Goodbye sweet friend.

So tonight Derren Brown's Russian Roulette, according to one source at least, became the world's third greatest magic trick.
I have a tangible connection to that event so if you ever meet me, ask me about it.

We all have to have our heroes.
But what is a hero but someone who changes you uniquely, perhaps even in a singular swipe, who scars you like the Mark of Zorro.
I'm not going to go on because in seven minutes this is last year's news.
But one of the individuals I referenced in my recent slightly-too-long poem was one Hans Morretti.
And he played a little Russian roulette too - haven't we all?

You might like to take a look at it...

and when you've done that he might like to take a look at what follows.
The nervous trumpeter only adds to the tension...pour yourself a glass of wine and if you don't cheer at the end, I'll give you your money back.

Because the charm of a hero is making the extraordinary look mundane (you might want to sip leisurely during the first half) and then make it extraordinary again, or the very least slightly charming.
If I love what Hans Morretti does, does that mean I love him? Or is that the High Cock talking (a Christmas present a little like a tawny port - thanks Tone).

But I think there is an answer.
Christopher Hitchens died this year, and we lost another infantryman.
His final advice was to write to those whom you admire.
So I'm going to write to Hans Moretti.
I'll let you know how I get on.

What are you going to do?

Conscience - your flexible friend.

The great solution to negotiating the ups and downs of life is to be able to chunk up and chunk down at will (as long as you are excellently calibrated as to when to do it of course).
And your growing breadth of experience allows lateral leeway - the leeway of peripheral vision, what you might call worldliness.
These are the qualities that make you exactly who you are today.
And what you are today is what you have been working towards every other day of your life.
Every other second.

But there is a problem with this legacy of adaptability.
That very quality which you may elevate so highly is exactly where the worry seeps in.
You've made an arena for your own mortality.
A canvas for your own anxiety.
And the dark adapted eyes that peek and peer through all the holes and cracks are scrutinising you in your prison.
Perhaps even mockingly.

You may think that you can drink in all the possibilities of life in a single gaze.
After all, age brings wisdom.
You can see the wood for the trees.
But human nature being what it is, it spends a little too much time in the company of the negative and depraved.
It dwells on the shadows, it lingers on the needles, it over-considers the untidy and the dirty and it loses not a wink of sleep should you tread on a pine cone.

The media doesn't really help.
If you turn on your television as an escape but are sufficiently cursed that you find that Sean Lock and Lee Mack aren't your cup of tea, then you have a lot of irritating channel surfing ahead of you to find a channel and a programme you can relax with.
And for god's sake, don't watch the news more than once a week.

So shore up the holes, darn that canvas, resole your walking boots and buy some Cif.
Or all that experience, all that life, all that knowledge won't make you feel so good after all.

Channel 4 Vs Christmas: The Takeover

Hearing Jamie Oliver going on and on about his perfect life and his choice of Choclit dessert (it was bootiful apparently) is pretty nauseating.
Especially as I thought Choclit was those books that women like to read.
Someone told me that was chicklit, but I am almost certain that's a chewing gum.

I'm confused.

On imagining a typical family conversation

"Mummy, mummy, watch me! Watch me, mummy!"
"Why, darling? Putting our genetic connection aside, is what you're doing likely to have broader general interest or particular value?"

You never heard it from me but..

There's been a lot of funny dates recently.
It started with 11 1 11. There's since been an 11 11 11.
Yesterday it was 2012 2011, today it's 211 211.
It's all kicking off.
Next year of course there'll be a 20-12 2012, there'll be a 12 12 12, a 211112. A 21212.
Well, you can make up your own.
There are palindromes, mirrored codes and secret ciphers all over the place.
It's a conspiracy theorist's bumper harvest.

And of course the world is going to end.
According to our Mayan friends 2012 will bring Armageddon.
The Rapture will follow with the good souls ascending into heaven, or as I like to call it .... space.
And the rest of us foraging for whatever the cockroaches leave behind.
So here's my advice... do your Christmas shopping early.

You might take an alternative view of course and save a lot of money by leaving it all until the last possible minute.

It's certainly true that the high street is relying on an unseasonably late rapture in 2012.

Christmas Noel

Don't know much trigonometry...

Back When - a retrospective

When you wrote with the hope Jim would fix your dream.
And turned off each light with a bedtime routine.
When mouses squeaked instead of clicked.
And dancing wasn’t so colourfully strict.

When a job was for life and a pension was waiting.
When Sunday was just for creating and waiting.
And the weather was weather and not Armageddon.
When we had a few senses we hadn't yet deadened.

When pies left on sills always got snaffled.
And police were hard-working but invariably baffled.
When what defined rivalry was Beano V Dandy.
When you sniggered at singers who called themselves Randy.

When a finger of Fudge was never enough.
And toys were made to be Tonka tough.
And you could tell a Bully because it prefixed their name.
And a bunch of daffs was, well, exactly the same.

Before TV taught us to be an Apprentice.
And sweets were a treat when you’d been to the dentist.
When state of the art was a propelling pencil
And you'd the perfect excuse to use a chemistry stencil.

When homework seemed so trigonometrically tricky,
When you're keeping half an eye on Metal Mickey.
And you wondered how ever you could take a wife.
When Daisy Duke was such a part of your life.

When your name said by teacher was highly alarming.
And geography included arable farming
Along with the habitat of the cotton boll weevil.
While sports teachers defined a new type of evil.

Before the loss that the loss of innocence causes.
Before we gave in to so many divorces.
And you thought that a Church was a place you'd be safe.
Till the children fell silent and were told “Be brave”.

When fear was installed into a nation
As the evening news told of yet another detonation.
Before home taping killed music dead.
(Or was that Deeply Dippy by Right Said Fred?)

When a Carry On film was a guilty pleasure
And a golden hare was a national treasure
And jokes were not so much offensive as bawdy,
And you weren't really sure how to say “Audi”.

When Frustration was designed to cure your boredom,
Before the abomination formerly known as Jordan.
With exams, tests, rehearsals, you put all you could in.
Yet happiness was still a spare Yorkshire pudding.

When you were still entertained by Alphabetti Spaghetti.
But danger wasn’t danger without Hans Moretti.
When you could dismiss without needing abbreviation.
When a smile was a smile and not punctuation.
When you would ask Why and were told Because.
Then you could believe it was butter.
Because it was.

Dark Adapted Eyes

Take a step forward into the story of life.
It is a story full of characters and they look a lot like us. It's not quite a metaphor but it seems a lot like one.
So just take a single step into a brave new territory.

The ground may look fresh and tempting. But unless you have the clearest, brightest vision directly in front of you, you are bound to clock the peripheral shadows.
Those beady eyes high in the trees, waiting.
Waiting to pounce.
Waiting for you to slip. To fail.

A hardy oak full of ‘I told you sos’.
A tall redwood decorated with ‘What were you thinking?'
The puppet masters are just out of sight. Some are playful, some malevolent.
Because it's their world after all, isn't it?
We are their puppets.

At least until you.
And I.
Decide differently.

Bertha’s Bottom - a poem

Bertha’s bottom was close to the floor
This would help her to reach a very low drawer
Mostly however it got up her nose
Shopping in Children's for most of her clothes.
Amongst gathered opinion came parental advice,
A shortness of leg was a family trait.
But at least tea tonight was going to be nice
And she took some reassurance
She was still only eight.

Tess - a poem

I have a dog called Tess
She jumps over into next door's garden
When she wants a beg-your-pardon
Just lucky, I guess!


(I used to have a book of poems by Spike Milligan and this was the only one I could very nearly remember:
From Sydney Zoo
An Alligator
Was put on board
A flying freighter.

He ate the pilot
And the navigator
Then asked for more,
With mashed potater.

True story apparently. The effort above is a little mime to his style)

The Ultimate Answer to the Oldest Question

Well it's the favourite old sweet question...I know the retro sweet thing has been done to death, but these are (until today) a complete memory lapse that really did hit the spot.
Double agents - delicious flavours (except I wasn't so keen on the strawberry and cream) with a hint of spying. It doesn't get any better than that.

And if you happened to treat yourself to a pack of Smith's Fangs later on, then all the better.
Brilliant!!

