BrilliantSteve's last Lesson.

So to BrilliantSteve’s last workshop- Clowning. First half an hour doing stupid games during which BS, no pun intended, heartily berated our inability to do the simplest things. Very funny. No really. This culminated in us each saying in turn, “I’m (our name) Stiffmouse and I’m really stupid.” As BS is too young to have spent time in a Japanese prisoner of war camp I assumed this was theatre school stuff. It was fascinating how we each said ‘really’. Maybe only a subservient adverb but redolent with inflection, which ranged from meaning ‘very’ to ‘I'm not sure if I'm…’ to ‘I’m not stupid but I’m really trying to say I am’, to in my case, “I am intelligent but at some level I’m really..” It was the unavoidable honesty of each minute inflection that is the centre of clowning. It’s as if we are only real when caught off guard and the rest of the time we’re in some play of our own construction. Yet again Shakespeare, the iambic pentameter Elizabethan rapper, keeps it real. We moved into pairs. One said expectantly, “I hear you know all the moves”, the other answered yes. The first gave encouragement as the second, thus encouraged, showed his moves. As ‘moves’ is not particularly explicit only conviction is necessary to get even more encouragement. This was a truly wonderful experience. My inner child was ecstatic; just like my first success at peeing on a potty, before the long trek downhill to rightful trying at the hands of reprimand. I really shone at ‘bottoms out’ and ‘sideways’. And then came clowning. The clown is visceral. We find him funny because we experience the delight of knowing our true self still exists however long forgotten; that visceral presence of truly being who we are, our essential laughter. It’s very difficult to find one’s clown place. One is disarmed of the constant checks and balances of one’s contrived existence. One exhibits shame, confusion, wonder and unknowing with the beautiful vivacity that’s only allowable under the constant conviction of one's ultimate success and its approbation. It’s not easy but it’s well worth the trying. And never underestimate the power of joyous encouragement.

Science vs God.

So Richard Dawkins took on the Archbishop of Canterbury in an all out fist fight over God or the third law of thermodynamics; the one that says you can’t get something for nothing. Whether getting 50% off in a DFS sofa sale constitutes getting the right hand end for nothing is still disputed. The A of C does have a point that the universe does actually exist but post Matrix viewers might even dispute that, and Dawkins construction of God not being within the concepts of science is a bit like saying there are no bits of apple in this banana so apples don’t exist. Somewhat graciously though the A of C doesn’t attempt to say science doesn’t exist; that would just be tit for tat ‘my dad’s bigger than your dad’. But perhaps he should. Science might describe an apple but it isn’t an apple. No part of science is an apple, or a badger, or a badger eating an apple. Science might describe the universe and how it came into existence but doesn’t consider why it did. They might agree on evolution but why exactly has evolution happened? I mean we’re all keen on thinking humans are the Lady Gaga of our animal cousins but put one of us in the environment of a tadpole for a month and I’d put good money on the tadpole being the fittest survivor. It seems to me science is the one avenue of human endeavour that is attempting to prove that God does exist while many religions in their very humanoid paranoia are making a good job of proving it doesn’t. I use the impersonal pronoun ‘it’ in favour of the ‘he’ and ‘him’ and father etc because it reduces the possibility of deep shame when we find God was intending its message for stoats. Imagine the pain of suicide bombers finding their hundred virgins turned out to be short tailed weasels. (Mustela erminea) That would be really disappointing.

Don't go to Exeter.

