The Train Don't Stop Here

I have just spent part of New Year's Eve writing a resignation letter. It is a gesture  - kind of surplus to requirements because in 12 weeks time the job I do has been outsourced to one of the biggest companies in the outsourcing world - Capita.

And I'll share a bit more about other joys I am thinking about. I don't like to... but what the hell. It once was Christmas.

I had a best friend of 20 years who has just spent 365 days, more actually, not bothering to contact me. I took him to a Frank Skinner concert. We had a great time. Last I heard of him. 

What's the point of thinking about people when they never think of you? You're just a concession, a punctuation and eventually you feel almost an irrelevance. Then you are an irritation, an embarrassment. When you're the only person making an effort, a note, a card, a text, an anything... you just end up feeling cheap.

I thought that was what Christmas was for. To redress one or two of those things.

I would say that people don't change. But of course they do. Either that or I made a miscalculation for 20 years. And that's perfectly possible too. Not everybody was raised on 80s schmaltz and believed it, like I did.

Sometimes I write about stuff here. But lately I haven't really done that either. Just haven't had anything to really say.

And now I need my car repairing from a collision. 

And between Christmas and New Year I received a letter awarding me 3 points and a fine for speeding at 39 in a 30.

The same day, despite my best efforts I was emailed news of failing to get a role (not a job exactly) that I had a strong connection (I thought) with something I spent 10 years doing. I can't get past a rigid application system even when I know the person awarding the role. 

I work broadly in a profession that used to believe in qualifications.  I could show you some. Good ones. No rubbish. But that was yesteryear. It ain't now.

Quality cannot be outsourced and experience cannot be duplicated. So my qualities are embarrassing to the system. That's if you even believe I have them. And there's no reason why you should. My best friend of 20 years didn't. Not enough to make me worth talking to anyway. Not worth a text. Maybe I should have kept it more light and breezy. I just assumed I was in safe company. I was wrong.

How much do you stick to 'who you are' when the 'who you are' is no longer required?

Nobody likes a moaner. 

And take my advice, if you find yourself thinking this way, don't put on Spotify and allow a sad song to slip past you. At least you can rely on the radio for a cheery furniture ad.
Oh, and I have a wisdom tooth that has called 'time'.

On the other hand....

Actually, I quite like a moaner. They've usually got a point. They make interesting conversation. If they do it like I do it then they are quite chippy, enthused and at least partially informed. They are realistic, observant and cynically comic people usually much more fun than rose-spectacled and over-liberal folk - the sort of types who are so judgemental that they actually call other people judgemental!!! To their face!! You can't get any more judgemental than that!

And moaners have more vision and insight, they are honest and you can usually break them into a smile or have a bloody good laugh trying. In fact, I bloody love a moaner me.

And I'm not unhappy with 'who I am' and I don't intend to be during 2015. I have never claimed to be perfect. That's for others to correctly detect.

And in the time it has taken to write this, another dozen FMEs have e-mailed their resignations. That's not solidarity by the way as our group does not roll that way. It's just a mutual recognition of an inevitable tide. 

Tides aren't personal. They just feel that way because you put your person into what you do. Me more than most. There isn't a stunt I won't pull or a trick I won't play, a play I won't make or a lever I won't age, if I'm trying to instill a positive change in someone whose fingers are scraping the dust and lint at the bottom of an empty hessian bag of missing options.

And when I start linking one or two words together like that..colourful like...I sometimes write them down. 

Although I've not written my blog, I've written 30,000 words towards a book, which (I assume) will be in the same style, unless Katie Price's ghost writer becomes available. I didn't know even she was dead but then I've not been keeping up with the news.

And when I wrote my New Year's Eve resignation letter and copied it to colleagues on the e-mail, I made an admittedly thin joke (but then nobody else bothered at all).

"Dear Colleagues,

I have sent my letter. I wasn't clear on the Inspector's rank so I just said "Dear Mate".

A gold watch arrived via DPL within the hour. 

Who says we don't have 24/7 policing?"

It drew in a couple of jokey responders who still remembered to have a sense of humour.

And I'm getting my car repaired next week. The insurance and no claims protection will basically cover it and it will be a minor inconvenience.

And when I was telling my hairdresser this morning about my speeding, she said she'd been done in exactly the same place doing 35 mph in a 30 over Christmas as well. At least, I got an extra 4 mph out of my crime. And due to the passage of time they are the only points I have, and I might be able to get out of those if I go on a tea and biscuit morning.

And parts of the role I do could feasibly resurface in some sort of new capacity for a short time, but in the meantime I will have more time off. And I'm not short of projects. I will retweak my targets. They are going to become clearer. Louder. Screamier. More interesting. They are going to be faster and edgier. And if they're not, you can kick my arse in 12 months time when I will still be writing this blog.

End of year messages don't have to be twee and predictable.

Stick this one in your pipe and smoke it... errr, dear friends.

And if you are looking for a resolution, take mine... Always starts your sentences with And.

##

I'm trying to be brief and say this is 140 characters or less, but I
have just visited a police station where the officers were bagging and
labelling a stash of cannabis as evidence.

Hashtag that.

G Force

Life is gravity.

And gravity defines orbit - a celestial looping of moons around planets, and planets around suns, perpetually falling. But falling with a momentum that prevents closeness. In astronomical terms, a level of closeness that would result in destruction, disaster, pain, Armageddon.

The challenge for a moon is to remain in orbit. The challenge of a life is to keep your plates spinning. Both positions eternally falling, saved only by their momentum.

But you can choose when to fall.

You can stop dead. Or you can slow down and gently offer your momentum.

You can surrender to the options and opportunities that come at you.

You can stop.

You can settle.

But either way you will fall.

You might choose to do that for reasons such as... well, you know better than I.

Perhaps you don't even have momentum, and you're looking to catch a favourable wind on the back of somebody else's. There is no crime in hitching a ride .

But hitchhiking is dangerous. Just ask Rutger Hauer.

Let's say you're trotting on with your own momentum. Perfectly happy. Perfectly unhappy.

You might speed up. But most people don't.

You might slow down. Your balance goes and you fall, no longer sustainable in your orbit.

You fall. Maybe you've been looking for an excuse to.

And you might let gravity take you. Your past momentum just a page in the scrapbook.

Hoping for a happy landing.

Or just looking to settle.

With This Ring.

You have to have a love a headline like:

"Why this man has just married a tree for the second time ..."

Of course there is a picture of him kissing the tree. 

Or 'a' tree.

We assume it's the same tree, although she does look remarkably young, with green shoots, almost as though she'd never been kissed!

If he is genuine about the relationship, then I imagine he is just renewing his boughs. 

But I smell a rat. 

This second tree is in Bogota. The first tree was in Buenos Aires.

I am no private detective but I am guessing these could be different trees.

Unless he travels around with a dead tree...perhaps preserved as the day they met and married.
You can work wonders with linseed oil. Ask Esther Rantzen or any cricket bat.

And of course, he may not have consummated the first marriage. I am not casting nasturtiums but it is possible.

I can't help wondering what went wrong with the first tree-lationship. Couldn't they settle together and lay down roots? Did she have too much bark? Did they just grow apart?