Name of the Rose

If you believe in God, you’re opinion is backed up by “Faith”.
It is a nice positive quality.
People name their children after it. They do the same with Charity. And Hope. And Destiny.
America loves that sort of thing, branding its young. It’s the ultimate billboard ad.

Of course, if you are not one of the chosen, you are alone with your opinion.
An opinion that tends to be prefixed by words such as lowly or humble.
It's certainly something to be dismissed.
A lot of people might call that bloody good marketing.

This religious thing, it doesn't play by the rules does it?

Love Hearts - a poem

Like You
I'm Shy
My Girl
Don’t Cry

Trust Me
Be Mine
True Love
Good Time

My Girl
Your Boy
In Love
Your Toy

Find Me
You Dope
New Love
My Hope

Aim High
Catch Me
Lucky Lips
You’ll See

Us

Never underestimate the power of popular cultural reference.

It's what we are.

It's the brotherliness when we share an old joke, laugh at a story we already know the ending to, put on a film we've seen before.

It’s comfort.

It’s massage. It’s marshmallow.

It is reliable old software for an internal computer.

It’s a coat, an old friend, your first teddy bear.

It's me.

It's you.

It's us.

10 Things I Hate

1. News presenters who wave their hands around 
2. Musicians who start you clapping then leave you there 
3. Fish knives 
4. That camera angle in movies where you are supposed to believe somebody can see themselves in the mirror but there's no camera in sight 
5. Live albums 
6. Applause during rather than after songs 
7. Sirens on songs, particularly when driving
8. Ticketmaster 
9. Taxis that are early. (Or late)
10. Happy Days, particularly Potsy.

Car 6

There are people who increasingly think that Jimmy Carr should be piloting Thunderbird 6.

Best Intentions

How much of your afternoon should you actually spend working on new inventions?

I fear I may have overdone it on my solar-powered winter bird bath defroster.

Mission Impossible: Coast Protocol

Yesterday I got trapped by the tide.

I walked out on the sunniest October day in recorded history and found a dry rock.

That was my mission.

Whereas years ago I might have got out my crab hook (what a cruel instrument - I was never comfy with it, but then I wasn't big on shrimp nets either so you takes your choice), there was a new game in town.

It wasn't busy and I was high on crack cocaine so I didn't really notice that the people I was sharing Tynemouth Longsands with were largely walking in the opposite direction.

I tramped across the rocks patting myself on the back for my nimble craghopping expertise, my years of experience at the British coast paying dividends to anyone who noticed.

No-one did.

I tutted that less (entirely imaginary) mortals might hesitate, slip, and I trotted on cockily finding myself the best barnacle coated rock (there was a clue right there) that delivered both dryness at an acceptable price along with comfort for my bot.

I chose to accept it.

5 minutes.

It was really chance that I turned round.

I could easily have been there another 20.

The rocks had gone, the sea had returned and there was 30 yards between me and the rest of the sunbathers in dry freedom.

Ordinarily I'd offer you some extended metaphor about how we are all trapped by the tide. But there was no time to lose. (And I'd really be referring to your life not mine).

And this is my blog. Write your own.

It was off with the shoes, up with the trouser legs and away, making a note to advise everyone coming in the opposite direction that the tide was actually going out.

As a joke.

It's times like that you're glad you don't carry your mobile phone.

Because someone was about to get very wet.

Quick question for you....

What am I like?

Helloronic

If there is anyone out there who is still stuck on the concept of irony (Hello America!), then I have news for you.

Julian Assange's autobiography is about to be published against his will.

There you go.

No colourful qualification from me required. Though if you doubt the premise, check this old fave out..

I have just heard UK comedienne Jo Brand on the radio with usual whinging Bheaujolais about the prevalence of heckling at comedy clubs.

I don’t know what multiverse she is trapped in but my experience of live comedy in the last decade (which gentle reader, is considerable), is that you are much more likely to be on the receiving end of abuse during a live comedy gig than giving it. They literally step out of the fourth wall and get you. Like the monkey in the cupboard. You’re sitting there minding your own business, ticket stub in hand. They have no act. But they have you. And soon afterwards they have your name and occupation.

Hilarity is bound to ensue so surely telling them to fcuk off at that point can’t be called heckling?

We are not big on having a dedicated TV channels for comedy in the UK. It is weaved, woven throughout our lives with more invisible seams. With catgut.

It has a necessary role as the recycled canvas of your day. It might be nice to trade up (universal consciousness anyone?) but we simply don’t have a weapon like wit.

Fortunately Sky subscribers likely have access to the patented US gutrot that is The Comedy Channel.

The concept works well in America. Nice and straightforward. It is the Channel for Comedy.

Sorted.

But is this another definition of irony? Needing to know you are tuning into a comedy channel in order to have permission to laugh?

I must say it is confusing this irony thing isn’t it?

Y’all.

Bedtimes

I went to bed at a reasonable hour last night.

But I had a dream that I had actually not gone to bed until 4:30.

So I woke up absolutely knackered.

It's not really fair, is it?

New Things

Problem: Irritatingly slow computer

Job: Upgrade desktop computer by adding RAM.

Method: Youtube vid, 2 Gbs of memory (in addition to current 512Mb) for £46 (2-day delivery). Deep breath. Very nearly phoned computer man to come and do.

Fear factor - 3/10, one moment when I thought I'd split the motherboard, one moment when I thought it wasn't going to power up (forgot the press the rear on-switch).

Verdict. Brilliant - saved me buying a new computer. It's zipping along though as though it has somewhere else it needs to be. Anyone need an upgrade (no laptops)?

I'm here all week

Gordon Brown is facing more criticism - his ex-Chancellor now says that Brown thought the recession would be over in a few months.

And now there is more uncertainty over the new 50% tax rate. It turns out that the current Chancellor thought that "top band" was referring to Simon Cowell's latest ITV1 show.

Lost Policy

Walking into a police station this morning, I saw [what I believe is known as] a scrunchee on the floor at reception - one of those hair grips that are like a rubber band.

Of course I handed it in to lost property, even though they probably only cost a few pence.

That the police saw fit to launch a missing persons enquiry, speaks volumes.

Scattered showers

To stave off its execution, I thought I might pimp my tired showerproof raincoat with some velcro cuffs in a tribute to both its long service and well, .... mainly its long service.

But how to source a nice pair, you ask?

Turns out you are best off looking in the ebay fetish section.

I am hoping that what I have found is some of the most user-friendly sadomasochistinc bondage equipment I have ever used to take the edge off lightly disagreeable weather.

Epitaph to the Multitasking Myth

For some years, many of us have known that the one certain way for someone in the medical profession to take their life in their own hands is to ask a nurse to do two things at the same time.

This has now been acknowledged by several hospital trusts which have insisted that nurses now wear tabards asking people not to interrupt them with additional requests.

Some years ago the role of the nurse was rebranded from a vocation for angels to a profession.
But there isn't a profession on earth that would be lowered to this.
Where is the fight?

It is an insult to the quiet, calm short-skirted nurse (don't get me on scrubs) who actually can cope well, make a difference and used those nice slow thermometers that you could dip in your cup of tea.
I don't mean the nurse that bitches at the nursing station, who can't make a bed (never mind that cup of tea), but the one who came into it for the right reasons (money, the generous sick leave and the right to have a go at doctors) and tries not to hate the patients for being ill.

I would employ nurses preferentially who don't have a degree.
Give me a nurse that wants to be a good nurse.
Give me a doctor that wants to be a better doctor.
Leave the administrators at home and I'll show you gently how we do great care together.

Honestly, what would Florence say?

Revolution - not!

Go to Edinburgh
If you hit it hard, you can see 1% of the shows in 3 weeks in August.
So in 30 weeks, you might see 10%.
If it lasted all year, you might see let's say, well with holidays let's say 15%.
Fifteen!
Percent!
And what if you had to go to work?
10% max?
I could live like this.

Someday the world will be this way.

This isn't entertainment.

It's evolution.

Butterflies of Steel

There is a cancer of passion.
Maybe that's why it's such a valuable commodity - the fact that it's so vulnerable to erosion, to downsizing, to dilution. To decay.

But it is also susceptible to covert attack.
Because some people are scared of passion, at least passion in others.
They're frightened of enthusiasm. Perhaps because it represents change.

Positive change is too close to upsetting the applecart.
But it's their applecart, not mine.
And guess what? There is no applecart anyway.