Well Exeter City council have fined nearly 1,000 smokers £100,000 in the last two years for throwing cigarette butts away. Apparently they spend £1m a year cleaning up after smokers. One can only assume it’s because butts are so hard to find. One man was fined for dropping a £10 note. Now technically is a £10 note litter? I mean if your newly purchased laptop happened to slip from your grasp on your way home would you expect to pay £75 for it hitting the pavement? I don’t think so. Or if your shoe fell off. “Excuse me sir I’m afraid I must give you an on the spot fine for that.” But it just slipped off! “ Yes but technically you left something belonging to you on the pavement and that constitutes a prima facia case of littering. You can take it to court but that will cost you (takes calculator out) a lot more.” You try to put your shoe back on. “Sorry sir that is now evidence, I have to keep it.” You protest that arriving at your imminent interview in one shoe won’t impress, and in an effort to grab it knock the guy over. He, bleeding, contacts the police who arrest you for GBH on an officer of the council with a likely sentence of 2 to 4 years. In court you explain your shoe just fell off but the prosecuting council suggested this must have been a flagrant act of provocation because shoes don’t just fall off, and might it not be that you were deliberately attempting to murder said official because of some mental health issue? After being interviewed by the psychiatric expert witness he confirms that view and you’re banged up in Rampton on attempted murder due to insanity. Just be grateful your trousers didn’t fall down, you’d be prosecuted for littering, indecent exposure and probably paedophilia if there was a kid nearby. 

Ah Memories.

My youngest mouse and I were comparing notes on memory. We don’t have one. Yesteryear is a foreign land to us, it’s a flaw in the mouse genome. Another flaw is that we’ll consider even flaws in a good light. Yes not having a good memory is a positive boon. In fact all a good memory does is provide a fertile foundation for boredom and frustration, the sign of a misspent life. For us the Dave channel is a fabulous platform for new talent, with Yes Minister beautifully depicting David Cameron’s comedy cock-ups. For us everything is new. “Who are you, I’m your wife, wow really you’re gorgeous, thanks.” Bacon. I don’t know how many times I’ve had bacon but every time it’s like wow this is tasty. I mean if I could remember stuff I’d be bored with it, not bloody cauliflower cheese again! I must admit though shopping is a problem. I can go to Tesco’s for three things, I count them on my fingers as I set out, three fingers, three things. And then in the shop I’m minutes staring at this third finger trying to remember what it was for. It’s a finger, it didn’t tell me anything! So it’s lists. Lists tell me everything, except for the times I go down stairs not thinking a list is necessary and wander about wondering why I came. On the rare occasions I go singing if I don’t make a set list I can’t remember anything I can play. Lyrics were a problem until I realised you can mouthfully emote any selection of vowels and consonants like on Countdown and fool most of the people most of the time. Mustang Sally you must get right, Mustang Brenda will get funny looks, but for the rest, “yoomb glepp a blow mow Mustang brown” is fine. So all you insurance salesmen out there who can remember everyone’s name right down to siblings and pets, get a life. Memory just clutters up your ability to think straight.

Call the Midwife.

Grace Dent, (Guardian Guide) this time you’ve gone too far. She dismissed ‘Call the Midwife’ as not her cup of tea. Well Ms Dent, she of 1930’s mega bust and a cottage loaf filamentous structure characteristically grown on the epidermis of a mammal, (hair) ‘Call the Midwife’ is the best thing on tele since Sherlock and before the Moto GP seasons starts! All its characters are real, inhabiting a spectrum from youthful fun and indecision to adult wisdom and dementia, not unlike myself. Based on a beautiful book, I’ve seen a copy, it looks nice, about real people by a real person it’s, well real. So if it’s not your cup of tea dear I pity your uterus. After turning over from ‘Lets all Dance pathetically to get our face on tele for Sport Relief’ it was a welcome and much needed affirmation that we’re not all pitiable hapless OMG adolescents. I mean what do they pump over the studio audience, gas and air? And that somebody Lemon! He’s as fixated on his poo and wee as a six month old. He should have grown out of it by his first birthday, not made a TV career out of it. OK I compared genitalia with the girl across the road when we were five but that was genuine curiosity, it was science. Later it was biology but that’s not the point. No, Call the Midwife is mega; Charlie Brooker would have liked it.

The Truth is.

