Amusement park shopping.

Each week as Sainsburys divests you of £100 plus it’s worth remembering their unheralded provision of amusement park facilities. As well as the previously mentioned trolley riding and mobile phone micro theatre there are many more. There’s the straightforward trolley tossing and the advanced long range and over the shoulder tosses for which Mothermouse is justly proud. Frozen lamb joints and loose vegetables are best avoided while small packets of mozzarella are perfect for the beginner. Men have been known to try twelve packs of Grolch but it’s not generally advisable. Isle to isle tosses are Olympic level and I personally haven’t had the courage but imagine they must require careful planning if premature expulsion is to be avoided.  Then there’s peek-a-boo the elderly. Thursday’s always a good day. Old people, being ugly and generally undesirable, lead lonely lives that can be brightened up no end by total strangers gleefully lunging from behind end caps. Here again caution is needed. They can be surprisingly feisty, and of course croak, so good judgment is called for. Making trolley toddlers cry when their mums aren’t looking is not on; it’s hard enough shopping with an indiscriminate shelf snatcher, but their noises can be endearing. For example an angelic eighteen month old made a perfect, “plrucgh” today which brought me great amusement. Asking young, fresh faced assistants for ‘cartyres’ is another one. What? “Cartyres love.” When they look confused back this up with, “in tomato sauce dearie”. If they look like giving in early prolong with, “Well I bought some here last week. They were next to the Alaskan Coffee.” Best to depart when they leave to find their supervisor. General lusting over the young and nubile is of course always very pleasant, provided it is kept within bounds. Hope these ideas enliven your next trolley trundle. Next week, tech talk in B&Q.

A Minor Habit.

I was playing a tune for the first time on my guitar and happened to play a minor third instead of the major. No prob, get it next time, right? No. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. No. What was happening? By getting it wrong the first time I had acquired a micro habit. I had to play it over and over to overwrite wrong habit with the right one. Yes you might be equipped with the finest sensory apparatus in Gods creation but after that it’s all habit. I suspect 99% of what I do is the result of simply applying the most appropriate habit from my extensive collection. I have for example several habits for opening doors. Knob, lever, latch require turn, press, lift, followed by pull or push, or if I encounter an ultra modern door of the 50’s, slide. What we endearingly call experience is in fact just a panoply of habits, simply our magnificent brain serving up the usual suspects. I guarantee if I made a lever handle that required pulling out to release, it would be tantamount to putting a lock on it. A wide vocabulary of experience or habit is very useful, but I believe it’s worth taking the more disparaging view that habit is the source of our responses, not our vast worldly wisdom and understanding. One simply cannot get up oneself to the same degree if one is aware one is just the victim of one’s own repetitions. Politicians, generals, experts of all sorts do not possess the same glowing acumen if they are seen as just trotting out their old habits in new, usually inappropriate situations. Even us lesser mice would do well to challenge the usefulness of our automatic habitual reactions. It is beholden of schools for example to instil good habits of learning rather than attempting to install information because habits last a lifetime where knowledge quickly fades if unused. Schools would do well to listen to parents of children with healthy teeth. They inculcate the habit; they don’t provide information about future tooth decay or trust their offspring will, given sufficient freedom and personal self-esteem, find their own solution. On the other hand rising above habit gives the wondrous joy of spontaneity. So what to do next? Ay yes, get dressed, make a cup of tea, have a fag, put on coat and go to Sainsburys. Have a nice day. 

Cheese.