Or maybe tragedy struck and she fell off the twig, and now he just carries her around for her knot-hole.

Either way, this is an organic celebration surrounded by family and friends. Mainly, admittedly, from his side of the family. Although the ceremony does take place outdoors so, well... who can tell?

I'd lichen the sentiment to an old song because it reminds us that Love Can Be A Many Splintered Thing.
Especially in his case.

Poor sap.

Raised by the 80s: Glen A Larson

In today's news, we've heard that Glen A Larson has died.

There are two sorts of people who will shrug a "so what" to that.

People who weren't raised on a diet of 80s television.
And people who were raised on a diet of 80s television but never bothered to read the credits.

I sympathise with the former and hold no truck with the latter. I've always had a bit of a problem with people who end up enjoying a program but have no idea why. Surely if you enjoy one program by Glen A Larson, you might seek out another in the expectation of enjoying that. (I didn't do that at the time of course but it's where I got the idea from).

At the time, his was a name that came up over and over again. Not to recognise the route to an enjoyment means the enjoyment is just an enjoyment in itself. Pure hedonism. Something I simply cannot accept (!).

If you had sought out more of his work, you wouldn't have gone far wrong, because they were essentially all the same.

No, that's too easy a jibe, and I don't really believe it. 
Battlestar Galactica, and The Fall Guy. The same? You crazy cat!

You stay and watch the credits when you don't want the program to end. But time after time after time (I cannot tell you how often) one name kept appearing: Glen A Larson.

Forgive me, Donald P Belisario. 

Don't shoot me, Steven J Cannell. 

(What is it with these middle initials that American screenwriters wear with such a badge of honour?. And don't get me wrong, I was partial to a bit of Hardcastle & McCormack and very partial to a bit of The A Team).

But don't lose any sleep over that, Glenn Gordon Caron. Because the softer overtones of Remington Steele and Moonlighting engaged me periodically.

And, while I'm dancing round it, take a hike Aaron Spelling and Leonard Goldberg.
And I'd like to add at this point, I could happily down tools whenever Bruce Boxleitner showed up. Which seemed to be pretty much all the time.

But when something really delivered, the name at the beginning and the name at the end was most frequently Glen A Larson.

It was a more innocent time when creatives hid sex acts and prostitutes inside the titles of what were essentially children shows… BJ and the Bear, TJ Hooker. It was a time before that sort of thing brought down Presidents and the world was a more innocent place that would never change. At least most of the radio DJs thought so.

I didn't really watch Battlestar Galactica. It all looked a bit well… ITV to me.
But I did watch Buck Rogers in the 25th Century every Saturday night with my corned beef sandwiches. I did do the impressions of Twiki at school. It was compulsory. I did wander around occasionally pretending to be Dr Theopolus.

His were series that held a grip and not least because of their opening narratives.

The year is 1987, and NASA launches the last of America's deep space probes. In a freak mishap, Ranger 3 and its pilot, Captain William "Buck" Rogers, are blown out of their trajectory into an orbit which freezes his life support systems, and returns Buck Rogers to Earth, 500 years later.

Holy crap! Mum..bring the sandwiches in!

Add a few impressive visuals and some pretty thrilling theme music, and all you needed was plenty of HP, all the crisps you could negotiate and all the orange squash you could dilute.

Strangely, it's perhaps the rarely remembered that I remember most. 

Automan was cancelled after a dozen episodes but when the BBC buys it and puts on at peaktime in your formative years, an impact is made that is never forgotten. When it ties in with every computer game you're trying to get your ZX Spectrum to play, it ties in with life. Of course "tie-ins"in so many guises are a major marketing ploy. 

But I didn't feel exploited. I felt entertained.

It's amazing now how many ideas seem derivative. Automan of course is 'Tron', a popular movie released a year earlier in 1982.

Tales of the Gold Monkey, which I never warmed to, and Bring 'Em Back Alive (which had Bruce Boxleitner in) were clearly Indiana Jones rip-offs, sorry, tributes. For me, they didn't really hit the spot.

And of course, why not recycle your own ideas or sets? If you have a pricey series like Battlestar Galactica, use the same props for a bit of Buck Rogers. It all adds to the mix. It didn't hurt that the BBC raised its children on a diet of the old 1930s RKO cereals featuring Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers (and Buster Crabbe as both), which for all their excruciatingly dated effects still engage me 50 years after their heyday. That must be story and performance I think. I think thoses tale could still engage me now. It's no wonder that 3-D technology has failed to take off in the 21st century as 'story' is the same if you watch it on a 3 inch phone. As long as you're comfy in your watching, the medium doesn't enhance the story in itself.

It is just standing on the shoulders of giants.

Of course as a youngster you don't see the formula. And you absolutely do not care.

They are giving you more of exactly what you want. They are doing exactly the right thing.

It's not for me to criticise it 30 years later. But then I'm not the sort of customer who would. I am not one of those people who say, we don't need a sequel to a movie I really enjoyed, not one of those who argue that the original movie would be ruined. I say give us more and let us make our own mind up. And I'll tell you when to stop. Never!

You can't ruin something that is already in the can. We are hungry viewers looking to connect or reconnect with something. We're not Schrödinger. Or his cat.

The strain this US onslaught put our own Doctor Who of course is well documented. A tale you might say as old as Time. But also one with a vindication, redemption and a happy ending.

That the US offerings even appeared on daytime, when the BBC had little or nothing to offer, sealed their destiny in our affections and inflections.

I think I must have watched my fair share of Knight Rider though I don't have any particular affection for it. I didn't like Quincy. (I didn't even realise he had ME). And I was always across a bit creeped out by Magnum. I still am. I didn't really understand the relationships. A burly soft-spoken man in flamboyant clothes with a ridiculous moustache. I couldn't really connect with it. I still have my suspicions about him.

And now Wikipedia tells us that all these formative experiences were delivered by a fully paid-up member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saint. A Mormon, if you will. And Glenn A Larson apparently wove themes from Mormon theology into his work. Who wouldn't?

I know this type of television influenced my morality on life, more strongly than perhaps I would care to admit. But the messages always seemed sound, didn't they. The good guy should win. People should be nice when they can and tough when they can't. And you should do your best. The good guys tell the truth and the bad guys lie. 

I don't feel as though I've been brainwashed necessarily but I'm probably not qualified to comment, other than to say it's probably a good wash. A wash I'm happy with. A wash that washes. And at low temperatures too.

I'm hardwired with these differences now so I cannot choose easily to break that coding. But I don't want to. My idealism is well-documented.

No wonder they say.. get 'em young.

I lost count of the times that I sung along to Lee Majors singing 'The Unknown Stuntman' in The Fall Guy. I know for a fact I transcribed the lyrics to all the verses and I could sing it to you now, but why bother when you have YouTube. 

Of course it wasn't just Majors' casting but that of Heather Thomas that sealed the show as a hit. It even survived the appointment of surely the most correctly forgotten and least talented actor to ever hit the screen in any TV series anywhere in the world ever (Douglas Barr as third wheel Howie Mundsen). I would ask you to write in and tell me different. But I know you can't, not correctly anyway. You see, I know my stuff.

