Four's Enough

We have four cats due to Mothermouse’s compulsion; Allen, Harry, Betty and Ruby. The first two play fight like young lads should, the third is a partially demented great aunt and Ruby is a tart with a heart and 7Kgm of sitting power. Allen and Betty are from good homes where Harry and Ruby were rescues. Harry will eat everything and anybodies and get through all sorts of packaging. You’ll never know if you like Lemon Drizzle Cake till you try it, so our microwave is constantly full of items needing protective custody, butter, sausage rolls, Lemon Drizzle Cake, steak and gooseberry crumble. Anyway four is the max we can cope with. So friends of friends are not welcome alright. First it was Big Jinge, an honourable gentleman of the road who Allen had struck up an acquaintance with in the back garden. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’ ‘Oh thanks, yes they’re lovely.’ ‘Any chance of some grub if I hang around?’ So Mothermouse put a bowl out for him. After that his hind quarters could be seen exiting the cat flap when going for a midnight bowl of Muesli. Domino, our ex cat who’d gone to live next door because he never got on with his brother, Dave, who sadly died, also comes round whenever next door doesn’t feed him because they’re young and prone to gallivanting about the country. Another mouth to feed. Then a week or so ago another black and white cat, BW, started hanging around angling for a comfortable squat. One night, Big Jinge and BW, were queueing at the cat flap to beat a hasty retreat. Since then BW has been playing the, ‘Hello Mister, lovely cat I am, knows mi place, no trouble just, you know, down on my luck. Can happen to anybody’ card. Last night he was curled up on a red cushion in the dining room. If cats had a forelock he was touching it. The one thing worth noting is they all get on so well, no this is our gaff bugger off, or this is my bowl of Gourmet, or you’re Ginger, I hate Gingers, or we have a comfortable suburban house and you’re homeless. OK so I’m the one with hang-ups but please don’t invite any more in, we can’t afford the vet bills. And before you ask, yes we do have an electronic cat flap, but Ruby won’t use it because it clicks when she puts her head in it.

Who’s the Racist?

So there’s been a right royal racist controversy between Ms Ngozi Fulani and Lady Suzan Hussey. The three races involved are the English, English royalty and some unnamed equatorial country. Being myself an indigenous English man, white skin, black garb, flat cap etc, I would bristle against royal condescension but understand Lady Hussey at 83 would have certain attitudes. Our conversation might go, ‘Where are you from? / Bolton mam / Really, where’s that? / North Manchester mam/ Lovely. Do you like it there? / Left when I was five mam / Really.’ and she would move on. Her conversation with Ms Fulani went, ‘Where are you from? / Utoxiter mam.’ Lady H, seeing before her a black woman in the bright colours of something like an African national dress, continued, ‘Yes but where are you really from?’ Ms Fulani in a flat denial of her African roots, which we are led to believe she would be rightly proud, continued, ‘I was born here, I’m British.’ This perplexed Lady H so she pursued the matter. This has now become evidence of institutional racism at the heart of our Monarchy. Actually it brings into question whether the status of being an indigenous English man has any meaning whatsoever. My family struggled over at least six generations through wars and the industrial revolution working in cotton mills, continuing a culture formed over 2,000 years. These are the roots I am proud of. Well not all together proud. We English went to America, India and Australia and assumed supremacy over their indigenous people so it’s only coming full circle. I don’t doubt Ms Fulani is a good person but accusing people of institutional racism contains an element of racism in itself. I know many people who deny being racist but few who are not.

George Eustice takes One for the Firm.