Change is something to be feared.
Change is something to be shied from.
Change, after all, is change.
How perfectly horrid!

Yet it is also a quality people claim to admire.
It's confusing.
It's the secret ingredient of everybody from the entrepreneur to the reality television contestant.
I am never sure about those people we love to hate.
Do we love them or do we hate them? Or do we just want to be them?

The backlash from the semi-articulate is the darkest danger of all.
If you play the game of your life on a rigid field with four sharply whitened corners and you try to push the boundaries, you expect resistance.
But resistance can be dispatched.
There are a number of ways of doing this - soft, hard, playful, brutal - but it can be dealt with.
And guess what? There are no sharply whitened corners.

Resistance from a insidious mix of secret resentment tempered with confusing claims of admiration is another beast entirely. Particularly when it comes from pseudo-intelligent pomposity or an overblown organisation that has lost its way.

You might refer to this beast as Super-resistance.
Super-resistance requires super-resilience and enthusiasm isn't enough without it.

Passion isn't a butterfly that gets caught in a gust.
It's a driving force of dirt, guts, exsanguination and self-doubting tears with the hope but no promise of either praise or glory.
It is a sleepless momentum that propels a sense of duty, of what's right and what's not.

People grudgingly claim to admire it because they lack it.
Tilt your hat against this enemy.
It isn't passion until it is ready to take on the weather of the day.
So tool up, toughen up, and carry your windproof brolly.
The wind of change is coming from all directions.

Let everyone else be as afraid of it as they wish. (But help them if they don't).
Let them live with all the palpitations their hearts' desire. But don't let them infect you with their closedness. If anyone is going to infect, you are the vector.

Hard polish your passion and deflect their dents gently with your buffed wings of steel. If that doesn't work, run them over like Mr Bean behind the wheel of an F1 car.
Invite them along for the ride if you want.
Forget to tell them to buckle up, if it pleases you.

But whatever you do, if you have the belief that it's right, or good, or both, then do it anyway.

Because when that is the case, this is no longer about you.
You are channeling the universe.

Subtext and flying blackboard rubbers

Remember when songs had a message?

Sorry being the hardest word.
Bridges over troubled water.
Giving peace a chance?

It seems like powerful messages died when Rihanna eventually stopped reminding us that carrying an umbrella was quite a neat idea.

Nowadays it seems all that songs are trying regularly to motivate us to do is one thing: put your hands up!
Why, I am not clear. It's no substitute for an umbrella.

I don't think that that action alone will enhance civilisation.
I don't think it will prolong life.
Unless you find yourself at the OK corral.

Or unless they are talking about volunteering.
Or school discipline.

In which case, I'm all over it.

Moving Stationery

I am throwing away a small old stapler today.
Big wow.

Only, I have had this stapler as long as I have had anything.
I used it at school and it takes pleasingly small staples.
It started to decay a few years ago. A bit broke off and the stapling became less reliable. But I stuck with it. I always enjoyed its brief repertoire whenever it worked.
And it wasn't easy to replace. Every ministapler uses different slightly less 'mini' sizes nowadays.

Then 6 months ago I resolved one final time to really find an identical replacement.
I had to research staple sizes - they are incredibly confusing in case you want to visit Wikipedia on the subject. I bought 2 wrong replacements.
Perfectly satisfactory.
But I knew they were wrong.

Eventually I tracked down the updated model of the same make and waited 6 months while Amazon said it wasn't available.
I cancelled it eventually and found a new supplier.
It arrived today.
I peeled off the mini-printer name tape from the old one labelled in my school days (when I labelled everything). It had survived impressively well. And beneath was my childhood handwritten capitular scrawl written long, long before I changed my J.And possibly predating my school handwriting prize. Though I rarely dine out on that anymore.

I have had the same box of 2000 ministaples from WHSmith costing 20p for as long as I can remember.
I have 17 of these copper staples left.
They have gone in the new stapler.
And it works fine. Of course.
I think in time we too will form firm bonds together. (I don't have a dog).

The box is in the bin.
Now the stapler has had its obituary and it feels apt.
It's in the bin too.
So, don't mess with me. I'm ruthless!


Time.
It rather passes, doesn't it?

Well hi there

Spam email is a curse but they can be clever folks.
They make it sound so personal that it looks as though it could be written only for you.
There's been a lot in the news recently about elderly folk tricked by snail mail scammers into firmly believing they are big prize winners.
But email can be just as compelling.

It feels so personal.
It seems to be addressed directly to you by someone with personal knowledge of you.
I got one today.
It created the illusion of being tailor made for me yet undoubtedly was a message they thought might somehow have a wider appeal.
I later realised it was from someone with far more numbers in their email address than letters (not the sort of calibre of person I usually mix with).
It hit home so hard, I can remember the whole message.
Hello sexy, it said.

**it.

Passion.
Not the overly seeded fruit.
Grit.
Not the stuff you find at the bottom of a parrot's cage.
Rather the stuff you put under your shoes in winter.
Heart and solidarity.
Soul, sweat, meaning.

England against the mogul and the insiduous corruption that an Australian brought back to our shores.
I think this may be the greatest week for British politicians since the second world war.
And long overdue.

Imagine this in Spain.
You can't.

Here's a joke for you. Integrity in Italy?

Or France? Politically chic? Don't make me laugh. You have to be a rich rapist to apply. And the public will still support you. You great lad.

But this is what it is to be British.
This is why it's different.
It can't be a sin to re-identify with this difference.
God knows we need a reminder from time to time.
(Even an atheist can capitalise god when he is at the beginning of a sentence).

We're not quite all the same.
We are not some entry level, lowest common denominator human.

At times, we can be better.

Once in a while..

... something makes you tingle..

A Quantum of Fluff

If you ever think you don't understand about life.

If you're wondering if what you have is enough

If you ever think rats wouldn't not tolerate this race

Remember the commitment that's made to guff

If you find yourself wading into more trouble than strife

If your getting too full of the serious stuff

Add some reason to what passes for rhyme

And commit yourself to a quantum of fluff.

We're not supposed to know life in the detail you need.

So it's OK to add some vigour to grace.

The numbers may never appear to add up.

Remember.

They made TEN series of Hale & Pace.

New things

Number 8

Task: Repair cigar lighter power outlet as can't power my car toys, sat nav etc
Method: Google, Ford Manual, Halfords fuse (£1.99), pliers + 15 minutes
Result: Success with fiddle factor
Verdict: Pass with honours. No need to go to garage.

Proxy Time

I watched a couple of progs on the televis tonight.

About art fakery (thanks Orson) and the illiterate corrupt-ness of Wildenstein - a Monet verification organisation (and disgrace of the US), a bit of Penn & Teller (US brilliance, thanks boys) and a bit of BBC UK news which reflected ideas I'd formed elsewhere about the stupidity of methadone prescription.
Eclectic enough?
I don't think so - it's all the same childish roundabout.

One of my great heroes - DB - owns no television.
I understand his argument that TV is a substitute for real experience. Yet, how he justifies being unbearably moved by recorded music, I have no idea. Let Haydn's music die with Haydn, I say.

But that surrogate thing? I'm sorry. I just don't get that. It's an arrogance. That TV can teach you nothing. Maybe a celebrity can have all those so-called real experiences instead of the rest of our 'faximiles'. Good for them.
But I think they may get overtired rather quickly and need a regular colonic. Sometimes an experience is better by proxy. And who are they to know real experience? Certainly no more (or less) than the rest of us.

Now, where were we?

Art informs life, and TV is the premium mirror of our lifetime.

So as of tonight, I'll give you a choice.

You can discover a $30 million Monet in your attic that you picked up a couple of years ago at a bric-a-brac stall.

Or.

You can inspire and provoke one heroin addict to take the right hand fork (please tell me, does heroin actually have 2 'e's or not?).
One nudge to a different path.
A new cascade.

You have 5 seconds.


I know which I'd pick.

The rising value of certified comedy gold

Hot on the heels of my last joke comes another - less than a year later!

It has been Googled (in Adam and Joe's made-up jokes style for provenance and originality) and not found wanting in either that or in HQ - hilarity quotient.

Sit back, relax and put part of your evening aside because here is the masterpiece in question.

Q. How many auctioneers does it take to change a light bulb?











A. Lots

There's no need to be like that!