When a series runs for 26 episodes for say five or six years, and those years to you are "formative", you can understand why the impact is made.

Now I read wider recognition that some of the recycled ideas in his productions were known as Glen A "Larceny".

But I enjoyed my morning holiday diet of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew Mysteries on the BBC. Does it matter to me that 'BJ and The Bear' was clearly Clint Eastwood in Every Which Way But Loose, that The Fall Guy was a bandwagon reaction to the Burt Reynolds movies. That Battlestar Galactica followed Star Wars, and Alias Smith and Jones was Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Well, no. Not to me. And not to the kids who watched the shows either when they were released or in the many years following that they were extensively repeated.

The only thing I don't understand with the shows is that they would have needed a strong adult audience for their ratings to impress the television networks and I can tell you there were never popular with the adults in my house.

The fact is I can forgive him just about anything, because he made probably my favourite show of all time (also cancelled after one season), the little-known "Sword of Justice", featuring Dack Rambo, and still not available on DVD, (for those of you hipsters who remember DVD).

It seems to me now as though this series that followed a wrongly imprisoned thief was, well, let's call it a "development" (rather than a rip-off) of the first major show he worked on as a producer "It Takes a Thief". But surely the thief turned good plot will date via Cary Grant and probably a lot further beyond. There are only so many plots types of character. It is casting brings them alive.

His stories were told most successfully by appointing a charismatic actor. It's clear looking back that the script didn't matter so much. It can't have done in those volumes. But it makes sense to find a Lee Majors that could that can hold a character or two for five or six years each, or a William Shatner that can inject life into an already tired 80s cop show. It's a major element of how to connect with an audience.

It's how they arrive in your teatime.
And they are best announced with a killer theme tune. (Over to you, Mike Post).

Television is the dominant artform of our generation. While the movie buffs cry and argue over whether or not something should or shouldn't have a sequel, we needed somebody like Glen A Larson to knock out another a couple of dozen episodes a year while they were all thinking about it.

That's showbiz. He was my kind of GAL.

Taking The Pips

"If life gives you lemons, make lemonade".

Fine. It's all very well people telling you that.

But life has to give you some sugar as well.

And water.

And I wouldn't say no to a spoon.

Getting Funky

Why is looking kind of funky good?

And smelling kind of funky bad?

Modern Times

There is a need, probably, for modern quotes.
The glorious concept of the quote is tainted somewhat by a brilliant
Churchillian history.
There's more to it.
Language changes.
Even dictionaries evolve.
There is no quote that ends with an emoticon. That's not because it's
impossible, impractical or poor. Well OK, it is because it's
impractical.

Language needs to speak to people of all shapes and sizes and cultures.
The quote and the insult are its most succinct weapons.

Timothy Spall tells a chat show story of recovering from cancer, a
diagnosis throughout which his thoughts were eminently profound.
On getting better he notices that he is back to moaning at drivers on
the road and nitpicking, I daresay comedically, commenting
cathartically at detail, then he is right to claim..

"Never fear being a petty fool. It means you ain't dying".

How to Reduce Junk Mail

I am pronouncing my experiment into reducing my junk mail of the last fortnight, a success.

I reckon I've knocked it down by about 90%.

Trouble is..

..kind of miss it.

​

Half Man

Quite often, nibbling each spiral

...after swimming at Yearsley..

when nerve allowed

yes, had some of these too

Remember when they were 3p a bag - cheap even in those days

loved these  - I tracked a sixpack down about 5 years ago after finding they were still made for the Irish market

big buzz around these..

Yes...

Sometimes I think I must be half crisp

Diss Likes

4 Things I Like

• The dry bit under cars on a rainy day
• Refreshers (both the chewy and chalky versions - the sweet so good they not so much named it twice but gave 2 sweets the same name. Come on Barratts and Swizzels Matlow, be friendly!) 
• Getting anything out of a tree
  
• Onion 'n' Vinegar Wheelz (Come on Nibbitz, bring them back!)

11 Things That Get on My Nerves

• Opening packs of toilet rolls.
• Anyone who tells me to "make some noise" (and lives)
  
• Anybody who says "We would never have had 'X' without 'Y' ". e.g. We'd never have had the The A Team without Coronation Street. We'd never had had Rambo without Lonnie Donnigan. We'd never have had Emmerdale without Pride and Prejudice. (In music this generally involves the Beatles. In comedy usually it involves Monty Python).
• Car poppies.
  
• Conductors (the pointless humans not the hot metals)
  
• Semiconductors (neither here nor there)
  
• Any movie described as 'gruelling'. 
  
• Chris Evans
• The 'Ready' in Ready Salted. Unnecessary
  
• Singers who call their show "An Evening with..." (Get over yourselves and sings some songs).
  
• Anybody who says "Spoiler Alert" and then doesn't leave enough time to punch them in the face before they speak again.

Quotable Me 14

Life is a trick you play on yourself.

Haiku Blues

I think we have the Haiku to blame for the premature death of the risque limerick

Those darn Japs! More efficient at everything.

My sort of haiku 

Is an Irish rhyme that can

Lower your IQ

Vs 

There was a young fellow called Farquhar 

Who wished that the sun could be darker

His collar too tight 

He winced in the light

He looked like he'd come from Osaka 

Take your pick!

SHATTERED

Competition entry.
Task - write a short story of exactly 100 words incorporating three specific words (jade, conduit, effervescent). The closing date to enter is Friday 10 October at 10 am EDT / 3 pm BST.



SHATTERED


Jade slid the rusty safety chain on the front door and powered up the laptop.

She'd find the reasons for Jerry's recent twitchiness, his quietness, lack of eye contact, angry lovemaking. "It's not OK to love Call of Duty more than me!"

The Search Conduit virus infected the machine, uninvited pop-ups effervescent as she crept and crawled through his browsing history, anything but silently.

She'd take a quick look and then disappear, deleting any trace of her presence, still unsure if mutual betrayal could be CntrlAltDeleted.

A push at the door and the safety chain shattered...
Jerry.
With AK47.

Blurred Vision

How should you calculate your life?

I would argue on the 'back of an envelope'.

The back of the envelope calculation involves inputting some data but
not all. How can you?
It involves some commitment to finding the answer but is not so
single-minded that you don't find yourself inventing certainty where
it doesn't exist.
It implies the need for certain skills... perhaps critical thinking and
literacy. And recognising that not everybody's opinion on the subject
is equal.
Scientific data is not equivalent to YouTube comments. It is better.
Are we allowed to use a word like better anymore? Isn't that "racist"?
Are we allowed to use a word like superior?
We are supposed to be standing on the shoulders of giants not putting
stones in their shoes.

So when you making your assessments, the "back of the envelope" is as
good a place to start as any.
It leads you to a logic that is fuzzy not fussy.

And you don't need to wait for the postman.
You can get one out of the bin.

Stretch

Admittedly I'm a new convert to the concept of the physical stretch.

You'll catch me at 6am most mornings running myself through a few mantras and following some yogi or other.

No, naughty! Not Yogi Bear on CBeebies. You!! Why I ought to....

No, stretching is a wider concept that.

