EuroVision.

Interesting a song contest should be entitled Euro ‘vision.’ On the night we were out to ‘Sing along a Sound of Music’. See R & H got it right; music is sound, but that’s an aside. We left early to see the end of the visual song contest just in time for the highlight clips from all the performances. OK one had clowns, another a stripping robot, another wings, and so on but why doesn’t an enterprising sound engineer splice all these clips together sans visuals to make the ultimate euro-trash single? My memory suggests this would hardly be a difficult task as they all have the same euro-generic origin. Interestingly, though the UK came last, the nearest thing to real world English pop won. Sung unfortunately by the Germans, Fawltey. Maybe the word has got around that we are so disdainful of what the rest of Europe take seriously, which is bound to get up peoples noses from Azerbyjan to Cyprus, who incidentally always swap twelve’s with Greece whatever happens. It’s worth remembering that when you’re in a pub taking bets. No there’s nowhere our euro sceptics rule more than in the Eurovision. It just goes to show scepticism and cynicism never work out well in the long run. Which kind of in reverse indicates we here in the UK are the most cynical country in Europe. Of course we snigger with pride at that assertion but should we? Do we really want to be the cynical losers of Europe? No. Next year send the Arctics and win the fucker! 

Gobblers Extinction.

Whilst digging the mousepatch I listened to Joe Whiley reminiscing over her wonderful social life at Radio 1’s Bangor weekend. I came in for lunch and watched the Gilmore Girls. Neither was my choice. As a result I’m more convinced than ever the human race has a fatal flaw that will cause our downfall. Talking. It’s that strange thing we do that sounds like turkeys gobbling, and may in fact fulfil the same purpose. The Gilmore’s gobble incessantly inching along some flimsy strand of consciousness; in fact inching is an overstatement, it’s more like millimetering, with no hint of any negative emotional consequence. They live in the nicest of nice worlds as does Joe Whiley. Somewhere along the line it has been decided that one should have a wonderfully good time all of the time. I’m not a fan of Eastenders but at least the get hacked off and kill each other from time to time. No, talking will get us into trouble. For one it’s mostly just gobble but more importantly it’s the method by which we blot out reality. Why open a can of worms by saying you’re pissed off when it’s so much easier to say I’m fine. Why say “you make me sick always thinking you’re right, piss off” when ‘have a nice day’ comes so much easier. No, when the time comes, when a giant asteroid is hurtling towards the earth moments away from causing total devastation it’s likely Joe will be using her last moments of air time telling us how great ‘Florence and the Machine’ were when she met them backstage, and the Gilmore’s will be gobbling about beverages, and you and I will still be moaning about the smoking ban. Only one in a thousand of us will be alert enough to shout, “duck!” but it will all be too late.

Remote priorities.

The only time I won anything athletic was a sack race when I needed a pee. On that basis Paula Radcliffe must have quite a bladder problem. And don’t ever stand between Usain Bolt and a toilet; you’ll get mown down. OK not all track and field athletics is about bowel movements, it’s more about priorities. I like motors and wheels, and they like waving their arms and legs about. We all do what we want. We may regret it afterwards but that’s another matter. So anyway animals. After observing our farmyard cousins these last few weeks I’m beginning to realise they aren’t any less intelligent than us they just have different priorities. They want food, to play with their mates and time to contemplate. And more importantly they don’t want to be eaten whilst doing so. And sex. They are not interested in owning a BMW or a stopwatch, having a bank account, TV or armchair. This does not place them as intellectually inferior, with the exception of sheep obviously; it simply shows what they consider important is different to us. Similarly the fact they can’t talk is no indication of stupidity. In fact quite the reverse, it’s talking that’s often a better indication of stupidity. Our cats have an attention span far longer than the average fifteen year old and chimps have been shown to have problem solving capabilities greater than the cast of Hollyoaks who couldn’t even fix a flushing toilet. And lets face it, even Bear Grills couldn’t live as well with nothing in the jungle for years on end. So don’t think just because we’ve learned to use the remote we are a superior species, we’re not. We just have different priorities. 

Deeper into Shed Space.