There is some justice in the world.

Gavin Henson is Channel 5's The Bachelor.
Yeah.
Yeeeeah!

Thank god that he never made the career threatening mistake of marrying Charlotte Church (the mother of his 2 children) as then he clearly would not have been eligible.

Close one, Gavo! Well done, mate!

In the show, he'll get to choose which of a dozen women "wins" the witless streak of creasote.
So even before filming begins, we know we have a show that has 13 people who love Gavin Henson.
I have less oily tools in my steampunk drawer.

Once he was just a twinkle in his brother Jim's eye.
In fact, until the chubby songbird gave him a career, he was the forgotten muppet.

Thankfully he has not been deprived of his right to make his two bastard children very proud. Particularly the one who's just had his second birthday.

Go Gav!
Find yourself a Princess. You greasy, greasy, greasy toad.

Monochrome Gold

Inside and Out

I use soap.

I am a soap user.

There I've said it.

Every day, in every way, I'm getting cleaner.

There may be a generation of people out there who have never used soap.

Who have never had a bar of carbolic stuffed down their string vest.

Who thought personal hygiene began with gel and ends up with mousse or foam.

But recently (and following an intervention by a number of concerned relatives), I bought some soap.

What sort of soap do you use I hear you cry. Well sit back and I will furnish the answer.

I use Shield.

Why? Pour yourself a gin and listen up.

I like the colour but mainly it is thanks to a historical ad campaign with a ditty that stuck in the nut like glue.

Shield - first think in the morning....

Shield - just as day is dawning....

Shield's the one's that giving me

The feeling that it's great to be

Goes to Shield.

Genius!

Stand aside Shake 'n' Vac lady.

We get imprinted early.

There's no hope of recovery and we might find ourselves seeking out those comforting patterns.

It needn't be anything to be ashamed of.

Be proud and support your most retro products.

Put on a cardigan, load up a bit of Manic Miner, suck on a butterscotch (the younger generation may prefer a sherbet pip - the sweet you can eat in class without fear of been spotted) and if I may return briefly to the subject of cleaning product join me in a hearty "Up yours Cif".

　

　

Metamag

Being somewhat prone to junk mail, I regularly get offered as am sure do you, magazine subscriptions to The Economist, The Spectator and other high brow eggheady fare, as well as the usual applications for American Express etc.

Today's came with a card to inform people of my preferred customer membership status (altogether now, ooooh!). (The reason you didn't get one is simply that you are not important enough). The sender clearly wanted the card to remain intact during the frantic envelope opening sequence.

To preserve contents, the front of the envelope was labelled:

TIME. Do Not Bend.

I'll bear it in mind, grasshopper.

Unwearable Innocence

Now I don't mind having a drink holder in my car but I keep choking down a glug  that I don't really need at the traffic lights or similar such pause.

And there's never quite the time you need (its' the screw tops), so I always overglug.

 

What I forget is that the swallowing act requires a bit of extra gobspace, let's say oh .. 10%.

A spluttering accident often follows when swallowing on a full trap.

(And when I say full I mean full with outblown cheeks. Proper full).

 

What you tend to discover is that smoothies don't seem so innocent when you are wearing them.

Judicial Point

I've embossed my increasingly popular bird table with the words "Twitter Feed"

 

Is that wrong?

Commitment

Yeah, yeah. Not fair?

Married people can park where they want. They can just leave one of them in the car as they roll up to any illegal parking spot they like the look of.

One goes off with the Burberry bag and one stays on watch with the keys in the ignition and, frankly, trying not to catch my gaze.

That's why they use double yellows - so everyone knows it's couples only.

 

But try doing that with a young child, and you end up talking to social services.

It's one rule for...

Crime of the Century

The headlines announced today the ultimate downfall of the perpetrators of some of the worst crimes in Europe this century. And who has consistently represented the sort of atrocities that history should never endure.
If only Cheryl Cole could have softened her accent, things might have been different.

 

Doubtless we will get the outcry against Geordie accents but it is nothing to do with that. People like Geordie accents. It is well documented in the telesales industry and beyond. No further convincing is needed.
What they don't like is HER voice.

 

And why is she at fault? Because she makes her living with her voice.
She thinks she makes it with hair extensions.
She has lost sight of her limited abilities.

 

She might have chosen to up her work rate. The Americans instantly realised what any English with sanity knew.
Her searingly childish insight is an insult to every sofa-sitter in the UK, and her monotonous whinging is no way to spend a Saturday evening.

 

If you want a transparent whine, go for a Chablis.

Lipstick on Collar

Poor old Ryan Giggs.
How horrible for a celebrity not to be able to betray and humiliate his wife of 4 years and scar his 2 young children for life without being embarrassed and inconvenienced by it.
Everyone else in life gets their affairs discovered, maybe by a look, a text, an email, a change in after-shave or spring in the step and various other more modern versions of lipstick on collar.
But perhaps his wife would have chosen to look the other way as she has such young kids. She might have ignored her suspicions of a man who is loved by millions if not approaching billions. After all, who would care about her little life? I mean, apart from Max Clifford.

Ryan Giggs hid like a weasel behind his celebrity and threw his money at it because that's the sort of hero he is - one with more money than character.
He can afford to make any problem go away.
Till today.
I know there are two sides to every story. But,for crying out loud, she's the Big Brother girl!

There are three victims here and Ryan Giggs isn't one of them. His wife has had the reality he provided rammed down her throat even harder by his exponential stupidity. He's stuffed her like she's producing Fois Gras and then tried to make the English justice system his fourth victim. Plenty of people have slipped up there. Doesn't he read the papers? Expenses scandal anyone?
He was Hitler invading Russia without the brain power. At least Adolf had one nut that worked.

How Ryan must pity himself for his misfortune but how lovely he will get off so lightly.

Living by the sword involves wielding it rather than cowering behind it.

Either way, Ryan..it's payback time.

That's Annoying

Frustration: definition 

n. driving round a roundabout and having to stop 4 times at red traffic lights on the way round.

New things

Number 7 (missed 7 out)

 

Task: Guested at a local group of (psycho)therapists watching a video and chatting about Ericksonian hypnosis

Method: Shoes + 20 minute walk + 2 hours... + 20 minute walk back (good weather, no-one got hurt)

Verdict: Nice people. Good video. No clue, and they spend 5 years training to doing their stuff; ended up with them asking me (who's done 2 weeks) about techniques - which is a bit odd as I was intending to keep my trap shut.

Conclusion: Maybe my training and experience (=life) counts for someat after all, not that my own profession thinks so.

Mark: Pass (with petit flair).

 

Real Horror Show

Life delivers a lot of functional interactions. These are not the same as having company round or sharing in a real conversation. They merely exist to serve a purpose, deliver a deadline, complete a task.

When you reflect on these gentle dialogues, at least in the workplace they could represent a certain mutual lack of humanity. That's not to say you weren't acting with human qualities. It's just that it was functional and perhaps little more.

There's a deadness to this dialogue which, while it doesn't produce the early chill that it might, hides a danger that, as the months and years tick by, may deliver a late shudder. And like all horror, the scariness comes from just a very slightly different view of what you previously chose as your reality.

The discovery is made.

You have noticed.

You have adjusted.

You hope it's not too late.

I think the challenge - the solution if you like - is to add humanity where you can, to add value. But sadly in this age we inhabit, there is a danger.

Anyone who wants to score a point against you can choose to actively misinterpret or to misreport something you might say. Or might not have said. Get it wrong (or just wrongly right) and it could lose you your job, your husband, your wife.

Generally it's just too big a price to pay. And yet...

I would suggest that the best tool of adding humanity is a playful flexibility with language. You might call it neurolinguistic playfulness.

(You may prefer a dangerous leer or or a saucy wink. I don't recommend it. No one appreciates the Carry On movies more than me but it is 2011. And for the next seven months at least there's very little we can do about that).

That playful flexibility can be your noose. That's the trouble with flexibility. It can contort and twist and eventually fracture like a young willow. And the edge of that willow can be poked into one of your eyes. Or both. Hard like.

You have to be careful with this humanity thing but you use it or you lose it so please.... do it anyway.

Because unless you can think of a better way, that's how you change the world.

