Me Shopping

I can walk past the Ann Summers window and not miss a beat.

But why does my heart beat as though lub-dups are going out of fashion after two minutes in Lakeland?

The Times

I have just seen an ad  - double glazing or something that the missus has splashed out on. The advert finishes with "him indoors" arriving home after  an honest days toil. He lets himself in the front door and says something like "Hello Love". She doesn't rush to greet him or anything. No pipe  - no slippers.

The housefrau nods a knowing nod to camera and says.."That's something else is going to need upgrading"

A gently amusing line circa 1973.

I'm all for. 

But....

Imagine if that was said by a man. 

There would be newspaper articles about it. 

The feminist radicals would be all over it.

Twitter might explode up its own starfish and the company could go under.

What great advertising that would be. 

I read yesterday that Haribo have withdrawn some gummi that looks like an African mask because there has been an outcry it is racist.

What next...no gummi Coke Bottles because we shouldn't eat glass?

No Jelly Babies because it encourages paedophiles?

No Flying Saucers because it is not the way we should be treating aliens?

Honestly.

I despair. I really do.

Chart Chants

Do you remember that phase that Britain went through in the.. what was it ... the early nineties, of having all that Gregorian chant music in the charts.

I was just wondering. 

What the bloody hell was all that about?

Going Noir

"I could have fallen asleep in her eyes.

But then she did have a face like an unmade bed"

Well, I've got the line… now to the story.... genre... film noir,  I think...

Off Oot.

What are you doing tomorrow night, John?

I'm taking Sarah to the movies to see Blue Velvet in Middlesborough. It's a film I really like. I have it on DVD

Great. Where is it playing?

I'm not sure, Sarah bought the tickets.

Oh right. But Middlesborough is an hour away so that is a two-hour return trip. And you don't drive!

Yes, Sarah's driving.

So.. you are taking Sarah to see Blue Velvet - a film that you've already seen... with tickets she's bought and you are getting there in a car that she's driving.

Yes, that's right. 

Forgive me.. in what way are you taking her to the movies?

Mind Pump

Today I met a psychologist as we spent a day in an interesting improvisational plastic space together.

She wasn't an animal. She was a nice articulate normal person. Scandinavian yes. But nobody is perfect.

The line between medicine and care and improv and psychology is a line that I have walked for more years than I care to revisit.

So during a couple of drinks after sharing a seven hour workshop, I proffered an easy, interested and unchallenging question related to her work. Work in which she uses a fusion of various kinds of  therapies (don't we all?). 

The question was basically this.

Had you know you're doing good?

How do you know you're getting results?

How do you know you're making a difference?

I was expecting a gentle reply from a similarly minded individual that I'd share the day with.

What I got was a despairing, unexpected and quite rapid... Fuck off. 

(Women as aren't as polite as you read about in the Austin books).

I have to say I wasn't expecting it.

I wasn't looking to push her buttons.

I wasn't looking to score points. That's not my thing.

This was a quite despairing retort, despairing from her and despairing to me, from somebody who has a lot more time to spend on these things. I was looking to learn from her but she didn't even have an answer to the simplest of questions. 

She didn't really mean me as an individual to fuck off. (Although she didn't soften it as much as I would have liked).

What I think she was referring to was that she seemed to have been charged with giving some over-managers the sort of results I'd inadvertently been asking for.

So, spotting this,  I reassured her.

I'm not looking for checklists.

I'm just looking for a certainty inside. In your heart. So you know you've made a difference to someone'e life over whatever time frame you have say six months or a year.

But of course, I qualified, I don't mean the sort of faux-certainty that everybody gets when they think they're brilliant at their job. I softened it further by referring to myself and how I might pat myself on the back for an intervention which I thought changed everything but in the medium term may have changed nothing.

I went on and expanded but I won't bore you with that.

I was just asking her about an answer to a question that troubled me.

But the fact is it clearly didn't trouble her as much as it troubled me.

That's the problem with being paid regardless of whether you get anybody better or not.

Keep your gob shut. Get annoyed at the parameters. Criticise the checklists. 

And don't work them out for themselves so that when a friendly person comes along and asks you about your internal answers, well... you ain't got game.

Over the next seven or so minutes, 2 words appeared repeatedly. They didn't sound so much like an answer as an excuse.

"It's difficult".

I know it's difficult but I accept the concept of "it's difficult" as a challenge, as a question.

Not as an answer.

And certainly not as a solution.

Test Results

Researchers have just discovered what my last slave actually did die of.