As we travel deeper into shed space Earthly reality disappears behind us. The fixed knowns of our world can no longer be relied on. Substances that appear brick like are in fact rectangular impenetrable force fields that defeat even diamond tipped masonry drills. What seems like mortar reacts like table salt when touched. When I rendered what appeared to be a wall small alien beings emerged like slimy rubber peas. I later identified them as, what on Earth would be termed slugs. Wood, which on Earth is a substantial fibrous material here becomes crumbly when observed rather like Shrodinger’s cat. The ceiling of shed space remains white but emits flakes continually and so appears to be a self replenishing substance that, though it appears to be there, is, when one approaches it, merely a bouncy apparition. Also time in shed space is slowed down. The smallest job seems to take forever as one stumbles amongst this weirdness trying to find substances that react like those on Earth. Even outside, what appears to be a drain is not a drain. It is full of dark matter, the substance that apparently accounts for the majority of the mass of the universe, and sure enough when I explored further I found a black hole. Yes it’s all weird out here. Why for example does Professor Brian Cox know everything about space and yet appear only eighteen years old? No, science and DIY just don’t work like they do on Earth in shed space. 

Shed Reality.

Whether it’s the loss of Derek or a diversion from really wanting to keep pigeons I decided to clean out the shed. This quickly changes to shed refurbishment, and as a sideline a search for reality. It’s half of one of those brick back-to-back sheds of the 1920’s period with remnants of a chimney and anaglypta wallpaper behind a wall cupboard. It had obviously seen better days. Most of the paint was a loose fit on the plaster walls, which themselves were close but not connected to the brickwork. Hammer and chisel dispensed with the majority leaving unsightly belligerent lumps. The brickwork was part slimy, part whitewashed. What stupid bugger plasters over whitewash! The slime was water based, constantly irrigated from a leak somewhere. On inspection the back of the wooden gutter was mulch making the down pipe superfluous as all the water was obviously being diverted into the brickwork. Rip off gutter, replace rotten end of lintel and fit new gutter. Now the fun part. Power wash the inside walls to get to a surface that was firmly attached to, well anything, I wasn’t too fussy by this point. After a few minutes I’m covered in water and grit, and the floor is a pond. After brief thoughts of an indoor swimming pool and Jacuzzi I sweep out the water and repeat. I now have fairly solid surfaces to paint. It now becomes obvious that in the 1920’s there were no such things as power drills, Screwfix etc. hence they had no reason to make bricks soft enough to drill into. They also connected these diamond hard bricks with mortar hardly more substantial than beach sand. My solid surfaces were immune to attachment of the electrics I intended to fit, except that is for the lath and plaster ceiling, which as anyone with experience of lath and plaster will tell you, is itself somewhat of a bouncy enigma. So, although I’m down to the surfaces of reality they are proving surprisingly immutable. It just goes to show, even if one does the hard emotional work of getting to reality one tends to find it frustratingly difficult to change.

Hurrah!

Derek has gone. Flown away to spend more time with is family hopefully. We opened the shed this morning and he was there perkily perched on my bikes back tyre as we’ve grown accustomed. We exchanged pleasantries and off he went, over our heads, through the door and off, gaining altitude all the way. That may be him perched in a tree not far away. It was quite sad to see him go but truth be told, we hope he doesn’t come back for his own sake. It’s like that in England. One minute you’re the leader of the Labour Party fighting an election and the next you’re off with the wife and kids still trying to accomplish that natural smile. Maybe if he’d gone to Eaton instead of breaking rocks in a Presbyterian workhouse, who knows. So now it’s Camerclegg v Milliband, Milliband & Co. and a new politic. Sinicism is dead and we move towards the unlit nights of the 1940 coalition where a vote of no confidence requires a 90% majority. Mogabi eat your heart out. But it’s not all good news. Some have lost their seats and one, judging by what’s left on our front room carpet, has lost everything but its feet and intestine. Yes this time Domino has had a sparrow or some such and eaten most of it. These bloody cats! Our back garden is like the killing fields! And they’re the Vietcong. We’re going to have to fit them with bells; cow bells.

Pigeon Coalition Fights back.

Day 6: The pigeon is going up in the world. By forming a coalition to thwart the evil empire, i.e. Britney, Darth Vader and Karadan Molosovich, Derek, yes Derek, is now into his sixth day under our witness protection scheme. He began in the shed on the floor scuttling about behind piles of never to be used plastic plant pots, a small coffee table and a pressure washer. The cardboard box he was in originally had to be discarded because the bottom got soggy from poo and when Britney got in while I wasn’t looking and upset box and water container, and it’s probably safe to say, Derek. So he’s now been promoted to ‘free range’, a badge, which every supermarkets shopper will know, can be worn with pride. The first free range day he progressed from floor to the handle of a garden pressure sprayer to the rear carrier of an old bike. In fact as he perches stock still, every time I enter it reminds me of reading ‘Where’s Wally?’ to the kids. From there he moved to the fairing of my motorcycle. This was tantamount to biting, or rather crapping on, the hand that feeds him. After tense negotiations we reached a compromise. He stayed where he was, which was brave in the circumstances as he could be seen by the cats through the window, who took to pawing it maliciously. Today he’s perched on the back tyre of my pushbike, which is hanging high up on the wall to save space. So long as I talk pleasantly to him he seems quite unperturbed. As his food is untouched on the floor Mothermouse is now suggesting I build an aerial platform for him to feed from. No problem, just 6 foot of 3” by 3” from Wickes, a couple of anchor bolts to the floor and small piece of marine ply cut, no doubt, from an 8 by 4 sheet costing a thousand pounds. No, if I can spend my life grovelling around down here, so can he. No offence Derek.