New Things

Number 8

task: Become amateur astronomer and observe the night sky

method: Buy scope

result: Detailed moon craters and a big star to the left - a Morning Star I wonder?

discovered: The moon moves through the night sky visibly quickly; as expected no sign of any flags.

assessment: Good pass within limits of equipment; now to unwrap my new planetarium...

Did you hear the one about the...

People think they like a sense of humour, right?
But why?
Whose?
Yours?
How much more likely that they like their own - reflected?
Or are you going to teach a different one?

Are you seriously going to introduce a Russell Howard fan to Daniel Kitson?
Come on. Listen to yourself.
Or perhaps you do not understand the question?
Perhaps you claim to like someone else's humour when you think it's suitable. Or appropriate. Or timely. And not at other times.
Well, wake up soldier.

A sense of humour is a tool that crosses....well... barriers is too small a word. Think more global, universal even. I'll allow you a wormhole (?wyrmhole) here if you are feeling confident.

It's more powerful than a laser because it can go round corners. It's the sort of solution and defence that modern life needs.
And nobody is better equipped to deploy it than the English.

Be proud and play.
You have a flexible joculoscope for investigating life.

New things

Number 6
Task:

Install reclaimed leaded light above door in hall.
Used:

Internet, Gumtree, Parker Tools
Lessons:

Bought too much gear. Thought I might have found a place for putty. Who knew!
Result:

1. As though done by a craftsman (?) , like you'd know the difference.

2. Shards of vestibular (in a vestibule) green and clear light and corridorical reflections of memories from a previous life of useful beauty.

The Art of Water

What about those kids who couldn't enjoy a water pistol fight without aiming at your trousers to make it look as though you'd wet your pants?
What's the matter with those guys?

Where is that tactic in the Art of War?

You can diagnose a cruel malicious streak through that sort of behaviour alone. WOMEN - work it into the conversation and don't marry those men. You'll save yourself a lot of pain.

Note to self: buy waterproof pants

Closing Time

My grandad was a shopkeeper - a grocer would you call it? Grocer doesn't have to involve lots of veg does it? Like pots - strawbs -mush - toms - that sort of thing? No, I thought not.

I have a photograph of a fantastic window display he made to attract his customers in, I suppose, the 1950s. Pyramids of tins and slogans and precarious beans. But where is that lost art now?

While the High Street employs window dressers, the best the corner shops near to me can manage is blotting the entire window out like a sex shop.

Or foisting and hoisting some tired worn ads for estate agents which end up repeated ad infinitum to the margin of the window to block any view in or out.

There's barely room for a lost doggy notice board or an advert for guitar lessons.

It's a view without a soul. Heaven forbid you can see inside the shop. That you might be attracted to step inside and purchase something.

You might as well write "Wads was 'ere" and leave it at that.

Maybe there are vandalism issues, but as a huge metal door descends at closing time regardless, I don't see how this would be relevant.

Maybe it's just a sad lack of pride or a shyness for daylight, or the fact that it just doesn't affect profits.

It might be all those things but how to put them in order.

A national referendum, perhaps?

Shield of Steel

I could see why some of the boys took him for snobby.

He had a quiet way about him, a walk and a talk that just wasn't normal around here.

He strolled, like a man in a park without a care or a worry in the world, like he had on an invisible coat that would shield him from this place.

Yeah, I think it would be fair to say... I liked Andy from the start.

Mindmelt

Urgent: PLEASE CIRCULATE to your friends, family and contacts.

In the coming days, DO NOT open any message with an attachment called: YORKSHIREMEN ARE HIGHLY INTELLIGENT, regardless of who sent it to you. It is a virus that burns the enitre hard disk of your computer. This virus EVEN IF IT comes from a known person who you have in your list.

Directions: You should send this message to all of your contacts. It is better to receive this e-mail 25 times than to receive the virus and open it.

If you receive a message called YORKSHIREMEN ARE HIGHLY INTELLIGENT even if sent by a friend, do not open, and shut down your machine immediately. This new virus has been discovered recently it has been classified by Microsoft as the virus most destructive ever.

Oh..... and while you are at it, DON'T THINK OF A BLACK CAT.

A troubled choice (or is it?)

Is it a paradox or a tautology that the word dilemma might have two plurals?

Until today I thought the correct description of 2 dilemmas was 'dilemmae' while harbouring (harboring?) a hope that it was actually dilemmas.

It turns out dilemmas is fine.

I've just checked.

But so is dilemmata and spelling that without a dictionary, (I mean Gooogle), might be the biggest dilemma of all.

Work day

Today I saw a dozen alcoholics/drug addicts or so.

I usually briefly wrestle with why they're failing themselves, why our system has failed them, why their GP hasn't made any progress (apparently) and in particular what the bloody hell we all going to do about it.

I get occasional positive encouragement from people who can still find an imagination of a better future that I can reach, tease, taunt, provoke or stimulate to reawaken.

Like healing a zit that won't go away. It doesn't matter whether you poke around with liquid nitrogen, a scalpel blade, the points of a compass (sorry Mr Armstrong, pair of compasses) - if you agitate it successfully you just might be lucky enough to allow healing process to begin.

The final patient tonight has been rushed into a famous local hospital and actively detoxed from his alcohol but I wondered at the stupidity of an emergency detox. The likelihood of success of this process in someone who had not been ready with his motivation and with whom they had failed to engage in any psychological manner. In dark circumstances like this, if you're not prepped for success you are doomed to failure. In the end he drank secretly all the way through the detox and left hospital early to drink some more.

But he recognised me.

He recognised me from the last time I presumably tried some similar weak, wordy intervention.

Some might call the need for this repetition failure. Not me. I'm comfy with it.

Failure is to give up trying. That's all. Just to give up trying. That's what I say and I say it because I genuinely think it's true.

If you do nothing else than to make a positive influence on the room that you happen to be in the time, that's still a damn good way to play.

He decided to pay me a compliment. 'I like your attitude' he told me and he went out of his way to do so. And.... I know what you're thinking, you cheeky sod, but I can tell you he meant it in a good way. And while you don't do this job for compliments, (god knows there are rare enough), it was a sign of a connection - a genuine piece of well meant appreciation.

A sign of a seed sown.

A result, okay that's too big a word but I live in hope. A result that, of course, would never show up on your appraisal report.

And that's the thing - surely a success is should be a quiet one. Better, surely they should be silent... the medic stepping into the background as the patient steps forward and takes the applause. Isn't that what the bloody hell this is all about? Channel 4, are you listening? Do you hear this, BBC3?

Or am I wrong?

As ever I took the compliment in a manner that left much to be desired by punching him in the face. I don't like people me thinking of me as a soft touch.

The fact is that the whole negotiation is more complicated than that.

The drug services who overprescribed are missing the point. If they wanted to know what's actually going on, they could ask the patient. That's what I do. They'll tell you the answers if you bother to ask the right questions, in the right way, and be sensitive to the nuances of the responses.

It's called the consultation. And the art form became endangered when checkboxes, NHS Direct, the pharmacist-as-clinician and the nurse prescriber stepped into the spotlight.

Ask the questions if you dare.

But you have to be to able to deal with the answers.

Or disregard these when you find you have nothing to offer.

I say ask the questions anyway and deal with your lack when you find it.

But there are other ways out of this slightly sticky situation - don't ask the questions, don't recognise the lack, say it's not your job, refer, do a bloody blood test.

But I'm not really giving you that option.

The fact is, it is your job.

Why?

Because you volunteered to be in that room.

When you are in the room, it's always your job.

If you don't like the heat, find a way to turn it down, sorry...it's going to take a bit of work, maybe you'd rather go cycling.

Or step out of the spotlight, take your bow and head for the emergency exit.

New Things

Number 5

Problem: Mucky iron soleplate leading to ironing clothes feeling like Russian Roulette.

Solution: Clean it.

Ingredients: Special stick from ebay, improvised probes + half a bottle of wine.

Event: 1 hr tedium balanced by irritatingly thin French wine and unbearably tense snooker quarter final.

Result: Clean iron with scrubbed steam holes (excuse my language). No longer need to buy 2 of every piece of clothing. Risk of injury clearly increased as the bottle of wine progressed.

Assessment: Pass with reservation: never again. Buy new iron next time.

Good News?

Why do I get the feeling that the only good news that I might get from BBC3 involves the cancellation of Russell Howard?

 

And his crappy TV series. 

