i remember: the date
i met annemarie when i was at poly. we occasionally spoke to each other, but we were not friends or mates. i remember she wore a large duffel coat and always appeared to be shy. she never completed the course; unusually for me i did indeed finish the course.
i met her again when she was working as a sales assistant at a comic shop i frequented. it was there that we developed a friendship: she was pretty, she liked comics, she was into sociology and she gave me a great discount: what wasn’t there to like. as i went to the shop each week we got quite friendly, we went out a couple of times for drinks.
one christmas she invited me over to her place. i said no (hey i never said i was good at reading the signs).
it was several months later when we next met. i am not sure how i ended up in highbury but there i was and as i walked over to holloway road i met annmarie. we talked; we went back to her flat. had tea, and i told her how i had fallen for a girl at the london school of economics. naomi was an american student who was exceptionally cute, and ferociously clever (and is probably running the world right now). there may have been chemistry between us, but as ever i missed the signals and fluffed my chance and naomi remained no more than a dream. my tale of self-pity was accompanied with sympathetic cups of tea from annemarie.
after a few hours i left and she went to pick up her kid.
in the way of such things i didn’t think much more about it.
a few months later i am in my bedroom, i had just come back from a run and i was still in my sweaty sweats lying on my bed when the door opens and in walks annemarie. to say i was shocked was a bit of an understatement.
i was also impressed she found where my mum’s place was.
we chatted for a couple of hours and then i took her home (which meant catching a tube from south harrow to holloway road – or pretty much all the way across london, but i am a gentleman).
i realised then i was smitten.
when she called and asked if i wanted to meet up after christmas i said yes (i am slow but not that slow). date and time arranged. countdown began, christmas dragged, and then off i went over to holloway road for the date that would change my life.
strangely i arrived early, a rare feat for me, as most will testify to. now i will be the first to confess that i am not the most socially functional person in the world, that plus the fact i realised that i was very keen on annemarie, made me incredibly nervous. i wasn’t quite shitting my pants nervous, but i wouldn’t have chanced a fart at that very moment for fear of kissing cotton.
she lived on the fourth floor of a set of flats. i climbed the stairs in eager anticipation and mounting dread. i know what film we were going to see, even knew where the cinema was, all was set. i arrived at her door. knocked. waited. knocked again. waited. mmm the tendrils of mounting panic were climbing up my spine. knocked. waited. joy, i had been stood up. oh one last knock. an answer. annemarie’s flatmate let me and told me she had gone out to do some shopping.
relief.
we watched a little tv in embarrassed silence.
double relief when annemarie returned.
we went to see “back to the future” at the screen on the green. we both enjoyed the movie. it was now officially our movie (and to this day i haven’t watched it since she dumped me – hey i am not spoiling the happy ending you knew this already). we walked back to her place. we told each other we had a good time and we should do it again. i caught the tube home, the journey seemed to be over in a flash but then i was as happy as a pig in shit.
i went back over the new year and shared the new year coming in with annemarie and some canadian girls she knew. i slept on a rickety camp bed that night, somewhat in fear that it would collapse.
we spent the next day talking and talking. we talked through the next night.
i went back to my parents.
then went back to annemarie’s, and we admitted to each other we wanted to be an item.
in that instance i was as happy as i think i have ever been, to misquote calvin and hobbes: it was my pony moment.
in hindsight i wish i had known how quickly things go wrong, as i would have savoured it much more than i did.
but in that wonderful fleeting moment i was living a technicolor musical and i sang and danced like fred and gene combined.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
privacy
worry not fair reader i haven't given up on political posturing.
although i have refrained from having pops at blunkett and short, two very principled politicians who seem to be doing their best to make sure that the one party who might do some good for the general public does not get re-elected.
david cameron and his tory friends do not need to campaign against new labour, by the time the election comes around they will not need to as new labour will have committed political suicide.
but i couldn’t let this story go. greg barker is one of the tory shadow front benchers. he has recently ended his 14-year marriage, leaving his wife for another man. he is asking that the press respect his privacy. i agree with him, he should be allowed to get on with his life without the public knowing every last little detail of his private life. my one caveat to this is we are entitled to know the broad brushstrokes of an mp’s life as we entrusting them to make laws on our behalf.
we may not know the full details of david cameron’s use of drugs, but we know that when he speaks on drugs or when there is a tory drug policy we can view it in light of the fact that david cameron has been cagey about his use of drugs.
i don’t expect mps to live perfect lives, but all i want from them is that they are not hypocrites about the way they live their lives and the way they expect us to live ours.
so i hope greg barker is afforded the privacy he seeks.
though i couldn’t go without mentioning how carefully the bbc worded their reporting of cameron’s support of barker
“newspaper reports suggest mr cameron will stand by mr barker, who was elected to the house of commons in 2001. “
cameron isn’t behind barker as that would just lead to too many chortles, at least from those of us who are fans of carry on movies…
although i have refrained from having pops at blunkett and short, two very principled politicians who seem to be doing their best to make sure that the one party who might do some good for the general public does not get re-elected.
david cameron and his tory friends do not need to campaign against new labour, by the time the election comes around they will not need to as new labour will have committed political suicide.
but i couldn’t let this story go. greg barker is one of the tory shadow front benchers. he has recently ended his 14-year marriage, leaving his wife for another man. he is asking that the press respect his privacy. i agree with him, he should be allowed to get on with his life without the public knowing every last little detail of his private life. my one caveat to this is we are entitled to know the broad brushstrokes of an mp’s life as we entrusting them to make laws on our behalf.
we may not know the full details of david cameron’s use of drugs, but we know that when he speaks on drugs or when there is a tory drug policy we can view it in light of the fact that david cameron has been cagey about his use of drugs.
i don’t expect mps to live perfect lives, but all i want from them is that they are not hypocrites about the way they live their lives and the way they expect us to live ours.
so i hope greg barker is afforded the privacy he seeks.
though i couldn’t go without mentioning how carefully the bbc worded their reporting of cameron’s support of barker
“newspaper reports suggest mr cameron will stand by mr barker, who was elected to the house of commons in 2001. “
cameron isn’t behind barker as that would just lead to too many chortles, at least from those of us who are fans of carry on movies…
- 8
i remember: ireland
there are a few things you need to know about me: not a great traveller, not a great family person and i am a klutz.
when i was a kid we didn’t have too many family holidays. at one point it was because my parents were too busy being publicans and then it was because they were too poor (though in hindsight i suspect it was more to do with the fact that they liked to have their barneys* in places they were comfortable). to be fair i can’t remember ever feeling deprived by the lack of holiday trips, but i suspect it has meant that the lust for travel isn’t in my bones.
one year i went with my mum to visit her family in ireland. her dad had a farm on the west coast of ireland. in it he had raised 14 children and countless cows. the farmhouse was old and traditional and to my young eyes it was going to be hell: no tv.
i didn’t fit in with the local kids and i didn’t really get on with my cousins. i was in the middle of nowhere.
there was a night we went into town; on the long walk back down the dark country lanes my granddad told horror stories. i didn’t sleep that night.
then there was mad uncle peter (big families always have the mad uncles), one night he stayed in the farmhouse to baby-sit me, he told more horror stories, but some how being next to the roaring fire it didn’t seem so bad. when i fell asleep he put me to bed fully dressed, including my dirty shoes. this went down well with my mum when she came back from her night on the town.
mad uncle peter also took me to the coast, a few minutes walk across the fields or a longer hike if you went exploring. we went exploring and ended up going through nettles and brambles. no problems for him, but i was in shorts… mind you he made a phenomenal mashed potato dinner with plenty of butter and fresh from the cow milk.
ah the cows. there i was in my little converse ankle high trainers (they may not have been converse but of that style) running around the fields. running like the wind, galloping freely (alright i wasn’t going that fast) and then bish bosh one foot goes into a cowpat. cow shit all over the trainer and down inside of it. i am not ashamed to say i cried. it was horrid.
still it was when i was over there i learnt of my uncle mick, he was blind but didn’t play the blues, however he did catch a leprechaun and kept hold of the little fella all night long. his reward for this amazing feat was the golden shoes of the leprechaun. which he wore proudly on his watch chain.
i only met the granddad the once. when he died the place just became a home for the family. i never went back; i never kept in touch with that side of the family. i don’t really miss it.
but that one trip allows me to say musha musha wira wira and mean it.
*for the american readers a barney is an argument and not a dinosaur.
there are a few things you need to know about me: not a great traveller, not a great family person and i am a klutz.
when i was a kid we didn’t have too many family holidays. at one point it was because my parents were too busy being publicans and then it was because they were too poor (though in hindsight i suspect it was more to do with the fact that they liked to have their barneys* in places they were comfortable). to be fair i can’t remember ever feeling deprived by the lack of holiday trips, but i suspect it has meant that the lust for travel isn’t in my bones.
one year i went with my mum to visit her family in ireland. her dad had a farm on the west coast of ireland. in it he had raised 14 children and countless cows. the farmhouse was old and traditional and to my young eyes it was going to be hell: no tv.
i didn’t fit in with the local kids and i didn’t really get on with my cousins. i was in the middle of nowhere.
there was a night we went into town; on the long walk back down the dark country lanes my granddad told horror stories. i didn’t sleep that night.
then there was mad uncle peter (big families always have the mad uncles), one night he stayed in the farmhouse to baby-sit me, he told more horror stories, but some how being next to the roaring fire it didn’t seem so bad. when i fell asleep he put me to bed fully dressed, including my dirty shoes. this went down well with my mum when she came back from her night on the town.
mad uncle peter also took me to the coast, a few minutes walk across the fields or a longer hike if you went exploring. we went exploring and ended up going through nettles and brambles. no problems for him, but i was in shorts… mind you he made a phenomenal mashed potato dinner with plenty of butter and fresh from the cow milk.
ah the cows. there i was in my little converse ankle high trainers (they may not have been converse but of that style) running around the fields. running like the wind, galloping freely (alright i wasn’t going that fast) and then bish bosh one foot goes into a cowpat. cow shit all over the trainer and down inside of it. i am not ashamed to say i cried. it was horrid.
still it was when i was over there i learnt of my uncle mick, he was blind but didn’t play the blues, however he did catch a leprechaun and kept hold of the little fella all night long. his reward for this amazing feat was the golden shoes of the leprechaun. which he wore proudly on his watch chain.
i only met the granddad the once. when he died the place just became a home for the family. i never went back; i never kept in touch with that side of the family. i don’t really miss it.
but that one trip allows me to say musha musha wira wira and mean it.
*for the american readers a barney is an argument and not a dinosaur.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
- 9
i remember: violins.
when it came to being a musician i sucked, and sadly there are few instruments that involved sucking. i tried to bass, i could barely keep a plodding 4/4l, ask for frills and i was in danger in breaking my fingers.
no chance of a rock star career for me.
when i was with annemarie one of the important lessons i learnt was: parents want the best for their kids (true both of mine told me this time and time again, but i just thought at was parental propaganda).
the other lesson i learnt (and perhaps a subsidiary) of the first lesson is that parents want to live vicariously through their kids.
hence the violin.
no it wasn’t my idea.
annemarie was a scouser (i am guessing she still is) and they think music is in their blood. matching me for having no musical talent it became the task of the kid to become a musician.
hence the violin.
now you have to remember that i was a surrogate guardian to the kid, which meant i didn’t get consulted about stuff, but i was expected to be supportive of what annemarie wanted to do. i entered the kid’s life when he was 4 so i missed his first words (also missed the shitty nappies: yay!) now was a chance to hear his first perfect note.
given the nature of my relationship with annemarie and the kid i need to explain the very special demarcation of tasks that annemarie had developed: i got the shitty tasks.
it soon became apparent that supervising the violin practice was a shitty task, and guess who got to take the nightly practice. yup that would be me. now practice was just 10 minutes, 10 minutes of doing scales and going over what he had learnt in his lesson the week before. 10 minutes. not much time at all. well that is the case if you happen to be an adult, if you are a 9-year old 10 minutes is an eternity.
so we would sit there. i would ask him to practice, he would say no, i would explain that if he didn’t practice it didn’t mean that i would read to him or play with him. i would explain that if he did the 10 minutes that he was supposed to do he would have the rest of the evening to play, to read, to visit friends. i would badger, cajole, hector and harangue. it all fell on deaf ears.
sure he would tease with a few lazy pulls and pushes of the bow across the strings until eventually he had done enough to qualify for 10 minutes. except that it would take anywhere between an hour or two to get done.
i wasn’t adverse to listening to the screeching of his violin (hell i have cds based around looped screechy noises) what i resented was the fact i was having to give up so much time to something that i wasn’t keen on.
but i tried my best. i tried to show the kid that the violin was cool. look at how the violin player of horslips rocks out, check out the violin licks from david cross on king crimson records. tried to amaze him with jean luc ponty’s playing on zappa records. it was all met with a stony silence….
i was encouraging, i was enthusiastic i was the energiser bunny of violin practice, but you have no idea how painful it is to listen to someone scratching their way through “baa baa black sheep” or “twinkle twinkle little star” (both of which are so similar as to be almost indistinguishable if the player has little talent…)
many years after annemarie had booted me out i got a call from her. she wanted to borrow some money from me (it made me all warm inside to feel so needed). it was the kid’s 18th and as part of the reward of loaning her the cash i could meet up with him if i wanted to. i did. i was gratified to discover that i still loved him (i am not ashamed to admit i teared up at the meeting), that i had cursed him with the love of star trek and that he was a guitarist in a rock and roll band.
but i will never forgive him for those hours wasted with the violin.
when it came to being a musician i sucked, and sadly there are few instruments that involved sucking. i tried to bass, i could barely keep a plodding 4/4l, ask for frills and i was in danger in breaking my fingers.
no chance of a rock star career for me.
when i was with annemarie one of the important lessons i learnt was: parents want the best for their kids (true both of mine told me this time and time again, but i just thought at was parental propaganda).
the other lesson i learnt (and perhaps a subsidiary) of the first lesson is that parents want to live vicariously through their kids.
hence the violin.
no it wasn’t my idea.
annemarie was a scouser (i am guessing she still is) and they think music is in their blood. matching me for having no musical talent it became the task of the kid to become a musician.
hence the violin.
now you have to remember that i was a surrogate guardian to the kid, which meant i didn’t get consulted about stuff, but i was expected to be supportive of what annemarie wanted to do. i entered the kid’s life when he was 4 so i missed his first words (also missed the shitty nappies: yay!) now was a chance to hear his first perfect note.
given the nature of my relationship with annemarie and the kid i need to explain the very special demarcation of tasks that annemarie had developed: i got the shitty tasks.
it soon became apparent that supervising the violin practice was a shitty task, and guess who got to take the nightly practice. yup that would be me. now practice was just 10 minutes, 10 minutes of doing scales and going over what he had learnt in his lesson the week before. 10 minutes. not much time at all. well that is the case if you happen to be an adult, if you are a 9-year old 10 minutes is an eternity.
so we would sit there. i would ask him to practice, he would say no, i would explain that if he didn’t practice it didn’t mean that i would read to him or play with him. i would explain that if he did the 10 minutes that he was supposed to do he would have the rest of the evening to play, to read, to visit friends. i would badger, cajole, hector and harangue. it all fell on deaf ears.
sure he would tease with a few lazy pulls and pushes of the bow across the strings until eventually he had done enough to qualify for 10 minutes. except that it would take anywhere between an hour or two to get done.
i wasn’t adverse to listening to the screeching of his violin (hell i have cds based around looped screechy noises) what i resented was the fact i was having to give up so much time to something that i wasn’t keen on.
but i tried my best. i tried to show the kid that the violin was cool. look at how the violin player of horslips rocks out, check out the violin licks from david cross on king crimson records. tried to amaze him with jean luc ponty’s playing on zappa records. it was all met with a stony silence….
i was encouraging, i was enthusiastic i was the energiser bunny of violin practice, but you have no idea how painful it is to listen to someone scratching their way through “baa baa black sheep” or “twinkle twinkle little star” (both of which are so similar as to be almost indistinguishable if the player has little talent…)
many years after annemarie had booted me out i got a call from her. she wanted to borrow some money from me (it made me all warm inside to feel so needed). it was the kid’s 18th and as part of the reward of loaning her the cash i could meet up with him if i wanted to. i did. i was gratified to discover that i still loved him (i am not ashamed to admit i teared up at the meeting), that i had cursed him with the love of star trek and that he was a guitarist in a rock and roll band.
but i will never forgive him for those hours wasted with the violin.