As the Greek bailout is now appearing to be a German protectionist policy things are not always how they seem. When asked an analyst suggested German companies diversify into Mediterranean tourism if Greece defaults. The reason being Greek currency will fall and create a boom in their economy; Italy, Spain and Portugal will have to follow to protect their tourism. That will leave German currency high and dry and too expensive causing their economy to stall, far better to keep them afloat and collect their interest payments for years to come. And on this theme of not as it seems who can forget Argentina’s 6:0 win over Peru in the World Cup semi-final of 1978. Well everybody who has a life, but that’s not the point. Yes those plucky Argentinean boys pulled out all the stops to pummel the Peruvian pansies knowing they must win by four clear goals to stop Brazil getting in the final. It must have been a nail biting match. Well yes for the world population minus say fifty. Apparently Argentina called in a favour from their neighbours as a quid-pro-quo for handing over a number of political dissidents. FIFA know about it but would rather let this can of worms lie in case it proved to be the tip of an iceberg. Germany’s win over the Netherlands in ’74 obviously stopped an invasion, and Spain’s win in 2010 was compensation for their poor showing in the Eurovision Song Contest. Even Uruguay, the first to win the World Cup in 1930 only won at home because nobody knew where it was and Argentina came second because they did. But the Sun on Sunday’s coming out next week and we can trust Murdock to get to the truth. 

Matriarchal Money.

I do like Freecycle, it saves all that faff of putting an add in the local purple pages, and it brings out the nice side of people. First to go was my old red office chair, a constant friend and support to my bottom for many years. It began with a somewhat slow gentleman ringing to say he wanted it. Strangely every instruction I gave him, directions and stuff, he repeated very loudly. He then explained he had to shout them to his wife because she couldn’t use the phone but she had sent the e-mail and could use the compute and he couldn’t. They arrived and his wife said the chair was just right because she could easily whip up a cover for the threadbare seat so they left happy with their zero purchase. The next was a chap for the still new-in-the-box car cassette radio. Unfortunately the car died shortly after the implant some ten years ago. He was a bit snatchy for my liking but pleasant and thankful enough. Later an attractive young lady of Asian decent came to pick up Mothermouse’s old printer. There were mixed emotions here. There was some doubt about its functioning and she gratefully gave me a bag of Lint chocolates. I was both touched and under a cloud of possible remorse until much later we remembered it was working it just didn’t work with Windows 7. The next day two fortunately strong lads arrived to take my old 28” Sony TV from the attic leaving enough space to set up a table-tennis table. Again I noticed guys are of the ‘thanks mate, gone’ persuasion where women are more appreciative and happy to spend a moment chatting about hearing impairment and cushion covers. So in some way I’ve yet to fathom Freecycle points to a new more matriarchal economy based on a currency of mutual gratitude. It feels so much nicer than pounds, shillings and pence.

So Good Yesterday.

So yesterday I received a replacement keyboard for Daughtermouse’s Dell laptop. £13.45 off Amazon. Four screw, a bit of pinging off a cover, fiddling with a ribbon connector and good as new. It was going to be a good day. Then my new flat screen TV arrived from ebuyer. Even better. I’d deliberated long and hard over outing my 28” Sony Trinitron, it’s been so useful. It would seat four as a glass topped garden table, stop an Afgan Wolfhound from wandering and formed the centre of my fitness regime lifting it and moving it about. But time marches on and LEDs grow ever brighter. It’s a modest 22” for bed-watching and it will fit neatly in a cupboard once I take the door off. I cut open the cardboard box, take off the poly foam inner, lift out the unit and slide it out of its protective sheath. Excitement mounts, only the slightly adhesive film covering the screen to go. I fit the stand, apply the mains lead and modify the aerial cable to this new position. Batteries in remote; check, red light on set; check. Ready to go. I reminisce about my old Sony to relieve the tension. It was originally my sons at university and he’s thirty-five now, what’s that, sixteen years old. Wow that's around 1996, technology has advanced so much since then. This has HDMI, USB, PAL, NTSC, even a SCART, it’s lovely. I breath and press ‘on’. It asks me questions, I finger the remote, it begins to tune itself, slowly drawing a line of progress across the screen, and after several minutes it finally and proudly displays its first program. 'Top Gear.' (circa 1996)

Get your Wisdom Here.