Carrying on from Matt, please let me wear long trousers, Hancock, George Eustice, relieved of his duties as Minister for Food and Rural Affairs, is now saying the great trade deal with NZ and Australia he personally delivered is in fact a bad deal. He’s saying he thought so at the time but because of ‘collective responsibility’ he lied through his teeth to Parliament to get ‘any old deal’ in order to make his Brexiteer party look good. This is like going into an Auto Spares shop and asking, “Will this part fit my car?’ The guy says ‘yes’ and you waste a day proving it’s won’t. You take it back fuming and he says, ‘Sorry mate you’ve opened the package, you can’t return it now, it’s company policy.’ This is how the farming industry is feeling right now. The whole idea of ‘collective responsibility’ effectively makes nobody personally responsible. Outside Westminster we have laws to stop this shystering behaviour but apparently not in the Department of Food and Rural Affairs; just change ministers and ‘no harm done’. But it’s one thing selling the wrong Renault Scenic lower control arm and another selling a whole industry down the river. Just like Matt Hancock, it’s more proof that Westminster is in the grip of the corrupting influence of bullying.

Matt Hancock in the Jungle

So Matt Hancock’s in the jungle hoping to prove he’s a decent guy worthy of public forgiveness. Good luck with that. But he is achieving something we should thank him for. We never get a true insider view of the Conservative Party and Parliament, just prepared pieces to camera for general consumption. In the jungle Matt’s become a voluntary POW under the interrogation of a million viewers. Now we know what the enemy’s made of, have a true picture of the toxicity of Westminster. Matt is a version of my fourteen year old self, gawky and ungainly, scrabbling for some understanding of the adult world ahead of me, painfully aware that what I’ve pieced together thus far is insufficient but perplexed by what it is I’m missing. It was a profoundly uncomfortable time. ‘Who am I? What are girls for? What are my beliefs and boundaries? How should I and my face react?’ Etc. That Matt is the same at forty four I put down to schooling and his time at Westminster. So much arrested development is due to bullying, fear and constant uncertainty, but it’s hard being stern with a puppy who can’t understand a word you’re saying. No my anger is squarely aimed at Westminster and the Conservative Party. The whole place is based on bullying. The front benches bully the back benches, the two parties bully each other, and together they bully the country. Their only excuse is, ‘it was ever thus.’ And the result? The whole country is in a state of arrested development! Like Matt Hancock we’re all running round trying to do our best held in a grip of constant confusion, unable to reach our true potential because of politely spoken bullies like JRM. So in a way thanks Matt, your personal exposure might expose a far more important corruption in our political life.

Russia and England.

History’s a long game; imagine walking slowly from say York to Shrewsbury. Adam Curtis’s current documentaries about Russia show an arc of desperation where the leaders have changed from the Tzars to Communism to Oligarchs in the almost city state of Moscow while the populous outside remain steadfastly feudal, knowing life only in the micro joys of hopelessness, hunger and poverty. The central Oprachecs of all three regimes know only the joys of a grossly fat bank account, there is no centre ground. They have created a legality of crime where heads or tails, they win, and have induced in the surf population, like cattle, no capacity to object. Between the late 1800’s and up to 1960’s England needed an educated populous for the industrial revolution and the later wars. Since then teaching has lost its kudos, schools their funding and higher education has been structured to provide ‘future money’ from student loans, and to provide bums on seats, like customers at McDonalds. Only the wealthy gain a ‘recognised’ education and social media replaces educated thinking by popular memes of prejudice masquerading as information. There is thus a growing feudal and often feral ‘outside class’ of ‘the poor’ incapable of effect or paying their gas bills. Above them our UK Oprachecs are spinning so fast their latest PM has only lasted three weeks. Last night one actually stopped for a moment he was so livid. Today Liz Truss made her last U turn to take over Boris Johnson’s holiday let in the Bahamas. OK it’s an exaggeration but I think the UK is taking over the Russian model. What’s super rich is Liz’s budget to cut tax for high tax payers to ‘grow the economy’ was so badly received by the high tax payers of the financial sector. Why? Because they know better than most that reducing tax for high tax payers won’t ‘grow the economy’ at all, just put the country in more debt! They’re not scrabbling round for a tin of beans. Ukraine is beating Russia because Putin’s in Lala Land and the ordinary people of Ukraine have a higher moral than Russia’s ordinary people. It’s the ordinary people that have always grown the economy and won the war given half a chance, not coke snorting city types. Give them tangible hope not handouts.