Turns out it was exhaustion after all.

Phew!

Quantitative Easing

There's always someone worse off than you.

I was talking to a friend last night and stayed up till 1:10am doing so, considerably past my current Wednesday bedtime. 

I haven't spoken to him for 18 months and he was in a pretty bad way (although not for that reason alone!). 

Frankly I was worried he was dead. But he wasn't. Hurray!

He was clear enough to identify himself as OK to answer questions but not so good at volunteering information without prompts.

That's a very useful clue on how to continue with this conversation. 

So what do you say? How do you get a handle on how bad things are?

I will tell you what I did, pragmatically. You may not like my direct approach. But what do you know!

In my first casual comment I excluded pre-fatal conditions, either physical or psychological.

I was starting to get an idea of the size of the pitch where the ball was.

Things weren't as bad as I'd feared, but you can never exclude disaster 100%. It's not the answers that answer questions, it's the subtext, the unsaid.

Next up, I asked if his wife was still "on the scene". I don't think I said it much more elegantly that. But what I knew of him I thought this she was a likely player in the tale, and key to his "recovery". Silence. Sub-diagnosis confirmed. Probably a 1b  diagnosis rather than a 1a though.

I knew something of financial difficulties because he had already declined to have a pint with me on those grounds.

So two questions and 25 seconds in from a cold start, I think I'm almost there. 

I have working diagnoses, primary and secondary. Neither needed any correction over the next hour and 10 min. 

I had got away with the approach because of the way I delivered it and because I listened to his directions on how to have a conversation with him when he was pretty much at breaking point.

But the reason I chose to put this down on paper was what I'm about to say rather than tell you about how I started.

The fact that I have written down how I started is because I realised just how damn good I am at getting to the crux. And I'm just happy to share.

I started telling him about certain difficulties I had recently. I've had a couple of bucketloads poured over me in recent times.

More than I deserve? More than I'm due? Well, perhaps slightly.

I started telling him about this to take the pressure off him. I had put him on the hook. It was time to take him off for a while.

Sharing my pains was not an intent to trivialise his of course. I can imagine a critic saying that and being wrong. His problems were clearly been felt extremely acutely. It had taken me three separate forms of modern communication to get through to him. E-mail and Twitter failing, and eventually the good old sturdy reliable texts coming through on the sidelines, after a patient seven-hour wait. 

After all, some people might be on holiday but on January 21... really? 

No. In doing this I wasn't trying to give him a dose of "there's always someone worse off than you are", which apparently is one of the "worst things to say to someone who is depressed" according to a Google search. At least I wasn't quite trying to do that, although I don't agree such a terrible approach. It depends how you perform and deliver your message. If show compassion to the best of your ability, people will get you.  What I was trying to do was just give a different perspective, while temporarily taking the pressure off. 

If you're looking at a room through a letterbox, of course it's hard to see more. 

For someone to remind you that the world is bigger is useful because it is easier to see yourself in the middle of it, as a part of it.

Sometimes the world is overbearingly large, sometimes infinitesimally small. 

Sometimes you don't know which world you are going to wake to tomorrow. It might be too oppressive to breathe in the morning and yet you could be blown off a cliff by its winds in the afternoon. You could drown in endless forbidding oceans in broad daylight or you could dry, shrivel and wither in the unforgiving night.

I wasn't trying to give him a platitude because I was performing my own pain for him. 

That's schadenfreude.

I was surrendering some of my personal pain for his enjoyment. That is my realisation, in case you're wondering.

I don't mean he enjoyed my pain. He's too nice a guy. But I hope he got some satisfaction from it. I think he did. Or at least he got something from the upbeat way I performed my own tale.

Of course in order to offer it up for consumption, you have to revisit your own pain, something you should do cautiously, preferably only on anniversaries.

But a short dip in does you no harm. It might even do you some good.

There is a line that I have quoted before from Star Trek V, (and gone on about some length!). 

It is this. 

"I need my pain".

Sometimes you have to give away the things you need.

Because others need it more.

So I was a little tired and tired-looking when I went to the hairdresser's first thing this morning.

"What are we doing for you today?" said Sarah.

I looked at my tired face in the mirror. 

I saw the lines you could drive an Edinburgh tram through.

"I need to be sexed up like an Iraq dossier"

"Oh, right then",

She paused... "what's a dossier?"

Citrus Maxima

I am eating a Pomelo for the first time.

I wont be averse to having another.

What of it?