I just love offering advice. There’s nothing more enjoyable than being asked by some poor soul lost and disarmed by confusion what they should do. I can instantly feel a red neon light blinking into life proclaiming, “Get your Wisdom Here.” I immediately thumb through my book of life and give them, no sorry, humbly offer them condensed gems of things to consider, things they may have overlooked, strategies and methodologies to become stronger, lighter, more enlightened, like me. Yes there’s something quite appealing about being the font of wisdom. For a start it makes me feel good about myself, that I have progressed further than the average human being and I’m now in a position to, what do they say these days, oh yes, give something back. It doesn’t require any effort either, I just open my mouth and out it flows. And, well I don’t like to think of myself as being on any kind of pedestal but giving advice does engender so much respect and admiration, I might even say reverence in those open enough to listen. I mean it’s no use talking to stupid people who just won’t listen is it. And people are so much more agreeable when they agree with me once I’ve got them thinking the way I do. It’s just win win win. So to end let me leave you with some jolly useful advice. Don’t fucking listen to a word I say. 

Our elegance.

Three sets of ‘player’ neurons in the hippocampus plot three-dimensional space by each set imposing a 2D triangular grid on it. The result of superimposing these three grids creates a 3D mesh on which to plot our 3D environment. It is a beautifully elegant solution, just one example of how our brain configures simple neurons to achieve complex tasks. Other neurons fire according to our head position so the eye view can orientate to the body. In fact the whole brain/body system is breathtakingly elegant. It should be, it’s been many millions of years in development. But that kind of misses the point. I mean Windows in its short existence has become more complex and overblown, and far less elegant. The constant imperative in human development has been to achieve the most from the least in order to aid survival, quite different to the imperatives of Microsoft. This level of co-integration of mind, body, senses, muscle and nerves is to aid survival yet lately the human race has, in its emphasis on imaginative cognition, lost sight of this. Quite suddenly in this context of eons we have invented alternatives to elegance. We have begun to ‘believe’ all manner of alternative survival strategies such as fame, wealth, power, corruption and influence. We believe in indulgent eating, drugs and alcohol etc, spirits, Gods and magical powers; we believe we have cracked it. We believe that our extra cognitive powers have levered us to a position of supremacy over other animals; we’re a class apart. In the absolute evidence that all these routes lead to decay we persist. We are playing a dangerous game; evolution doesn’t owe us anything. In this Valentine’s Day there is much talk of love because money is beginning to fail us. Personally I would like to return to the supreme elegance that has made us and that we embody so amazingly.

SZR Feelings.

Dorothy and James now happily possess an MOT for another year. They and I become understandable nervous about their yearly check up. James’s psychosomatic stress for example brought on speedo failure a week before it and Dorothy though outwardly fit and healthy shed a CV joint boot clip. It’s all yet another subtle example of the arrogance of the human race in believing only we have feelings. Not so. Everything responds to fatigue and age in a similar way and to loving care and attention. My Yamaha SZR though never christened with a name goes merrily to hers and passes every time, a product no doubt of our love for each other. Being born in 1997 she’s now fifteen, which means next year after rowing with Mothermouse I’ll be able to flounce out with, “Screw you I’m spending the weekend with a sixteen year old!” Well I’ll enjoy it, until that is, she goes off and has under age sex with a sun bed. And ‘Sun-Dried-Tomato’, Woodseats premier tanning salon, will find three bulbs have blown for no apparent reason. No, everything has feelings. My ancient 28” Sony Trinitron for example, the size of a table and four chairs, is struggling on like a cantankerous ninety year old in a care home knowing that to show any slight infirmity will end in the crematorium. And if these inanimate mechanicals emote in these ways think of plants and animals. They’re brimming with emotions once we notice them. Our cat Domino for example is Dimitar Berbatov, slow, deliberate yet with a deep yearning for love that makes him mark his territory with smelly pee. Domino that is not Dimitar. So it’s true, we’re all in the tender arms of our loving recycler, destined to strut and shuffle this mortal coil till our on/off switch goes faulty. 

Maastricht Degrees.