Stress is a bad concept or a bad word. It has negative connotations. But everybody knows that you don't achieve anything unless you put yourself through some stress, some goal, some sort of test.

The road is a road because it has to be navigated. It takes effort.

But stress also means heart attacks, fractures, breakdown. Stress can fell bridges and kingdoms.

So why not refer to most of this concept in a positive way as Stretch.

When you are expanding your horizons it is Stretch that will let you reach out to them.

Stretch predates Reach.

So when you go for a run as I've just done (only for 12 minutes), you might be a lucky enough for that to 'clear your mind'. But for some of us, we have 12 minutes of "I wish this was over" to contend with. Apart from anything else this makes people like me better people than you for exercising and you need to be aware of that(!).

Far from the mind being cleared like a wave rushing over a beach, all that really shifts is what has most recently occupied the thoughts. That allows a bit of space for a new thought. (So it's not really cleared but a change is as good as a rest. Better probably).

My new thought during my run was Stretch.

So now after a 12 min run I have a 10 min blog to write. (That's if I get away with it being a blog. It could turn into another unwritten book). 

You must stress yourself in life. If a change is as good as a rest, that could even de-stress you. Or distress you. (See was an awful word it is).

So call it Stretch.

The nocebo effect (the negative placebo effect when negative expectations deliver themselves just because they're expected) is facilitated by Stress.

And alleviated by Stretch.

It's a good concept. 

It deserves propagation.

But then I think TJ Hooker should have had a sixth season.

So what do I know?

The Business End

Is it okay for a man to wear a bra?

Yes, of course it is, I hear you reply.

A red-blooded heterosexual man parading around his bedroom in nothing but his wife's undergarments is a healthy past time for any latent rugby player. I think we can all agree on that.

Now, I've just been for a swim.

Is it okay for a man to wear a bra in the swimming pool?

Not quite as straightforward is it?

First of all I thought it was a rather masculine woman that I was seeing through the one-way viewing glass provided to sitters of the wooden sauna bench. (I don't go to swim of course. I'm not an idiot).

But he had on those stupid square swimming shorts that Italians and Daniel Craig wear. They matched his black bra which when he turned round (for man he was) barely covered his nipples. The dirty tart, I thought. Eyes glued.

He'd do a couple of widths and then climb out. The bra would slip down and he'd pull it back up again.

As sauna viewing entertainment goes, it was some of the best. It was right up there with the transsexual man coming out of the female changing room, a habit I have dabbled with myself since purchasing a suitable one-piece from Asos.

The worst thing was that his bikini top was inappropriately small. or narrow. Not high from up to down I mean. I mean if you were his parent, you'd have called him in for a word and chastised him for wearing it before sending him out with a shiny shilling to order the biggest turkey he could find for Christmas.

The worster thing was he didn't feel self-conscious. A British person who doesn't have the wherewithal to feel even slightly embarrassed adjusting his bra in the shallow end, is not a form of countryman that I recognise. He might have been a Scot.

And then of course, I noticed the matching black wristwatch.

'Ahh', I thought, 'a cardiac monitor. 

What a prat!'

Hot Tip

When filling up your glass with a refreshing glass of soda water, possibly fresh from your new Sodastream, why not spice things up a little with a few drops of Angostura bitters? 

It adds a pleasing punch and you may even feel a tiny little bit more sophisticated doing that than using, say, Robinson's.

Don't however accidentally go for the Lea and Perrins Worcestershire sauce just because it's got a slightly similar bottle and you haven't got your contact lenses in.

Sauce for the chick

A useful tip for you if you find yourself eating on the road and need to drop into Aldi and buy their Chicken & Stuffing sandwich, (ruing the fact that they've run out of BLTs).

Keep some HP in the glove compartment.

You're welcome.

KitchenWhy

A watched kettle never boils. 

But a microwave doesn't mess around, does it?.

Why? 

Well, it's got a countdown timer for added tellytime tension and it's just generally more interesting to look at, what with all that turning and that.

Come on kettles! 

Do something interesting.

Praise The Lord

Last night I had a dream.

I had an ongoing quotation going through my head based on some sort of schoolboy-ish religion (isn't it all?).O It was something biblical like "and by my name will know me, for I am the Lord". Over and over in my head this fell, so much that it contributed to disturbing my sleep.

I know why it happened because I watched quite a scary episode of Doctor Who earlier on in the evening and there's not much room behind my sofa.

The Doctor is now an old man who is afraid of the dark. Just like me.

There was only one way this could play out.

It even made me linger later on in the day when I bumped into the God-fearing/praising free satellite channels in the high 600s full of horrendous all-American so-called pastors begging for money and exploiting poor communities with supposedly learned teachings.

If only they could step back and realise that what they are preaching makes no sense at all.

They talk of "walking in God's spirit", "allowing the holy spirit to enter you". 

I recognise these as individual words because I have come across them in other contexts but they have not been used in an order that makes coherent sense. That is the basic rule of communication. It is utter claptrap. And they can't see it.

They are blind. Blinded by greed for profit or status. At least I hope so, because if not, then it is a pure window of stupidity that prevents them from keeping schtum about their delusions.  The beautiful plasticity of the human brain twists and tones their message and then preaches to the vulnerable, spreading delusions otherwise worthy of being defined as mental illness. Incapacity is contagious.

They spend so many years twisting these ancient words into vantage points. Selecting, defying, culling, perverting and twisting what is an already unsound source material. Choosing the translation they want to purvey and then spouting this out. 

Spouting is a better word than preaching. I used preaching earlier correctly in a negative and judgemental sense but I am concerned that that didn't come across. I wasn't meaning to give them credit as teachers.

Their blinkers are well and truly on. They have no business claiming to be teachers. 

And they don't talk about truth. They wouldn't recognise truth if it punched them in the throat.

I think I misremembered my schoolboy quote  "And by my name will you know me, for I am the Lord". In fact I think I made it up.

But why not? The Bible so regularly misquotes itself that we should all join in. 

So let's see... the quote in my dream possibly had a bit of Pulp Fiction thrown in "And you will know I am the Lord when I make my vengeance upon you". [Samuel L Jackson quoting Ezekiel 25:17].

My memory of it is a little softer. I was just thinking that God was giving himself a name check.

But I do find some of the translations of Isaiah 52:6 (which seems to relate to my misquote) pretty comical.

From the New American Standard Bible 

"Therefore My people shall know My name; therefore in that day I am the one who is speaking, 'Here I am'."

Good for you mate!

Alternative endings include "Surely I am He who is speaking, behold Me", or "I am he that does speak: behold, it is I".

Now I rather like that as an opening gambit when walking into any room. Instead of muttering a casual hello, extend the arms and say, "Behold, it is I...."

It even has an echo of a 'Allo 'Allo with an elderly character constantly pausing, looking around and and adding ".... LeClerc"

I'm God, he seems to be saying.

Everybody knows my name.

But this is heaven, isn't it?

Not Cheers.

The King of Beers

Some years ago I entered a competition.

I intended my entry to entertain me for a while on a flight as I was flying to America.

But I completed my entry in 5 minutes on the connecting internal flight and posted it in Heathrow.