-10
i remember: farting
i have been a decent farter throughout my life, true i was no la petomane and never saw a career as a fartist, but i could let rip with the best of them. alas as with all things bodily as age draws on physical abilities wane and now i enjoy the farts but they are no longer humdingers.
there was the time at the london school of economics when after a particularly bad lunch that involved a salmon sandwich i was searching out an obscure article on sociology in the library. searching out the journals i was bending down to pick up a copy of the american journal of sociology i felt a rumble. standing up to check the contents page i felt the explosion and as i turned to the article i needed i puckered up my arse and let slip a note that miles davis would have been proud of. long, low and piercing.
relief.
pressure removed.
time to get back to the journal and the assignment in question.
oh my fucking good googly moogly what is that smell. it was like all the demons in hell had defecated on to a giant george foreman lean mean grilling machine and let is sizzle….
it was the most foul smell i had ever smelt, and there was a fleeting shame that this smell had come from me.
now the library was quite busy, and for anyone approaching the journals it would be so obvious that i had just let fly with eu du sewage. i did the only thing a sensible man could do: i legged it. the problem was it meant that i had to walk through the miasma that was my fart.
i went to the second floor and waited the smell out.
the next fart i did that was of a similar potency was years later when i was working in the warehouse. thanks to the interference of her majesty’s customs we would sometimes have to work a long night and have an early start. the joy of working late was the company stumped up for food. that meant a late night curry.
the next day was always a succession of lads letting fly with farts of varying sounds and smells. we were living in a benny hill show.
this particular day i was packing.
and i was farting.
all around me the lads were wilting and complaining. oh well i had to suffer their house music they had endure my arse music.
now i will have a little digression here. at this time our general manager was a posh rotund chap, who gave the impression that he was a captain of industry rather than the jumped up used car salesman that he had been (ok they had been classic used cars). aside from the bellowing blustering voice, the other thing that jd was noted for was his large hooter. jd was affectionately known as bnfc or big nosed fat cunt.
so there i was packing away. as soon as i packed a box i would slip a parp out. a few gasps from my fellow workers. their exclamations of horror would be met by an apologetic smile from me. slowly the lads either side of me moved as far as way from me as they could.
i continued packing.
another box was finished, at that point i let rip with a killer fart, it wasn’t loud but it did announce itself. it wafted out as a shock wave of smell. even as it exited me i felt a sense of pride. imagine my surprise as i heard the voice of bnfc wailing “good god what is that smell.” jd had walked straight into the slipstream of the fart his hooter had hoovered up more than a lungful of the pat perfume.
his normally ruddy face had taken on a little green sheen.
it was a moment of pure triumph for me.
it was also at the warehouse where i met maybank. he was one of the young lads who got the job because one of his mates also worked there. now maybank was notable for many things (i will forever be in his debt for the term “wankbank”) but he was probably most famous for his ability to drop farts that hans blik would have described as weapons of mass destruction. if saddam had known of the existence of maybank he would have kidnapped him and used him in experiments in order to discover to the ultimate in toxic warfare.
judging by what came out of his arse one could only believe that maybank was fed ripe road kill. he was at his worst in the early morning when he would just drop farts as if he was a b52 unloading over vietnam.
he once told a story of how he felt sorry for his mum who would wake him up in the morning by lifting up his duvet to catch a full face of his morning guffs.
just hearing that brought tears to my eyes.
as good as i was at farting i had to take my hat off to maybank (mainly to cover my nose).
but i can’t complain i have had many good years of cutting the cheese.
i have been a decent farter throughout my life, true i was no la petomane and never saw a career as a fartist, but i could let rip with the best of them. alas as with all things bodily as age draws on physical abilities wane and now i enjoy the farts but they are no longer humdingers.
there was the time at the london school of economics when after a particularly bad lunch that involved a salmon sandwich i was searching out an obscure article on sociology in the library. searching out the journals i was bending down to pick up a copy of the american journal of sociology i felt a rumble. standing up to check the contents page i felt the explosion and as i turned to the article i needed i puckered up my arse and let slip a note that miles davis would have been proud of. long, low and piercing.
relief.
pressure removed.
time to get back to the journal and the assignment in question.
oh my fucking good googly moogly what is that smell. it was like all the demons in hell had defecated on to a giant george foreman lean mean grilling machine and let is sizzle….
it was the most foul smell i had ever smelt, and there was a fleeting shame that this smell had come from me.
now the library was quite busy, and for anyone approaching the journals it would be so obvious that i had just let fly with eu du sewage. i did the only thing a sensible man could do: i legged it. the problem was it meant that i had to walk through the miasma that was my fart.
i went to the second floor and waited the smell out.
the next fart i did that was of a similar potency was years later when i was working in the warehouse. thanks to the interference of her majesty’s customs we would sometimes have to work a long night and have an early start. the joy of working late was the company stumped up for food. that meant a late night curry.
the next day was always a succession of lads letting fly with farts of varying sounds and smells. we were living in a benny hill show.
this particular day i was packing.
and i was farting.
all around me the lads were wilting and complaining. oh well i had to suffer their house music they had endure my arse music.
now i will have a little digression here. at this time our general manager was a posh rotund chap, who gave the impression that he was a captain of industry rather than the jumped up used car salesman that he had been (ok they had been classic used cars). aside from the bellowing blustering voice, the other thing that jd was noted for was his large hooter. jd was affectionately known as bnfc or big nosed fat cunt.
so there i was packing away. as soon as i packed a box i would slip a parp out. a few gasps from my fellow workers. their exclamations of horror would be met by an apologetic smile from me. slowly the lads either side of me moved as far as way from me as they could.
i continued packing.
another box was finished, at that point i let rip with a killer fart, it wasn’t loud but it did announce itself. it wafted out as a shock wave of smell. even as it exited me i felt a sense of pride. imagine my surprise as i heard the voice of bnfc wailing “good god what is that smell.” jd had walked straight into the slipstream of the fart his hooter had hoovered up more than a lungful of the pat perfume.
his normally ruddy face had taken on a little green sheen.
it was a moment of pure triumph for me.
it was also at the warehouse where i met maybank. he was one of the young lads who got the job because one of his mates also worked there. now maybank was notable for many things (i will forever be in his debt for the term “wankbank”) but he was probably most famous for his ability to drop farts that hans blik would have described as weapons of mass destruction. if saddam had known of the existence of maybank he would have kidnapped him and used him in experiments in order to discover to the ultimate in toxic warfare.
judging by what came out of his arse one could only believe that maybank was fed ripe road kill. he was at his worst in the early morning when he would just drop farts as if he was a b52 unloading over vietnam.
he once told a story of how he felt sorry for his mum who would wake him up in the morning by lifting up his duvet to catch a full face of his morning guffs.
just hearing that brought tears to my eyes.
as good as i was at farting i had to take my hat off to maybank (mainly to cover my nose).
but i can’t complain i have had many good years of cutting the cheese.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
-11
i remember: catching.
my great strength as a rugby player was not in catching the ball. in fact i lived in fear of being on the receiving end of kick offs in case that ball game spiralling towards me and i would end up fumbling it. i can’t recall ever missing the ball, i am sure i knocked it on a few times. hell i was a forward i wasn’t supposed to catch the ball i was supposed to pummel the opposition.
but all of that is by the by as far as this is concerned.
one year my pal adam got me a rugby ball for a present, it wasn’t a real leather ball but like the ones we used in school for practice: orange and rubber. adam had personalised it, in his own inimitable fashion, with lots of drawings from the various projects we were doing at the time (chunderbirds, the runeleek and jmh space hero: trust me when i say to us they were very funny and very important), there was also a drawing of helen jones, who i had the most amazing crush on and is perhaps one of the prettiest girls i have ever known. helen had a starring role in the runeleek (i am not sure if she knew she was featuring in our epic fantasy rock opera that combined moorcockian fantasy, welsh mythology, terrible puns, awful lyrics and a wonderfully illustrated graphic novel – art by adam), why did she have a starring role in the runeleek? well aside from the fact i was smitten with puppy love for her, she was also welsh. see obvious really.
now adam and helen lived in the same road, ribblesdale avenue as i recall (adam will correct my errors here).
just across from where they were was a large expanse of grass that served as a break between the racecourse estate, where i lived, (and where most of the streets were named after… well race courses) and private houses where adam and helen lived.
we used to end up on that expanse of grass and spend a lot of time playing catch. mainly it was with the rugby ball, one year adam introduced a glow in the dark frisbee. we threw that ball in the bright sun, we threw it in rain, we threw it in gales and in one memorable year we threw it in snow drifts (that was also the year my very full and very brown beard froze and dreadlocks of ice in it…)
as we threw that ball (i guess we caught it about 50 percent of the time, maybe a bit more..) we would also be throwing ideas back and forth about comics we would create, books we would write, films we might make. back then we weren’t interested in changing the world we were looking to entertain it.
now i am sure that this will come as no surprise to adam, and sadly i guess many of my dear readers know me well enough to know at heart i am incredibly shallow, so not only was this a creative throw-about but there was also the ulterior motive of impressing helen jones.
how? i can hear you ask.
my answer is simple: she was welsh. it was a rugby ball we were throwing d’uh.
hey no one said i was sophisticated … needless to say it didn’t work and my love of helen remained unrequited.
look i know you want samples of the gags and puns we came up with but i can’t remember them, well except for a few that were all puns based around wales and songs we were listening to at the time.
“stairway to helen”, “cold as dai’s” and “live and let dai” (feel free to add your own.
i miss that ball and i miss those puns.
my great strength as a rugby player was not in catching the ball. in fact i lived in fear of being on the receiving end of kick offs in case that ball game spiralling towards me and i would end up fumbling it. i can’t recall ever missing the ball, i am sure i knocked it on a few times. hell i was a forward i wasn’t supposed to catch the ball i was supposed to pummel the opposition.
but all of that is by the by as far as this is concerned.
one year my pal adam got me a rugby ball for a present, it wasn’t a real leather ball but like the ones we used in school for practice: orange and rubber. adam had personalised it, in his own inimitable fashion, with lots of drawings from the various projects we were doing at the time (chunderbirds, the runeleek and jmh space hero: trust me when i say to us they were very funny and very important), there was also a drawing of helen jones, who i had the most amazing crush on and is perhaps one of the prettiest girls i have ever known. helen had a starring role in the runeleek (i am not sure if she knew she was featuring in our epic fantasy rock opera that combined moorcockian fantasy, welsh mythology, terrible puns, awful lyrics and a wonderfully illustrated graphic novel – art by adam), why did she have a starring role in the runeleek? well aside from the fact i was smitten with puppy love for her, she was also welsh. see obvious really.
now adam and helen lived in the same road, ribblesdale avenue as i recall (adam will correct my errors here).
just across from where they were was a large expanse of grass that served as a break between the racecourse estate, where i lived, (and where most of the streets were named after… well race courses) and private houses where adam and helen lived.
we used to end up on that expanse of grass and spend a lot of time playing catch. mainly it was with the rugby ball, one year adam introduced a glow in the dark frisbee. we threw that ball in the bright sun, we threw it in rain, we threw it in gales and in one memorable year we threw it in snow drifts (that was also the year my very full and very brown beard froze and dreadlocks of ice in it…)
as we threw that ball (i guess we caught it about 50 percent of the time, maybe a bit more..) we would also be throwing ideas back and forth about comics we would create, books we would write, films we might make. back then we weren’t interested in changing the world we were looking to entertain it.
now i am sure that this will come as no surprise to adam, and sadly i guess many of my dear readers know me well enough to know at heart i am incredibly shallow, so not only was this a creative throw-about but there was also the ulterior motive of impressing helen jones.
how? i can hear you ask.
my answer is simple: she was welsh. it was a rugby ball we were throwing d’uh.
hey no one said i was sophisticated … needless to say it didn’t work and my love of helen remained unrequited.
look i know you want samples of the gags and puns we came up with but i can’t remember them, well except for a few that were all puns based around wales and songs we were listening to at the time.
“stairway to helen”, “cold as dai’s” and “live and let dai” (feel free to add your own.
i miss that ball and i miss those puns.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
-12
i remember: fireplaces.
as my relationship with annemarie declined and entered a period of total meltdown (not that i realized this was happening, i just thought it was a blip…. how stupid i was) she dealt with her growing dislike of me in some odd ways.
we lived in a council flat. now i have to confess i have nothing but praise for the council flats i have lived in. both my mum’s and annemarie’s were solid pieces of building. you felt safe in them. little went wrong with them and when it did the council was there to repair it.
we were never very well off, so the flat was not filled with all mod cons, it was very basic, but hey ho it was our home.
the living room had a three bar electric fire on the wall, you could see that there had once been a real fireplace there in days gone by. annemarie has often gone on about have a roaring fire there.
once she had got her degree she got a chance to do a masters degree in warwick university. she went off. she came back. our relationship had changed.
one day i come back from work and the “honey i’m home” is met with a silence. i walk into the hall and all i can say is “what the fuck….” in the hall is a mantelpiece standing there. annemarie had decided to create the fireplace she so wanted, even if we couldn’t afford it. there had been no discussion, she had just bought it. the grumbling from me was soon pushed aside. we spent the evening screwing it into the wall.
it looked ok. annemarie was happy. as ever the promises made earlier in the evening were forgotten that night (ah well i was a sucker for those promises).
i suppose if was i wasn’t so complacent about the relationship i would have realised something was wrong.
what a joke i made of the mantelpiece at work for the next couple of days.
the joke was on me.
the following week i am return home and bugger me senseless but there is another mantelpiece standing in the hall. the “what” i wanted to say couldn’t come out, my mouth was open and i was speechless.
did i say we only had the one living room?
did i mention we had central heating?
no matter annemarie had a plan – it could go in the bedroom, where it would frame the bed.
i was nonplussed, but not much i could do as, once again, it was a done deal…
is it any wonder i have always shunned home improvement tv shows.
as my relationship with annemarie declined and entered a period of total meltdown (not that i realized this was happening, i just thought it was a blip…. how stupid i was) she dealt with her growing dislike of me in some odd ways.
we lived in a council flat. now i have to confess i have nothing but praise for the council flats i have lived in. both my mum’s and annemarie’s were solid pieces of building. you felt safe in them. little went wrong with them and when it did the council was there to repair it.
we were never very well off, so the flat was not filled with all mod cons, it was very basic, but hey ho it was our home.
the living room had a three bar electric fire on the wall, you could see that there had once been a real fireplace there in days gone by. annemarie has often gone on about have a roaring fire there.
once she had got her degree she got a chance to do a masters degree in warwick university. she went off. she came back. our relationship had changed.
one day i come back from work and the “honey i’m home” is met with a silence. i walk into the hall and all i can say is “what the fuck….” in the hall is a mantelpiece standing there. annemarie had decided to create the fireplace she so wanted, even if we couldn’t afford it. there had been no discussion, she had just bought it. the grumbling from me was soon pushed aside. we spent the evening screwing it into the wall.
it looked ok. annemarie was happy. as ever the promises made earlier in the evening were forgotten that night (ah well i was a sucker for those promises).
i suppose if was i wasn’t so complacent about the relationship i would have realised something was wrong.
what a joke i made of the mantelpiece at work for the next couple of days.
the joke was on me.
the following week i am return home and bugger me senseless but there is another mantelpiece standing in the hall. the “what” i wanted to say couldn’t come out, my mouth was open and i was speechless.
did i say we only had the one living room?
did i mention we had central heating?
no matter annemarie had a plan – it could go in the bedroom, where it would frame the bed.
i was nonplussed, but not much i could do as, once again, it was a done deal…
is it any wonder i have always shunned home improvement tv shows.
drivers
i am getting tired of hearing drivers moaning about speed cameras. they are always going on about it being about revenue rather than keeping people safe. their complaint seems to be twofold: they have been caught and they are being charged for it. so here is a tip for the boy racers on the roads of the uk don’t speed and you won’t have to pay anything. simple really.
even better you will be sticking it to the state!
viva la driving at the correct speed revolution.
even better you will be sticking it to the state!
viva la driving at the correct speed revolution.
