Jimmy's error.

So Allan Carr made a ‘terrible error of judgement’ trying to avoid paying tax. Actually when I looked him up on the net Allen Carr was the guru of giving up smoking and died of lung cancer in 2006 and thus not concerned with his tax position. Jimmy Carr on the other hand is. It doesn’t surprise me. Though comedic his snappy dresser sneering style has always struck me as ‘fuck you society.’ But I can’t blame him for his error. This is how it goes. You find through some freak of circumstance the holder of ever-larger paychecks. You spurn your local accountant, Ivor Calclator, for a larger firm, KPMFISSG who as part of their comprehensive tax planning service puts you in contact with pension consultants, investment brokers, sellers of forestry and planners of off-off shore arrangements in such places as Lilliput and Gormangast. These planners arrange for your money to not go to you; that would incur huge amounts of tax paying, but to a small office in Jersey that is the commercial address of a company in Liechtenstein who make absolutely nothing. They stress that this has to be ‘at arms length’ to avoid said tax and that you can trust them completely. You being a comedian, musician or other creative having not a clue about that which they are talking are engaged in their rapture as to the efficiency of the scheme and agree. Thus armed with a pension, which after yearly fees and commissions are taken off will reduce a six figure contribution into a four figure annuity, half a forested glen near Loch Alch and an unwritten agreement with a man in a lovely suit who you’re unlikely to see again. Yes Jimmy Carr probably did make a terrible error of judgment. He tried to avoid paying tax.

Golden Rule.

Gunnie Reagan, the core of the ancient wisdom behind the Mettis Medicine Society, is at last posting teachings from their manuals on Face Book, presumable for the evaluation of a broader public. It’s a move I heartily endorse. As this ‘Warrior’s Golden Rule’ suggests, it will be met with love, ridicule or indifference but at least will be tested for worth against the wider wisdoms of the world. For example I can imagine any drug dealer worth his salt heartily agreeing he’s the living embodiment of Gunnie’s Warrior’s Rule, that, “I do whatever I want to do and take full responsibility for my actions. I do this because this is who I am.” If you’re going to write a warrior rule at least write one that won’t make Tony Blair feel proud about himself! I believe I know what Gunnie’s got in mind but given the average person’s capacity for self-deception his rule could mean all things to all men, and given his implicit assumption, that as warriors “no matter how impeccable our behaviour, no matter how clear our intent we will experience one or all the following responses from others,” could, if one wasn’t scrupulously self critical, provide one’s ego with a field day. It could simply provide a wonderful opportunity to justify feel good about whatever you feel like doing, and as ‘I’m an impeccable and clear of intent warrior’ you must be a prat for trying to arrest me. This isn’t a good thing. The problem with pithy sayings with diagrams is that everyone will interpret them in the way that will give them most comfort. This will cause you to be revered and greatly appreciated for your generosity and wisdom, but the comfort you bestow can easily be the harmful antithesis of wisdom. And even assuming Gunnie’s impeccability and clarity of intent he could have done a better job of the wording. It really is open to misinterpretation. His rule has five ‘I’s and not one of them refers to my responsibility to others. So long as I am who I am, I do what I want and I’m responsible for it, then you can go fuck yourself. It neatly avoids the tricky discipline of being in context. It reminds me of a Tom Lehrer lyric, “I just make them go up, who cares where they come down. That’s not my department say Werner Von Braun.”

We won didn't we?

We won! Though according to Mark Lawrenson the result was only down to England being slightly less good at losing than Sweden. Ninety minutes of listening to Mark is as depressing as being water boarded in Abu Grabe. If racism needs to be booted out of football then surely Mark, by denigrating every action of the whole human race to the point that a permanent vegetative state would seem like a blessed relief, deservers to be expelled by a well primed cannon over the hoop of Wembley Stadium. If it had ever entered my mind to be excited by the many glorious things one can do with a football I imagine I would feel humiliated. Mark along with the other ex-players in the studio appear to view the meagre efforts of my TV screen’s little running-about-ers as Christ would say, “Forgive them Father for they no not what they do.” I on the other hand am constantly amazed at their feats of athleticism and artistry compared with my personal benchmark of running about in painful boots round a muddy field to no avail. There are three sorts of people one should never ask the opinions of; ex players, pundits and non players. It’s true for any discipline with the possible exception of politics. Ex politicians, free of their previous two-faced hypocritical manoeuvring context, often begin to talk sense again. Ex players compare you with the glorious perfection of their own game, forgetting they only achieved it 0.001% of the time, pundits are like ex players but who’ve never actually played, and non-players compare you with any old bollocks their fatuous mind happens to be filled with. It’s not for nothing that it was 1966 that we last won the world cup 4-2 from West Germany, (thank you Wikipedia) forty years on from John Logie Beard’s invention of television. (I know, it’s a joke) Forty years in which to inculcate in the British public the tenets of punditry where opinion is more important than actually doing anything. There is a discrete line between the slander and rapture of the Brazilian public’s response to their team’s efforts and our own. We expect the perfection of the ex players, we overlook the inconvenient reality that punditry never addresses and most of us apply any old bollocks as we aren’t either of the other two. This has had a bad effect on our little running-about-ers who’re actually, lest we forget, simply trying to kick a ball about and win games. We are 100% behind our players- with a knife. We must learn it isn’t helpful to cheer on our lads by shouting, “Come on you lazy good for nothing overpaid ignorant racist pansies, we’ll snap your metatarsals if you don’t win every game 4-2 like you did when we actually supported you properly.”