Putin Bombs Music.

In lockdown I turned to Youtube to improve my music education. People like Rick Beato and Adam Neely are amazing (human) musicians with an honest desire to pass on musical knowledge. They are now both livid (my word) at Universal Music Corporation who police their ownership rights by taking down any video containing snippets of existing players and songs in a Putin-esc land grab for territory. Their weapons are algorithms that analyse audio to spot facsimiles. At college I read textbooks from our long history of scientists and mathematicians daily but as music exists as sound, once it stops there’s nothing, silence. Great players, singers and song writers exist in their performances and without hearing those leaves a huge hole in education. And UMC’s algorithms aren’t perfect either. But Universal Music Corporation has a bank of lawyers and money enough to kill any counter claims, the other weapon in their armoury. Like libel law these two weapons in combination become unchallengeable to lesser mortals. This will become the universal powerlessness of us all. Forget government and the law they’re outdated and hopelessly slow being human based. An algorithm will have you in court quicker than your solicitor can pick up a pen and who’ll likely advise you have zero chance of winning anyway and losing will take everything you own. We humans are already behind the curve and it can only get worse. Aspiring musicians will not be allowed to hear these works in an educational context and without it know only the basic rudiments and create our future music in that fashion. Already current music is unengaging, elevator music’s elevator music and it’s likely future music will be created by algorithms to avoid paying a (human) creator’s royalties. It’s a farcical example of shooting oneself in the foot when the Universal Music Corporation curates the universal death of music. I’m livid too.

The Faustian Pact.

Just been watching Sajid Javid responding to questions on Good Morning. He remained implacable throughout, each answer considered and positive with no trace of emotion. He was a steamroller in its lowest gear flattening the road ahead applying a resolute glaze over whatever lumpy detritus in his path, be it human, animal, vegetable or mineral. To some eyes he might have looked statesmanlike consummately capable of re-framing every question and awkward fact into a pleasant still life of apples and peaches lit by his very own pink spotlight. But there was a giveaway. Still lifes take time to assemble and light appropriately. It’s only one to two seconds, the time of a possibly necessary intake of breath, but you can see it happening if you look closely. The eyes still to a wide open glaze as items are internally rearranged for the right effect, like a deck of cards where every fourth needs to be an ace. Once placed animation returns and the deck played. There is no truth, no real response in the silent placing of cards. One knows the trick, the corruption, but the slight of hand in the mind is never provable. (black is white in certain lights) “If we all just keep saying positive things over and over again with not the slightest hint there is any other truth it will work”, and it will, like nursery rhymes to children. Ask them where did Jack and Jill go? And they will all shout, “up the hill”, and we will smile and say, “Exactly.” But we must never tell them the truth of what we really think. This is the commitment, the bargain. If you can’t you must leave. Of course this is a Faustian pact but it will underpin our success. We will succeed as the world about us fails; we wouldn’t want it any other way.

Our Brains Will Kill Us.