Slo-mo

When did we dump the term Action Replay?

 

When did transmission policy dump the little R in the corner of the screen?

 

Playback is incorporated in the language of the event nowadays. I'd try to force an analogy to life, but it would be a squeeze. I'd be pinching the pocket, bending in it off the bar and would likely end up going down in the box.

New things

Number 4
Task: Replace naughty iPod battery
Method: Various cyber instructions, ebay battery and tools
Time - 1 hour - (in expert hands 5 minutes!)
Trickiness - Tricky opening it in the first place
Assessment - Good pass.

Life in the tickbox

Yesterday I had my annual appraisal.

To say that my appraiser did not appreciate my career choices thus far would be a massive understatement.
She redefined dismissive disdain.
Which, when she's holding something over me, is at the very least mildly irritating.

The two glorious hours are best summed when she told me about two thirds of the way through the exercise - "You don't have to change the world, you know!".
There were many things I could have said at this point.
But I said nothing.

No, I thought.
I don't have to.

New things

Number 3
Event: Live snooker
Execution: Visiting the World Snooker finals in Sheffield to watch Graeme Dott and Ali Carter miss as many balls as they can.
Verdict: Loved the earpiece commentary. Long frames, so nearly dropped off. Great venue. Seeing a tense final or a Higgins/O'Sullivan game would be a doozee.
Why I shouldn't be allowed in: Clapping stupidly after every point
Assessment: Pass with merit

Going out on top

It takes a lot for a news story nowadays to take your breath. But I lost an intake tonight at the death of Elisabeth Sladen.

It is too incomprehensible in a woman who barely aged in 30 years and returned from the wilderness to her own series and unfettered acclaim to the children of her home country (including my brother's kids).
And with not so much as minimal warning in Heat magazine.

I have never thought it is best to go out on top. It is usually too cowardly. Unless it is forced on you.

Don't tell the marathon runners who run mainly for personal challenge (and because they like running) rather than a huge love of the Alzheimer's Society or the latest gene defect of the week.
But cancer does not bow to positive affect and happy success.

It may wave occasionally before flipping the bird. But it doesn't bow. Unless it feels like it.
Or unless it is misdiagnosed by a useless pathologist or an equally useless radiologist. They prefer the term 'cure' to put to their mistakes. It is so much cheaper.

I can't rationalise it because I don't get it.
But it takes someone with the articulateness of Steven Moffat to say something like,
"When people say you shouldn't meet your heroes, they weren't referring to Liz Sladen"

Carry On

Life is about baggage.

It's a 2-crude term for experience and texture.
Some have carry-on only and some are heavy Samsonite.

(This reminds me of the only decent line of Schwarzeneggar's movie Eraser - "You're luggage!". He'd just killed an alligator. Or as they call them in the US - gators - giving him the sort of treatment that would presumably need Gator-aid).

So as you mature you will acquire more baggage.
But worse, you may even inherit, or choose to adopt, someone else's baggage.
And that may not be your bag.

So as you wander through life making yourself nice to have around, think it over.
And maybe take a tip from a journeyman....

Travel light.

New Things

Number 2
Prep: Desire a plasma globe for 20 years
Fallout: Mental damage from not having a plasma globe for 20 years
Solution: Buy plasma globe today
Results: I own a plasma globe and can now control the entire street with my brainwaves alone as well as getting it to dance along in time with my Chris De Burgh renditions.
Assessment: Belated pass.

The Great John Williams

New Things

Number 1:
Removing my car radio and fitting an AUX cable.
Prep - 2 hours on the internet getting tips, parts from ebay price £10.
Fallout - one minor electric shock; a couple of abrasions; taking 2 hours to do a 10 minute job.
Secret: A bit of improv to get the job done.
Results - Can now listen to Adam and Joe podcasts in the car.
Assessment - Pass.

Here I Go Again

It's a funny thing.
I find myself occasionally putting pen to paper over the years.
Most of the scribbles are on scraps of paper that become hills of paper.
And while anyone can express opinion, who cares?
Particularly in the blogosphere, who cares?
There is a danger here of course:
Vanity.
Surely it can't just be that. Vanity?
As Al Pacino said in the final line of Keanu Reeves's second greatest film: "Vanity - my favourite sin."
I hope that it isn't any of these things but I have to say one thing...........
If I'm putting something together ...I do like titles.

Titles come quick.

I spent 15 minutes writing yesterday's blog but when it came to publishing I needed a title.
I have found myself at this point a number of times in the past few years and the juncture never exceeds 3 seconds.
It's something of a disappointment because I really love thinking of titles.
But I suppose that, in some cases at least, 3 seconds of pleasure has sustained entire marriages.

I suppose that sometimes there is a beauty in the instant obviousness of what appears out of necessity.
I hope so.
So for one night only, let me explain.

Enemy Mine was a movie.

And for reasons I can't articulate it made a huge impact on me in the 80s.
And it made more of a hero of Louis Gossett Jr for me than did An Officer and a Gentleman.

You couldn't see his face.
His black face.
It was covered in green scales demonstrating the greatest beauty of science fiction.
Of Equality.
Fraternity.
And equivalence for all.
(In all of entertainment, this is surely done definitively in television rather than movies but nevertheless ...)

I think I need to watch it again.

I hope it is half as good as I remember.

Because I just caught a whiff of Back To The Future 2 and that was a pile of ......
(character numbers exceeded)

Enemy Mine

There is a possibility that I may have freed up a bit of time.
Quitting two full-time jobs in the last 18 months and putting aside a part-time job or two should have led me to this Nirvana.
But instead of breathing in and hearing the beating wings of a butterfly, I've inherited violence.
And it is directed at a singular entity.

It is directed at a heartless canvas.

It is directed at a calendar concertina - an expanse of opportunity suppressed by a squeezebox of happenstance.
It sits to my left.
And (because I've never got on with diaries), it is my 2011 year planner. A set of boxes. Boxes of delights.
But I eye its boxes with malevolent energy.

I treat this otherwise sub £1-01 item with a disdain I would otherwise reserve for Jeremy Kyle, Russell Brand, Adolf Hitler or Michael McIntyre. Although its crimes are less severe.

Perhaps if it was coloured with a daisy sunset yellow rather than a haemoglobin red I might feel more charitable.
Nevertheless.
An empty canvas is a thing to be destroyed. Or at the very least, replaced, subverted.
Ask any Van Gogh.
Attacked.
Like a 14-year-old paintballer.
Like an Amazon gift wrapper.
Like Rambo.
Too much?
Well sorry, I ain't apologisin'.

It's an overgrown piece of A4 that deserves to be assassinated like that frigid Army Private whose image became every shooter's paper practice target. Have you never heard of tearing up the place?

And why Rambo? Because of the great line in his final movie:
"You got guns?"
"(No)"
" You're not changing anything"
Grunting. Macco. Bravado?
No.
Just a brilliant line of drama lost in an action film.

Treat your diary like a weary soldier squares off with his enemies.
And let me know how you get on.

Flighty Pigeons

I am resolving to have a few new firsts from now on.
I was going to set the target at one a day but I'm not looking to kill myself so I think one per week would be perfectly adequate.
The minor hurdles that I have jumped today would barely qualify even by my own watered-down rules.
But for one thing.
I got my first bird at my bird table today.
He was a chubby fellow.
Or she.
But she munched on my windblown mealworms that had fallen to ground and then, as I willed and egged her on, she presented herself to my table.
I watched hoping that she would realise that the glass (uPVC) separating her from my vantage point would prevent me from being any threat.

I hoped she would nibble on my lardy cake.
She was a fat bird.
I suspect she had eaten at the table of many other men.
I can live with that. I understand enough about the harshness of life to let that pass. But after she had pecked at another of the under-hydrated mealworms, she was off and away. I thought perhaps to gather more friends to the bounty that she had unearthed. But no.
It is two hours later and, although in a weakened state, I would like to believe that this still may be true. But as I say, I understand the harshness of life.
I shall continue to lay out my bounty.

Maybe in time it will be her taste of paradise.

Or maybe he was a bloke after all.

Ash Wednesday

It's Lent again, greatest of all the bank holidays. It reminds us of course of the day Jesus invited his flock to smoke him a kipper and said he would be back for breakfast.

Once again, I have decided to give up .... muesli.
(Hoping to make it 20 years in a row).