A Therapist's Dilemma.

Last month’s ethical dilemma in Therapy today, “Therapist T suggests her supervisor S to a friend F for therapy because F’s problem matches S’s area of expertise. Fine until T falls out with F and she becomes worried what F might tell T’s supervisor S about her, which S can’t tell T about because of client confidentiality. T is thus concerned and is wondering what to do.” Ain’t life wonderful. Several therapists supplied answers all using the same magic word, ‘boundaries’, which if strictly applied would probably mean none of them would ever speak to each other again. I would like to take a different tack. What are the assumptions at play here? T was obviously initially happy to assume if her then friend F happened to mention to S what a jolly good sort she was it wouldn’t in the least affect her supervision with S. But now T, having fallen out with F, assumes F will talk dirty to S about T, which definitely will affect T’s relationship with S. T also assumes S will believe every word F says and thus consider T a bad person, probably because of the cat strangling incident. Hence T, as well as assuming her ex friend F is a two faced, flighty bitch also assumes S is a gullible dimwit. She also assumes if F does let the cat out of the bag with S, which T was so careful to disposed of in the canal, it was previously OK for her to keep all her other misdemeanours away from the light of day and the ears of here supervisor. And if T’s assumptions were correct S and F would this very moment be arranging her train ticket to Coventry. I have to say ethically that sounds like a good idea.

Me Lesbian Writer.

Apparently there’s such a dearth of lesbian writers under the age of thirty-five that the LGTB Green Goblet Prize for first novels is up for grabs. It’s just been on Woman’s Hour and I may not have remembered the details correctly but I do regularly listen to Woman’s Hour, which I believe shows some trans-gender credentials. Then again having a totally unfounded confidence in achieving the impossible is a male trait and may count against me. But I do like writing. So why no young lesbian writers when the ranks of gay guys coming out of the closet suggests its internal dimensions are that of a Tardis? Gok Wok for example, fashion guru turned cook turned slimmer of the year turned whatever his manager thinks he can turn to next is taking over the tele-visual world like an Islamic terrorist on a Fatwa. So where are all the lesbians? I mean other than on Woman’s Hour bleating about a prize they can’t give away because no one can get off their fat arse and write a book? Isn’t this, as in the days of your, a perfect opportunity for a noble knight to ride in on his white charger and save the damsels in distress? But ‘oh no yea trousered one, we do the woodwork now.’ Well let me tell you I was wearing them before you were knee high to a transvestite. It was those of my ilk you got the idea from in the first place, before you ungraciously cut us out of the loop. Well I can sew; I’ve made a cushion cover! True I can’t have babies but I’ve installed a central heating system, in fact three come to think of it. And I didn’t do them lying in a comfy bed! No sod it, sod RSI, I’m going for that prize, I can do it. I will go to the ball as an under thirty-five lesbian! If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my wonderful lesbian and gay friends it’s that the sooner we grow out of old stereotypes the better.

You Slag!

It’s a milestone Family Pie, so called because half is southern and unaccustomed to sounding the ‘t’ in party. A milestone because Tommouse is coming with his new girlfriend, Emma, for the first time. (I muse whether I’m Jim or the flaky grandma; in The Royal Family) Either way we’re all on our best behaviour to give Tommouse the best chance of maintaining his relationship and thus lightening our burden. Mothermouse magics up a wonderful table of tastes, we eat and drink and move on to phase two, games. Having done Playback the night before I’ve come armed with a new one to play that we did in warm-up, ‘Eastenders Slag Off.’ You form a circle and pass around being ‘it’ by turning either left or right and vehemently saying, “Shut it!” in true Eastenders fashion to the next person. If at any time you want to jump to someone on the other side of the circle you engage their attention with two pointy fingers and shout, “You slag!” They are then ‘it’ and can return it back by doing the same with enhanced conviction, “YOU SLAG!”. To avoid this developing into an acrimonious impasse either one can conclude it by shouting, “Get out of my pub!” so the other must then revert to telling an adjacent person to, “Shut it!” and so on. In the proper game people drop out through hesitation or getting it wrong but we didn’t get that far. All went well to begin with as most of us are family and enjoyed the permission to joyfully and energetically slag each other off. The turn then comes to Martynmouse from Mothermouse telling him to “shut it.” He gets confused and in return tells Mothermouse to get out of his pub which then totally confuses Mothermouse who, in full on vehemence points across the circle and shouts “You Slag” with full force family finger pointing to, Emma. Mothermouse then realises she has just called Tommouse’s new love on her first visit to meet the family a slag and collapses in shame. Emma laughed but I think Mothermouse will be scared for life, especially as we’ll never let her forget it.