It was a competition based on the yellow piss liquid called Budweiser beer and I won the first prize which was an all expenses paid trip to Disneyland. Unfortunately I had just been there and the prize wasn't transferable so it was lost.

I told the story once or twice, but even to me it's always sounded a bit implausible. Surely the prize was one of those Reader's Digest prizes that weren't really real?

But it was. 

And I recently realised that I can prove it. 

Records, it turns out, are kept.

So the proof ...if you believe, of course, that this was my entry.

Which it was.

A joke, very nearly.

I've got a message for all similes out there.

What are you like!

Can't Care, Won't Care

You might think that people don't care.

Don't care about you.

It's not that, of course. The concept is just bigger than that. Bigger than you.

Caring isn't personal. It should be. But it frequently isn't.

The truth is people can't always care.

Care spaces are limited. You may have been trumped or relegated.

Or they don't care.

Ambivalence. Other priorities. Out of space. Full. Up.

You'll beat yourself up for your sorry lot anyway so go right ahead and get it out of the way. See what it changes.

It's not that people don't care - it's just that people aren't caring. 

Yet. 

You can make them of course...get close and it will follow. You'll boost your mantlepiece on your birthday. 

But what is the point of that? This is a force that should not be forced. Care is an offer not an obligation.

Care for what you will.

Care for who you will. Who you can. When you can.

Or don't.

And care for yourself first. It's what every life support course teaches above all. You are useless otherwise.

Offering care is not the same as bringing dependence.

But only take Route One at times when that is as far as your resources reach and only for the time that is so. 

Because unless you are homeless, limbless, destitute, addicted, you have more to offer. 

Care when other people can't. Or won't. Many outgrow it as their selfishness matures into who they will be in later life. Men in particular.

Take it outside. Take it for a stroll. 

Stretch.

Practice the skills you've let atrophy. In new ways unique to you.

And not because you have to.

Just because you give a damn.

Personal Best

It's the Great North Run today - never mind the millionth half-marathoner, it's about the personal challenge for the individual.

So it's going to be a very tense, challenging and sweaty day for me. 

I'm going to try to get through the traffic to IKEA.

Dark Loops

We live successfully as a species which kills animals for food. And we have particular animals that we eat. 

We prefer pig to horse. Cow to cat.

We even kill our own species - raising certain humans to be soldiers to fight and die for us.

We send people into peril. Particular people, cannon-fodder. As the fragrant, well-dressed generals push their toy soldiers forwards on the map. 

Some cultures raise warriors but nowadays the only Spartans left are CGI. Yesterday's tigers are now armies of cockroaches. No heroes and no heroics. Just cowards who present their senseless violence.

Cowards who kill their food halal. And behead human beings without the same courtesy.

Spartans don't kill halal.

We even grow particular sub-communities to sacrifice to the banks and the banking system.

We have a poor who don't choose and still are exploited so that the rich can get extra rich.

And we have people who choose to be in the system, to be the exploited. 

Some of these people in the pop culture wing we call celebrities. It seems to me like there's an entire sub breed of minor celebrities that have been raised for the cull. To be humiliated on television and endless mindless shows with identical formats.

The repeat offenders of reality television, the same names, over and over again so they are known as celebrities only by appearing on other reality programs that make them so. The system eating itself. A dystopian vision of senseless entertainment. Looped in a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It even cheapens the concept of celebrity. No Cary Grants. No Marilyn Monroes.

Just a brand of people bribed, conditioned and ultimately raised to be treated in a certain way.

This is a type of celebrity that is not so much Celebrity-lite.

As Celebrity Dark

Lock and Load

We are pattern machines. Cartridges can be slotted in and out.
Deliberation allows you change to one cartridge at a time in your own time.

But life is eight-track. It comes at you in ways that invite automatic, or hopefully semi-automatic, response.
Automatic is expert or incompetent. Beautifully in-control and totally out of it. Master or knee-jerk.
Semi-automatic is more measured, quick but steady.

When you are switching multiple cartridges for the first time, keep it ordered, keep your eye on the ball, put your weight on your lower ski.
Breathe.
Think.

And keep your powder dry.

Making Waves

People can change. But later in life I think it needs to be based on a
more conscious desire, correcting oneself in terms of exercise, eating
habits, attitude etc etc. And using the fact/hope that you know what
buttons to push to motivate yourself.

If it is not laid down in that way, more deliberately then when we are
children, then when it sets, it won't take.

If it doesn't take, the old habits will resurface, sooner or more
harmfully later, and be more destructive than before.

You can roll with the tide as a child.
But as adults, we are the wavemakers.

Blind As a Mouse

I just fulfilled a life-long ambition. Well maybe not ambition, but certainly a box that needed ticking.
No, actually ambition isn't too far from the mark.

It is something that is hidden in the psyche of every theatre-going boy in England.
An experience to be done once in your life. To be treasured and secreted.
During maybe a visit to the capital and an evening in of the most well loved establishments in the world.

I've just seen The Mousetrap.
But I didn't do it in the way I had always expected.
I hurried after work having gobbled down the quickest of teas and bought a half-price standby ticket and went to see it in the Gallery.
The time had simply come to tick the box.

And it was the right way to do it.

With the play on its 60th anniversary tour there was no need to go to London. Indeed I had visited London on occasions for courses etc and considered a few times forking out the £45 they wanted from me, but never quite brought myself to do it. Well, there's a lot of choice! And frankly I was worried it might be a bit crap.

When I was I think 11, I visited London with my Dad, pretty much the only trip we went on together.
I don't know how hard "we" tried to get tickets for The Mousetrap but we ended up with Murder at the Vicarage. Which I actually think was a superior play. And I remember being pretty high up then. High up in the gallery is very little imposition for single set plays such as this.
I can still remember lines from Murder at The Vicarage, despite never seeing it since. Mrs Marple had a recurring line of "When I was watering the lawn that afternoon...." or some such, which introduced her busybodying. It is not amusing. It's just interesting how memory
sticks over 30 plus years.

I may not have taken this option of rushing off tonight had not a TV comedian ruined the surprise ending from The Mousetrap on a television programme about 15 years ago. Instantly I knew the experience of going to London to see it would be soured. I've never been able to forget it so I've always known the ending. Irritatingly now I can never know if I would have guessed it, so I've been truly cheated by Paul Merton. I think I would have. I think so. Maybe.

I even remember during my schooldays being entranced to see that The Mousetrap play was available in book form, but while flicking through bookstores I forbade myself from ever looking at the ending.

But today this was it. Enough's enough.This was M-Day.
It's in town (for the second time) touring on its 60th anniversary. So I thought...let's just get this done.
Let's bring this baby home.

So I should give you a brief review. Well, it's rubbish really. But there's something about Agatha Christie, and being brought up on France's Durbridge thrillers at the local theatre, that you always
hope for more, but it is only the performances and the smell of the greasepaint that can elevate these two act wonders.

Time perhaps has not been kind to the play. But it doesn't really deserve it. The thing is really that it's nothing special. Iconically special. But not a special piece of writing. It's a box to be ticked.
If you help yourself to an interval gin and tonic, my advice is to have a double.

Personally, I'm glad to free up that part of my brain to something else.
But I still like that it exists is a charming piece of parlour theatre. Quintessentially you-know-what.