The ill Billionairs.

Want to know why you’re about to get poorer? Go to: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p007dvhr

It’s about “The Big Short.” Nothing to do with football strip or the time you found yourself dazed on the other side of the room. ‘Shorting’ in the financial sector is an instrument for making money if an investment value goes down; a bet that a horse will lose basically. Now up to 2005 all the investment banks were having a great time making money from lending to homebuyers. The more they lent, the more house prices went up so the loans were always covered. Everyone was happy and all the horses were winning. But there comes a time as the race gets longer and longer when horses begin to stagger. Enter a neurologist with aspergers called Michael Burry. He quit his job and became an outsider on Wall Street spending his time, because of his syndrome, in isolation on the internet. He foresaw the horses that were laying the golden eggs would eventually stall. In the long race of the rest of time this couldn’t go on. So he invested in shorting the sub-prime mortgage bonds, which had over the previous couple of years been glammed up like an aging film star nearing death. Everyone on Wall Street hated him and his investors for trying to shatter the illusion they had all jointly created. By 2008 the horses were falling like flies and Mike was making billions. It was what’s been termed, ‘privatising the profits and socialising the losses.’ Think about it. That’s about robbing the poor to pay the rich, legally. By divorcing the financial markets from real world value they had created the slight of hand necessary to suck money into private hands. Mike et al’s bet was paying off by making millions of people poorer. House prices dropped, loans went bad and the rest is history. Meanwhile Mike, reviled by all, threw it all in as he and many of his investors became ill; wealthy but miserable. The banks had to be bailed out by ‘social money’, i.e. ours, all that is except Goldman Sachs who are now being prosecuted. It’s a fascinating interview well worth listening to. And where to put the blame? Well it seems rather than specific groups of individuals, everyone from borrowers to hedge fund managers played their part, but the main culprit was the human brain. It has a propensity for Psychotic Group Delusion that allows us all to in a sense go mad together. It took a guy who, due to his aspergers syndrome, was sufficiently un-socialised to recognise it. OK he made a lot of money but he did point out the Emperor was stark bollock  naked.

Pigeon Rescue. Chapter 3.

Can you imagine how exciting it is to be actually living a Blockbuster trilogy? This one is titled, “To Pauline’s and Back”, by-line, “Sad and Sadder.” My life that is, the pigeons fine. Earlier today I took it out of the shed and released it, ie chucked it down the garden. It flew! But only just managed the end wall. From yesterday’s experience if I approached it, it would hop over into the opposite gardens undergrowth. You see yesterday it was in next doors garden walking along the back wall and hopped into the garden opposite next door, which then required me to call to the guy putting up curtains to come out and catch it for me. He did a fine job and proved to be a very pleasant chap as we became acquainted over pigeon passing. So back to today; that was what’s known as a flash back. The pigeon hopped onto a low overhanging branch and sat there. The cats of course were inside behind a locked cat flap. It scratched and preened but showed no signs of taking off. Meanwhile I could hear the cat flap being heavily tested by Britney. Tension mounted. Would the cat flap weaken; would Britney flash past me hardly able to keep up with her flashing white teeth of death? Would the brave plucky pigeon get plucked? Might Britney have turned her attentions to the oven door and got the chicken waiting to be roasted for our tea? None of these. I decided to return the pigeon to the shed. But now the pigeon could fly modestly and flapped into Pauline’s garden, next door but one, and perched on the trellis. Luckily I had to feed her cat, Chester, who is sixteen and no threat. To cut a long story imperceptibly shorter I caught it in her shrubbery. Now, though I could get out of Pauline’s with pigeon tucked under one arm, I was locked out of my own house, having climbed into next door’s garden and into Pauline’s. Bethmouse was in luckily. So the pigeon is now back in the shed. This one could run and run, which unfortunately cats can do far better than pigeons. 

Cats continue Ethnic Cleansing.

