9 September 2010

Being in neutral.

Tonight I was assistant fire keeper at a sweat because Mothermouse has a bad elbow. A sweat, an American Indian custom, is like a church service held in a blacked out sauna. Hot, sweaty and pitch black one attempts to fill one’s awareness of all things past and present, give away one’s hindrances and pray for oneself and others. Glowing rocks from the fire, which I was assistantly keeping, are delivered into a pit in the sweat and watered to spread the heat. It was a fine late summer evening and a very pleasant experience. As fire keeper one should assume a neutral frame of being to assist the ceremony. I do neutral well. This juxtaposition of ceremony and neutrality reminds me of my conversations with another wise old friend; an agreement between us that one should not, or at least avoid as far as possible, holding beliefs of any sort. Not just religious beliefs but beliefs of who one is, who or how other people are, what will happen, what has happened etc etc, right down to the simplest day to day assumptions we make without thinking. Finding oneself stripped of all these cognitive shortcuts requires far more awareness of what actually IS happening around one. Boring repetition becomes continuing freshness. Of course one retains a transient knowledge of probabilities, but that’s all it is, transient. What IS happening is the constant, vibrant re-writer of it. I have a sense of throwing away a thousand filing cabinets full of data that has become redundant and, in the space left empty, having a huge room to dance around in. It’s an exchange I find extremely liberating. So I’m perhaps confusing to those who are into the ceremony. I conform and honour them but somehow I am the ceremony I’m really interested in. So many thanks to Pete, Steve and Carol, the fire, trees and setting sun for a lovely evening.

Monday 6 September 2010

Heidi Plug’s Big Tits.

Just passed a Heat magazine on the fridge. On the cover is a stick thin model with massive boobies as in, “No darling these are not mummies tities they are mummies boobies” as I heard a mom teach her five year old son. Well these breasts would feed triplets if they hadn’t been plastically enlarged. I feel I aught to tell young women wishing for plastic enhancement that ‘men are stupid’. If we had a choice we would plump for a marrow in the trousers requiring a triple D codpiece. I base this assertion on the majority of motorcycles on the Isle of Man, namely 1000cc monsters capable of devouring your license on a trip to Tescos. Most would top 50mph with a sneeze. And they weigh tons. If the bike test required you to lift your bike back upright from 45 degrees no one would pass. No, men may lust for bigness but if we get it we can’t cope with it. We may walk around with the pride of owning a GSX1000R in our eye but come to park it on a slope and we need the help of several weight lifters. And when we proudly drive off under an admiring gaze we lurch forward, realise we’ve left the disc lock on and keel over trapping a leg under the thing thus requiring the weight lifters again. This has been my personal experience anyway. So ladies it’s not that ample size isn’t appreciated it’s that we become daunted by it and can’t really cope. We’re more likely to think it’s huge fun to play them like bongos, go bilabilabila between them or play 'pat-a-cake pat-a-cake bakers man' with them, which I don’t think is the full on sensual experience you’re looking for. So Ms Plug I’d go for a nice 660 SZR rather than an R1 Yamaha. They may be super sporty but not many guys can get the best out of them.

Sunday 5 September 2010

The Manx GP.

Just back from three days at the Manx GP on the Isle of Mann. Sunny, camping, crack, (‘talk’ in case your imagination has the better of you) bacon butties in the morning with crisps, coke and chocolate the rest of the day. The TT and the MGP races are a textbook anachronism. Started in 1911 they consist of 4 or 6 laps of a 37.5 mile circuit around the island, including a ‘mountain’ of modest proportions. Old pictures show riders in shoes and trousers leaving plumes of dust from dirt roads and smoking like chimneys as soon as they finish. Considering the tracks and machinery 40mph average speed was heroic. Forward 99 years and the roads are tarmac but still country lanes between stone walls, earth banks and trees, through several villages and two towns. And the bikes have changed out of all recognition, from a Brough Superior, top speed 70mph, to a Honda Fireblade’s 200mph. Average speeds have increase from 40 to 130mph. In fact the only thing that hasn’t appreciably changed is the human being; we’re still blood and bones in a skin. The course has a hundred marshalling points, each equipped with medical stuff, stretcher, radio, flags and at least five volunteer marshals. There are at least six motorcycle paramedics each capable of at least a hundred mph lap time, and two helicopters. The time from a rider falling off to arriving in hospital is less than ten minutes. During practice and racing riders cover around 150,000 miles at speeds up to 200mph. All this on roads around 25 feet wide between walls and trees. All this is not a sensible pursuit. Though I’ve been a keen motorcyclist for some 50 years and raced off road this has gone beyond heroism; it has become a severe test of lack of imagination. But I love it apart from the price that’s paid for the slightest mistake. My heart goes out to the three vans that will go home with a person missing. So what do you do with an anachronism that kills people? I don’t know.