The world is a poorer place without The Mousetrap. The second half does liven up a little. It throws in a few plot theories... but nothing as imaginative as the sort of ideas that fans on an Internet forum would speculate. The world has moved on. Nowadays if you're a comedian you have got to come up with jokes that Twitter doesn't think of first.

Ultimately I wish The Mousetrap well.
But, friend, if you don't happen to get round to it.... really.... there's no need to worry.

Power of the Sun

Ring Ring Ring Ring

"Hello"

"Hello - is that Mr Smith"

"Yes - this is a sales call, isn't it?"

"No, it's not a sales call. It is a free no obligation quotation for solar power".

Give me strength...

Sachsgate - The Revenge

This week Jonathan Ross returned to Radio 2 for the first time since his telephonic abuse of Andrew Sachs which believe it or not is 6 years ago now, although Sachs only spoke out earlier this year about the cruelty that apparently continues to haunt him. And this very day as I was filling up the car I noticed an interesting story about his brother, TV's Paul Ross, in today's tabloids.

Now it was good to hear Jonathan on the radio this week. He is interesting and a considerable relief from Steve Wright and the people who claim to love his show.

But it has long struck me that Ross and Russell Brand's apology was spectacularly unconvincing - one of the least heartfelt apologies in history, accompanied by giggles and about two years too late.

So today provides the perfect opportunity for the shoe to be tried on the other foot.

I wonder if Jonathan thinks it would be fair game for Barry (Paul Ross's gay mephadrone-taking dogging partner of the last 12 months who apparently wants to marry him, presumably after a divorce from his wife of 20 odd years) to phone up Mrs Ross (their mutual mother) and tell her he'd fucked her son, recording the call for transmission over the airwaves as a hilarious piece of entertainment.

No?

Thought not.

Cold Call Blues

Change your answering machine message to incorporate a 10 second gap then saying "Sure tell me more". They'll eventually realise you're an answering machine (You are!).

If they catch you answering the phone "live", adopt the same approach "live" to frustrate the cold callers. They'll eventually realise you're an answering machine (You aren't!)

For added flavour, why not improvise some interjections pepping it up like a bored counsellor feigning interest? A few select "I'm sorry to hear that" s or "Tell me more"s are a great start.

The more abstract you make your interjections, the more fun it is.

When people have had enough, thank them for calling.

Your confidence in talking to strangers will grow. 

Time well spent.

Snack Right

Put these crisps in some sort of vaguely 'correct' order for me?

Salt and Vinegar, Ready Salted, Cheese and Onion

Anything that feels right...

close your eyes if it helps...

then answer me this....

Why have you put Cheese and Onion in the middle?

Truer Than True

I don't know why sometimes BBC News occasionally lists daily top stories which are actually archives from years ago...some quirk of internet algorithms no doubt but it often happens that the story is an old one.

In today's Top 3 stories was 'Savile dies'.
I thought a different Savile from the tireless Saturday night TV entertainer might have died but no....
It is an old story from 2011 of the same well-loved BBC celebrity and pride of Leeds that raised so much for charity.

I read the article to see if there was a new twist.
But of course not. It was an archived article that for some reason was being re-referenced.

I could not help but catch a tribute by hairy cornflake, DLT.

Presenter Dave Lee Travis told Sky News: "We are all going to be worse off without him around."

Never a truer word, Dave. 

At least in your case

Taken By Numbers

I have only just realised why Taken is such a darned good film

It has exactly the same plot as Commando which is a darned good film.

I have an idea for a movie myself since you ask where a boy lives in a galaxy that is not too far away and travels with a female robot and a Dusty Bin playing with his light foil.

Now if I can just get the Intellectual Property cleared ... I'll be on easy street.

Exactly the same as Commando....keep 'em coming fellas.. don't make me wait another 20 years.

Colours and Noise

Sometimes all you need to mix things up is a bit of colour.

A walk in the park or a stroll into town. See what's new. What shops have appeared. Or disappeared.
What people are wearing.
What tech they are using.
Ask yourself why and match it to your view of the world.
Notice where your picture is incomplete or out of date.
Drink in the incongruity.

You will notice ignoramuses who make too much noise and block the footpath.
Traffic will beep, perhaps at you. You may break a law or a social etiquette. You may have got old and not wise.
You may have become a  duffer. A poor student. Poorly adjusted. Out of it. You may have stopped understanding the world. Found your limit.
Yes, the younger generation are glued to their mobiles, just as they were when they were above their cots. But it's the older fella staying in watching the box. The very parents who warned against it.
Is that irony? Or fate.
You may not notice the loss of connection.
You are not adapting. Your gears are becoming rusty. It didn't used to be this way. But things changed. Around you.
You may have shunned computers but now you cannot find a bargain. You can't shop around. Or bank. Or educate yourself in a balanced way.
When you made a den, you can die in its comfort but as the universe and world expands your box doesn't. So effectively, it shrinks.
This is the curse of designing your own comfort.

Now there is a lot to be said for keeping the world out. For a start it has a lot of youth on their facebooks.

But it is coming anyway. The best way to deal with it is to allow a little bit in and let yourself become disorientated just a little then let the sands settle.
The simplest way to do this is to go for a walk round town.
That's what my Dad should have done.
Not only is it good for your cardiovascular system but you can feel the noise. Live the colours. Breathe in the smell of sweaty hotdogs.
Notice the headline in the paper you've never read, a book in a bookshop that you haven't been in for years. Jeggings and Ra Ra skirts. Beards and an updated use of corduroy.
Just notice and let it change you into developing new thoughts. New ideas. New you.
Life floods in through the smallest chinks of light.

I am not a shopper myself so I am not hawking anything but good advice.
If you are lost. Go for a walk.
And not a quiet one. 

Fizz On

Of course that's never the full story, is it?

Nothing ever really dies.

That's just a lie we tell ourselves. When it suits us.

Sometimes we live on the shoulders of giants. Sometimes on pebbles just thick enough to allow our nose to be above water.

And some days once in a while, everything lives, everything sings, everything survives and everybody wins.

Yes, of course we move.  Because that's what we do. But we don't necessarily need to move past. We don't even always have to move on. But keeping going involve some sort of change. It's how you know you're alive.

And every door that slams means you notice a new chink of light. Detail that you couldn't see before.

Your new route. Your new alternative. Your new upgrade. 

​

Hello baby.

Fizz Off

Today I am retiring my Sodastream.

I know. You thought they were all retired many years ago.

Indeed although it was not this model, we had one in our family home as children.

The bottles were glass.

The machine was beige. And levered.

It cracked and crunched into position before you got busy with the proverbial fizzy.

You earned your spurs by not adding the concentrate too soon.

You became practised at cleanup.

But altogether, it was, let's face it, a jolly good wheeze.

So much so,  that many years ago I bought one myself and I've had it ever since.

I always wondered why they were not more popular. 

"Free fizzy drinks" means not carrying shopping bags full of soon-to-be flat water from the supermarket.

It is calorie-free fizz.

I'll wager if they were built into a third tap alongside hot and cold, every posh house would have one. Possibly even in the bath.