Where was I? 14.00 hours yesterday: The pigeon was in next doors shed recovering from Britney’s attentions. 15.30 hours: We find dead pigeon in next door’s front garden. I bin it and check shed. Our pigeon is still there. I muse whether this is Romeo and Juliet all over again as spouse dies of broken heart assuming her hero is dead. Erroneously as it happens seeing as he’s still in the shed. 16.00 hours: Mothermouse sees Britney acting suspiciously in the shrubbery. She’s got our pigeon again. Obviously she’s got in the shed and pursued it over the wall and into ours. I save it yet again! and put it in a cardboard box in our shed and padlock it. OK that’s not absolutely necessary but in situations like this one must not hold back one’s neurotic impulses, they’re far better expressed. 01.00 hours: (election night) Kafuffle. Domino has a mouse in the kitchen. Close door. Nothing to do, Dom eats his. 02.00 hours: another kafuffle in kitchen. This time it’s the cat food. The cup containing dry food had been left on the grill pan on top of the microwave. We put it there when the oven’s in use for ovening stuff. Now normally the cats knock the cup off onto the floor and eat it there, but this time they knock it over and the food falls through grill into the grill pan. Ha ha get out of that you big toothed, no opposable thumbs furry angels of death. 10.00 hours: (election day) Only one clear winner. The pigeon in our shed is alive and recovering well, and shit, which is always a good sign. So did you vote for the ‘survival of the fittest’ conservatives or the ‘stop persecuting pigeons’ labour party? I voted for the ‘lets all stop eating each other’ lib dems. Fat lot of good that did me. 

The Result. Not.

Well here I am, 8am watching the election keen to bring you a mouse’s opinion. In the real world I woke up needing a pee. David Dimblybe is beginning to slur, he must really need a pee by now unless the BBC’s fitted him with a bag. So the electorate have decisively voted for change according to the Conservatives; they’ve got 2 million more votes than Labour. But that’s proportional representation, which we don’t have yet and they’re against it anyway. So they’re all disappointed one way or another because the zeitgeist has proved, through our wonderful voting system, that ‘we’ all want them to be disappointed. If the electorate have ‘decisively voted for change’ that change is a clear message of, “Grow UP! We want honest cooperation.” I’ve never seen so many people with quite worrying mental difficulties. If one is to believe what’s coming out of their mouths they’re suffering from a sort of political autism (def: ‘an abnormal absorption with the self; marked by communication disorders and short attention span and inability to treat others as people’); a defendant in the dock who’s quite unaware he’s lying through his teeth to get a result even when it’s blatantly obvious to everyone else. It’s the expenses scandal all over again only this time it’s about the fundamental honesty of political rhetoric. It looks like none of the three major parties in any permutation can construct a majority so maybe the single Green in Brighton will hold the balance of power. And all the queues at polling stations due to ‘the surprisingly high student turnout.’ Hasn’t anyone told them any self-respecting student doesn’t go out before 10? To get the student vote you have to open 12 till 2 like Late Shopper. And preferably serve beer, fags and munchies. And a banana. (balanced diet) So as the [X] Factor of politics rumbles to the end of its tediously long season Nick comes third (like everyone thought Will Young would come second), Cameron comes first (like everyone thought Gareth Gates would), and the winner (like everyone knows is Simon Cowel) is Jeremy Paxman. Result.

Allowance for Job Seekers.

So lads tell me about yourselves. 

“I’ve got 5 GCSEs, one A, 2 B’s and a C; 3 A levels in English, media and political studies, and a degree in Media Management.”

“I’m the same with a degree in Environmental Studies.”

OK. Are you good with your hands? They smirk.

“How do you mean?”

Well mechanics, gardening, building, electrics, that sort of thing?

“I went on a field trip once and grew some tomatoes.”

And you?

“No.”

So what have you learned to do?

“Well I learned about running a recording studio.”

Oh you’re musical?

“No.”

You mean the technical side?

“No.”

Oh you mean accounts, scheduling, invoices, VAT and stuff?

“No accountants do that sort of thing.”

Oh, so what does a manager do?

“Der, he manages. He talks to the acts, makes sure everything’s alright and everyone’s doing what they should be doing. You know, managing.”

And what have you learned to do?

“It’s like our environment is very important and people should be very aware of it.”

But what have you learnt to do?

 “Well make people aware of our environment and how important it is.”

And how do you do that?

“Well you make people aware…”

Hold on, I know that. What have you actually learned to do on your degree course?

“Oh the course, oh education these days is not about producing factory fodder. We’re not trained to do ‘a’ job as such. It’s about, well it’s about education.”

Education is about education?

“Ye right.”