We can nego

Infinityness

The Unbearable Triteness of Being

Feelings of anguish.
Crushing central chest pain.
Nausea welling up.
That's the experience of watching BBC3's Junior Doctors.

It's physically painful to witness this tripe of a tragedy for Newcastle Medical School.

First up, we have a prime Charlie who drives a sports car (who does he think he is? A Nurse Practitioner?) and wears aviators. Yes it's the dim, rich boy who wants "to save the world".
Daddy's a doctor.
Mummy's a doctor.
Brother's a doctor.
Why did nobody spot this nit at interview?

He has "really big plans" for "what he want to get out of medicine".
"Get out" !!!!
Lord help us - watch out Harley Street and Channel 5.

The world needs saving all right. From half-wit city wide boys like that.
The unbearable vanity of the man.

He is the one who won't survive (There's always one). His mouth keeps reassuring us that he doesn't know if he is cut out to do this career.
Why not ask someone then? Me, for example.
He'll survive the programme - it plays to his sense of self importance but not the career.
I know, he's only a first year doctor. But he's not a man of 17, he's a man of 24. (Where's the missing year - was Daddy paying for a crammer?).

There's a few of the usual suspects around.
Doreen, a frosty senior nurse who could do with a good moisturiser postures rudely for the camera.
You can still tell the nice ones from the nasty ones.
Nothing changes. They looked exactly the same as in my day.
But our Charlie reassures himself to camera with a level of self-delusion not seen since David Copperfield took Claudia Schiffer for a spin around the block.
She "knows I am not a twat", he says.
She know's you are one more like.

Never fear though. Only a week and a half in and my God, he had some work to do!
Firstly, attending an arrest (which wasn't) with 12 other staff by my count plus a cameraman and production team!!

And secondly doing an unnecessary X-ray and writing up a dose of furosemide. That alone was enough to earn him a triumphant kick of his patent heels as he returned to the bar for a well-earned mojito and a go on his Playstation.

Hero to zero.

One guy, a registrar presumably, appeared in a tie, thank god. So at least he looked smart as he lamely employed the STOP technique to lord it over his new junior.

Future treats include Fat John who is in his second year. He clearly spent the first year eating pies. I'll give him 20 years.

Lucy was trying her hand at the "internal bottom examination". Thank God the camera crew were there.

And at the end of their first day, they are all at home playing pool, not as you might expect a third of the way through their first shift.

The progamme as ever was dominated by a scruffy bunch of female doctors but at least you could see that their nose rings had been removed. Some of the marks had almost begun to heal which was nice. Good old HDTV.


Our heroes kept extolling that The Buck stopped with them.
Really? I am sure they were taking lots of decisions. If the camera crew stick around they may even catch one on film. Most of this shower wouldn't recognise a buck if they ran into one in their Range Rover on the way home from an after-shift rave.

Torturous viewing that I am sure will appease the Snog Marry Avoid crowd.

Get me my beta blockers or a paper bag.
Whichever you can put your hands on first.

C'est La Vie

Okay you can turn your papers over.
Question One:
Who would you are rather employ:
A Someone who will give you 110%,
B Someone who says he will give you 100%,
or
C Someone who's offering up, say 90 to 95%.

You have five seconds.

Time's up.
Anyone who says he can give you 110% is a liar with poor mathematics and a knack for cliche.
Anyone who says he's giving 100% is saying he'll have never be able to give you any more than is currently giving and that he's always operating at maximum capacity. It displays is a lack of vision and understanding about the incredible possibilities of human potential.
And of course as an employer that's all you're after.

It's C by elimination.
C is someone who realises we rarely operate in that maximal zone, who realises there is always room for improvement. His analysis is tinged with an unusual insight and almost humorous honesty.

Of course he won't get the job.

But that's life.

Quotable Me: Part 4

I am very in touch with my feminine side.

(To be honest, I think she fancies me)

Taking time

I rediscovered "We have all the time in the world" before I had discovered it.
I was pushed by a commercial.
I am not proud of it.

Music can be so context-dependent. John Barry says..said..it is the most personal form of expression there is. Implying that words are so prescriptive.
I faint to disagree. They just need their lack of form perfecting.
But it matters not.



His legacy is almost an entire genre of music and few can claim that.
I love his work.

A single composition conjures up a major cinematic experience and it also stands alone.
Maybe we could dream of moments that would do the same.
You only know who you are when you stand alone.

I found Louis Armstrong on my own. I can't remember exactly how.
I had two tape cassettes of great great great songs.
It was hellzapoppin. Amongst other things.

"What is that great sound that makes that noise in the Bond music, Mum?"
"That's a trumpet. Now go and do your piano practice".

The Everlasting

We are losing the hope of the infinite.

Has your spirit ever crumpled when putting on a No-Iron shirt?

Do you remember when rulers were Unbreakable?

When watches were Waterproof?

Remember when Shatterproof rulers were downgraded to shatter resistant?

The Neverending Story had two sequels and three conclusions.
Even immortals die - ask any Highlander.
And there's many a claim of undying love buried beneath the frozen sod of a neglected churchyard.

Nothing but aphorisms lasts forever.
But claims that stand out as a challenge to the schoolboy are doomed to end of term revision.
They are expensive things for companies to back up.

2 hip?

It's hip to be square, they claimed.

And yet when I am being hip perhaps getting down with the kids, talking about motorbikes, discussing various counterpoints in the narrative of Neighbours or debating which was the greatest Captain of the Enterprise.
Or teaming up with my other student union acquaintances to get behind some cause or other, or well, lots of other things too numerous to mention that my chums and I get up to while you squares are drinking, womanising and doing macrame, I expect.

So since when is it square to be hip?

When I really give this some thought I reckon that Huey Lewis and the News weren't telling us the full truth.

Mirrors - a poem

A captured spirit
A hurried date
A flick of hair
And fashionably late

A fateful appointment with
Inner reflection
Melting despair
At marching complexion

Anticipation
A night on the town
The fancy dress
Of a tired clown

A passing glance
An absolute must
Reassuring but.
A nightmare to dust

So real. So false.
A factitious dream
A perfect reflection
Of the person we seem.

A spectator sport.
A body report.
That brings a private whine
At inscribed time.

Instant truth.
With ruthless delivery
A tyrant, a bully
A brutal facsimile

A sycophantic playmate
A comrade in arms
Or judge. Or tormentor.
Thief of your charms.

Time stands still
And the illusion’s complete
The ludicrous present
With the future to meet.

You stare down the now
And let it infect
And inform the future
As it warns of the next.

But that’s not what defines us
It’s not how we appear.
It’s a trick
A footnote.
A lie.
Not real.

Because believing is seeing
And not vice-versa.
So there in the glass
Is a better person.

It’s a mirror of mind
So come back from the brink
It awaits your instruction
Just have a think.

It’s in service to please
Obliged to announce.
It’s not an expressway
For ghosts to pounce

Brainwaves trump photons.
Like rock over scissors
So click the chamber
You’ll have more hits than misses.

Strike a pose. Freeze!
And try not to yelp.
Smile at Mr Reflection
He’s just trying to help

He’s the truth at your mercy
A slave to your best
So give him a wink
And push out your chest.

Q:The funniest musical instrument in the world?

A: Monkey Cymbals

Preferably held above the nipples (by a human) at fingertips and, if possible, used infrequently to enhance a pretty formal ceremony.

Accentuate the...Eliminate the...

What drives you?
I'm quite driven by the possibility of negative things happening.
Do you think that's wrong?
Do you think that is pessimistic?
Fear (for want of a better word) of bad things happening, rather than a positive motivation like running towards potential fun and excitement.

For example, if one in 200 people at my age gets a fatal bone cancer and dies within six months, should that shake me up, make me change my life? Or should I just gulp a gulp, shed a crocodile tear to reassure myself I am a human sensitive (or a sensitive human), shake it off, forget it and go out to work and get pissed at the weekend as usual?

Should this dark pessimism propel you?
I think it should.
And I'll bet I am in the minority.
Those who assume that I am being negative and looking on the black side are implying I am a fatalist.
It's a short trip from there to loser.
And I am neither.
So if you answered yes to my claims of pessimism, I will tell you why could not be more wrong.
And worse, why you may be the very creatures of whom you disapprove. Sorry, who you disapprove of.