World War 3 - winner to be announced.

So it looks like they are retiring Page 3 girls.

Something to do with the objectification of women. 

There we are ladies. You see now what you can achieve with a tireless 45 year campaign? Imagine if you had spent the time on something important. We might have had better cancer care or caught up with Jimmy Savile before he was too old to catch up with.

No, you are right. The sooner we get these models off Page 3 and back on benefits the better. Well done everybody. What's that you say? There are now online. Oh yes, the pages aren't numbered online are they? Got it.

This shock news hasn't been confirmed yet (after all, what page would you put it on?) but the Murdoch empire has okayed it according to The Times.

Oh..their headline?? 

Tits Out! 

I hope.

Coconut Dreams

When exactly did we get the demise of the Coconut Cream (biscuit)?

Now you may not know exactly (and I mean exactly) what I am referring
to. Frankly that's something you need to look into about yourself. I
know what I mean.

They were small. Bite-sized, really. Smaller than your average biscuit.
Oblong.
And they had a rough outside of the sandwich. The roughness was the
coconut of course.
And they tasted coconutty.

Now I know coconut is not everybody's cup of tea. So don't call me out
on that (as our American cousins might say). I have tried to Google an
image before going international with my observation but frankly the
entities masquerading as the Coconut Cream I consider something of a
national disgrace.

One company that I have never heard of is even producing custard
creams (with full custard cream patented design features) and
labelling them Coconut Creams. Presumably speculating that by adding a
little coconut flavouring, a coconut cream is made. That for the
record is totally unacceptable. Cheeky bastards.

Another company is producing some sort of ridiculous pink and white
marshmallow affair. I don't think these are new but surely we have to
be clear about what the Coconut Cream is. And that ain't it. It's
nearer to a snowball.
When I want mallow. Believe me. I'll ask for mallow.
Philistines!

I did think about asking the lady in Asda if she could clarify and
supplant any information onto my current script.
But I couldn't think of any way of doing it without appearing utterly
charming and looking like I was hitting on her (as our American
cousins might say).

So realising the quest was up, I just stood staring at the Bourbon
creams, the unpronounceably Nice biscuits, and the ginger snaps.
I took a deep breath and saluted.

You may not know exactly what I mean.
But at least I know what I mean.
I was there, man.
You don't understand.

I left the aisle. But not before conscripting a pack of Highland Shorties.

Weight Watching (Men Only)

Why not have a wee-wee while standing on digital bathroom scales?

And watch the weight drop off you!

You Can't Handle The Tooth

Yesterday, I went in for surgery to have part of my head removed.

I was only metaphorically having Wisdom removed, but curiously I did
feel a bit more stupid afterwards. Those who live by metaphor, die by
metaphor I suppose.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I would, before I forget, like to make a special shout-out for Mr Nils
Löfgren, the inventor of my local anaesthetic of choice. Hats off,
Nils. Owe you one.

During the 45 min procedure, I was complimented on the strength of my
jaw. Which was nice. I tried to make some comment about "having taken
a few punches in my time" but it just came out like I was gargling a
Lady Gaga number.

The £150 bill did rather make me long for a National Health Service
free at the point of delivery. Anybody remember that?
I remained hopeful that the cash reward from the supernatural
nighttime bone collector would offset my costs. Although I was
acutely aware we are living in days where stem cells can grow new
gnashers in vitro. And that's the tooth.

I completed my operation and asked if there was a wheelchair to take
me to the door and then I gave them some flannel about how it was no
problem and how I didn't mind walking anyway. In fact, during the off
the whole episode have to say I was downright hilarious. Not to
mention a brave little soldier.

The word martyr is overused, tarnished by its
"I'm-a-credit-to-suicide" radical connotations which has removed it so
far from its proper uses.
These uses as far as I can see are two.
Firstly in relation to me in exactly the situation I have just been in.
And secondly as a well recognised abbreviation of everybody's
favourite red fruit that thinks it's a vegetable.

I placed the evicted tooth under my pillow, left the front door wide
open all night so there were no access issues and waited for faerie
lore. Sadly it turned out that the shiny 10p (minimum) that I was
expecting, was replaced only by a small pool of dried blood and
dribble.

That's a recession that is biting hard.

Papal Punch & Judy

Insulted by some words?
"Resort to violence", says the Pope.

If I'd made up that headline, it would be mildly amusing but that is exactly what the Pope said yesterday in the Philippines. It is OK to throw the first punch if someone has offended you.
It is incredible isn't it?
I'll give you the full quote.
Translated from the rather sinister breathy Italian that he delivered it in.