In the last 5 minutes you may have walked downstairs, made a cup of tea and drunk it. Do you remember the precise actions all this took? Finger in handle of cup/support with lower finger/thumb on top/ bend elbow 30 degrees etc etc? All this goes on with hardly any conscious thought, your only conscious thought is ‘I want to drink the tea.’ Your brain/muscles connection takes care of all the rest. It’s incredible but, well it’s as simple as drinking tea. Our conscious thoughts, our ‘I’, are the tip of an iceberg and it’s well proven they’re up to two seconds out of date. What ‘was’ decided two seconds ago arrives into our consciousness as hot news two seconds later. So where and how was that decision originally made? It’s often likened to a front office manager controlling a large super conscientious back office operation, and, like all such structures, suffers from bad judgement and meddling. Over the millennia the human brain has grown this front office operation tremendously like any corporation. It’s devised technologies, weapons, levels of deviousness, even it’s own electronic equivalent, AI, and created all manner of mental ill health. Yet we lord it as ‘I’ like we might an oligarch and demean what the back office does, until we perhaps acquire a spinal injury. Our world and the world has changed dramatically for the worse as a result, even to the point of some sort of global extinction. This is alarming and usually put down to malignant individuals like Putin, Hitler, politicians and countless profit and power seekers but never down to their brain development and the malignancy of their ‘I’. People have railed over the ‘I’ of wealth and the ‘I’ of power but as societies we have put nothing in place to limit them. The ‘I’ of their conscious thoughts in these cases reigns supreme and is able to indulge itself almost limitlessly. Their back office might put forward post-it notes of empathy, limitation, gratitude and the virtues of fairness but all will be returned unread. Now, like climate change, we have a limited number of years to rectify this. I hope we do otherwise the ‘I’s that we count as ourselves will put paid to the rest of us.

The Art of Clowning.

Went to Cabaret Boom Boom last night. Thanks to Mothermouse’s immaculate planning we got the front and centre table of a packed village hall, at least it would have been if it wasn’t in the middle of Sheffield. It started erratically with a young woman dressed as a potato, a woman creating her dream date from an assortment of vegetables and a guy shooting a bat from a cannon whilst riding a kids trike clean off the stage; the sort of performances if you didn’t enter into them you’d be left outside a Siberian sauna shivering to death. At one point the potato, deep in its depressed character, stepped down from the stage and asked Mothermouse what it should do. Mothermouse, possibly the only therapist in the room and very used to such a question, was so flummoxed by this novel empathic relationship with a potato she could do little more than whisper, “I don’t know.” Then the professional acts. An excellent violinist who, at 6’3” and obviously way too tall for any orchestra string section, had opted for the more lucrative career of stand up playing, for which he was more adequately proportioned. He required a stooge and alighted on me as a fellow musician. I like the stage and done some clowning so settled into the second fiddle absent minded gullible member of the audience, a role for which I too am adequately proportioned. The crowd laughed and four gins to the wind Mothermouse was in tears; possibly in relief knowing I’m prone to butt-clenching flights of public failure. Intermission. Top of the bill was a comedian juggler. He too picked on me several times and took to calling me Allen because he thought I looked like Allen Titchmarsh. By this time I’d been on stage almost as long as a support act. As he took his bow to rapturous applause in nothing but a skimpy pink tutu, long story, he thanked Allen. Big mistake. The back of the room erupted with shouts of “It’s Brian”. So he ended up having to say, “I know it’s Brian, I was just making a joke that he looked like Allen Titchmarsh.” Walkley Community Hall might be five miles from where we live but in Sheffield we look after our own. And today my name is better known there than here. Very strange, and honestly I’ve played my own music gigs and left with about as much recognition as a fart in the night. So as Covid begins to leave us do value our entertainers. Not the TV ones, the ones with the craft to do it live in front of a live audience and give them a good night out.

Kate Clanchy

Kate Clanchy wrote 'Some Kids I Taught and What They Taught Me' to rave reviews and an Orwell prize. Later three fellow writers complained about her use of dehumanising, ableist and racist language. Clanchy’s 30 years of teaching was to special needs and immigrant children who quickly came to her defence as having a hugely beneficial influence on their lives. Twitter lines were set for stormy weather and her publisher washed his hands of her to keep them clean. But real life is messy and those that indulge in it learn to love by accepting people that way. Clean hands don’t make people laugh, they leave them untouched. Worse they turn one’s meagre fragments of pride into shame. If I’m proud to be Afghan, look as I do and struggle with what others find easy what am I to think when someone says that shouldn’t be said? Only that they must be shameful. And being able and sharing that ability to those less so, by being labelled ‘ableist’ my efforts are also made shameful. It’s a cast of mind to have clean hands. That all with the smallest mote, a faulty fingernail, are beneath you. How comforting. For the past five years I’ve volunteered at a day centre for socially challenged people. We’re a totally mixed bunch but come together as equals. I would never give names but my descriptions would be as lovingly forthright as Ms Clanchy’s, they wouldn’t want it any other way. I know nothing of the literary world but wish Kate Clanchy well, and to add one more ‘ist’ to the already too long list. I suggest, ‘perfection-ist’; one who wish to expunge messy reality in the name of their own perception of perfection.