-13
i remember: soho.
i remember the first time i went to soho. my dad took me. the purpose of the trip was to visit the comic shop dark they were and golden eyed. for the first couple of my trips to soho dad came along as a guide and a protector. each trip was one of magic and adventure.
it was only when i started being allowed to go to the west end on my own
that i discovered the seedy side of soho. back then old compton street was awash with porn shops, a boy could go blind just looking in the windows. the porn was clearly displayed and it was quite hardcore. as fifth and sixth formers we would make our pilgrimage to the west end where we would buy records and comics and then spend a happy hour or so walking both sides of old compton street window shopping porn.
the first time i ever went into one of the stores i felt a mix of fear and power, it was my rite of passage (for most of my peers it was getting their first drink in a pub, but i had lived in them so no adventure there). the first time i ever bought some magazines home i was scared shitless that my mum would realise what i had in the bag, while she never caught me bringing the stuff in i am sure she found my porn stash at least once. porn back then could only be found in such shops, no downloading for us then. so it meant that there was pretty much something for everyone to browse and buy. and browse i did. some eye-opening moments i can tell you. then there was the fear that they would realise that i was underage and kick me out, even worse that they would do it before i got to buy the stuff i wanted.
soho was also where i first discovered the existence of prostitutes. the first time i saw them was walking towards archer street, at the time there were two casinos located there, so it was a place where money was prominent. it also meant the ladies of the night would congregate, and could be found all day. i was too young to realise what the young ladies were doing hanging around street corners and lounging on cars. it didn’t take them long to alert me to what they were offering: “do you want a fuck guv”. i politely declined and hurried on my way. like many things once you have been made aware of them you can’t help but keep noticing them.
they seemed to come out in droves whenever there was a big sporting event at wembley. they needed more out on the streets as there would large numbers of visitors working their way through soho – either as a pre-game ritual or as solace for not having a ticket. how the income of the working girls must be suffering with the delay to the stadium being built, you would think the english collective of prostitutes would put in a compensation claim.
prostitution in the area has changed dramatically, no longer quite so public and in your face, now the discreet red light and handwritten sign promising models upstairs. not to mention the proliferation of call cards in telephone boxes.
soho is also where i discovered that i had no aptitude for computer games. i am not sure what dragged me into soho’s amusement arcades? maybe it was the bright flashing lights, maybe if was the sounds of the games or the jingle jangle of the one-armed bandits. once i went in i was hooked. the games were 10p a go. sadly i could spend pounds and never really get very far in the games. i quickly realized i was no good at the fighting games, too many buttons for too many combinations. i was quickly bored by the puzzle games, not because i easily solved them, but because i never got beyond the early stages. i was doomed (geddit!) to be a player of straight forward shoot ‘em ups. i was never very good at them.
more often than not i would end up watching the other gamers, people who would stand with a zen like patience as they worked through the levels of the game that they had memorized like the backs of their hand. some would just smoke endlessly watching other gamers around them. others would stand and chat with their friends. many, like myself, would stand in awe and watch, hoping to learn how to play the games.
i never learnt.
but i was a frequent visitor to the arcades of soho. the games got more spectacular – more colourful, more complicated, more sounds and more money. slowly but surely the prices crept up from 10p to 20p to 30p and eventually at 50p i decided that this would be me wasting money at a rate that was stupid.
the last time i wandered into an arcade i was disappointed by the games and by the fact that most of the space was now devoted to one-armed bandits.
but then how can they compete with the explosion of gaming consoles.
soho has changed since i first started going there. the porn shops have been replaced by lots of restaurants, coffee shops, bars and fashion shops. the locals now complain about the noise rather than the low life elements. the magic has changed from something that attracted a young impressionable teenager and is now aimed at the young mid twenties clubber.
given i am mid 40s dirty old man i miss the old soho.
i remember the first time i went to soho. my dad took me. the purpose of the trip was to visit the comic shop dark they were and golden eyed. for the first couple of my trips to soho dad came along as a guide and a protector. each trip was one of magic and adventure.
it was only when i started being allowed to go to the west end on my own
that i discovered the seedy side of soho. back then old compton street was awash with porn shops, a boy could go blind just looking in the windows. the porn was clearly displayed and it was quite hardcore. as fifth and sixth formers we would make our pilgrimage to the west end where we would buy records and comics and then spend a happy hour or so walking both sides of old compton street window shopping porn.
the first time i ever went into one of the stores i felt a mix of fear and power, it was my rite of passage (for most of my peers it was getting their first drink in a pub, but i had lived in them so no adventure there). the first time i ever bought some magazines home i was scared shitless that my mum would realise what i had in the bag, while she never caught me bringing the stuff in i am sure she found my porn stash at least once. porn back then could only be found in such shops, no downloading for us then. so it meant that there was pretty much something for everyone to browse and buy. and browse i did. some eye-opening moments i can tell you. then there was the fear that they would realise that i was underage and kick me out, even worse that they would do it before i got to buy the stuff i wanted.
soho was also where i first discovered the existence of prostitutes. the first time i saw them was walking towards archer street, at the time there were two casinos located there, so it was a place where money was prominent. it also meant the ladies of the night would congregate, and could be found all day. i was too young to realise what the young ladies were doing hanging around street corners and lounging on cars. it didn’t take them long to alert me to what they were offering: “do you want a fuck guv”. i politely declined and hurried on my way. like many things once you have been made aware of them you can’t help but keep noticing them.
they seemed to come out in droves whenever there was a big sporting event at wembley. they needed more out on the streets as there would large numbers of visitors working their way through soho – either as a pre-game ritual or as solace for not having a ticket. how the income of the working girls must be suffering with the delay to the stadium being built, you would think the english collective of prostitutes would put in a compensation claim.
prostitution in the area has changed dramatically, no longer quite so public and in your face, now the discreet red light and handwritten sign promising models upstairs. not to mention the proliferation of call cards in telephone boxes.
soho is also where i discovered that i had no aptitude for computer games. i am not sure what dragged me into soho’s amusement arcades? maybe it was the bright flashing lights, maybe if was the sounds of the games or the jingle jangle of the one-armed bandits. once i went in i was hooked. the games were 10p a go. sadly i could spend pounds and never really get very far in the games. i quickly realized i was no good at the fighting games, too many buttons for too many combinations. i was quickly bored by the puzzle games, not because i easily solved them, but because i never got beyond the early stages. i was doomed (geddit!) to be a player of straight forward shoot ‘em ups. i was never very good at them.
more often than not i would end up watching the other gamers, people who would stand with a zen like patience as they worked through the levels of the game that they had memorized like the backs of their hand. some would just smoke endlessly watching other gamers around them. others would stand and chat with their friends. many, like myself, would stand in awe and watch, hoping to learn how to play the games.
i never learnt.
but i was a frequent visitor to the arcades of soho. the games got more spectacular – more colourful, more complicated, more sounds and more money. slowly but surely the prices crept up from 10p to 20p to 30p and eventually at 50p i decided that this would be me wasting money at a rate that was stupid.
the last time i wandered into an arcade i was disappointed by the games and by the fact that most of the space was now devoted to one-armed bandits.
but then how can they compete with the explosion of gaming consoles.
soho has changed since i first started going there. the porn shops have been replaced by lots of restaurants, coffee shops, bars and fashion shops. the locals now complain about the noise rather than the low life elements. the magic has changed from something that attracted a young impressionable teenager and is now aimed at the young mid twenties clubber.
given i am mid 40s dirty old man i miss the old soho.
Friday, October 20, 2006
-14
I remember: zen
For a brief time in my life I was a competent martial artist. I could ki-yay with the best of them. High kick? Not a problem. Side kick? Easy. Double punch? Nailed. Roundhouse kick? Getting there. Splits? Forget about it.
I enjoyed the training. I enjoyed the discipline, I enjoyed the philosophy, I enjoyed the honour and I enjoyed the skill it took to be a half way decent martial artist,
My sensei was a cross between david caradine and peter fonda, a rangy south African guy who was as hard as nails. He was happy to work his students until they cried (and several did). For him it wasn’t just about the fighting it was about the code of the warrior, it was as much about the spiritual as it was about the kicking. If we did not show respect to our fellow students or the dojo we were punished.
One day there was a small class, so instead of training sensei decided he would talk to us about our ki force and zen.
He told us of his sensei, who the ubiquitous wizened old oriental, who would challenge his students to move him. He would centre himself and they would push him. No mater their physical superiority they could never move him. He would not use muscle strength to stay in position but the force of his will. I read comics and this is that shit right there.
So after telling us about the strength of will power, the sensei decided to demonstrate. He knelt down and several of us started to push him. All we succeeded in doing was getting out of breath.
Then he told us to have a go.
We did.
I knelt down. I focused. I centred.
I felt hands on my shoulders. They pushed. Nothing happened. I gave no physical resistance but I was not moving. I was the rock.
Another pair of hands – more force being pushed against me. I could feel the energy in me. I wasn’t moving I was set. Wooo hooo. I was at the centre of the universe, it was nirvana. Lost horizon and liv ulman here I come. To use a much-abused word it was awesome. Not quite the cosmic consciousness of Castaneda or icke but close.
It was pure and beautiful, an experience of inner peace and internal power.
Then some bastard pushes from the side and I tumble like a house of cards.
The moment gone.
The magic lost.
The memory, though remains.
It was a much better experience than the time I missed a block while sparring, got kicked straight in the bollocks and was walking like john wayne after a long day in the saddle.
For a brief time in my life I was a competent martial artist. I could ki-yay with the best of them. High kick? Not a problem. Side kick? Easy. Double punch? Nailed. Roundhouse kick? Getting there. Splits? Forget about it.
I enjoyed the training. I enjoyed the discipline, I enjoyed the philosophy, I enjoyed the honour and I enjoyed the skill it took to be a half way decent martial artist,
My sensei was a cross between david caradine and peter fonda, a rangy south African guy who was as hard as nails. He was happy to work his students until they cried (and several did). For him it wasn’t just about the fighting it was about the code of the warrior, it was as much about the spiritual as it was about the kicking. If we did not show respect to our fellow students or the dojo we were punished.
One day there was a small class, so instead of training sensei decided he would talk to us about our ki force and zen.
He told us of his sensei, who the ubiquitous wizened old oriental, who would challenge his students to move him. He would centre himself and they would push him. No mater their physical superiority they could never move him. He would not use muscle strength to stay in position but the force of his will. I read comics and this is that shit right there.
So after telling us about the strength of will power, the sensei decided to demonstrate. He knelt down and several of us started to push him. All we succeeded in doing was getting out of breath.
Then he told us to have a go.
We did.
I knelt down. I focused. I centred.
I felt hands on my shoulders. They pushed. Nothing happened. I gave no physical resistance but I was not moving. I was the rock.
Another pair of hands – more force being pushed against me. I could feel the energy in me. I wasn’t moving I was set. Wooo hooo. I was at the centre of the universe, it was nirvana. Lost horizon and liv ulman here I come. To use a much-abused word it was awesome. Not quite the cosmic consciousness of Castaneda or icke but close.
It was pure and beautiful, an experience of inner peace and internal power.
Then some bastard pushes from the side and I tumble like a house of cards.
The moment gone.
The magic lost.
The memory, though remains.
It was a much better experience than the time I missed a block while sparring, got kicked straight in the bollocks and was walking like john wayne after a long day in the saddle.
taxes
the tories have released their tax consultation document. cameron and osborne are not agreeing to anything in it, but nor are they denying it. instead they are talking about how they want to be seen as the economically sensible party of stability.
the document talks of a virtual flat tax (this means the rich become even richer and the rest of us get a little more, which we will lose in other ways…) osborne says they are not making policy now, waffles on about green taxes (which while noble have two problems: firstly will hit the poor most and if they succeed they will discourage the behaviour that generates the dosh in the first place…)
closer they get to the election the more pronounced will be their need to cut taxes in order to win (buy) votes.
remember that tory tax cuts just mean the rich get richer and our services get worst.
the document talks of a virtual flat tax (this means the rich become even richer and the rest of us get a little more, which we will lose in other ways…) osborne says they are not making policy now, waffles on about green taxes (which while noble have two problems: firstly will hit the poor most and if they succeed they will discourage the behaviour that generates the dosh in the first place…)
closer they get to the election the more pronounced will be their need to cut taxes in order to win (buy) votes.
remember that tory tax cuts just mean the rich get richer and our services get worst.
torture
one third of the world agrees that torture should be allowed in the case of pursuing terrorism.
one in 4 in the uk agree.
my head says no to torture of captured terrorists
my heart says you have to get as much information from each one as is possible. if that involves a tad of torture then do it
of the reasons why we shouldn’t use torture the least persuasive was the torture creates terrorists, as we must keep reminding ourselves that all of this is a result of a terrorist attack on america.
the other lame excuse is that we shouldn’t become like “them” but more and more this is an asymmetrical conflict and we may need to become more like them to find a resolution.
the one thing that makes me think that torture is not all that good for intelligence work is because people will say whatever they think is wanted in order to stop the pain.
but rather than throw the option away i currently believe that if the need arises then the relevant powers can use sanctioned torture, but all the relevant parties have to sign off on it, so we have an audit chain of who agreed to issue the warrant for torture.
it strikes me that on some things i am not as liberal as i should be.
one in 4 in the uk agree.
my head says no to torture of captured terrorists
my heart says you have to get as much information from each one as is possible. if that involves a tad of torture then do it
of the reasons why we shouldn’t use torture the least persuasive was the torture creates terrorists, as we must keep reminding ourselves that all of this is a result of a terrorist attack on america.
the other lame excuse is that we shouldn’t become like “them” but more and more this is an asymmetrical conflict and we may need to become more like them to find a resolution.
the one thing that makes me think that torture is not all that good for intelligence work is because people will say whatever they think is wanted in order to stop the pain.
but rather than throw the option away i currently believe that if the need arises then the relevant powers can use sanctioned torture, but all the relevant parties have to sign off on it, so we have an audit chain of who agreed to issue the warrant for torture.
it strikes me that on some things i am not as liberal as i should be.
-15
i remember: brainblast.
how do you tell a story like monty?
monty was a school friend, but more than that he was a legend to many of us.
when we first met (and i will have to defer to adam to relate exactly how we met) he was a mini leo sayer, the last time we met he was a pumped up semi muscled leo sayer with a receding hairline.
we shared a love of comics, rock music and science fiction and fantasy.
the 6th form was when we read sounds and monty could qualify for a wanger of the week. it showed our innocence that back then monty was embarrassed by the fact he had a lunch pack the size of a three-course meal.
adam and i did despicable and cruel things to his vinyl copy of rainbow’s “long live rock and roll”. it started innocently, as all such things do. we cut an additional grove in it so it jumped on the on the first track, (it had to be said it added to the overall sound of the album). but we were young and rather than stop there we went for it. we baked it, we glued, we skidded it across the floor, we used it as a frisbee, we stood on it and we even let adam’s dog take a leak on it. it was somewhat overkill. (to be honest i think this is where all my bad karma started from.
monty used to come around to my mum’s place (oddly i never really thought of it as my dad’s, always my mum’s), where we would listen records. where most heavy metal fans might indulge in some air guitar histrionics monty would arrange objects from my room into a drum kit and then he would “drum” along to the track that was playing.
now monty wanted to be a drummer, somewhere between neal peart and cozy powell, but he also wanted to be a vocalist, a cross between geoff tate and ronnie james dio. i never got to hear him sing, i did get to hear him drum.
it was a night that will live on in the memories of those who were there, and many now claim to have been there who obviously never were. for this one night alone monty deserves to be a legend to be held in awe until the end of time.
in bumbles wine bar in acton a legend was born. he who cannot be named (or joel for short) was playing with his band “the moonsters” they were an effective punk 4 piece. the venue was crowded. monty, yorkie and myself were there. the set was coming to a close. yorkie was crying out for their rendition of “english country garden”. monty was banging the life out of a fire extinguisher (which he had been done pretty much all through the night). joel (who really can’t be named) saw an opportunity to create rock history and got monty up to play the drums. now picture this: a sweaty cramped wine bar, jammed to capacity with 60 or so people, a drum kit that comprised of a bass drum, a tom, a snare and two cymbals and monty sitting astride the drum stool. joel (who is here under a false name) hits the first chord of the tune.
instead of a plodding 4/4 beat, monty unleashes (and truly that is the best word to describe what issued forth) a drum sound that shook the very foundations of the earth, waking the demons that slumber in the bowels of the earth.
in an instant bumbles wine bar was transformed into madison square gardens and monty was playing in front of an orgasmic crowd who worshipped every roll, beat and paradiddle he could muster. it was magnificent. the drums roared. the drums called forth the thunder. it was a cry to rock and roll war.
it was such a shame he was out of time with the rest of the band.
yorkie made a bootleg of the gig. we still smile like cheshire cats when we listen to it.
for one man that would have been enough but monty still had more to offer.
we still have memories of him in his tight red pants (a tale for another blog).
we still fondly remember him saying “they are so tight” (this was of rush and not of his tight red pants…)
but it is his love of rush we come back to.
i have already mentioned he had a receding hairline. for some reason, and i no longer know if it is based in fact or just some bizarre schoolyard logic, but we believed this phil collins like loss of hair was due to monty rubbing his hands on his forehead.
he had coined the phrase “brainblast” for star wars, somehow (and again i have no idea if it is based on reality or we just made it up) it became associated with rush. to this day you will see grown men, who should know better, raising their hands to their foreheads, rubbing them backwards and forwards while chanting (in a strained and slightly high pitched voice) “rush they were a brainblast, so tight, a brainblast…”
this was the cult of monty.
fast-forward a couple of years. i am in the virgin megastore and i buying a copy of rush’s, then, new album “moving pictures”, i hand over the disc and i am ready with the money when all of a sudden the shop assistant went “rush rush brainblast…”
it was an indescribable moment of wonderment on my part.
his legend had spread.
i haven’t seen monty in close on 20 years. but his memory lives on.
and now you dear reader are touched by his magic as well.
“ooh so tight.”
how do you tell a story like monty?
monty was a school friend, but more than that he was a legend to many of us.
when we first met (and i will have to defer to adam to relate exactly how we met) he was a mini leo sayer, the last time we met he was a pumped up semi muscled leo sayer with a receding hairline.
we shared a love of comics, rock music and science fiction and fantasy.
the 6th form was when we read sounds and monty could qualify for a wanger of the week. it showed our innocence that back then monty was embarrassed by the fact he had a lunch pack the size of a three-course meal.
adam and i did despicable and cruel things to his vinyl copy of rainbow’s “long live rock and roll”. it started innocently, as all such things do. we cut an additional grove in it so it jumped on the on the first track, (it had to be said it added to the overall sound of the album). but we were young and rather than stop there we went for it. we baked it, we glued, we skidded it across the floor, we used it as a frisbee, we stood on it and we even let adam’s dog take a leak on it. it was somewhat overkill. (to be honest i think this is where all my bad karma started from.
monty used to come around to my mum’s place (oddly i never really thought of it as my dad’s, always my mum’s), where we would listen records. where most heavy metal fans might indulge in some air guitar histrionics monty would arrange objects from my room into a drum kit and then he would “drum” along to the track that was playing.
now monty wanted to be a drummer, somewhere between neal peart and cozy powell, but he also wanted to be a vocalist, a cross between geoff tate and ronnie james dio. i never got to hear him sing, i did get to hear him drum.
it was a night that will live on in the memories of those who were there, and many now claim to have been there who obviously never were. for this one night alone monty deserves to be a legend to be held in awe until the end of time.
in bumbles wine bar in acton a legend was born. he who cannot be named (or joel for short) was playing with his band “the moonsters” they were an effective punk 4 piece. the venue was crowded. monty, yorkie and myself were there. the set was coming to a close. yorkie was crying out for their rendition of “english country garden”. monty was banging the life out of a fire extinguisher (which he had been done pretty much all through the night). joel (who really can’t be named) saw an opportunity to create rock history and got monty up to play the drums. now picture this: a sweaty cramped wine bar, jammed to capacity with 60 or so people, a drum kit that comprised of a bass drum, a tom, a snare and two cymbals and monty sitting astride the drum stool. joel (who is here under a false name) hits the first chord of the tune.
instead of a plodding 4/4 beat, monty unleashes (and truly that is the best word to describe what issued forth) a drum sound that shook the very foundations of the earth, waking the demons that slumber in the bowels of the earth.
in an instant bumbles wine bar was transformed into madison square gardens and monty was playing in front of an orgasmic crowd who worshipped every roll, beat and paradiddle he could muster. it was magnificent. the drums roared. the drums called forth the thunder. it was a cry to rock and roll war.
it was such a shame he was out of time with the rest of the band.
yorkie made a bootleg of the gig. we still smile like cheshire cats when we listen to it.
for one man that would have been enough but monty still had more to offer.
we still have memories of him in his tight red pants (a tale for another blog).
we still fondly remember him saying “they are so tight” (this was of rush and not of his tight red pants…)
but it is his love of rush we come back to.
i have already mentioned he had a receding hairline. for some reason, and i no longer know if it is based in fact or just some bizarre schoolyard logic, but we believed this phil collins like loss of hair was due to monty rubbing his hands on his forehead.
he had coined the phrase “brainblast” for star wars, somehow (and again i have no idea if it is based on reality or we just made it up) it became associated with rush. to this day you will see grown men, who should know better, raising their hands to their foreheads, rubbing them backwards and forwards while chanting (in a strained and slightly high pitched voice) “rush they were a brainblast, so tight, a brainblast…”
this was the cult of monty.
fast-forward a couple of years. i am in the virgin megastore and i buying a copy of rush’s, then, new album “moving pictures”, i hand over the disc and i am ready with the money when all of a sudden the shop assistant went “rush rush brainblast…”
it was an indescribable moment of wonderment on my part.
his legend had spread.
i haven’t seen monty in close on 20 years. but his memory lives on.
and now you dear reader are touched by his magic as well.