And once you rumble that you should never use their branded concentrates, you can add anything to them.

You never need to add anything sugary.... so it is the perfect GI diet drink.

It is the perfect diet drink.

But times move on.

We grow old.

Three years ago, they discontinued my canisters.

Which means they effectively discontinued my machine.

Some business minded smart-arse with a plan, no doubt.

A couple of years ago I managed to find myself a few cylinders a little north of where I live.

The last one has just run out. (Okay, admittedly, I'm not that busy with the fizzy)

Despite the advances of the Internet and e-mail, now there are only two options available to me.

Scrap the machine.

Or buy a home-made valve which allows me to personally refill my own cylinders, possibly by cosying up to the local fire service.

Believe me, I am tempted towards the latter. (Not in a homoerotic way just because I don't like to throw things away)

But even for me that is perhaps a palaver too far.

Even for me.

So today it's goodbye Sodastream. (I'm still struggling to find a way of disposing of the cylinders but it will come to me).

Thank you for your service.

Everything dies.

Everything moves on.

Thank you.

And good night.

Bananacops

Dear Anthea

 

Many thanks for your reply on this issue which I think concerns and affects us all daily.

 

I would be happy to become an unpaid volunteer in my local branch in Newcastle Upon Tyne in the interests of the wider community.

I would be prepared to undertake assurances I will not entrap anybody into splitting.

However should they effect such a strategy unprovoked, they will be easy to identify.

A close working relationship with your senior staff will enable me to point out the culprits in real time.

I believe an aggressive strategy of timely reminders in public areas would be sufficient to end this problem within a  matter of weeks.

I look forward to your agreement on this.

 

Best regards

The Great Banana Debate

Thought I would invite Waitrose to jump into the banana debate:

Thanks for taking the time to email us.
I have read your email with great interest and we do want our customers to receive products in the best possible condition. However unfortunately we cannot stop people from breaking the up bunches. I do apologise for this, we don't have a policy for this.

If you would let me know which branch you were in I could pass your feedback on to them.

I look forward to your reply.

Kind regards

Anthea 
Waitrose Customer Service

I've volunteered as a unpaid monitor in my local branch. 

During my new role I may decide to entrap few punters to increase my conviction rate. 

On Being Succinct

Be Succint.

Going Bananas

At what point of certainty do we reach our decisions?

Consider this....one of the most personalised judgement calls we make.

When is it OK to split a bunch of bananas that you don't own?

Of all the retail products we come across, why is it OK to tear these in half?

If you are trying to buy five bread buns, we wouldn't take one out of a packet of six and leave it behind.

There is no sign saying it's OK to damage plantain-based product.

You wouldn't halve a bunch of spring onions and reattach the elastic band, would you? Would you?

Admittedly the supermarkets  do halve and reseal the occasional cucumber, at the same price as the full one. But that's just marketing. And that's their business

The fact remains that nobody has ever been known to eat a full cucumber.

But this is bananas.

Why is this OK?.

They look like a smile.

And  they are yellow.

Now in Asda today, I witnessed a horror. I was dallying over the banana section wondering if I should indulge.

An older man in front of me was pawing at three or four bunches. So much so that the time he was taking drew my attention so I gave him a Paddington stare, largely wondering when he was going to stop.

Eventually he sensed me (I was behind him). I can't prove that he sensed me but that . is my strong suspicion.

He then pulled off one banana. One! Put it back and selected put the other five in his trolley.

Now splitting a bunch of bananas is one thing but leaving a single banana behind...

What sort of a maniac would do that?

It is criminal. Inconsiderate. Madness.

I was desperate to know  his best excuse and was preparing my opening volley as he pushed his trolley away onto the carrot section.

I took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy.

But these are tough times and I reminded myself I'd faced worst.

I started to notice the mini bananas which looked intriguing  and wondered if I should indulge.

Than a lady came up  (I call her a lady ) and started pawing  and poking at the bunches of bananas. Again. Was this some sort of hidden camera show?

Three bunches. Four bunches, she prodded 

And then she picked up a bunch and split them in half. 

Right in front of me.

And do you know what you did then? Do you?

She put them back.

She both halves of the bunch she split back?

By this time I was looking around for uniformed officers. My gob had been well and truly smacked.

I stepped back. She sensed me. They all do. But I elected to watch this pantomime until it's denouement.

She picked up another couple of bunches and then eventually chose another.

She split one off. One !!!!

And put the other five on a trolley. (And went on to the carrots).

Maybe you wondered where these single bananas come from?

Maybe you thought there was a good excuse, a good reason.

No. I'm here to tell you that there are banana-separating maniacs on the loose.

My heart was racing at the injustice, the harm done.

What else could I do?

What else would anyone have done?

I phoned an ambulance, and in the absence of glyceryl trinitrate with an appropriate expiry date, went off to find the Murray Mints.

Unready Brek

Some time ago... and the memory lingers...I found myself in front of a breakfast.

On the face of it, a traditional hearty English breakfast, full of colour and compartmentalised variety.

Through sleepy eyes, I peered at the familiar sight and prepared to commence battle.

It was a battle I had faced many times. Won many victories. 

Never lost.

But things were going to be different today.

The familiar friend and foe stared at me with a happy smile sunny side up.

In retrospect, the smile was knowing. Knowing what was to come.

But at the time, it seemed a good place to start. In went the knife. Yes, all familiar terrain here.

And then confusion.

Disorientation.

Disbelief.
Noooooo.

Where is the bacon?

I thought I'd already smelled bacon but maybe it was a smell memory because unless I'm having a stroke in my visual cortex, the only conclusion I can possibly come to is this.
There is no bacon.

I let that sink in for a while.

I owe it to you to allow you to the same. But please, don't do it alone. Have someone standing by.

Let the confusion dance across your hemispheres, of what strange lore is this.
When the distress has settled, if you can, come back to me.

I had never missed an episode of The Twilight Zone but it had nothing on this.
Nothing so sinister. So scary.
So wrong.

Now, I haven't breakfasted like a champ for so many years without being able to dodge the occasional curveball. I have skills.

I've fished shell from the frying pan. I've experimented with 14 ways of frying bread. I've gone through a hash brown phase and even dallied briefly with poaching.

And I have admittedly on maybe one occasion in a thousand run out of bacon myself.

But always in those cases.

Always.

There was a sausage.

I scanned the plate. The disarray was sharpening my survival skills.

Quicker this time.

No sausage.
No. Sausage.

I scanned the exits of the building and check my pockets for items that could be deployed in self-defence as I asked the question internally ..."Well what the bloody hell is there on this plate then?".
This plate that seemed to so casual an eye as mine, just like an English breakfast.
This Trojan horse. No, not even that... Trojan lettuce.

OK, breathe...

Mushrooms. Tick.

Egg previously ticked.

Baked beans. Always missed if absent...but on closer look, are they not taking a little too much space? (And, you guessed it, not Beans with Sausages). 

I don't think any more of my pain needs explaining. 

But things were about to get 100 times worse..

There... staring at me, as though it owned the place, as though it had any right being there at all was..and I'd like to spare you this because I like you... but we are too far in.
Spinach!

It was spinach sitting there.

Wilted. But not from shame.