Bogis Jonsern’s Court Appearance.

S.Yorkshire Magistrates court, 2-2-2022, Bogis Jonsern, theft of motor vehicle. Did you steal a motor vehicle on the said date? No sir. Were you in Upton Street on the afternoon in question? No sir. May I remind you we have photographic evidence that you were? Ah I didn’t realise that sir. Maybe I was then. But only for five minutes sir. Oh you remember that? Oh yes sir. And were refreshments involved? I don’t remember that sir but we was outside the pub you know. So people were drinking then? It’s possible your honour. And you were? No no sir. I was just there to congratulate the boys on a job they just done. I was only there five minutes. I realise that. And in that time did you steal the vehicle in question? No sir. I think I thought it was an ambulance, or maybe a pram. May I remind you we have footage of you driving said vehicle away. Ah well yes and no. You see my main concern is all the good work I do, helping the elderly and generally levelling up our community. And what does that mean, levelling up? Well it’s like the football pitch in Upton Park. We always take the high end cos it’s not level. If the pitch isn’t level you always grab the up end. And that’s levelling up? Exactly. It’s giving people opportunities init. So you did steal the motor vehicle. I may have driven it but that’s not stealing is it. I may have been helpfully driving it home for someone too pissed to drive it, give them an opportunity for a few more bevvies. That I’m afraid doesn’t wash. Alright I’m really really sorry OK and I’ll never do that thing ever again. Can I go now? I’m afraid being sorry is no defence in law Mr Jonsern. But sir I’ve got a wife and er well several children to support. Again the law isn’t concerned about that. I’m afraid I find you guilty. Six months custodial. And may I remind you next time, and I’m pretty sure there will be a next time, it would help the court considerably if you could be far more honest and forthcoming. Think of it as levelling up, you know as a human being.

Alternative Boris Response.

“The gatherings referred to by the opposition as boozy parties did occur and I was present. I sanctioned them for respite from months of hard work and long days. Work that didn’t make the news, isn’t glorious but has been none the less vital and stressful. Even in No10 moral needs to be maintained. To set these events against the anguish and sorrow of people dying unable to be with their loved ones is to set up a surreal Punch and Judy show, a cartoon black and white picture of good and bad that is not the case. The opposition and the media make me extremely angry and frankly disgusted by people who choose to capitalise on this spurious juxtaposition for personal gain. Would you begrudge a doctor after a 12 hours shift having a pint with his fellow colleagues or a nurse sharing her stress with friends? No. We all have stress after two long years of this life changing pandemic. My team at No10 is no different and I make no apology for these events. These are my views and I will gladly continue or resign on the basis of them.” Boris’s actual speech and demeanour was very different. He seems unable to respond in anything other than what he learnt as a pupil caught smoking behind the bike sheds. First deny knowing anything, then deny being there, then suggesting it was some sort of misguided lung experiment and finally a pathetic apology based on a bigger boy making him do it. Boris is unfit for office not because of these meeting but because he hasn’t progressed from the age of twelve, where ‘his truth’ is telling you what he’d like you to believe. He hasn’t the courage to be honest or the guts and guile to fight his corner. He is not an adult.