Let’s soften it.

Let’s not call it a shake up.
Let’s not call it a fork in the road. Let’s call it a gentle bend.
Let’s change the word “fear” to oh, let’s say, “motivating factor”?

Bad things happen to good people.
Shed your tear, sure, but say to yourself: That could have been me. That might be me tomorrow.
Living with no regrets is one of the most motivating forces you can find.
It renews your drive and it forces you to count your blessings.
You have an attitude of gratitude.
You take nothing for granted because you have access to your inventory of everything you are grateful for. (Not grateful to anything supernatural, I would urge. Nobody needs worshipping for your good fortune).
Keep your treasures close, like a list of negatives and positives – you know the sort a girl might makes when she is deciding whether to dump her boyfriend.

When you have this access at your fingertips and you inevitably tire or have a bad day, you have a rich stream of resource pre-lined up.
Pick one and do something positive.
For yourself or even better, for others.
For someone you like. Or even better, someone you hate.
Do. Something.

Call these people what you like.

I like losers like us.

One word

Can I offer you a tasting note on tonight's movie - Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
I have always remembered one scene since my last viewing 20 years ago.
I can tell you three things about it - it is better in wide screen (there was none then) and it is better with a Rioja in front of you.
And one more thing ma'am...

It is a father and son tale.
A father whose "way" was unsure (who calls our hero Junior and never Indy; who gave his life to the quest for the holy grail to the exclusion of everything else - an obsession his wife and son could never understand - all of which sets it up for a bit of comedy banter.Oh dear, I hear you cry!)
They find the grail (who wouldn't) and drop it out of reach onto a precipice.
Our hero reaches out with a hand, the other grabbing onto his father's hand trying to pull him out of danger.
He reaches and slips and reaches, grip failing as the pit beckons. His father extends a second hand and implores him to give up the fight for his own life's desire.

Just a little further.

Give it up, Junior.

Just a bit further. I can get it.

The screen edges seem to fuse. The background noise fades.

And one word saves him from a deathly attempt to reach the treasure.

One word stops him from too high a risk of death.

One word.

Indiana.

Breathes his father, finally putting his son first.

The scene last 2 seconds and is worth the price of admission alone.

Two lives. One decision. One moment.

Eternity in a grain of sand.

Rarely does a movie deliver this.
And this movie is just a throwaway comic.
Isn't it?

There's one or two others scenes I am not so happy with, but Lucas and Spielberg have never bothered to engage.

All hail the generalist

You know those executive coaches?
Are they the “executive” or is it their customers?
And if it is their customers, isn’t “executive” really an old fashioned word?
Light grey broad pin-stripe anybody?

They use the word, I believe, to reflect glory on themselves. They are the executive.
And what do you need to become one?
A printer.
A business card.
C’est. Ça.
It is just marketing. And marketing is at its most offensive in areas of therapeutics.

As they bask in their own glory, what they are selling had better be good. Right?
But how many executive coaches teach themselves a few affirmations and a couple of NLP exercises, buy a nice suit, moisturise and label themselves corporate trainers or the like?
They are aiming high end.
Where the cash is.
But selling a specialised product in a specialised area makes you less than a “specialist”.

Would you really want a lifestyle coach that has never turned his so-called skills to say helping a heroine addict or a victim of homelessness or gut-burning debt?
Who has never visited the harder-edged side of society?
Would you really want to employ someone to trim the frayed fringes of your life when they are ignorant of the quality of textile beneath. Who has trained and targeted himself principally to lighten the overburdened wallet of people like you?

That is not much to be proud of.
And a specialist, it ain’t.

A specialist can help anyone in his chosen field (with the possible exception of language barriers)..
A specialist is a generalist of people and an expert in subject matter only.
A specialist in executives is a cynical ploy.

Let me give you another example.
Is a doctor of cruise ship medicine a specialist in high end cruisers?
Hopefully not.
He can treat 60 nationalities of crew members and passengers using skills of primary and secondary care and deliver the product of cruise ship medicine to each adult and child based on fundamental principles underwritten by several specialties.
Hopefully.

The generalist has the toughest specialty of all but the real message is this.
Once you have learned the skills that float your boat, expertise comes from applying them as broadly as humanly possible.

Sax and soul

Windin' your way down on Baker Street
Light in your head and dead on your feet
Well another crazy day
You'll drink the night away
And forget about everything
This city desert makes you feel so cold.
It's got so many people but it's got no soul
And it's taking you so long
To find out you were wrong
When you thought it had everything.....

Sounds like you saw it coming, Gerry.

RIP

From Generation Sax.

The substance of style

Today between designing my year and cleaning, I completed a new experience – exposure to period drama.
And I came to the conclusion that the best moment of dramatic counterpoint comes not from an explosion, not from a death or a joke and not from a pratfall. The best moments of Downton and largely responsible, I believe, for the huge success it proved to be is the display of total dignity in the face of adversity.
And great casting.
Why exactly that should make the eyes well up, I simply don't know.

Second change

Still looking for a resolution?

Why not write your own Wikipedia page describing everything you are in 2012.

Happy 1-1-11

It's that time of year again. Only this time the date is 1/1/11.
And so we may get to thinking about resolutions.
We may listen to the resolutions of others, maybe try them on to fit.
Maybe we look in the mirror. Maybe we look at our wallets before we decide.
In years past we might look at or weight or other trivia.
But this is not years past. Not yet.
Now we look to our jobs because the world has changed. In my mind, the old rules don't apply.
Believe me, I know this is a dangerous philosophy. I know that man's greatest mistakes are based on forgetting that history repeats.
But even so.
Even so, there is something different, something essential has changed.
Maybe it's a blip. You might reassure yourself that a lot of what affects society is written. In no danger of being reversed.
I respectfully disagree.
The borders are open. The demographic is racing on the corner of its most dangerous exponential curve presenting change with the force of several Gs.
We are way, way beyond the point of no return.
Or maybe you are right. Maybe nothing has really changed. After all, people are people.

Anyway whether you choose to agree with me or choose to be wrong, what you going to do about it? What do you change as we enter potentially painful years?
Perhaps you look to celebrity to be your rock, perhaps you look in the newspaper for their list of resolutions and choose to copy them.
It is the modern way. Emulating celebrity.
But I tend to concur with an editorial I read today that the nature of celebrity was permanently damaged during 2010. It "jumped the shark". Google it.
There can barely be a celebrity format that hasn't been rolled out. And there can certainly never have been in history a more one worthless bunch of characters who claim the moniker.
It's a Band-Aid for the masses that has value but only when it's aspirational. When it makes you want to join in and want to learn to oh, lets say, ballroom dance.
And the reason we shouldn't follow these charlies most of all. Well, they're not happy, are they? That's not news to you, is it?

Maybe you look to sport for your validation. Is there a sport that has not been corrupted if not by cheating then at the very least by vile agents, greedy inarticulate scumbags or a total lack of moral turpitude.
Are these people your heroes?
Do. You. Want. To. Be. Like. Them?
Slower. Louder. Repeat.

One of the answers to this problem is how we marry global relationships with parochial ones. There's been a feeling that long before the script of Shirley Valentine that people want to break out into the big wide world. Fine. But sometimes wide isn't easy. It is a crime to look at the script of Love Actually and to allow yourself to "live such a little life".
The answer is it has to suit your personality.
You can and should tweak your personality of course. Apart from anything else, that is true learning. And fun.
Playact being a better person and you might end up one by accident.
You'll be happiest when you're true to it. Not to play to its whims but to its core values.
I'm making a potentially fatal assumption here of course. That your core values are based on integrity.
But don't worry. I trust you. I am a truster.
You are my trustee. (Would you mind giving me a grant for a conservatory I am thinking of erecting?)

Those among us have tasted globality in business or maybe hols and that may be lead us to another answer: to consciously become more parochial, to aim for a littler life, to batten down the hatches and build up the walls.
Working on your walls and your hatches is not the worst resolution for 2011.
Feel free to leave as many escape routes as you think you'll need.

Or maybe what we need is a new kind of resolution with a harder edge, with a modernity (is that the noun you make out of modern?), maybe a more existential feel.
Let me offer you a starter for the year - wrrte a letter to anyone who moves you to tears this year.

And whatever route you choose.

The very best of luck.