“ooh so tight.”
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
togetherness
branding can be utter bollocks, and just to prove it here is an example.
the european union is about to celebrate 50 years, in order to do it in style they held a competition to design a funky logo.
1700 students entered and the result is breathtaking.
breathtakingly bad.
the winner is szmon skrzypczak.
the design is supposed to encapsulate the idea of european co-operation and the future of europe. now i am no designer, but i can see that is going to be a hard one to capture in a static logo.
in fact what we get is some dodgy typefaces and accents that are used in european languages that come together in a colourful mess that spell “together” (ignoring the fact that all the letters do not hang together very well, and in fact look like a mess. though someone could argue, but they would be clutching at straws, this demonstrates the differences within the union and the fact it can work in harmony. but we all know that would be bollocks).
also it has to be noted that the logo will look different in each country as it will be translated and each one will have the “correct orthography” so in fact they will all be different and not together…. my head hurts.
the “since 1957” tagline refers to the signing of the treaty of rome. it also plays two other functions 1] one it gives a tacky air of being a retail chain logo and 2] it will remind people that it is a 50 year anniversary logo.
mr alejo vidal-quadras, first vice-president of the european parliament, said of the logo " i congratulate the winner for the very nice result, which expresses very well our common destiny".
while vice-president margot wallström said: “the winning logo represents the diversity and vigour of europe and at the same time it underlines the desired unity and solidarity of our continent.”
both demonstrating the ability of politicians to talk meaningless bollocks while making it sound important. (press release
to be found on the competition website)
the bbc ) also has some quotes which it says is from the competition website but i can’t find them there, but here there are from the bbc:
"this logo gives a graphic interpretation to the voice of all europeans, especially the new generations.” i am sure they don’t mean it, or even know what they are saying but then they had to say something.
"the word 'together' expresses in a simple and immediate way what was originally bound to the idea of europe: not only politics, or money, or geographic boundaries, but most of all co-operation and solidarity." and just in case we hadn’t picked up on what “together” might mean in this context they spell it out for us…
it also praises the irony "inspired by fashion labels". i have no idea what they are going on about here. but i suppose it is better than the ukip proposed design “fcuk europe”.
my pal jay
was most impressed that the winner was a pole and heaped lavish praise on mr skrzypczak. i would have let mr. skrzypczak have the last word but his logo is so fucking awful in this case i will let a picture paint a thousand words.
cranes
enjoy this pic of the urban landscape and cranes: a double bubble hit for me.
i don't think it was quite this dark when i took the picture.
i don't think it was quite this dark when i took the picture.
-16
i remember: superman.
for as long as i can remember i have read comics. i don’t think i have ever gone through a phase where i was ashamed of being a comic geek, and i don’t think i have ever fallen out of love with comics.
i remember the thrill of finding a corner shop that sold american comics – where i could buy copies of superboy, superman, action comics, adventures comics and more. (if memory serves this shop also sold sea monkeys but i never bought any, imagine my disappointment when many years later i discovered that they did not wear crowns and hang out as the perfect undersea nuclear family and were in fact like strands of snot in water….)
i remember discovering another shop that has a spinner rack of american comics, not only were there my old favourites but there was a whole new range of comics by a publisher called atlas. all i could think was “wow”, and i loved some of those books: “planet of the vampires”, “ironjaw”, “morlock 2001”, “demon hunter” and many more. several weeks’ worth of pocket money was spent in that shop.
(true there was another reason for wanting to frequent the shop – it also had a spinner rack of porn, and to teenaged eyes quite hardcore porn. including a cover that has stuck with me since then. picture, if you will, two naked couples the women are kneeling down, the men are standing behind them one bloke has his tackle on the top of one woman’s head, the other bloke has his crown jewels resting on the shoulder of the other woman. most bizarre and totally unerotic.)
i remember my first trip to dark they were and golden eyed. there i bought some new comics and the first issue of jack kirby’s “forever people” and steranko’s “nick fury agent of shield”. it was probably that day my interest in comics became a passionate affair.
i have been lucky enough to spend most of my working life involved with comics. through work i came to know people who shared my unabashed love for comics, people who knew more about comics than i could ever hope to know (hi jim. hi kenny. hi paul).
now when superman the movie came out i was less than moved by it. true i was excited about the whole now you will believe a man can fly. but the film just didn’t work for me. i did love the battle between superman and the criminals of the phantom zone in the second movie, but it was not the superman i loved. it was not the superman i wanted to see on screen.
i grew up reading cary bates’ superman with the wonderfully solid work of curt swan. superman was my favourite hero.
in 1986 dc comics rebooted superman, like the movie this was not the superman i liked or wanted. no matter i am a comic geek so i keep getting the comics, somewhere along the line what i wanted from the comics and what the comics were doing merged and once again i was enjoying superman.
fast-forward a few years.
it is late night in the office. the only two people still “working” are paul and i. somehow we have gotten into a discussion about comics (nothing new about that, we were always talking comics, well except for the time when we didn’t talk… and that
was paul’s fault).
now i can’t remember the exact debate we were having, it was something to do with superman’s powers and superman’s reasons for being a hero. we started it as a friendly to and fro as we got on with our work, something that could be done without taking our attention off our computer screens. a coffee break and the discussion continues at the coffee machine (it produced the most foul coffee but it was free). back to work but now it couldn’t be dropped. work was forgotten about. the question of superman had to be resolved. standing now, orating at each other. long drawn out arguments and theories of superman’s motivations and actions. voices impassioned, we could have been debating reducing third world debt to the world bank, but instead we are arguing the personal characteristics of a fictional character, and comparing him to other fictional characters. (for some this would be postmodernism at its best, meta narratives taking over, for sane people it was two fanboys who lost the plot..)
it gets more and more heated. voices raised, chests puffed, fingers jabbing. this is full on arguing mode, heading for meltdown.
while we never quite got to head butting and frothing at the mouth we came close.
not sure who won the argument, or whether we agreed to disagree.
i suspect it came to a halt because we both wanted chips.
that is the power that comics have on fanboys the question of who is stronger superman or thor is important to us. these are the questions and debates that have us coming back to comics time and time again.
no matter what happens superman is still the hero i love the most.
up, up and away!
for as long as i can remember i have read comics. i don’t think i have ever gone through a phase where i was ashamed of being a comic geek, and i don’t think i have ever fallen out of love with comics.
i remember the thrill of finding a corner shop that sold american comics – where i could buy copies of superboy, superman, action comics, adventures comics and more. (if memory serves this shop also sold sea monkeys but i never bought any, imagine my disappointment when many years later i discovered that they did not wear crowns and hang out as the perfect undersea nuclear family and were in fact like strands of snot in water….)
i remember discovering another shop that has a spinner rack of american comics, not only were there my old favourites but there was a whole new range of comics by a publisher called atlas. all i could think was “wow”, and i loved some of those books: “planet of the vampires”, “ironjaw”, “morlock 2001”, “demon hunter” and many more. several weeks’ worth of pocket money was spent in that shop.
(true there was another reason for wanting to frequent the shop – it also had a spinner rack of porn, and to teenaged eyes quite hardcore porn. including a cover that has stuck with me since then. picture, if you will, two naked couples the women are kneeling down, the men are standing behind them one bloke has his tackle on the top of one woman’s head, the other bloke has his crown jewels resting on the shoulder of the other woman. most bizarre and totally unerotic.)
i remember my first trip to dark they were and golden eyed. there i bought some new comics and the first issue of jack kirby’s “forever people” and steranko’s “nick fury agent of shield”. it was probably that day my interest in comics became a passionate affair.
i have been lucky enough to spend most of my working life involved with comics. through work i came to know people who shared my unabashed love for comics, people who knew more about comics than i could ever hope to know (hi jim. hi kenny. hi paul).
now when superman the movie came out i was less than moved by it. true i was excited about the whole now you will believe a man can fly. but the film just didn’t work for me. i did love the battle between superman and the criminals of the phantom zone in the second movie, but it was not the superman i loved. it was not the superman i wanted to see on screen.
i grew up reading cary bates’ superman with the wonderfully solid work of curt swan. superman was my favourite hero.
in 1986 dc comics rebooted superman, like the movie this was not the superman i liked or wanted. no matter i am a comic geek so i keep getting the comics, somewhere along the line what i wanted from the comics and what the comics were doing merged and once again i was enjoying superman.
fast-forward a few years.
it is late night in the office. the only two people still “working” are paul and i. somehow we have gotten into a discussion about comics (nothing new about that, we were always talking comics, well except for the time when we didn’t talk… and that
was paul’s fault).
now i can’t remember the exact debate we were having, it was something to do with superman’s powers and superman’s reasons for being a hero. we started it as a friendly to and fro as we got on with our work, something that could be done without taking our attention off our computer screens. a coffee break and the discussion continues at the coffee machine (it produced the most foul coffee but it was free). back to work but now it couldn’t be dropped. work was forgotten about. the question of superman had to be resolved. standing now, orating at each other. long drawn out arguments and theories of superman’s motivations and actions. voices impassioned, we could have been debating reducing third world debt to the world bank, but instead we are arguing the personal characteristics of a fictional character, and comparing him to other fictional characters. (for some this would be postmodernism at its best, meta narratives taking over, for sane people it was two fanboys who lost the plot..)
it gets more and more heated. voices raised, chests puffed, fingers jabbing. this is full on arguing mode, heading for meltdown.
while we never quite got to head butting and frothing at the mouth we came close.
not sure who won the argument, or whether we agreed to disagree.
i suspect it came to a halt because we both wanted chips.
that is the power that comics have on fanboys the question of who is stronger superman or thor is important to us. these are the questions and debates that have us coming back to comics time and time again.
no matter what happens superman is still the hero i love the most.
up, up and away!
Sunday, October 15, 2006
lichtenstein
lichtenstein was one of the most famous of the pop artists. he shot to fame with is appropriating the art of unsung comic artists and turning their work into art with a capital "a".
his work is wonderful and his later work moving and inspiring.
i would like to think he would enjoy seeing his art used as graf.
seen on a wall in sclatter street. (again i had the wrong lens on the camera, i may go back with a wide lens).
enjoy
lichtenstein was one of the most famous of the pop artists. he shot to fame with is appropriating the art of unsung comic artists and turning their work into art with a capital "a".
his work is wonderful and his later work moving and inspiring.
i would like to think he would enjoy seeing his art used as graf.
seen on a wall in sclatter street. (again i had the wrong lens on the camera, i may go back with a wide lens).
enjoy
his work is wonderful and his later work moving and inspiring.
i would like to think he would enjoy seeing his art used as graf.
seen on a wall in sclatter street. (again i had the wrong lens on the camera, i may go back with a wide lens).
enjoy
lichtenstein was one of the most famous of the pop artists. he shot to fame with is appropriating the art of unsung comic artists and turning their work into art with a capital "a".
his work is wonderful and his later work moving and inspiring.
i would like to think he would enjoy seeing his art used as graf.
seen on a wall in sclatter street. (again i had the wrong lens on the camera, i may go back with a wide lens).
enjoy
graf
some more graffiti from around the place.
this was a wall near liverpool street. unfortunately i didn't have the right lens to capture it all. i will be going back as it is very vibrant but enjoy these snaps of it.
(there will be more such stuff from that walk out and about at a later date).
this was a wall near liverpool street. unfortunately i didn't have the right lens to capture it all. i will be going back as it is very vibrant but enjoy these snaps of it.
(there will be more such stuff from that walk out and about at a later date).
-17
i remember: dentists.
from an early age i was scared of dentists. i blame my dad. dad was a handsome man when he was younger before the booze, fags and the worries of the world wore him down. he was also a bit of a hard man as well; you had to be to be a publican, who knew what fights you might have to get into.
when we were living in greenford he had to go to the dentist, i think he was having a tooth or two taken out in preparation for his false teeth. i remember it being a small little surgery that was very much like someone’s front room (the flock wall paper sticks in my mind).
now dad did want to be there, and i am not sure if i was there as moral support or he was trying to teach me an important life lesson. i was too young to be much support and the only lesson i learnt from it was the wrong one.
so we sat there waiting for dad to be called.
he was smoking a cigarette, a player’s senior service. (remember the days where you could smoke anywhere?)
the dental assistant came in and said “once you have finished your cigarette the dentist will see you.” she left.
dad took out the packet and lit up the remaining fags and started to puff.
for a young child it was amazingly funny.
(he got his false teeth they were horrid they made him look like a little like ken dodd. he only ever wore them as a joke. one of the things i wish i had remembered to pick up when my dad died was his false teeth).
i learnt from that dentists were nasty people.
i have never forgotten this lesson, which explains why my teeth are in horrid condition.
i am scared; no make that shit scared of the dentist.
i remember being at my dentist and telling her that she should just drill the tooth and forget the needle as i was too scared of it.
i remember being so scared that i didn’t even want to get a gumshield made up by my dentist (my goofy like front teeth made the cheapo ones no good). even that was a painful experience and all she had to do was make an impression of my teeth.
i remember having to come to an arrangement with the dentist that i would have a check up one week and she would do nothing to me at that meeting, and i would come back a week later for treatment.
i remember sitting in the waiting room panicking because i was going to have a filling while two young children went in with a smile for fillings and extractions. then they came out with a smile. scary kids.
i remember telling dave ellis how much i hated the dentist, he told me how he thought it was ok. i then told i was always scared of the needle breaking off in my gum. he wasn’t quite so complacent the next time he went to the dentist.
the dentist is the only place i think i am dustin hoffman.
from an early age i was scared of dentists. i blame my dad. dad was a handsome man when he was younger before the booze, fags and the worries of the world wore him down. he was also a bit of a hard man as well; you had to be to be a publican, who knew what fights you might have to get into.
when we were living in greenford he had to go to the dentist, i think he was having a tooth or two taken out in preparation for his false teeth. i remember it being a small little surgery that was very much like someone’s front room (the flock wall paper sticks in my mind).
now dad did want to be there, and i am not sure if i was there as moral support or he was trying to teach me an important life lesson. i was too young to be much support and the only lesson i learnt from it was the wrong one.
so we sat there waiting for dad to be called.
he was smoking a cigarette, a player’s senior service. (remember the days where you could smoke anywhere?)
the dental assistant came in and said “once you have finished your cigarette the dentist will see you.” she left.
dad took out the packet and lit up the remaining fags and started to puff.
for a young child it was amazingly funny.