This was a fully confirmed vegetarian breakfast, disguising its lies. Wolf.. in some sort of clothing. Not sheep's and certainly not pigs'.

What else could I do at this point?

What else could anybody have done?

I phoned the police.

And Justice For Some

Why don't we get an understanding of each?

Why do we all end up as poor judges of character, despite our best efforts?

Why do we not spot the Rolfs?

What is the problem with the people we are supposed to look up to  - those in power, or worse... In entertainment.

We know the politicians got there by beating and cheating. We know they justify theri journey by the end point oh and "wanting to help people". Please.... 

This is a very thin narrative that occupies the place where integrity should sit.

And those entertainers... Who is it that impresses you? Ken Barlow, Chris Evans, 

I endured a Russell Brand rant on Rolf today.He got to talk about what it was to be kind to each other, preaching to us about the right way to join in with society of the commune.

Russell Brand! The person who phoned oldy Andrew Sachs and left a message saying he'd fucked his granddaughter. And still hasn't shown remorse. 

We are supposed to take on what is to be decent from him!! Help me!

We don't get an understanding of each other because we don't work hard enough at it.

If you expect certain feelings to sit in exactly the same location in somebody else's brain as in yours, and....activated in exactly the same circumstances, I'm afraid you are making a mistake.

And of course as soon as you can decide you got no hold on that person...or maybe just hold no truck with them then you can relax back in your brain that knows so well how thigns are and should be. Put on your brain slippers and live inside your own delusions. Bolster your blockades and barriers with broader strokes and thicker lines. Prevent understanding.

You can do this over a lifetime. 

It's a disinterest - an uninterest, maybe an anti-interest - a lack of willingness to try to understand somebody else. 

It's incredibly complicated. We don't understand our own brains, certainties, desires. Trying to extend those uncertainties to somebody else is tricky, except at the simplest levels. 

You might understand what drink they might have from the bar for example. But you know what. Today they might have something different.

They might try a different decision on for size.

Old politicians and entertainers have philandered for years. It was funny beacsue it was a funny work. Paddy Pantsdown!! David Mellor in a Chelsea shirt! But it is betrayal and now increasingly it involves what we describe as rape or paedophilia. 

It's not funny anymore - they have abused people around them in every way possible.

The lovable entertainers have taken advantage of their position because they could.

And we let them.

They all thought themselves untouchable because they were. Then time passed.

In many of these cases their principal mistake was living too long.

Who knew that it would be improvements in medicine that brought justice.

More so than the law.

Gravity Free

Connect 4 things in a row - that's Connect 4

Connect 3 things in a row -  that's Noughts & Crosses.

With added anti-grav.

Rubik's Revenge

It took me 8 weeks to do my first Rubik 4x4 cube.

(I had to learn to do the 3x3 blindfolded to force my abilities).

It took me 1 day to do it twice.

Do you think there's hope for me??

(Don't answer that!)

First...and above all things

Everything delivers something.

Brings.

It!

In the same way that everyone might bring something to queer the pitch (don't know what that means - just liked it)

Most things have something going on.

That something may be not very much.

Most people offer something in some way.. regardless of any parameter you can measure.

Some things even have nothing going on. Nonethings.

And some things have less than nothing. 

And now we are... so soon...drowning.

In medicine (for all its faults) offering less than nothing (like a tablet that gives you only side effects)... that has a name. 

Sometimes the name is 'ego'.

Or 'incompetence'.

Negligence.

The real name is NonNocere - Do no harm.

I could be talking about anything - relationships, packets of garden seeds, lottery tickets, theatre... but I am actually (today) thinking of psychological therapies.

Harm is a daily stock in trade to some of those complacent counsellors.

The Safe

We have a safe place inside us, where devils fear to tread

The guest list to this protective nucleus is limited because time and space are finite.

But from this vantage point, we can fly into its atmospheric rings or tiptoe in slow motion or flit and dance in its electron cloud.

We can look down or look out.

We can rest or hide.

We can sing Elvish or Elvis.

It's our nucleus.

But in the epicentre, space is in short supply.

A safe place can be small, dark, cramped, locked.

Open it and is no longer quite so safe. No longer a safe.

And when uncle safety takes a holiday, aunty anxiety might invite herself round.

Just saying...keep an eye out.

The Trappings

What do you do for the trappings?

What do you do for the spoils?

Trappings... Spoils.... Why do you think they call them that?

Don't worry. 

You don't need to tell me.

I'm not the Joneses.

The Offer

You hear this more and more in retailing  - talk about the "offer". 

The offer is what you sell.

Of course, in life, we sell ourselves to some degree or other. 

We are our own offer.

Sometimes we are premium. Sometimes value.

Sometimes extra special. Sometimes extra tasty.

Sometimes we discount ourselves, or give ourselves away too cheaply.

Sometimes we are guaranteed. 

Sometimes we break.

And we all need to remember to put a special on from time to time.

Or Bogof!

Save The CEOs

I'm not going to adopt a snow leopard.

And I'm not going to adopt a tiger.

We are told by the WWF that there are just 3200 tigers left in the world. 

They want £3 a month from me to adopt one.

Now as I would not like to share my tiger (I would think such a concept would be a pretty dishonest scam), that marketing approach can only raise a maximum of £9600 per month.

My guess is that wouldn't cover a fraction of their television advertising budget.

What it could do however, is paid for some of the petrol for the Chief Executive's car.

And we can do more if we work together. 

Because the World Wildlife Fund UK's Chief Executive earns over £140,000 per year. That's donations from you and I. 

Well... you, mainly.

And at £3 per month, it will only take 3,889 of us, responding to their advertising campaigns and all working together, to pay his basic salary.

What you're doing is adopting a Chief Executive. (And no, you don't get your own).

Come on guys.. It is not even the donations of 4000 people.

He can't live on air!

All Good Things..Being Equal

I just caught a few minutes of the wonderful 80s series Highway to Heaven.
I used to watch quite a bit of this. I can't think of anything today that mimics its mastery of inspirational melancholy as entertainment.
I imagine this stuff is weakly catered for in the occasional chick flick.
But is it weekly catered for?
Who is doing this sort of stuff on TV?
Because it is really good. It is real drama.

It has religious overtones as it's about an angel going round doing good deeds.
But if you stick to great actors and one of them is Michael Landon, it oozes class.
Maybe it helps that the script writers could riff on the sort of uplifting navelgazing that they didn't get the chance to do when knocking out a script for the A Team.

It only took a couple of minutes to have me in tears. But I have to say they did layer on the drama.
It's like a therapy-light.
And in a TV series that was long-running and covered many of life issues, I wouldn't object if they show that in schools. Or studied it at Uni. I know UK University media related degrees lean toward TOWIE
or Big Brother but I recommend Highway To Heaven.

Now, it is hidden away on the sort of channel that calls itself something like True Entertainment.
Which means that in the advert breaks you are faced with an inordinate number of appeals for Kuymbe - a child prodigy discovered by Save the Children who found him starving and are refusing to feed him with any
of its multi-million pound resources until I send £2.

That lot could do with watching a few episodes from Highway To Heaven.

I also liked The Equalizer.
He kicked people's heads in.