Friday 27 August 2010

MTV Contraception.


Today’s average fifteen year old will have seen enough bare flesh to last a lifetime. Between MTV and ANTM etc they will have seen the finest specimens of the human body soft porn-ing themselves to within a millimetre of their pubic hair. That’s if it hasn’t already been permanently bonded to a wax strip and ripped off in a moment of erotic pain, thus converting their genitalia in one swift movement to that of a newborn baby. In my day a fifteen year old had much to look forward to. Even the glimpse of a well-formed cleavage was enough to get my pulse racing. But today’s fifteen year old has as much visual experience as a middle-aged gynaecologist. I wonder if this won’t put them off sex for life. But then, in the spirit of unforeseen consequences, this may militate towards much needed population control. We might even consider deluging third word countries with porn videos to counteract the influence of those salacious burkas. I mean a burka is as close as any religion can get to a fur coat and no knickers. One begins to realise why all the permanently naked saggy titted, cock dangling tribes are dieing out; I mean where’s the lust when it’s in your face 24/7? And probably in your dinner if you’re a bloke eating cross-legged on the floor. It’s a conundrum. Do we continue supplying images of erotic flesh at every opportunity and curb our rampant over population or all wear monk habits and become rampant habit lifters?

Wednesday 25 August 2010

A Spaceship?

So it’s quarter to three in the morning and I need a pee. In an effort to make the trip worthwhile I decide on a bowl of Shreddies. As it’s a full moon I decide to use the light in the cooker hood for minimum illumination so I can eat them in our moonlit garden. Incidentally do you every use your cooker hood? Our three-position fan control switch has never passed electricity for years, even when grilled and blackened lamb chops set off the smoke alarm. I’m sure it’s a ‘must have’ purchase that has no use in reality. I digress. I take my cereal to the swing seat and gaze at the moon. Half way through a light appears; a bright white spot of light hovering about fifteen feet above the ground near our neighbour’s house. It swings around like the frantic gaze of some mystical one-eyed beast silently scanning for prey. A mini space ship? As it scans it settles on me, and takes a long hard look. It looks away and scans a bit more. I realise it is my neighbour checking for intruders from their bedroom window with one of those million candlepower torches they sell cheap because they suck a battery dry in minutes. In the silence I wonder, do I wave, smile, do I shout to this intense silent light that it’s only me eating Shreddies in the garden at three o’clock in the morning in nothing but a dressing gown? The light goes out and peace resumes. A wife is placated and two husbands go back to bed.

Josie wins Big Brother.

I find it strange that the biggest show on TV works because there is no TV in the BB house. And as each and every one of the five finalists said how much they’d gained and grown from their experience it’s also a great advert for not having TVs in your house. So there’s Josie as fresh as Somerset silage welcoming past winners into an eighteen day ‘winner of winners’ last gasp reprise, the majority entrance-ing as a caricature of their winning persona. There’s something uni-directional about TV. Millions of us know them but they don’t know us. We watch them and make judgements and they can’t watch or make judgements about us. In the house they interact and learn from their housemates and afterwards interact with a million ill formed opinions of them. Imagine every stranger you meet from now on knowing you and holding their version of who you are, expecting you to be funny or stupid, shallow or belligerent or use the catch phrases you were known for. It must be like being typecast as yourself, or some aging super group having to repeat their old tunes every night for the rest of their lives because that’s what the public want. Each stranger would expect you to still be 24 and aghast you’ve aged ten years in the ten years since they last saw you on TV. I find the prospect frightening. In the house your persona was challenged and grew where as afterwards it is reflected and reinforced by everyone you meet. It’s no wonder the old winners with their experience of ‘afterwards’ seem like caricatures. Right now Josie is truly beautiful, not because of her bleach blond hair but because she is fresh and real, joyful and giddy. I only hope she can go back to her mates, take the money and run. A hundred K is peanuts compared with the price she might otherwise pay. No, TV is a one-way street. It sucks the life out of its watchers and imposes the detritus of that liposuction on its participants. 