(he got his false teeth they were horrid they made him look like a little like ken dodd. he only ever wore them as a joke. one of the things i wish i had remembered to pick up when my dad died was his false teeth).
i learnt from that dentists were nasty people.
i have never forgotten this lesson, which explains why my teeth are in horrid condition.
i am scared; no make that shit scared of the dentist.
i remember being at my dentist and telling her that she should just drill the tooth and forget the needle as i was too scared of it.
i remember being so scared that i didn’t even want to get a gumshield made up by my dentist (my goofy like front teeth made the cheapo ones no good). even that was a painful experience and all she had to do was make an impression of my teeth.
i remember having to come to an arrangement with the dentist that i would have a check up one week and she would do nothing to me at that meeting, and i would come back a week later for treatment.
i remember sitting in the waiting room panicking because i was going to have a filling while two young children went in with a smile for fillings and extractions. then they came out with a smile. scary kids.
i remember telling dave ellis how much i hated the dentist, he told me how he thought it was ok. i then told i was always scared of the needle breaking off in my gum. he wasn’t quite so complacent the next time he went to the dentist.
the dentist is the only place i think i am dustin hoffman.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
-18
i remember: nipples
i was bitten by the tattoo bug close on 20 years ago. i went to a tattooist in camden called bugs. he was french and looked like he could have been in the proclaimers, but he could sling the ink like few others. back then he was a known tattooist, now he is a superstar tattooist and is referred to as evil in the ink.
my first tat was done on my shoulder blade; it was quickly followed by one on my arm, then one on my chest and then one on my other shoulder blade.
all done by the same guy.
all superb pieces of work (if i say so myself).
the last one was a hopi indian symbol (yeah i am pretentious, so sue). it was a simple design that i had coloured in red and yellow. striking. it was a tat i really wanted. i was up for it. it was the time i least liked in mr. scratchy’s chair. not sure why but it hurt like buggery and seemed to take forever. i didn’t enjoy the experience.
luckily the tattoo is fantastic.
it was my last tat.
a year or so later i wanted more body art, but i couldn’t find a piece i wanted. so i chose a different route. i went for a piercing.
now i have make a little digression where i was working was filled with people who were seriously into body art and a few who were interested in it so as to look cool. so i made the big decision and decided that as i had tats i would go the piercing route. i chatted to a few colleagues, got a recommendation for the place to go. booked a day off work (we were probably one of the few companies where staff did actually take time off for such activities…)
so off i went to smithfields. i had booked in for a having both my nipples pierced.
i confess there was an element of fear and trepidation about the whole thing, but i was there and no turning back.
stripped to the waist sitting in a dentist chair i was beginning to sweat a little bit as the bloke started to get the nipple ready. a clamp put on the nipple, well he tried to but i was sweating so much it slipped off. another attempt and there it was on. the clamp had holes in it so the needle could go through the nipple and a ring put in.
shit! shit! shit! look at the size of that needle.
more sweat.
the needle goes in, not quite like a knife through butter…
the thing that has stuck with me was the sound it made – think of biting in to a ripe peach, well that is the sound a needle through a nipple makes.
one done. one to go.
first i had to get up and walk around, calm down and prepare myself.
second one was a little easier.
i was sweating like a pig throughout. the poor piercer had to wash the chair down.
he told me i would be high as a kite from the endorphin kick i would get later on in the day.
i remember i went into the west end and bought my first modem. went home and fell asleep.
so much for the kick.
i loved the nipple rings, even if it meant i had permanently erect nipples.
sadly i didn’t look after the rings and nipples properly and soon i was waving bye bye to the rings as they grew out through the nipples.
now i am piercing less, but i do have smiley nipples.
they still get erect though.
i was bitten by the tattoo bug close on 20 years ago. i went to a tattooist in camden called bugs. he was french and looked like he could have been in the proclaimers, but he could sling the ink like few others. back then he was a known tattooist, now he is a superstar tattooist and is referred to as evil in the ink.
my first tat was done on my shoulder blade; it was quickly followed by one on my arm, then one on my chest and then one on my other shoulder blade.
all done by the same guy.
all superb pieces of work (if i say so myself).
the last one was a hopi indian symbol (yeah i am pretentious, so sue). it was a simple design that i had coloured in red and yellow. striking. it was a tat i really wanted. i was up for it. it was the time i least liked in mr. scratchy’s chair. not sure why but it hurt like buggery and seemed to take forever. i didn’t enjoy the experience.
luckily the tattoo is fantastic.
it was my last tat.
a year or so later i wanted more body art, but i couldn’t find a piece i wanted. so i chose a different route. i went for a piercing.
now i have make a little digression where i was working was filled with people who were seriously into body art and a few who were interested in it so as to look cool. so i made the big decision and decided that as i had tats i would go the piercing route. i chatted to a few colleagues, got a recommendation for the place to go. booked a day off work (we were probably one of the few companies where staff did actually take time off for such activities…)
so off i went to smithfields. i had booked in for a having both my nipples pierced.
i confess there was an element of fear and trepidation about the whole thing, but i was there and no turning back.
stripped to the waist sitting in a dentist chair i was beginning to sweat a little bit as the bloke started to get the nipple ready. a clamp put on the nipple, well he tried to but i was sweating so much it slipped off. another attempt and there it was on. the clamp had holes in it so the needle could go through the nipple and a ring put in.
shit! shit! shit! look at the size of that needle.
more sweat.
the needle goes in, not quite like a knife through butter…
the thing that has stuck with me was the sound it made – think of biting in to a ripe peach, well that is the sound a needle through a nipple makes.
one done. one to go.
first i had to get up and walk around, calm down and prepare myself.
second one was a little easier.
i was sweating like a pig throughout. the poor piercer had to wash the chair down.
he told me i would be high as a kite from the endorphin kick i would get later on in the day.
i remember i went into the west end and bought my first modem. went home and fell asleep.
so much for the kick.
i loved the nipple rings, even if it meant i had permanently erect nipples.
sadly i didn’t look after the rings and nipples properly and soon i was waving bye bye to the rings as they grew out through the nipples.
now i am piercing less, but i do have smiley nipples.
they still get erect though.
extremist
i saw this while out and about.
now i have to confess that i think the west is losing the plot over the question of islamic fundamentalism. in trying to be moderate and liberal (what used to be known as "playing the white man") we are in danger of ignoring that we are on the cusp of a battle of cultures and ideas. ironically it is our very ideals and beliefs, our freedoms and principles that may weaken us in the face of the, potential, oncoming battle. the reason i say this is because as we try to accommodate the requirements, for want of a better word, of the islamic fundamentalists it means we give up some of what we are.
(this is not to say that our own governments are not quick to remove our freedoms, and it is not to say that we are perfect.)
when jack straw raised the subject on veils on muslim women the reaction was out of all proportion to what has been asked. the question becomes not just an attack on the personal choices of the women, but an attack on all muslim women and all of islam. not only does jack straw have to be defended for asking the question, he must also be proved not to be a racist.
when there has been criticism of muhammad or the islamic faith the response has not been one of reason but one of bullying violence.
for some islamic fundamentalists the freedoms of the west allow them to go about their lives enjoying the fruits of the west while all the while crying out for sharia law to be part of the legal landscape of the west (true some aspects of it will appeal to the hang them and flog them tories, but….)
it is not a question of being against islamic fundamentalists it is more about being for the freedoms that we cherish. we can find it in ourselves to protest out governments trying to take those liberties away from us, yet we shy away from it when they are threatened by a group who will happily persecute gays, will subjugate women and curtail democracy.
the irony is never more apparent than on the whitechapel high street where the swp newspaper sellers embrace the islamic fundamentalists as their friends and allies in the war against capitalism, except one wants a workers participatory democracy the other wants a theocracy.
now i have to confess that i think the west is losing the plot over the question of islamic fundamentalism. in trying to be moderate and liberal (what used to be known as "playing the white man") we are in danger of ignoring that we are on the cusp of a battle of cultures and ideas. ironically it is our very ideals and beliefs, our freedoms and principles that may weaken us in the face of the, potential, oncoming battle. the reason i say this is because as we try to accommodate the requirements, for want of a better word, of the islamic fundamentalists it means we give up some of what we are.
(this is not to say that our own governments are not quick to remove our freedoms, and it is not to say that we are perfect.)
when jack straw raised the subject on veils on muslim women the reaction was out of all proportion to what has been asked. the question becomes not just an attack on the personal choices of the women, but an attack on all muslim women and all of islam. not only does jack straw have to be defended for asking the question, he must also be proved not to be a racist.
when there has been criticism of muhammad or the islamic faith the response has not been one of reason but one of bullying violence.
for some islamic fundamentalists the freedoms of the west allow them to go about their lives enjoying the fruits of the west while all the while crying out for sharia law to be part of the legal landscape of the west (true some aspects of it will appeal to the hang them and flog them tories, but….)
it is not a question of being against islamic fundamentalists it is more about being for the freedoms that we cherish. we can find it in ourselves to protest out governments trying to take those liberties away from us, yet we shy away from it when they are threatened by a group who will happily persecute gays, will subjugate women and curtail democracy.
the irony is never more apparent than on the whitechapel high street where the swp newspaper sellers embrace the islamic fundamentalists as their friends and allies in the war against capitalism, except one wants a workers participatory democracy the other wants a theocracy.
-19
i remember: gigs
i love going to gigs. these days i tend to go to small gigs, they tend to be more exciting, they are less hassle to get tickets to, there is always a chance to discover something new and more often than not they are cheaper.
over the years i have seen some great gigs and some truly duff ones.
there was the time i agreed with the ex that i would try to make a career in rock journalism (hey we were young and we had dreams…), so using one of my nights out i went to the marquee club in order to see guns and roses on their first ever london gig. now the marquee was steeped in history and soaked in spilled beer and puke, but for a rock fan it was the best venue.
i get there. the line is long but moving steadily. one by one people enter the doors. anticipation is growing. i can count the number of bodies in front of me. no. no. no. big burly bloke is standing in front of the door telling me and 3 other people the venue was full.
that is my “i was there” story.
then there was the time at the hammy odeon, as we affectionately called it, that myself and dave ellis turned up a week too early to see toyah. needless to say we didn’t wait.
or there was the time when i was watching rush at the hammy on the permanent waves tour. i was there with monty. the set was in full swing. like all good gig going fans i was doing air guitar, in my case it was bass guitar and was i playing some monster riffs. i was smokin’. looking around i can see others throwing shapes and pull poses; we are all in air guitar heaven. but hold on what is this i see? down the row from me are three guys all doing synchronised air drumming? it is pretty funny, i love it, i am smiling broadly. i turn to monty and i point them out to him. he looks. he studies. he ponders and says: “they are a beat out.” once he had proclaimed he goes back to watching the stage.
me i nearly piss myself laughing.
then there was the time i was at a club with he who can’t be named (or joel), and as we chin stroke our way through a complex electronica set i am approached (well if memory serves me right she made a beeline from one end of the club to the other to get to me) by an elfin ethereal east european girl. she is pretty in a painfully cute way. she asks, “who are you?” i tell her. she leaves. joel runs after her to get her phone number for me…
fast forward a month we have arranged to meet at another electronica night. joel has been winding me up over it. first set is done and dusted and the second set is about to begin. i turn to joel to tell him i have been stood up. no sooner had the sound from my lips died than she pops up to say hi.
sadly we never got together, but she was pretty and mad and that is the way i like them.
rainbow at wembley was perhaps one of the worst gigs i ever went to. now i have to admit my memory of who was there that night is messed up. i thought that adam was there and it was his last night in the country before he went to become american. joel says he wasn’t there. all i can remember was rainbow were shit.
while madame x at the marquee was a great night. so much so we all decided to see them at the dominion later on that week. except we were probably half of the tickets sold. madame x cancelled but another band decided that they would play the night. we stupidly decided to stay. so the dominion had the bands parents and coach load of mates and us in it. i am not sure who were more embarrassed the band or us. credit where it is due they did rock out, just not very well.
i would salute them but i can just remember they were called battle something or another.
i remember great nights seeing the tubes (who were my first big gig alone and i went wearing a kipper tie and a hideous jacket – the closest i ever came to being a punk), seeing the manhattan transfer, frank zappa and the kodo drummers.
the best night of all was seeing ronnie james dio at the astoria back in 2004. the little man gave a towering performance. the few hundred people who had gathered to hear him sing songs from his then new lp were treated to a night they would never forget.
what we were treated to that night was simply an almost perfect greatest hits of ronnie james dio. it was rock and roll nirvana. we heard classics from his time in rainbow, his time in black sabbath and his key songs as a solo artist. he roared the songs out; we shouted our praise and our thanks. we listen with rapt delight as one gem morphed into another one.
we got heaven and hell, we got stargazer, we got sign of the southern cross, we got gates of babylon, we got holy diver, we got neon knights. they just kept coming.
we got more than we bargained for; we got a night we would remember for always.
the next time dio played the astoria the place was packed out with people hoping to experience what had heard, but it was a once in a lifetime occurrence. and i was there.
as the man himself has sung: long live rock and roll…
i love going to gigs. these days i tend to go to small gigs, they tend to be more exciting, they are less hassle to get tickets to, there is always a chance to discover something new and more often than not they are cheaper.
over the years i have seen some great gigs and some truly duff ones.
there was the time i agreed with the ex that i would try to make a career in rock journalism (hey we were young and we had dreams…), so using one of my nights out i went to the marquee club in order to see guns and roses on their first ever london gig. now the marquee was steeped in history and soaked in spilled beer and puke, but for a rock fan it was the best venue.
i get there. the line is long but moving steadily. one by one people enter the doors. anticipation is growing. i can count the number of bodies in front of me. no. no. no. big burly bloke is standing in front of the door telling me and 3 other people the venue was full.
that is my “i was there” story.
then there was the time at the hammy odeon, as we affectionately called it, that myself and dave ellis turned up a week too early to see toyah. needless to say we didn’t wait.
or there was the time when i was watching rush at the hammy on the permanent waves tour. i was there with monty. the set was in full swing. like all good gig going fans i was doing air guitar, in my case it was bass guitar and was i playing some monster riffs. i was smokin’. looking around i can see others throwing shapes and pull poses; we are all in air guitar heaven. but hold on what is this i see? down the row from me are three guys all doing synchronised air drumming? it is pretty funny, i love it, i am smiling broadly. i turn to monty and i point them out to him. he looks. he studies. he ponders and says: “they are a beat out.” once he had proclaimed he goes back to watching the stage.
me i nearly piss myself laughing.
then there was the time i was at a club with he who can’t be named (or joel), and as we chin stroke our way through a complex electronica set i am approached (well if memory serves me right she made a beeline from one end of the club to the other to get to me) by an elfin ethereal east european girl. she is pretty in a painfully cute way. she asks, “who are you?” i tell her. she leaves. joel runs after her to get her phone number for me…
fast forward a month we have arranged to meet at another electronica night. joel has been winding me up over it. first set is done and dusted and the second set is about to begin. i turn to joel to tell him i have been stood up. no sooner had the sound from my lips died than she pops up to say hi.
sadly we never got together, but she was pretty and mad and that is the way i like them.
rainbow at wembley was perhaps one of the worst gigs i ever went to. now i have to admit my memory of who was there that night is messed up. i thought that adam was there and it was his last night in the country before he went to become american. joel says he wasn’t there. all i can remember was rainbow were shit.
while madame x at the marquee was a great night. so much so we all decided to see them at the dominion later on that week. except we were probably half of the tickets sold. madame x cancelled but another band decided that they would play the night. we stupidly decided to stay. so the dominion had the bands parents and coach load of mates and us in it. i am not sure who were more embarrassed the band or us. credit where it is due they did rock out, just not very well.
i would salute them but i can just remember they were called battle something or another.
i remember great nights seeing the tubes (who were my first big gig alone and i went wearing a kipper tie and a hideous jacket – the closest i ever came to being a punk), seeing the manhattan transfer, frank zappa and the kodo drummers.
the best night of all was seeing ronnie james dio at the astoria back in 2004. the little man gave a towering performance. the few hundred people who had gathered to hear him sing songs from his then new lp were treated to a night they would never forget.
what we were treated to that night was simply an almost perfect greatest hits of ronnie james dio. it was rock and roll nirvana. we heard classics from his time in rainbow, his time in black sabbath and his key songs as a solo artist. he roared the songs out; we shouted our praise and our thanks. we listen with rapt delight as one gem morphed into another one.
we got heaven and hell, we got stargazer, we got sign of the southern cross, we got gates of babylon, we got holy diver, we got neon knights. they just kept coming.
we got more than we bargained for; we got a night we would remember for always.
the next time dio played the astoria the place was packed out with people hoping to experience what had heard, but it was a once in a lifetime occurrence. and i was there.
as the man himself has sung: long live rock and roll…
Monday, October 09, 2006
-20
i remember: field of dreams.
i am an avid cinemagoer. i love the cinema experience. the sitting in the dark. the anticipation of the movie. suffering through the ads (mostly they are never very good, and i never thought i would say this: but i miss pearl and dean). getting excited by the trailers for forthcoming films and then the lovely hush as the feature begins.
yes indeed i love the cinema.
way back when i used to go to the cinema a lot with paul. we would finish work and pile into the west end and see a movie. before the movie we would stock up on chocolate (and quiet a lot of it) and the obligatory diet coke. neither of us thought of the drink as being part of a calorie controlled diet thing – we both just liked the taste. but we both got funny looks.
(a bit of a digression we did work with a bloke who was almost spherical. when he went on a diet he loved his diet slimline tonic when he was eating, sadly he ruined the effect by ordering his dinner by the inch rather then calorie count. last time i saw him he was like a space hopper.)
armed with choc and pop we would go and see the film of the day.
1989 and we go and see “field of dreams”. to be honest i can’t remember what i expected of the movie. it was a film i was enjoying all the way through and then at the end it went from being just a film to be one of those films that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
“field of dreams” the film someone told me was about baseball has an ending that choked me up.
with the following exchange the tears were in my eyes.
john kinsella: well, good night ray.
ray kinsella: good night, john.
[they shake hands and john begins to walk away]
ray kinsella: hey... dad?
[john turns]
ray kinsella: [choked up] "you wanna have a catch?"
john kinsella: i'd like that.
like a good mate – paul took the piss.
i had to hear about it for days on end at work. paul did redeem himself by getting me a copy of the video for a birthday present.
the above scene hit me hard because i had only recently broken up with annemarie and was no longer in contact with the kid (i wasn’t the genetic dad, i was just borrowing him while i was dating annemarie).
i had a lot of trouble coming to terms with the fact that i had been dumped; surprisingly i was having even more trouble thinking about the fact that i was no longer a dad.