Yeseee! You can now do a degree at Masstricht Universuty for £1,500 a year fees, a discount of 83% on UK FE. That’s £4,500 instead of £27,000 or a new Jaguar for the price of a second hand Citroen Picasso. Or putting it another way why pay the government’s youth extortion system the price of a new Jaguar for a second hand Citroen? Hopefully this is the tip of the iceberg and our youth will soon be travelling all over the world for their degrees thus depriving our government’s capacity to loan them enough money to sustain our economy. Empty halls of residence will make perfect homes for the hapless homeless, bankrupt landlords will release numerous houses to first time buyers and the middle class experts in their field will find that what they’ve been teaching for the past twenty years is grossly out of date. I dipped into the Edexcel website yesterday to find the criteria for the GCSE Maths and English syllabuses. They both contain literally hundreds of criteria items that a teacher must mark and keep track of to arrive at a student’s grade. A maths GCSE course requires, for a class of 30, nearly 8,000 marks to be taken down and manipulated. The bureaucracy is so appalling it must take at least a day a week to account for what you did in the other four. Its focus on minutia is like my friend giving me directions to Leicester: it took him 20 minutes of talking to get to the end of the street by which time I’d decided just drive around looking for road signs would be quicker. It’s QC gone mad, it’s crazy. Just do stuff and you’ll learn stuff, it’s not rocket science.

Taking the Piss

What indicators might one draw on a graph to help justify the rises in boardroom pay? I mean they live in the same world as everyone else and subject to the same constraints, so lets have a go over a ten year period..

Time: They may work longer so lets say 20%.

Capability: I doubt capability grows much but lets be generous, say 10%

Inflation: At 2% pa that 19%.

Footsy index: Well it’s gone up and down but it’s near where it was, 0%

Profitability: Very individual but overall it’s fairly stagnant, 0%.

Share holder income: Say 2% pa, again around 20%.

Workers pay: Again around 20%

So over ten years these average out at around 16%

OK in this time boardroom pay has increased by around 13% pa, so through the miracle of compound interest it has grown to 300% of its start point.

So irrespective of amounts this growth cannot be justified by any relevant criteria. It’s simply a case of if you can choose your own pay rise you’ll make it a big one.
Oops drawn it wrong. Lines should go through 100% not zero. Still due to the absurdity of the situation it makes f all difference.

Islamic Democracy.

So Tunisia is heading towards an Islamic democracy. It’s funny how we can accept the welding together of two conflicting concepts by just writing them next to each other in a sentence. Lets create a totalitarian meat pie for instance. Islam or any religion for that matter is in essence a dictatorship, what God says goes. God says wear a kebab and it’s ‘end of, speak to the paw sister.’ That’s why I’ve always fancied being God. Democracy on the other hand includes endless debates about where we should build a bypass round the third London airport. Yes it’s longwinded but it’s answerable to the people, and should your vengeful ex wife renege on your agreement vis the driver of a ten year old speeding fine you’ll be out of office by the end of the week. Conversely a religion is answerable to a deity who might for instance demand you wear a meat sandwich. So who is an Islamic democracy answerable to? Obviously those with the best wifi connection to religious conviction. So an Islamic democracy will have Islamic parties and possibly secular ones. Now once an Islamic party comes to power and, due to the vagaries of the democratic process, gets voted out in favour of a secular one what should they do? I mean with God on their side they’re hardly likely to devolve his almighty power to a bunch of agno upstarts who will just make things up as they go along. No God will dictate, or at least heavily suggest, that for the good of the country, the human race, the world and his kingdom they must resist this evil change, and, as the government has one army more than the people, they’ll win, if not in the game, on penalties because a modern well equipped fighting force is equal to Schmeichel in goal compared with an empty net at the other end. No, once they’re in they’ll stay in like Gaddafi. The only choice will be Islam or hyper Islam and it’s a good bet the latter will win. So here’s a message from God. ‘Observe the lilies of the field, they neither reap nor form Islamic democracies.

Acting Reality.