Apparently Stiffmouse is the father of a son whose longstanding girlfriend mouse is the daughter of another mother or father mouse who is the sister or brother of the mice who have just won £56million on the lottery. That’s CHEESE mouse followers! Yes, ‘family values’ have just taken on a whole new meaning. Caring and sharing is the backbone, the hub, the veritable block thingies in the centre of arches that holds them all up, the pivoting kingpin cornerstone, the very bedrock and foundations of British family life. And by family I don’t just mean those tied together by holy wedlock and bedlock but also those close and tender relationships with certain family members that are, how can I put it, just as economically meaningful. I of course don’t know the mice concerned from Adamouse but my heart feels so close to them in their moment of joy I feel like inviting them on holiday with us. At a time like this one must see past sordid, self-serving avarice and consider their plight. They will feel isolated, lonely and in need of true, selfless friends who aren’t interested in such a whopping amount: an amount of cheese in fact so large that no one or two mice on their own could eat. No, my heart goes out to them. They will be inundated with cheese advisors, insurance, pension and inheritance planning mice who will help them pass on their cheese free of cheese tax. Don’t listen to them; they will make your cheese a complex, worrisome burden. Extra cheese is best used to make life simpler, more fun and more fulfilling. Go go-kart racing. In fact invite your niece’s boymouse’s father along. All mice together, eh! That’s the spirit. Or buy Belize. I can see it now, “Belize for Cheese,” the mouse Mecca of the Caribbean. Turf out the Belizians and fill it with cheese eaters. Sorry I’m getting dizzy.

West Side in Mosside.

Been off to see TomMouse in his Uni’s production of West Side Story. Ah it takes me back. Uni. I’m reminded that the one good thing about undergad girls it’s they have tits, and any young woman who has managed to attain a couple of A to C’s should not wear a bra. Only D’s and above need structural stabilisation, and below that they need to breath to remain perky. I know it’s a right of passage when you’re 13 but no one wants to see your finest assets reduced to a pair of shapeless mounds. It’s like putting puppies in sacks in preparation for drowning. Michelangelo's David would not look the same in underpants, would he? Mammaries apart the production was excellent. Unfortunately the band taking up half the stage hampered the exuberant dancing. I imagine there was many an injury in the wings from flying arabesque exits meeting stationary avinarest cast. Tom played Chino, the emasculated, downtrodden cohort of Bernardo who can’t live up to his luck of being handed the best chick in the place on an arranged plate. And when he finally does manage to strap on a pair and exit the shadows he shoots the hero. Lets face it, this is a no win part. It’s the thespian equivalent of being handed the black spot. But Tom played it well. In fact there was no perceptible weakness in the whole thirty strong cast. Well perhaps one. In every production I’ve ever seen, including the film, Tony can’t sing. It’s not that singing dancing actors can’t be found, it’s that the part requires him to be tall. Maybe it’s the extra elongation of the neck during puberty causes the larynx to become over stretched, but tall guys can’t sing. Five-ten plus, forget it, be a bass player. Bernstein’s single mistake in this masterpiece was to write tunes for a delicately framed five footer to be played by a six footer. Next time Lenny, don’t write soprano parts for the lead bassoon, OK. But even Tony didn’t let the side down, so well done all of you! 
We decide to take a different route home, down the A6 and across to Stony Middleton. The Tomtom didn’t like this. Fair doos though, he never complains. He began insisting we turn round, “In 200 yards turn left, then turn left.” Yes we know that little game. Mothermouse nestles him on her knee, “No sweetheart, we’re not going that way.” Do you ever feel the need to appease your TomTom? Ours is Irish so I’m always expecting him to blurt out, “Bejesus Mother-o-God, what do you think you’re playin’ at?” or, “I know Frank McGuinness you know.” He finally lost it near Carver. After multiple route recalculations he placed us in the middle of a field with not a road in sight; a strange sensation when one’s own visual sensors indicate one is on tarmac doing 50mph. 

Bring back Sec Mods.

Before the days of Comprehensives aspiring to be Grammar schools and Polytechnics, Universities, there were Secondary Modern schools of which I am a proud and thankful product. Sec Mods catered for the working classes who knew their place, where Grammars were for the children of the pushy aspirational; the eleven plus being more an examination of precociousness than intellect. Each accurately catered for their clientele. Sec Mods aimed at preparation for real life where as Grammars aimed to extrapolate their parental group’s esoteric expectations towards university. Thus a ‘spade’ was for ‘digging’ or “a playing card suit; a sturdy hand shovel that can be pushed into the earth with the foot”, or “[offensive] (ethnic slur) extremely offensive name for a Black person”, i.e. education based on either usage or definitions. As education based on usage is useful it became endlessly fascinating to me how I could use mathematics, science, wood and words. The more I knew the more I could do. To know more in some disassociated esoteric way may bring intellectual gratification but not the deeper satisfaction of usefulness. I’m not wishing to portray this demarcation as low, vocational versus high, intellectual, but rather real learning and disassociated learning, and not on the grounds of worthiness but enjoyment and fulfilment. Learning is a lifelong joy that must not be snuffed out by aspirational, inexplicable fact accumulation. If a student can’t offer a good reason for learning what they’re being taught the process is probably for the benefit of the teacher. Or no one. Or maybe the Secretary of State for Education, Mr Balls.