“you wanna have a catch,” reminded me i was never going to be a part of the kid’s life.
it also reminded me that my relationship with my dad was not the best, and hadn’t been for years.
in short it was a blubtastic moment.
because as i watched i knew i would never play catch with the kid again nor would i ever repair my relationship with my dad.
but with the video in my grubby hands i found myself crying at the film earlier and earlier in the film.
there was the moment when moonlight graham gives up the dream of playing baseball so that he could save a young child from choking. sob.
there was the moment were terrence mann explains about the dream and how they will come. boo hoo.
the moment when moonlight graham talks about his departed wife. blub.
annie kinsella arguing for the freedom of speech “at least he wasn’t a book burner you nazi cow…” weep.
terrence mann going to find out what is out there. snivel.
ray kinsella admitting he had never done anything crazy. bawl.
and many more.
hell i can’t even look at the dvd case without tearing up.
fuck i am man enough to admit that even typing this has me choked up.
“field of dreams” is the film that affects me more than any other film. it is a film i love. because of it kevin costner can do no wrong in my eyes.
it is a film that makes me cry like a baby, it is a film that makes me happy, it is a film that gives me hope.
for some it is a film about baseball – but those people are wankers.
i am an avid cinemagoer. i love the cinema experience. the sitting in the dark. the anticipation of the movie. suffering through the ads (mostly they are never very good, and i never thought i would say this: but i miss pearl and dean). getting excited by the trailers for forthcoming films and then the lovely hush as the feature begins.
yes indeed i love the cinema.
way back when i used to go to the cinema a lot with paul. we would finish work and pile into the west end and see a movie. before the movie we would stock up on chocolate (and quiet a lot of it) and the obligatory diet coke. neither of us thought of the drink as being part of a calorie controlled diet thing – we both just liked the taste. but we both got funny looks.
(a bit of a digression we did work with a bloke who was almost spherical. when he went on a diet he loved his diet slimline tonic when he was eating, sadly he ruined the effect by ordering his dinner by the inch rather then calorie count. last time i saw him he was like a space hopper.)
armed with choc and pop we would go and see the film of the day.
1989 and we go and see “field of dreams”. to be honest i can’t remember what i expected of the movie. it was a film i was enjoying all the way through and then at the end it went from being just a film to be one of those films that will stay with me for the rest of my life.
“field of dreams” the film someone told me was about baseball has an ending that choked me up.
with the following exchange the tears were in my eyes.
john kinsella: well, good night ray.
ray kinsella: good night, john.
[they shake hands and john begins to walk away]
ray kinsella: hey... dad?
[john turns]
ray kinsella: [choked up] "you wanna have a catch?"
john kinsella: i'd like that.
like a good mate – paul took the piss.
i had to hear about it for days on end at work. paul did redeem himself by getting me a copy of the video for a birthday present.
the above scene hit me hard because i had only recently broken up with annemarie and was no longer in contact with the kid (i wasn’t the genetic dad, i was just borrowing him while i was dating annemarie).
i had a lot of trouble coming to terms with the fact that i had been dumped; surprisingly i was having even more trouble thinking about the fact that i was no longer a dad.
“you wanna have a catch,” reminded me i was never going to be a part of the kid’s life.
it also reminded me that my relationship with my dad was not the best, and hadn’t been for years.
in short it was a blubtastic moment.
because as i watched i knew i would never play catch with the kid again nor would i ever repair my relationship with my dad.
but with the video in my grubby hands i found myself crying at the film earlier and earlier in the film.
there was the moment when moonlight graham gives up the dream of playing baseball so that he could save a young child from choking. sob.
there was the moment were terrence mann explains about the dream and how they will come. boo hoo.
the moment when moonlight graham talks about his departed wife. blub.
annie kinsella arguing for the freedom of speech “at least he wasn’t a book burner you nazi cow…” weep.
terrence mann going to find out what is out there. snivel.
ray kinsella admitting he had never done anything crazy. bawl.
and many more.
hell i can’t even look at the dvd case without tearing up.
fuck i am man enough to admit that even typing this has me choked up.
“field of dreams” is the film that affects me more than any other film. it is a film i love. because of it kevin costner can do no wrong in my eyes.
it is a film that makes me cry like a baby, it is a film that makes me happy, it is a film that gives me hope.
for some it is a film about baseball – but those people are wankers.
boom
woke up to sounds of radio 5 telling me that north korea had tested a nuclear device while i slept (not that they have an obligation to do it while i am awake).
joy.
the nuclear club just got bigger.
the world is just that much safer now.
on the one hand we have the potential clash of civilisations.
on the other hand we have the war on terror.
in a sense you can see why north korea have done it, they have seen themselves be branded as part of the axis of evil, they have seen american belligerence in action in iraq and threats against iran. now north korea can say “don’t fuck with us long time, or else we blow you long time.”
now i kinda trust america, britain and france not to fire off their nuclear arsenals.
but the world is filled with too many hotspots now what with israel and the middle east, india and pakistan, pakistan and islamic fundamentalism, north korea and anyone who looks at them funny.
too many itchy fingers on too many big red buttons.
still it sort of takes the edge off office politics.
joy.
the nuclear club just got bigger.
the world is just that much safer now.
on the one hand we have the potential clash of civilisations.
on the other hand we have the war on terror.
in a sense you can see why north korea have done it, they have seen themselves be branded as part of the axis of evil, they have seen american belligerence in action in iraq and threats against iran. now north korea can say “don’t fuck with us long time, or else we blow you long time.”
now i kinda trust america, britain and france not to fire off their nuclear arsenals.
but the world is filled with too many hotspots now what with israel and the middle east, india and pakistan, pakistan and islamic fundamentalism, north korea and anyone who looks at them funny.
too many itchy fingers on too many big red buttons.
still it sort of takes the edge off office politics.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
birthdays
this week has seen two important birthdays.
the independent newspaper is 20 years old, and fox news celebrates 10 years.
the independent is a paper that revels in its position of being the freethinking quality newspaper. sometimes this is annoying as it will have several different viewpoints on the same subject in the same issue. it is has always been a paper that has embraced good quality design and journalism. it was the first of the qualities to move to tabloid (only the daily telegraph remains as a broadsheet), it has always had a strong visual look and happily has in-depth articles.
it falls down on the internet side of things as you have to subscribe to be able to download articles from the site.
it is a paper that i enjoy reading.
fox news is owned by murdoch, it is so biased as to be not funny.
it demonstrates the fallacy of the freedom of the press like no other.
i know which one i trust, sadly i know which one has the most influence.
happy birthday to you both.
the independent newspaper is 20 years old, and fox news celebrates 10 years.
the independent is a paper that revels in its position of being the freethinking quality newspaper. sometimes this is annoying as it will have several different viewpoints on the same subject in the same issue. it is has always been a paper that has embraced good quality design and journalism. it was the first of the qualities to move to tabloid (only the daily telegraph remains as a broadsheet), it has always had a strong visual look and happily has in-depth articles.
it falls down on the internet side of things as you have to subscribe to be able to download articles from the site.
it is a paper that i enjoy reading.
fox news is owned by murdoch, it is so biased as to be not funny.
it demonstrates the fallacy of the freedom of the press like no other.
i know which one i trust, sadly i know which one has the most influence.
happy birthday to you both.
-21
i remember: john lennon.
i am not a beatles fan. never have been, never will be.
i was unemployed when lennon was shot. it meant i had to listen to endless hours of beatles and john lennon songs (yes i know i could have been out looking for work, but i wasn’t). it was my first experience of the mass mourning that would soon become the standard response of the general public at the death of anyone who was vaguely famous.
lennon re-entered my life when i fell in love with a scouser. seemingly all scousers love the beatles and annemarie was no different. because i loved her i listened to her beatles records, true i got my own back by subjecting her to whitesnake and frank zappa.
as love is about compromise we managed to come to a balance about what we listened to: mostly we listened to what she wanted.
now annemarie had a younger sister. during the period of time i was dating annemarie her sister’s mental health declined (pretty sure that it had nothing to do with me), it was a situation that had some odd moments.
at this particular time i was working as many hours as i could in order to earn as much overtime as was humanly possible. annemarie has debts and i was trying to help clear them (ah the folly of love), additionally she had a child so the need for a decent wage was doubly important. so i worked, while annemarie studied.
this particular day i had done more than enough hours and there was little else i could do. more importantly i had a desire to get home, play with the kid, put him to bed and snuggle up to the girlfriend. it was a nice plan. it was a plan that made me rush out of the warehouse with a shit-eating grin on my face. it was a plan that meant i coped with the pressures of the rush hour journey home with little more than a sigh.
i didn’t walk up the stairs to the flat – i ran, i danced, i floated: hell i was young and in love.
the “honey i am home” had barely died on my lips when i realised something was wrong. the kid was in his bedroom just playing with his toys, not unusual you think but normally the toys would be strewn all over the flat and he would play with them in the hall.
the voices coming from the kitchen gave me a clue as to what was coming.
sitting around the table was an exasperated annnemarie, her sister and her mum. a sinking feeling told me i had just entered the final act of a russian tragedy and i was destined to play a pivotal role, all the while knowing that no matter what i did i end up saying the wrong thing. even the wisdom of solomon would not save me.
all thoughts of a family night went down the drain. the idea of getting romantic at the end of the evening with the lady was like dust in the wind.
instead i was confronted with the opening gambit: “tell l there is no one looking in the window at her”
now there are several facts to bear in mind here: we lived on the 4th floor, l and her mum on the 12th floor of their block, i had just come home from a long workday. all of which guarantees that uncle pat is not going to give the right answer.
and guess what my answer wasn’t even close, not even in the same ballpark.
now both annemarie and me were sociologists, so i thought she would appreciate my answer:
“empirically i can’t say no one is looking in the window, but…” even before i started the final part of the sentence i was getting the look from annemarie that said “you are so not getting sex for a year and you are sleeping on the couch for a long time”. it is a look that could freeze hell and stop the sun.
limply i finished: “but i am pretty sure no one is looking in through the windows, at anyone in either of the flats…”
the complete answer met with a silence that indicated that everyone knew i was sleeping on the couch.
my goose was cooked.
but annemarie offered a, slim, chance of redemption.
could i grasp it? what do you think?
yup i fumbled it.
but hey lets see how you would have done…
“tell l that john lennon isn’t talking to her from the tv”
go on admit it not as easy as you thought it was going to be…
i could pretend i had a witty and sensible answer that solved the problem, but i didn’t.
it was a moment where time stood still, where everything when hyperfocus and i stood slack jawed for a moment or two too long.
a lame “no l he is not talking to you from the tv, he is dead…..”
“he is, he is”
“well just change the channel then, or turn the sound down….”
another one of those looks.
i beat a retreat to the kid’s bedroom. we made lego spaceships. i read him a story. he went to sleep.
l stayed the night.
i got the couch several days and sex was off the menu for quite a time.
i still hate john lennon.
i am not a beatles fan. never have been, never will be.
i was unemployed when lennon was shot. it meant i had to listen to endless hours of beatles and john lennon songs (yes i know i could have been out looking for work, but i wasn’t). it was my first experience of the mass mourning that would soon become the standard response of the general public at the death of anyone who was vaguely famous.
lennon re-entered my life when i fell in love with a scouser. seemingly all scousers love the beatles and annemarie was no different. because i loved her i listened to her beatles records, true i got my own back by subjecting her to whitesnake and frank zappa.
as love is about compromise we managed to come to a balance about what we listened to: mostly we listened to what she wanted.
now annemarie had a younger sister. during the period of time i was dating annemarie her sister’s mental health declined (pretty sure that it had nothing to do with me), it was a situation that had some odd moments.
at this particular time i was working as many hours as i could in order to earn as much overtime as was humanly possible. annemarie has debts and i was trying to help clear them (ah the folly of love), additionally she had a child so the need for a decent wage was doubly important. so i worked, while annemarie studied.
this particular day i had done more than enough hours and there was little else i could do. more importantly i had a desire to get home, play with the kid, put him to bed and snuggle up to the girlfriend. it was a nice plan. it was a plan that made me rush out of the warehouse with a shit-eating grin on my face. it was a plan that meant i coped with the pressures of the rush hour journey home with little more than a sigh.
i didn’t walk up the stairs to the flat – i ran, i danced, i floated: hell i was young and in love.
the “honey i am home” had barely died on my lips when i realised something was wrong. the kid was in his bedroom just playing with his toys, not unusual you think but normally the toys would be strewn all over the flat and he would play with them in the hall.
the voices coming from the kitchen gave me a clue as to what was coming.
sitting around the table was an exasperated annnemarie, her sister and her mum. a sinking feeling told me i had just entered the final act of a russian tragedy and i was destined to play a pivotal role, all the while knowing that no matter what i did i end up saying the wrong thing. even the wisdom of solomon would not save me.
all thoughts of a family night went down the drain. the idea of getting romantic at the end of the evening with the lady was like dust in the wind.
instead i was confronted with the opening gambit: “tell l there is no one looking in the window at her”
now there are several facts to bear in mind here: we lived on the 4th floor, l and her mum on the 12th floor of their block, i had just come home from a long workday. all of which guarantees that uncle pat is not going to give the right answer.
and guess what my answer wasn’t even close, not even in the same ballpark.
now both annemarie and me were sociologists, so i thought she would appreciate my answer:
“empirically i can’t say no one is looking in the window, but…” even before i started the final part of the sentence i was getting the look from annemarie that said “you are so not getting sex for a year and you are sleeping on the couch for a long time”. it is a look that could freeze hell and stop the sun.
limply i finished: “but i am pretty sure no one is looking in through the windows, at anyone in either of the flats…”
the complete answer met with a silence that indicated that everyone knew i was sleeping on the couch.
my goose was cooked.
but annemarie offered a, slim, chance of redemption.
could i grasp it? what do you think?
yup i fumbled it.
but hey lets see how you would have done…
“tell l that john lennon isn’t talking to her from the tv”
go on admit it not as easy as you thought it was going to be…
i could pretend i had a witty and sensible answer that solved the problem, but i didn’t.
it was a moment where time stood still, where everything when hyperfocus and i stood slack jawed for a moment or two too long.
a lame “no l he is not talking to you from the tv, he is dead…..”
“he is, he is”
“well just change the channel then, or turn the sound down….”
another one of those looks.
i beat a retreat to the kid’s bedroom. we made lego spaceships. i read him a story. he went to sleep.
l stayed the night.
i got the couch several days and sex was off the menu for quite a time.
i still hate john lennon.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
-22
i remember: the sixth form.
the sixth form was a turning point in my life. unlike many people i don’t have that many turning points or epiphanies – and generally when i do i treat them like captain jack and wave at them as they go by.
the sixth form is where i learnt that life was not going to be kind, i learnt that my carefree childhood was soon going to come to an end and with it was to come the stresses and strains of being an adult.
the sixth for was where i learnt about unrequited love and how to write very (very) bad poetry. the sixth form was the last time i a creative genius, it was the last time i was genuinely funny (no once upon a time i was funny, trust me it is true).
the sixth form is where i discovered music. most of my contemporaries were veterans of numerous punk gigs while i was buying the albums of the manhattan transfer (“coming out” was one of the first lps i ever bought – and it still rocks now chanson chanson….)
the sixth form was where i cemented my love of sociology.
i was in the sixth form for 2 reasons:
my parents were happy, and encouraging, that i have an education.
my first choice of career was denied me. i wanted to be a copper, but i was colour-blind so that was knocked on the head… years later in my first class of a degree course i made a joke about it that sunk like a lead balloon – i shall spare you….)
so i was a sixth former, i suppose i really should have been a sith former (groan).
now northolt high may not have been the greatest school in the world (in fact i know one person who positively thinks it damaged him in terms of learning) but there were a number of teachers who were inspiring and in love with the job they were doing.
one such was mr. adrian watson. he was a fey, gaunt (a look he was nearly 30 years too early for), intense, new blood teacher. he took a lot of stick from the kids, well he did wear a duffle coat, but he was a good teacher.
from him i learnt the basics of sociology. i fell in love with the subject, i thought the subject loved me – but sociology is a harsh mistress and while i was becoming a proto marxist functionalist, she swans of with those cute guys of post-modernism (whom she later ditched for the globalisation hunks….)
now i am a little ashamed to admit it – but back then i could be almost be described as a conservative (with a very small c) (yeah i know the shame, but better than being a liberal democrat….) mr. watson saved me from becoming jay and pushed me along the road of armchair radicalism, and lets hope for all us armchair radicals the revolution is televised or we are going to miss it – pass the remote!
in a class where we were discussing the failure of education for working class kids, we were all engaging in lively debate. throwing ideas back and forth, dismissing out of hand theories of out betters. when mr. watson asks, “why do kids swear?” or something like that. (now go on admit it you know where this story is going).
he was making a point about limited vocabularies, limited cultural opportunities, peer pressure, cultures of failure and a heap of other things.
i raised my hand. a nod and my answer:
“i don’t fucking know….” laughter, in my mind it was thunderous laughter, but probably a gentle titter.
oh well i spent the rest of that class in the sixth form centre….
thus was born the radical(ish) pat you all know.
the sixth form was a turning point in my life. unlike many people i don’t have that many turning points or epiphanies – and generally when i do i treat them like captain jack and wave at them as they go by.
the sixth form is where i learnt that life was not going to be kind, i learnt that my carefree childhood was soon going to come to an end and with it was to come the stresses and strains of being an adult.
the sixth for was where i learnt about unrequited love and how to write very (very) bad poetry. the sixth form was the last time i a creative genius, it was the last time i was genuinely funny (no once upon a time i was funny, trust me it is true).
the sixth form is where i discovered music. most of my contemporaries were veterans of numerous punk gigs while i was buying the albums of the manhattan transfer (“coming out” was one of the first lps i ever bought – and it still rocks now chanson chanson….)