The Offer. (a tale)

James demonstrated on a dummy head. “the two sensors either side of the temple by the hair line define a position in the brain, the left scans vertically and the right horizontally. Where they cross indicates the position of a single synapse firing. Three point triangulation isn’t necessary as each scan defines a line on its plane synchronous to the firing” and the machine works at 20 Mhz, fast enough to capture each firing discretely.” Gareth was amazed, “You can do that!?” “Well the brain is pretty slow compared with modern electronics. So the coordinates are logged as a succession of events that we can plot in 3D here.” The screen showed a crazy zigzag trace. “We can slow it down and run a video. Here a guy is recognising a cat. You can see the activity in this area, which stops and those two areas begin doing something else, possibly memories and feelings for other cats, that sort of thing.” “Wow.” “Before we could see activity but nowhere near in this detail.” “That’s amazing.” “Well that’s just the beginning. By exposing a subject to a wide range of stimuli we’re beginning to piece together the subject’s general processing synapse by synapse.” “So put those things on me and you’ll know.. “ “No, no. Experience is built individually. One subject’s patterning will be quite different to another's, but we can see many processing similarities. Here for example the subject is remembering a cat, imagining or drawing a cat. That synapse cluster is used in all of these, perception, memory, imagination and most probably dreams. It’s the go to cluster for anything cats. It also shows there's no difference between them, just one real-time process that does them all.” "You mean we don't actually remember things?" "Well there's no such thing as a fixed data bank we can refer to. We just piece together a narative from snippets like this cat cluster into something acceptable to our real time processing." “So what are you going to use all this for? AI or something.” “No we’re not interested in alien world domination.” “But it could?” “Most definitely. No, we’re interested in human intelligence. You see human cognition, though it is quite amazing and the brain even more so considering it size and power requirements, is flawed. Well not flawed exactly, rather there are many ways it can lead us astray. Good thinking is achieved rarely and after much work and experience. Our aim is to expand good thinking into the larger population.” “You’re going to tell us what to think?” “God no.” “Well that’s what it sounds like to me.” “No. We will be able to identify destructive patterns of thought that lead to unhappiness, anger, depression, violence etc. So many people are… “ “That’s control; it’s getting into people’s heads.” “But people go to therapists and get relief.” “That’s different.” “Would you rather we use it for AI then?” “Absolutely. That way ‘it’ will get super intelligent and we’ll be able to use it, learn from it.” “And it won’t control you?” “No, why should it? It’ll just be a tool like social media.” “But is that what you really want? Wouldn’t you rather learn how to think well for yourself?” “No, I think perfectly well as I am thank you.”

Still Playing the Drums?

On my afternoon constitutional; down Frazer, along Archer, through the woods by the railway line and back along Abby lane I was hailed by a friend I hadn’t seen in ages. In my defence constitutionals are meditative, moments where one’s mind flits around the universe of time and experience like a pinball satellite, and definitely not impending dementia that’s been impending since I was fifteen if not earlier. A woman with man attached was asking how I was. I landed on the nearest planet and in an effort to prove I did remember asked, “Still playing the drums?” She said no. Assuming she had relinquished the pursuit I commiserated. “No, no I’ve never played the drums. Oh this is my husband.” I smiled with a friendly nod but obviously didn’t disguise the fact he was definitely not the man my friend was last with. From there on he seemed to view me with some sort of suspicion. “St Wilfred's” she explained. Ah! And as if by magic I was terrestrial again. “Ah now I know exactly who I thought you were, you know the one who played the drums.” In retrospect this didn’t allay suspicions. Did I now know who ‘she’ actually was? and had his wife led a secret life playing the drums with a likeable guitarist? Of course I did and she hadn’t but clarification wasn’t exactly clarified. Well after our subsequent conversation I can now clarify that she is a very lovely person that I do know who lives with her husband in a house by the red car and quite probably doesn’t know that Pina, who did and now possibly doesn’t play the drums ever existed. And if you’re still confused, welcome to my world.