Chicken or Killing Machine?

A few nights ago I was telling to a friend about hypnotherapy. After explaining to him how a therapist might put someone in a trance state he fell strangely quiet. Luckily we both realised what was happening before I might have humorously suggested he was a chicken. Strangely a trance state isn’t something one is aware of, probably because most people are in mild trance states a lot of the time. You’re relaxed and possibly making an exquisite pass to Wayne Rooney for Man U’s fifth goal when a colleague breaks in with some mundane reality. So in a sense hypnosis allows one to talk directly to the inner footballer while his manager is out to lunch. Used for entertainment this can cause people to do all manner of silly things and used beneficially it can stop people doing silly things, like smoking. Imagine then the hypnotic effect of the trauma of military training or a gruesome battlefield situation. It can be too terrible for the conscious mind to deal with but the inner footballer has no alternative. He’s injured and out for the rest of the season. This is the truly terrible penalty we ask of those who fight for us: to lay down their lives or, if they survive, carry a hidden injury to their humanity. It is estimated that more civilians have been harmed by the symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in Northern Ireland than by the IRA during the conflict. It is the inner footballer making an instinctive professional tackle in response to some apparently innocuous event. His socialised conscious mind is bypassed as his trained and traumatised instincts take over. As I sit here in my comfortable, protected home I find it hard to place the blame. My throw arcs like a boomerang back to me, the peaceful, innocent protected. Those millions of us who protested against beginning the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan knew something our politicians had the hubris to forget; that conflict, however far away, comes home and walks like a ghost amongst us.

Jewish History at a glance.

I’ve just got a special Valentines Day e-mail from Screwfix. (an online DIY tools supplier) Sorry Screwfix, Mothermouse would not be enamoured by a Wylex Consumer Unit even if it does include a pack of ten 13amp double sockets and five free MCBs. Where was I? Oh yes, Jews. I’ve got nothing against Jewish people apart from the Acidic Jews whose dress code seems to be derived from a 1950’s copy of the Beano. For the life of me I can’t picture the tribes of Palestine 4,000 years ago in bowler hats. But credit where it’s due, Judaism has motored on past umpteen rises and falls of other empires and always contributed far more to human civilisation than their numbers might suggest; a great tribute to the powers of matriarchy, as the definition of Jewishness is based on whether your mother was Jewish. So they’re basically one big family founded on the pushy mothers side. This makes the Jewish psyche complicated. Do they listen to their Jewish God or their Jewish mother?  While God was allotting the Israelites their Promised Land their mothers were saying, “I know my boy but I tell you, think of the banking opportunities in New York.” So it came to pass they all left and became hedge fund managers in Goldman Sachs and God was well miffed as his Promised Land was left to squatters for 3,000 years. As we all know this also, much later, got right up Hitler’s nose as their diaspora took hold and he couldn’t pay his tailors bill and had trouble getting a mortgage on a property in Berchtesgaden. Instead of saving up as you and I might do, he found an altogether more harmful way of solving his problem. As a result the Jewish people were upset and wanted to go home. But the squatters had made themselves right at home in the intervening 2,000 years. Well you would wouldn’t you? Anyway God in the form of the UN created Israel in 1947. Now I may be accused of bias but I would be upset if someone turned me out of my house on the grounds their great, great, great grandparents used to live there many years ago and chosen to leave it to pursue a career in international banking. Not only that but when I generously let them live in the top floor they started camping out in the lounge. So boys, believe in a supernatural being if you like , but for God sake never listen to your mother.