the sixth form was where i cemented my love of sociology.
i was in the sixth form for 2 reasons:
my parents were happy, and encouraging, that i have an education.
my first choice of career was denied me. i wanted to be a copper, but i was colour-blind so that was knocked on the head… years later in my first class of a degree course i made a joke about it that sunk like a lead balloon – i shall spare you….)
so i was a sixth former, i suppose i really should have been a sith former (groan).
now northolt high may not have been the greatest school in the world (in fact i know one person who positively thinks it damaged him in terms of learning) but there were a number of teachers who were inspiring and in love with the job they were doing.
one such was mr. adrian watson. he was a fey, gaunt (a look he was nearly 30 years too early for), intense, new blood teacher. he took a lot of stick from the kids, well he did wear a duffle coat, but he was a good teacher.
from him i learnt the basics of sociology. i fell in love with the subject, i thought the subject loved me – but sociology is a harsh mistress and while i was becoming a proto marxist functionalist, she swans of with those cute guys of post-modernism (whom she later ditched for the globalisation hunks….)
now i am a little ashamed to admit it – but back then i could be almost be described as a conservative (with a very small c) (yeah i know the shame, but better than being a liberal democrat….) mr. watson saved me from becoming jay and pushed me along the road of armchair radicalism, and lets hope for all us armchair radicals the revolution is televised or we are going to miss it – pass the remote!
in a class where we were discussing the failure of education for working class kids, we were all engaging in lively debate. throwing ideas back and forth, dismissing out of hand theories of out betters. when mr. watson asks, “why do kids swear?” or something like that. (now go on admit it you know where this story is going).
he was making a point about limited vocabularies, limited cultural opportunities, peer pressure, cultures of failure and a heap of other things.
i raised my hand. a nod and my answer:
“i don’t fucking know….” laughter, in my mind it was thunderous laughter, but probably a gentle titter.
oh well i spent the rest of that class in the sixth form centre….
thus was born the radical(ish) pat you all know.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
-23
i remember star wars.
i remember being excited about going to see the film, i was giddy.
i remember being happy as larry when i got tickets to see it the first evening it opened in london. i was going to see star wars and i was going to see it at the odeon west end. i was going to be among the first people in the country to see it.
my dad had a tenuous link to the movie. when he worked in a pub, called the tithe farm, he served several of the technicians who worked on the film. from that i got a crew t-shirt (i was so so so so so proud to have that shirt, when i wore it i was puffed out - it was also unforgiving of the podgy pat status i had back then), i got some special promo stickers and i got a couple of pages of shooting script.
so with those special items and being a geeky science fiction fan i was desperate to see the film.
the day came and off we set: john hanley (monty to everyone) and myself.
we got there.
we saw the movie.
we bought the programme, we bought the poster. and we bounced all the way home so thrilled, so excited, so thrilled.
with the posters we played lightsaber duels, we quoted lines. we were in sf heaven.
as if that was not enough it was also the day a legend was born.
it was the night monty unleashed a catch phrase that has stayed with some of us since that night and will be on our lips until the day we all day.
it was the night of “it was a brainblast!”
now i have no idea why adam didn’t come along to see the film with us. but over the summer adam and i saw star wars several times. adam counted the different types of droids and ships that appeared. i quoted endless chunks of dialogue. we discussed the forced. we talked about plot points. adam drew droids and spaceships (and good they were too).
we were hooked.
we loved star wars and we didn’t care who knew it.
you want to know something? i am still a star wars fan, just not as fanatical as i used to be.
i remember being excited about going to see the film, i was giddy.
i remember being happy as larry when i got tickets to see it the first evening it opened in london. i was going to see star wars and i was going to see it at the odeon west end. i was going to be among the first people in the country to see it.
my dad had a tenuous link to the movie. when he worked in a pub, called the tithe farm, he served several of the technicians who worked on the film. from that i got a crew t-shirt (i was so so so so so proud to have that shirt, when i wore it i was puffed out - it was also unforgiving of the podgy pat status i had back then), i got some special promo stickers and i got a couple of pages of shooting script.
so with those special items and being a geeky science fiction fan i was desperate to see the film.
the day came and off we set: john hanley (monty to everyone) and myself.
we got there.
we saw the movie.
we bought the programme, we bought the poster. and we bounced all the way home so thrilled, so excited, so thrilled.
with the posters we played lightsaber duels, we quoted lines. we were in sf heaven.
as if that was not enough it was also the day a legend was born.
it was the night monty unleashed a catch phrase that has stayed with some of us since that night and will be on our lips until the day we all day.
it was the night of “it was a brainblast!”
now i have no idea why adam didn’t come along to see the film with us. but over the summer adam and i saw star wars several times. adam counted the different types of droids and ships that appeared. i quoted endless chunks of dialogue. we discussed the forced. we talked about plot points. adam drew droids and spaceships (and good they were too).
we were hooked.
we loved star wars and we didn’t care who knew it.
you want to know something? i am still a star wars fan, just not as fanatical as i used to be.
-24
i remember wrestling.
i love wrestling; well more specifically i love the word wrestling entertainment (the wwe). it was not ever thus. now i admit i can remember watching the world of sport’s wrestling shows. my gran was a big fan, she would sit there and hiss and boo at the wrestlers, all the while there would be a clicky clacking as her fingers moved in a complex blur and like magic jumpers were created.
i outgrew wrestling.
fast forward years and i am working. some of the lads i worked with were fans of the wwe, but back then it was the wwf before the pandas beat them up for use of the wwf trademark. oh how i snorted when maybank would tell me of the wrestling show he had watched the night before. derision dripped from my every pore.
in a hotel room i am skimming through the channels to see if there is something to watch. nope, no, nothing… it was going to be a springsteen moment of 57 channels and nothing on. stumbled across the wrestling. i watched a little bit. sort of fascinated, sort of horrified and mildly entertained.
like a scab i couldn’t stop going back to the wrestling. before i knew it i was hooked.
i still am.
i am not like shep who is a bona fide expert on the squared circle, a man who can tell you the various ring names of the wrestlers, their finishing moves and their catch phrases. i am a humble fan.
but this isn’t a story about wrestling as such, oh no.
it is about a day in the office, like many such days it looked like it was going to be another day that would be given over to wage slavery.
the phone rings and it is my pal jim. i have known jim for over 14 years. we share many likes. he has a deft turn of phrase and can tell a mean story.
how little did i know that today would be the mother of all stories?
how did i know as i answered that phone that i would soon be told a story that even now has me grinning like a loon?
i shan’t bother telling you the story, it doesn’t translate. i know this to be the case as i have tried to explain it to several people who just look at me as if i should be on meds. but it was epic. it started off with modern wrestling and had a punch line from the glory days of big daddy.
by the conclusion of the story i was laughing so hard i was no longer laughing but had moved into an octave that only dogs can hear, i was having trouble breathing, i had a red mist in front of my eyes, and my cheeks were slick with tears from laughing. there were points where neither i nor jim could speak as all we were doing was a made wheezey laugh down the phone at each other. i was trapped in my chair, unable to coordinate my body parts as they shook with laughter. at some point one of the girls from accounts had come into my office. she was shocked to see me, normally i don’t smile but here i was with a full fledged laughter fest taking place. for a moment i thought she was going to call a doctor in case i had damaged myself.
i don’t think i have ever laughed so hard.
i am still giggling about it – even now.
and i know the punch line…
i love wrestling; well more specifically i love the word wrestling entertainment (the wwe). it was not ever thus. now i admit i can remember watching the world of sport’s wrestling shows. my gran was a big fan, she would sit there and hiss and boo at the wrestlers, all the while there would be a clicky clacking as her fingers moved in a complex blur and like magic jumpers were created.
i outgrew wrestling.
fast forward years and i am working. some of the lads i worked with were fans of the wwe, but back then it was the wwf before the pandas beat them up for use of the wwf trademark. oh how i snorted when maybank would tell me of the wrestling show he had watched the night before. derision dripped from my every pore.
in a hotel room i am skimming through the channels to see if there is something to watch. nope, no, nothing… it was going to be a springsteen moment of 57 channels and nothing on. stumbled across the wrestling. i watched a little bit. sort of fascinated, sort of horrified and mildly entertained.
like a scab i couldn’t stop going back to the wrestling. before i knew it i was hooked.
i still am.
i am not like shep who is a bona fide expert on the squared circle, a man who can tell you the various ring names of the wrestlers, their finishing moves and their catch phrases. i am a humble fan.
but this isn’t a story about wrestling as such, oh no.
it is about a day in the office, like many such days it looked like it was going to be another day that would be given over to wage slavery.
the phone rings and it is my pal jim. i have known jim for over 14 years. we share many likes. he has a deft turn of phrase and can tell a mean story.
how little did i know that today would be the mother of all stories?
how did i know as i answered that phone that i would soon be told a story that even now has me grinning like a loon?
i shan’t bother telling you the story, it doesn’t translate. i know this to be the case as i have tried to explain it to several people who just look at me as if i should be on meds. but it was epic. it started off with modern wrestling and had a punch line from the glory days of big daddy.
by the conclusion of the story i was laughing so hard i was no longer laughing but had moved into an octave that only dogs can hear, i was having trouble breathing, i had a red mist in front of my eyes, and my cheeks were slick with tears from laughing. there were points where neither i nor jim could speak as all we were doing was a made wheezey laugh down the phone at each other. i was trapped in my chair, unable to coordinate my body parts as they shook with laughter. at some point one of the girls from accounts had come into my office. she was shocked to see me, normally i don’t smile but here i was with a full fledged laughter fest taking place. for a moment i thought she was going to call a doctor in case i had damaged myself.
i don’t think i have ever laughed so hard.
i am still giggling about it – even now.
and i know the punch line…
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
boris
i have a soft spot for boris johnson, he is one of those people who oozes affability. it might be that he doesn’t seem to care about his appearance; it might also be that he has an ability to put his foot in it.
recently he has had a pop at jamie oliver’s campaign to improve school dinners by introducing healthier food into schools. attacking saint jamie seems to be a no no.
jamie shot to fame as a mockney chef (now of all the breeds of celebrity chefs are among the ones that make me go why? i am expecting there to be celebrity dry cleaners at some point). to his credit he has turned his celebrity status to some good, training kids to be chefs and his hectoring of the government to improve school dinners.
the school dinner campaign coincided with the recent media quake over obesity in children. there seemed to be lots of studies to discover the causes and a lot of hand wringing. it will be no surprise to one and all that the causes of obesity in children (and in many adults) can be listed as: eating too much, eating too much that is not healthy and not exercising enough. it is not rocket science.
obviously a healthy person is preferable to an unhealthy person, so getting kids to eat properly in schools is a good way to start.
jamie oliver has gotten the government to make a start.
the bbc has allegedly caught boris sounding off about the campaign.
"if i was in charge, i would get rid of jamie oliver, tell people to eat what they like." (boris)
with this boris is showing some support with the two mums who are selling ”junk” to school kids who are sick of the low fat rubbish.
no one will be surprised that boris has denied the story (the bbc are standing by it) or that the conservatives have been on the dog and bone to jamie (see what i did there?) to say whatever boris said it wasn’t endorsed by the tory party. after all don’t want to upset jamie.
(though you would have preferred them to say “hey boris says he didn’t say it, we believe him so there is no need to contact jamie and apologise.” the cynical pat thinks: “mmm no smoke without fire, if they have apologized they know he said something…”
but guess what i am with boris, and i am agreeing with boris for a number of reasons.
lets deal with the ones that matter to the conservatives. they have banged on about personal responsibility and what you eat is really a question of personal taste and personal choice. if you end up as a fat bloater kid – well it’s what you and your parents wanted.
under a future conservative government any issues to do with health will also be a matter of personal choice, because hey we are going to cut your taxes and that means cutting your services so you can use that windfall of tax to pay your medical bill.
but the tories can’t say that – so they talk about cultural change. cameron’s sound-bite was along the lines of “more supernanny rather than nanny state.” it got the expected round of applause even though we all know it is a fatuous piece of hyperbole.
why do you say that pat? easy. jamie may have gotten the ball rolling on the school dinner issue – but who has made sure it has changed? who has provided the funds for the schools to improve the food? was it jamie? no. was it local businesses? no. oh it would be the nanny state.
the tories get upset when the labour government make proclamations about how people should live – because the state shouldn’t interfere, but it is ok for a celebrity chef to do so. yeah that works.
the tories often say that they are the party of personal choice, and cameron has said that they are not a party of pr style. in spinning against the alleged boris story they are actually denying personal choice and they are jumping onto a populist bandwagon.
now steve richards, in the independent (and yes i would like to link to it – but the indie expects you to pay…) has mentioned a couple of things. he points out that while jamie gets the credit it is the government that has implemented and carried out the changes, because that is what governments do. he also points out that why are school dinners bad? mmm it might be because the tory party when it was last in power outsourced school dinners and they were awarded to contractors with the lowest bid (and they are looking for profit).
why don’t kids exercise – could it be that the tories started off the selling of school playing fields? yeah that might be an answer.
so strike two for the tories.
the pity of it is that labour stuck to rigidly to the tory game plan. the irony is that the tories think that they were wrong for doing it.
the tories are quick to go on about a small state and on about social responsibility of the individual and the corporation. we can see how responsible business can be when they can make money selling crap turkey twizzlers to schools to feed the kids.
the tories may have found some new buzzwords and cute phrases but it is pretty certain that if they get back in power it will be business as normal.
at least with boris there is less of the sound-bite and less of the porkie pies…..
(sorry)
recently he has had a pop at jamie oliver’s campaign to improve school dinners by introducing healthier food into schools. attacking saint jamie seems to be a no no.
jamie shot to fame as a mockney chef (now of all the breeds of celebrity chefs are among the ones that make me go why? i am expecting there to be celebrity dry cleaners at some point). to his credit he has turned his celebrity status to some good, training kids to be chefs and his hectoring of the government to improve school dinners.
the school dinner campaign coincided with the recent media quake over obesity in children. there seemed to be lots of studies to discover the causes and a lot of hand wringing. it will be no surprise to one and all that the causes of obesity in children (and in many adults) can be listed as: eating too much, eating too much that is not healthy and not exercising enough. it is not rocket science.
obviously a healthy person is preferable to an unhealthy person, so getting kids to eat properly in schools is a good way to start.
jamie oliver has gotten the government to make a start.
the bbc has allegedly caught boris sounding off about the campaign.
"if i was in charge, i would get rid of jamie oliver, tell people to eat what they like." (boris)
with this boris is showing some support with the two mums who are selling ”junk” to school kids who are sick of the low fat rubbish.
no one will be surprised that boris has denied the story (the bbc are standing by it) or that the conservatives have been on the dog and bone to jamie (see what i did there?) to say whatever boris said it wasn’t endorsed by the tory party. after all don’t want to upset jamie.
(though you would have preferred them to say “hey boris says he didn’t say it, we believe him so there is no need to contact jamie and apologise.” the cynical pat thinks: “mmm no smoke without fire, if they have apologized they know he said something…”
but guess what i am with boris, and i am agreeing with boris for a number of reasons.
lets deal with the ones that matter to the conservatives. they have banged on about personal responsibility and what you eat is really a question of personal taste and personal choice. if you end up as a fat bloater kid – well it’s what you and your parents wanted.
under a future conservative government any issues to do with health will also be a matter of personal choice, because hey we are going to cut your taxes and that means cutting your services so you can use that windfall of tax to pay your medical bill.
but the tories can’t say that – so they talk about cultural change. cameron’s sound-bite was along the lines of “more supernanny rather than nanny state.” it got the expected round of applause even though we all know it is a fatuous piece of hyperbole.
why do you say that pat? easy. jamie may have gotten the ball rolling on the school dinner issue – but who has made sure it has changed? who has provided the funds for the schools to improve the food? was it jamie? no. was it local businesses? no. oh it would be the nanny state.
the tories get upset when the labour government make proclamations about how people should live – because the state shouldn’t interfere, but it is ok for a celebrity chef to do so. yeah that works.
the tories often say that they are the party of personal choice, and cameron has said that they are not a party of pr style. in spinning against the alleged boris story they are actually denying personal choice and they are jumping onto a populist bandwagon.
now steve richards, in the independent (and yes i would like to link to it – but the indie expects you to pay…) has mentioned a couple of things. he points out that while jamie gets the credit it is the government that has implemented and carried out the changes, because that is what governments do. he also points out that why are school dinners bad? mmm it might be because the tory party when it was last in power outsourced school dinners and they were awarded to contractors with the lowest bid (and they are looking for profit).
why don’t kids exercise – could it be that the tories started off the selling of school playing fields? yeah that might be an answer.
so strike two for the tories.
the pity of it is that labour stuck to rigidly to the tory game plan. the irony is that the tories think that they were wrong for doing it.
the tories are quick to go on about a small state and on about social responsibility of the individual and the corporation. we can see how responsible business can be when they can make money selling crap turkey twizzlers to schools to feed the kids.
the tories may have found some new buzzwords and cute phrases but it is pretty certain that if they get back in power it will be business as normal.
at least with boris there is less of the sound-bite and less of the porkie pies…..