Wednesday 11 August 2010

Ah Wisdom, with Guns.

Several years ago I saw a woman on television who explained she had been neurotic about her dogs, but thanks to numerous self help books she now understands them perfectly, knows how to pander to their every whim and how their relationship proves all her past odd behaviours and beliefs to be appropriate. In short she was even more neurotic but happier with the justifications she’d invented and that the books had helpfully confirmed. She had managed to construct out of the astute nuggets of wisdom within these books conclusions their authors would cringe at. As I see it there are only three reactions to learning some truth, laughter, tears or anger. The response of, “Mmm, ah now I understand” is a sure fire indication one has simply concluded something one wanted to believe in the first place. As with this woman this is not new found wisdom but more justification of one’s ongoing unawareness. Wisdom is often painful at first. It’s when you don’t want to hear what you need to know. Our conscious self will gladly apply the disciplines of wisdom to others whilst maintaining our own comfortable cosy den of justifications. ‘You have so much work on you need to buck your ideas up, whereas I have so much work I need to chill out.’ Isn’t it odd the same situation can lead to two very different conclusions? If you’re ever tempted to tread the labyrinthine paths of self-realisation it’s worth remembering that nine out of every ten signposts you encounter will lead you to that same comfy den of self-justification. It’s just the same old nonsense dressed up in new ideas like an Ikea kitchen. Only the tenth, the one overgrown with stinging nettles, dank, dim, threatening, absurd, haunted, that appears would take all your courage to survive, might get you somewhere. Recently I heard of a reputably wise teacher saying, “Enlightenment is just one big grin.” Now I know some pretty wise people but they would never ever say that. Why? Because the 100% of us who aren’t enlightened will respond by grinning. It maybe true but grinning sure as hell don’t make it so. It’s like a man who had a cart and bought a horse to get it places quicker. As it was the cart he wanted to get there quickest he put the cart in front of the horse. Nice idea but zero progress. But maybe I’m being hard on this teacher. If he’d just flattened his thumb with a hammer and said it with an ironic laugh through his wince of pain I would respect him. If he said it with a grin….. Wisdom is far subtler than those who think they’re wise. And I should know :))))))))))))

Thursday 5 August 2010

Fox P2.

Fox P2 is known as the ‘language gene.’ It’s the little structure in our genome that provides us with the ability to verbalise. I imagine we all know someone who we might point to and say in a low breathy voice, “The Fox P2 Force is strong in this one.” Whether there is a gene somewhere else that governs the quality of our utterances is yet to be discovered. Lets just say the relative dominance of these two genes is, from experience, unrelated. Recent study has shown Neanderthals had it but monkeys don’t. Interestingly this study also showed that all of us with the exception of Africans have at some stage ‘had relations’ with Neanderthals. It appears we humans all stemmed from Africa but went abroad on our Club Med 18-30 holidays, thought the locals looked sexy, and never returned. As hairy chest thumping muscular men are far more attractive to women than their female counterparts are to men one can easily guess who led this inter species population explosion. Like the film ‘Shirley Valentine’ their men probably stayed home looking glumly at a sink full of dirty pots hoping for a miracle. It also appears the conjunction of a slim black woman and a dumb, virile, extremely hairy male will give rise to a white hairless weakling not unlike myself. Anyway it’s the Fox P2 gene that allows me to voice my prejudices, misunderstandings, ignorance, poor judgments and the bad jokes only I find funny. Under the influence of alcohol it chooses very dubious material and often when I need it most it shrivels up like an ice cold dinky. So thank you Fox P2, it’s been a pleasure, but I think I’ll go with Fox F7, the one that helps me keep my mouth shut when I’ve nothing worthwhile to say.