OK I understand now. Well I can’t offer you a job as such but I do have an opening for farm labourers. They usually know loads about nothing useful. Should be right up your street. 

Out the bathroom window.

So now we have a pigeon. Britney brought it in, bad Britney. He/she has lost a few feathers but looks fine. It can’t fly so is in shed and its mate is on roof waiting. It’s got better since yesterday but the better it gets the harder it is to catch. I’m hoping for a full recovery before mate gets a better offer. Last year a young crow was killed on the road. It was really sad to see parents morning their loss, cawing and very upset. Britney usually brings birds in alive so I have to catch them in the middle of the night and release them out of the bathroom window. 3 or 4 last year. Domino being a farm cat eats what he catches. Dave having only one eye can’t catch anything but will steal what the others bring in if he gets an opportunity. Betty doesn’t catch anything on account of she’s a girly girl airhead. We’re thinking of getting some chickens, which poses a question; who wins between a cat and a chicken? I’m thinking the chicken, but then knowing Britney I’ll probably find it in the bedroom in the early hours. There you go, the election is nearly over. George Osborn better not come in our garden; he’d be cowering under the dressing table in no time. And if I find him I’ll throw him out of the bathroom window. It worked for the others.

Psychotic Group Collusion.

I’ve started several blogs lately only for them to collapse into descriptions of economic misery or political malaise. OK it’s the election and our overdraft but there’s something behind it all, a prime mover behind the direction we’re travelling. It’s to do with ‘normalise’. The CIA called it ‘group think’ and my term for it is ‘Psychotic Group Collusion.’ Our brain is our inner isolated reflector of our environment. It has no absolute references; it simply makes itself up by ongoing conjecture. As a major part of our environment is other people and their conjectures we create between us a zeitgeist, a sea of mutually dependant conjectures. We have the facility to ‘all go mad together’, hence PGC. And more importantly, we have precious little capacity to realise it’s happening. The CIA convinced themselves there were WMDs, and our children are normalising the behaviour they see on television. Our politicians are all normalised to the ambience of parliament and the city is normalised to big bonuses. This normalisation process continues with time in all groups from family to whole societies. It is and has been occurring to our democracy and capitalism just as it did to socialism and communism. The Berlin wall didn’t fall because of a fault in communism but because communism had normalised communism out of communism. The name remained as the process changed. We still have a House of Commons when there are no commoners left in it, only professional politicians. Similarly capitalism, established to bring workers and capital together to utilise both effectively is now skewed towards capital chasing capital growth chasing capital, and excluding the vast majority of the population. Last year a few hedge fund traders in the US earned over $3 billion each, not from industry, or manufacturing or employing anybody, just simply trading. Our current normalised awareness of currency is not as promissory notes to enable fair exchange but purely as numbers that can be diverted into and from bank accounts by those smart enough to invent new ways of doing it. In fact they’re not even that smart, they just belong to a small group normalised to know how to and believe what they’re doing has no wider consequences other than to make them obscenely wealthy. Perhaps the Greeks are right to revolt against this normalised unfairness. But then we who are normalised to it will think they’re being unreasonable, even trying to bring down capitalism itself. But when there is precious little capitalism left in capitalism they may have a point.

Face of Technology.

Well last night Mothermouse was dealing with an earthquake and I got shot twice. We both coped well and survived till morning. That last earthquake we had I just thought the cat had jumped on the bed. Dave is a big cat to be fare. So dreams and perception are often not useful for coming to grips with reality. Most of our conclusions are made before they even reach our conscious awareness. The ‘I’ that I think I am is apparently half a second behind the man who makes all the decisions, whoever he is. Watching a gorilla with my 2 and 7 your olds years ago, the moment it threw itself at the glass parental care went out the window and a loud internal voice shouted, “Kick ‘em out the way and RUN Stiffy RUN!” But half a second later I did go back and pick them up. Now I don’t have a picture of that gorilla but I’ve hundreds of pictures on my computer going back to 1900 of holidays, parents and grandparents and stuff. I use Picasa from Google to organise them, which is really good. A week or so back I opened it and noticed top left was a folder entitled ‘People. Un-named, 2,805.’ Strange I thought. So I clicked on it and up came 2,805 perfect mug shots gleaned from all my photos. Along with family and friends were faces of the long since dead, passers by, the complete Methodist Church choir of 1907, Lady Gaga on a T shirt and a doll in a Greek shop window,  all perfectly framed like passports; all snipped out without me even knowing and placed on file. It came as quite a shock. All I can say is it’s a good job the powers that be don’t have this sort of technology.