(sorry)
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
-25
i remember making doughnuts.
i am not sure how we got the job but for several weeks adam and myself made and sold doughnuts in petticoat lane market.
it paid well, but it was hard and dull work. fortunately it never turned me off doughnuts (oh what hell would that be to live a life without doughnuts….)
one bank holiday we did a weekend working some event or another. it meant we slept in the van – almost like being rock stars. i don’t believe we got much sleep, as it was not comfortable. at one point i needed a late night leak – opened the door to piss and nearly had my todger bitten off by a large guard dog, a bit of speed on my part and my family jewels were saved.
when that weekend was over we rushed into the west end to spend some of the hard earned money. we went into our price and bought records (you remember those vinyl things that used to be made) one of the ones i got was led zeppelin’s “in through the out door”. it remains one of my favourites.
i think that was the last time i made doughnuts and it was the last time i worked until i got a summer job when i started college.
but that is a story for another night.
i am not sure how we got the job but for several weeks adam and myself made and sold doughnuts in petticoat lane market.
it paid well, but it was hard and dull work. fortunately it never turned me off doughnuts (oh what hell would that be to live a life without doughnuts….)
one bank holiday we did a weekend working some event or another. it meant we slept in the van – almost like being rock stars. i don’t believe we got much sleep, as it was not comfortable. at one point i needed a late night leak – opened the door to piss and nearly had my todger bitten off by a large guard dog, a bit of speed on my part and my family jewels were saved.
when that weekend was over we rushed into the west end to spend some of the hard earned money. we went into our price and bought records (you remember those vinyl things that used to be made) one of the ones i got was led zeppelin’s “in through the out door”. it remains one of my favourites.
i think that was the last time i made doughnuts and it was the last time i worked until i got a summer job when i started college.
but that is a story for another night.
taxes
they have a nice tree for a logo (and it is supposed to have cost £20 thousand for the redesign… i already feel the economy is safer with them….) they want to hug hoodies; there is talk of sunshine and optimism.
cameron has even made a sensible case for why the conservatives are not going to be announcing any major policies at this conference (although i suspect the bold promise of scrapping the id cards has already won them some votes).
but you can always count on a few to rock the boat.
oh look there they are tebbit, leigh and redwood. what is the rallying cry of these great politicians? lets not forget that edward leigh (who was educated at a french school in london) and john redwood helped to cripple the government of john major with their euroscepticism.
so here they are banging on about tax cuts.
because tax cuts mean prosperity.
““lower taxes are not a desirable extra that you can add when everything is going fine. lower tax rates are the way to get everything going well.” (redwood)
leigh believes: that by abandoning traditional issues, such as low taxes and immigration, the conservative party risked acting as a recruiting agent for the uk independence party.
while gerald howarth is reported to have said: ““taxation is theft, because it is compulsorily removing money from people. it is desperately important we have this debate. this issue is travelling up the agenda.” and we can see he is looking to have a tea party. (one for my american readers.)
all quotes from the times
except for most of us the tax cut is never going to be that big as our basic wage is not that large to start off with. so a 5p cut on £30k a year equates to about £1500 more money a year or an extra £28 or so, (i admit i am not good with figures so this might not be right – i trust some of the maths whizzes out there to put me straight).
now lets not worry about the fact that £28 will probably get eaten up by other price increases. lets just assume you get to keep it all. can you buy a house in london with it? nope. can you start a business with it? probably but you will have to borrow a lot. in fact what it means is you can probably afford to have a better holiday this year or maybe get that new tv.
really when the tories talk about prosperity they mean the prosperity of the CEOs and board members who are already earning more money than they could ever spend can actually have more money. we benefit because some of that money will filter down to us, it is the trickle down effect. so fuck a decent education system – just watch how you local community is changed when someone rich spends £400 on a bottle of plonk.
trust me you will be contacting redwood and co and thanking them.
they say they don’t want businesses moving abroad, but most of the time it is tax that makes them move it is the fact that the labour force works cheaper (but not the highly skilled ceos they can only be found in the uk (or as some wankers call in gb plc) and they have to be paid the, always high, market price.
but don’t you worry while you get paid less (hey don’t complain your tax burden is less) or you don’t have a job because it has been outsourced because if you are lucky someone very rich will spend some of their money in your area and you will benefit.
see it all makes perfect sense.
now i know i have banged on about outsourcing the CEOs and you all know it makes sense, but another point i am sure i have mentioned is that as we see our wages reduced in order to be competitive – who the fuck buys the stuff that is made?
oh yeah the rich.
true labour has watched the wealth disparity get worse, but it is not like the conservatives are going to change that trend. in fact they will accelerate it.
so there is cuddly cameron trying for the feel good conference, but the stormtroopers of the right have goose-stepped in and shown that sometimes you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
the conservatives might be a green hoodie hugging party – but they still want to cut taxes (oh and provide better services – how?), bang anyone up inside (more prisons, but not more social housing – what a smart balance) and of course they want they debate on the fuzzy wuzzies to take place.
the more things change the more they stay the same.
sadly i think they will get in.
cameron has even made a sensible case for why the conservatives are not going to be announcing any major policies at this conference (although i suspect the bold promise of scrapping the id cards has already won them some votes).
but you can always count on a few to rock the boat.
oh look there they are tebbit, leigh and redwood. what is the rallying cry of these great politicians? lets not forget that edward leigh (who was educated at a french school in london) and john redwood helped to cripple the government of john major with their euroscepticism.
so here they are banging on about tax cuts.
because tax cuts mean prosperity.
““lower taxes are not a desirable extra that you can add when everything is going fine. lower tax rates are the way to get everything going well.” (redwood)
leigh believes: that by abandoning traditional issues, such as low taxes and immigration, the conservative party risked acting as a recruiting agent for the uk independence party.
while gerald howarth is reported to have said: ““taxation is theft, because it is compulsorily removing money from people. it is desperately important we have this debate. this issue is travelling up the agenda.” and we can see he is looking to have a tea party. (one for my american readers.)
all quotes from the times
except for most of us the tax cut is never going to be that big as our basic wage is not that large to start off with. so a 5p cut on £30k a year equates to about £1500 more money a year or an extra £28 or so, (i admit i am not good with figures so this might not be right – i trust some of the maths whizzes out there to put me straight).
now lets not worry about the fact that £28 will probably get eaten up by other price increases. lets just assume you get to keep it all. can you buy a house in london with it? nope. can you start a business with it? probably but you will have to borrow a lot. in fact what it means is you can probably afford to have a better holiday this year or maybe get that new tv.
really when the tories talk about prosperity they mean the prosperity of the CEOs and board members who are already earning more money than they could ever spend can actually have more money. we benefit because some of that money will filter down to us, it is the trickle down effect. so fuck a decent education system – just watch how you local community is changed when someone rich spends £400 on a bottle of plonk.
trust me you will be contacting redwood and co and thanking them.
they say they don’t want businesses moving abroad, but most of the time it is tax that makes them move it is the fact that the labour force works cheaper (but not the highly skilled ceos they can only be found in the uk (or as some wankers call in gb plc) and they have to be paid the, always high, market price.
but don’t you worry while you get paid less (hey don’t complain your tax burden is less) or you don’t have a job because it has been outsourced because if you are lucky someone very rich will spend some of their money in your area and you will benefit.
see it all makes perfect sense.
now i know i have banged on about outsourcing the CEOs and you all know it makes sense, but another point i am sure i have mentioned is that as we see our wages reduced in order to be competitive – who the fuck buys the stuff that is made?
oh yeah the rich.
true labour has watched the wealth disparity get worse, but it is not like the conservatives are going to change that trend. in fact they will accelerate it.
so there is cuddly cameron trying for the feel good conference, but the stormtroopers of the right have goose-stepped in and shown that sometimes you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
the conservatives might be a green hoodie hugging party – but they still want to cut taxes (oh and provide better services – how?), bang anyone up inside (more prisons, but not more social housing – what a smart balance) and of course they want they debate on the fuzzy wuzzies to take place.
the more things change the more they stay the same.
sadly i think they will get in.
Monday, October 02, 2006
-26
i remember basketball.
when i was at school i couldn’t play basketball, i was the epitome of white men can’t jump (and in my case catch, pass or block – i was a natural born rugby forward). for most of my teens and twenties basketball was a sport i knew nothing about.
sometime in my 30s i got hooked.
the reason?
it was about the time i started clubbing, and when i came home at 3am or so, to sit down for a coffee (it relaxes me) i would watch the tv. alton byrd would introduce a late night highlight show of the week’s nba action. watching michael jordan, patrick ewing and charles barkley perform magic with the rock (as the ball was called).
it was a fast, furious game. a game that mostly rewarded territorial domination. aside from that i got to see jordan fly, there were moments when my jaw dropped.
from this it lead to supporting a new london basketball team the playboy tv london leopards.
for several years i was there at every home game and as many away games as i could manage. i screamed myself hoarse.
i wore the club vest with pride, i got all puffed up when the players recognised me.
i nearly cried the night that manchester beat us at home, stopping us from progressing to the finals.
i danced (and fell over) at the london towers as we came back from a 27-point deficit to sneak a win in extra time.
i nearly got ejected from the sheffield arena as i was bouncing up and down during a tense final. i was a bundle of nerves and couldn’t sit or stand still. we won. in birmingham i got some nasty looks as i bellowed of “you’re not singing any more”,
as we once again came back from a deficit to win.
sadly declining attendances and a dodgy future for the london arena meant the team moved and soon was made a defunct team.
the night of the canary wharf bombing i was on the dlr panicking about missing the start of the cross-town rivalry match between the leopards and london towers. the dlr stopped at canary wharf and wasn’t going anywhere. as there were no announcements i got out of the station sharpish and started my run towards the london arena. it was a bit chilly, a bit overcast, but i didn’t care. i had to run and run my tits off.
just as i was getting up a head of steam:
BOOM.
bloody hell i thought, thunder! it is going to piss down, better hurry up.
“oi where do you think you are going?” shouts a voice. it is a friendly bobby telling me there has just been an ira bomb and i shouldn’t be here.
me all i could think of was getting to the game. i did. can’t remember the result, but i can remember thinking at half time what an idiot i was.
happy days.
when i was at school i couldn’t play basketball, i was the epitome of white men can’t jump (and in my case catch, pass or block – i was a natural born rugby forward). for most of my teens and twenties basketball was a sport i knew nothing about.
sometime in my 30s i got hooked.
the reason?
it was about the time i started clubbing, and when i came home at 3am or so, to sit down for a coffee (it relaxes me) i would watch the tv. alton byrd would introduce a late night highlight show of the week’s nba action. watching michael jordan, patrick ewing and charles barkley perform magic with the rock (as the ball was called).
it was a fast, furious game. a game that mostly rewarded territorial domination. aside from that i got to see jordan fly, there were moments when my jaw dropped.
from this it lead to supporting a new london basketball team the playboy tv london leopards.
for several years i was there at every home game and as many away games as i could manage. i screamed myself hoarse.
i wore the club vest with pride, i got all puffed up when the players recognised me.
i nearly cried the night that manchester beat us at home, stopping us from progressing to the finals.
i danced (and fell over) at the london towers as we came back from a 27-point deficit to sneak a win in extra time.
i nearly got ejected from the sheffield arena as i was bouncing up and down during a tense final. i was a bundle of nerves and couldn’t sit or stand still. we won. in birmingham i got some nasty looks as i bellowed of “you’re not singing any more”,
as we once again came back from a deficit to win.
sadly declining attendances and a dodgy future for the london arena meant the team moved and soon was made a defunct team.
the night of the canary wharf bombing i was on the dlr panicking about missing the start of the cross-town rivalry match between the leopards and london towers. the dlr stopped at canary wharf and wasn’t going anywhere. as there were no announcements i got out of the station sharpish and started my run towards the london arena. it was a bit chilly, a bit overcast, but i didn’t care. i had to run and run my tits off.
just as i was getting up a head of steam:
BOOM.
bloody hell i thought, thunder! it is going to piss down, better hurry up.
“oi where do you think you are going?” shouts a voice. it is a friendly bobby telling me there has just been an ira bomb and i shouldn’t be here.
me all i could think of was getting to the game. i did. can’t remember the result, but i can remember thinking at half time what an idiot i was.
happy days.
cleaning
phase two has started.
the not so mean, and not at all lean cleaning machine has kicked into action.....
i will continue to post during this phase of cleaning (i can hear the cries of joy from here...)
there will even be a spin-off series of posts during this phase. simply called found and they will tell of some of the things i have found while i am cleaning - things i had forgotten i had or are things i had given up on finding.
stayed tuned to discover what the first item will be on "found".
(look this promises to be at least as gripping as lost - but without out the sexy chicks...)
the not so mean, and not at all lean cleaning machine has kicked into action.....
i will continue to post during this phase of cleaning (i can hear the cries of joy from here...)
there will even be a spin-off series of posts during this phase. simply called found and they will tell of some of the things i have found while i am cleaning - things i had forgotten i had or are things i had given up on finding.
stayed tuned to discover what the first item will be on "found".
(look this promises to be at least as gripping as lost - but without out the sexy chicks...)
Sunday, October 01, 2006
-27
i remember... actually compared with some of my friends i remember very little.
i am still in contact with four people from school: adam, bluey, he who can't be named (aka joel) and yorkie. every now and then they will regale me with some facts, occurrences and odds and sods from our days at school. all i can do is scatch my head and go "really!" i seemed to be a much more interesting person back then.
even the people i have worked with will mention something and i will have to look at them in a kinda open mouthed mental patient way.
i am sure i have a past - i am just not sure i remember that much of it.
so here are some of the things i do remember.
living in a pad called the white hart in greenford. it was a large large pub. it has a saloon bar and a public bar. the saloon bar had carpets, the public bar did not. we lived upstairs. i was somewhere around 6 or 7 when my dog, sally, was having her last litter of pups. i remember rushing downstairs very early one morning in order to see these little bundles of joy.
christmas had come early.
for some reason sally was in the saloon bar (rather than out in the very large yard we had). the light was dim, i doubt if dawn had broken.
but i was still freshed faced and full of the joys of childhood. i skipped and scarppered down the stairs and in to the bar. i went over to where sally was, and there they were all these little bundles of puppy pleasure. i was so happy.
so happy i didn't even mind the fact that i had managed to stand in a small pile of puppy pooh and it had squidged up between my toes.
happy days indeed.
i am still in contact with four people from school: adam, bluey, he who can't be named (aka joel) and yorkie. every now and then they will regale me with some facts, occurrences and odds and sods from our days at school. all i can do is scatch my head and go "really!" i seemed to be a much more interesting person back then.
even the people i have worked with will mention something and i will have to look at them in a kinda open mouthed mental patient way.
i am sure i have a past - i am just not sure i remember that much of it.
so here are some of the things i do remember.
living in a pad called the white hart in greenford. it was a large large pub. it has a saloon bar and a public bar. the saloon bar had carpets, the public bar did not. we lived upstairs. i was somewhere around 6 or 7 when my dog, sally, was having her last litter of pups. i remember rushing downstairs very early one morning in order to see these little bundles of joy.
christmas had come early.
for some reason sally was in the saloon bar (rather than out in the very large yard we had). the light was dim, i doubt if dawn had broken.
but i was still freshed faced and full of the joys of childhood. i skipped and scarppered down the stairs and in to the bar. i went over to where sally was, and there they were all these little bundles of puppy pleasure. i was so happy.
so happy i didn't even mind the fact that i had managed to stand in a small pile of puppy pooh and it had squidged up between my toes.
happy days indeed.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
prezza
with a barnstorming speech two jags prescott has announced he will be standing down as deputy leader of the labour party. it was a pit-bull of a speech filled with passion, an old guard vim and vinegar style speech. it was a rallying cry to the party reminding them of the achievements of the government, reminding them that there was much to do and reminding them that there was still a fight to be re-elected.
even though he was aware of the potential threat from both the conservatives and liberal democrats – he was more than happy to mock them. each jibe getting a laugh from the assembled throng.
for all the criticism he gets for his abuse of the english language once he is in full flow prescott is an effective speaker, animated, fluid, inspiring and at his best as he cajoles the faithful to continue their effort to support labour. (he only seemed to lose this when he appeared on tv programmes and he was aware he had to be a certain way, and in trying to be media savvy he lost his fire.)
the one duff note of the speech was when he told the conference he had always said that he would let them know he was going before he let the media know. which is a nice thought except his announcement was trailed everywhere before the speech.
prescott was the last of his breed, from now on the party will be lead by people who are more interested in style rather than conviction. he will be missed. but not for long because like ali and mandy he will be back.
fired up by prescott’s speech i confess to having a tear in my eye as the conference ended with semi operatic renditions of “the red flag” and “jerusalem”.
ah well i can look forward to laughing at the tories next week because already
there will be no specific policy announcements at the four-day rally, a tory spokesman confirmed
but they want to shake being a party of pr.
good start fellahs.
even though he was aware of the potential threat from both the conservatives and liberal democrats – he was more than happy to mock them. each jibe getting a laugh from the assembled throng.
for all the criticism he gets for his abuse of the english language once he is in full flow prescott is an effective speaker, animated, fluid, inspiring and at his best as he cajoles the faithful to continue their effort to support labour. (he only seemed to lose this when he appeared on tv programmes and he was aware he had to be a certain way, and in trying to be media savvy he lost his fire.)
the one duff note of the speech was when he told the conference he had always said that he would let them know he was going before he let the media know. which is a nice thought except his announcement was trailed everywhere before the speech.
prescott was the last of his breed, from now on the party will be lead by people who are more interested in style rather than conviction. he will be missed. but not for long because like ali and mandy he will be back.
fired up by prescott’s speech i confess to having a tear in my eye as the conference ended with semi operatic renditions of “the red flag” and “jerusalem”.
ah well i can look forward to laughing at the tories next week because already
there will be no specific policy announcements at the four-day rally, a tory spokesman confirmed
but they want to shake being a party of pr.
good start fellahs.
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