I’m currently doing acting workshops on Saturday afternoons 2 till 5 by Brilliantsteve. Brilliantsteve is a young whipper-snapper who doesn’t get any wider from his feet up, apart from his eyes, which seem like searchlights looking for planes. He is a beaver herding carthorses. His blissful unawareness that fetlocks get creaky and brains get slow from years in yokes makes us all regress to foals. The wonderful thing about thespians, which has to be an opening line from a Poo poem, is that they take care of each other, because basically acting is a marshal art for egos. By the strangest of paradoxes playing ourselves can become so hackneyed we sleepwalk through the role but playing another character requires such attention that acting becomes the greater reality. This week we are doing balance and imbalance. These are jolts in expectation; those moment when the dream of a fried egg sandwich is broken, like the egg, by the smell of Hydrogen sulphide. Our balanced trance is upended by recalcitrant reality and by fair means or foul we must make the best of it. When, for example we played a person welcoming but being ignored by a passing person Jo showed an understandable humiliation where as Maggie showed all the signs of an unspoken, “that bitch just blanked me!” We began simply by playing ‘when it’s your turn to say your name you forget where or who you are’, which I have to say I found surprisingly easy. After a good friend advised me on entering therapy training to, “forget expectations, just take yourself”, forgetting who and where I am have become all together too enjoyable, sometimes worryingly so. The upshot of all this ‘acting’ is proving our bodies speak louder than words, that the merest muscular inflection purveys some truth louder than our mealy mouths could ever hope to. Jo for example proved to be an amazing neck actress, an anatomical subsection I’d previously overlooked, but in the hands of a master, a remarkable expresser of numerous fleeting emotions. So do come along next week, Brilliantsteve is doing improvisation. Now what’s my…. Oh yes Stiffmouse.

Married 2 God.

In case you missed it last night, the Devadasi are Hindu girls married to God at puberty. Now on the face of it that sounds like nuns but you couldn’t be more wrong. These Devadasi girls being husbanded by a deity become the head of their own household and are afforded the rights of men in Hindu society. In a sense they are super feminists but that doesn’t get to the heart of it either. They’re prostitutes. They’re the coming together of and ancient religion with the oldest profession. Families, particularly mothers dedicate their daughters to God so they can live off their earnings. Now if I was God I’d be well peeved, but what a wonderful example of the distance between deity and humanity, of how our natural inclination is to contort religion to our own ends. God being as nebulous and speechless as an addled mute is perfectly placed for us to finish off his sentences and know what he would say if he could. This obviously leads to God saying lots of different things to different people so that in the name of peace and love we can “nuke the bastards” ‘cos God says so. There’s an unforeseen consequence if ever there was one. But then aren’t all unforeseen consequences the product of unrecognised intentions. So come on guys’ lets all pimp for our daughters. It’s not about the money, it’s because God says so.  

Ich Glaube Nicht, es.

Okie dokie boys and girls, more euro comedy gold. After the period where the Germans carried money around in water butts and hollowed out hippo carcasses they loved the stable Deutsche Mark. In the seventies even our gov was highly envious compared with our own British Blot. Inflation had been ground into the ground under the DM heel. They didn’t want to give it up for the euro so they insisted the euro have the same fiscal basis as the DM, i.e. DM mark 2. What followed was pure Coronation Street. The Gearmans’ lived in the large end of terrace with garage and central heating, a few had aspirational loft conversions and the rest still had outside loos and Ascot heaters. The Gearmans’ suggested they all go out for a meal together but insisted everyone must have enough money to pay their share. Mrs LoftConversions said, “I’m not getting pushed around by that swanky bitch”, but the Ascot heaters saw it as a possible leg-up in the world. Those who could afford it, France, Austria, Benelux etc were reticent about joining the euro but Spain, Portugal, Greece etc who couldn’t afford it because their tyrannical father had recently died, were hot to trot. Everyone discussed it behind closed doors. The Gearmans’ daren’t voice their opinion that their poorer neighbours couldn’t afford it, the LoftConversions daren’t comment on the Ascots’ propensity to squander money on booze and fags so they all set out for La Splendifico Italianos restaurant of dreams where the Gearmans’ ate seriously, the LoftConversions minded their P’s and Q’s and the Ascots got pissed and insisted on taking seventeen over-ordered meals home in doggy bags. At the end of the evening the bill arrived. And they all said, "I don't believe it!" (Ich Glaube Nicht, es.)