"If my good friend Dr Gasparri says a curse word against my mother, he can expect a punch. It's normal. You cannot insult people's faith"

In the middle of this, his left hand around the microphone, he mimes at full speed a punch with his free (and pretty tasty) right-hand in the direction of his "friend".
It is the punch of a man who has punched before.
It's as fast as it is cowardly.

It's graphic. It's dumb. It's insensitive. And it's pretty incredible.

That's the way a 78-year-old Argentinian who represents millions of people thinks it is OK to react and preaches about it. His election in view of Argentina's behaviour in the Falklands War (which killed 255 British servicemen) was a controversy which eventually died down.
But he was only elected less than two years ago. And he goes on camera after an international elevation in acts of terrorism by religious radicals, and says it's OK to resort to violence if the words hurt you enough.

It's hard to know what to say.
But if it was Judge Judy against the Pope. I know what the outcome would be.
She take him down to Chinatown.

Yo Yosemite

Two Americans have climbed to the top of El Kapitan, distance 900 m.

I'm not bragging but that's pretty much the distance I covered
yesterday in a few numbers during a musical theatre class. And do you
hear me going on about it? (You should have seen my pivot turns and
jazz hands. Teacher said I was the best).

A simple look at history reveals that the feat was already done on
camera in 1989 by William Shatner. Admittedly the archive shows he was
wearing gravity boots at the time, and saved by Spock after a bit of a
power failure. But otherwise it is exactly the same thing in every
way.

It's shabby enough that, despite what was supposed to be rather a lot
of planning, they forgot to wear gloves. Getting sore fingers is
something even a novice such as I might have anticipated.

But that's not the worst of it.
After 19 days they put their head over the top.
And what do they face?
Friends, family and wellwishers laughing and smiling.

The last thing you need after a climb like that is a bunch of people
taking the piss.

Je Suis Charlie

I was born into a free country.
Last week Islamic terrorists killed cartoonists. If you (or I) are
reading this in years to come and cannot believe it, I will say it
again.
Cartoonists!
Not in my country. But in the one next door.

This week Big Brother on Channel 5 has evicted two of its contestants.
Big Brother is a television concept of worldwide success based on the
ultimate Orwellian nightmare, but marshalled by nervous right-on
junior TV executives.
Big Brother doesn't even have its own voice. It has several young voices
depending on which sub-producer happens to be on duty.
All the voices are thin and thready and lacking gravitas.
But the whole concept of the programme is of the Vote. A democratic
one made by the public.

And so to the "crimes" necessitating expulsion from this lucrative dystopia?
One American idiot flips a girls gown and might have seen a tit. She
responds with (what we used to call) an "epi".
(I am not actually sure how to spell epi as I haven't written it down
before, and we didn't do it at school, but I don't think it's spelled
like the French sword so I'm going to go with that).

It was a silly nothing-of-an-incident by a reformed alcoholic who had
been fed alcohol by the TV production company. The incident was not
even caught on camera as they were sharing a visit to the toilet room
together.

The second incident was one of an elderly well-loved TV celebrity who
allegedly used the 'n' word. I say allegedly because this we did
actually get to see/hear this.
I was under the impression that the outlawed 'n' word we always refer
to (and which could have been edited out ) is generally thought to be
'nigger', not the actual word he used which was 'negro'.
This was transmitted on television presumably because it is something
we can discuss. It highlights an always-useful discussion point,
namely the passing and progression in the public acceptability of
certain words and language, particularly as new generations appear.
But the fact is that all he was doing was telling an old showbiz
anecdote against himself. There was no racism in this. And he was
quoting a quote...neo-offensive word and all. If you change a quote,
it is not a quote. And nobody he said it to took offence. So who is
the offended? The viewer of the experiment! Do you not see how
ridiculous that is? The researcher offended by his own experiment!

We have all noticed in recent years the complexity of even attempting
to discuss issues of race even in small multicultural groups.
You are dealing with fire even at a cocktail party. Not the firearms
that radical Islam blasted into the bodies and skulls of the French
cartoonists. I'm talking here about a metaphorical fire.

And yet... if only this had been said in an environment where we could
put it to the public vote. Votes often surprise us. We learn.
Well we could in Big Brother. Or what is it there for?
But, thanks to Endemol productions, we didn't get the chance.
The one glaring advantage of the arch TV concept and conceit of Big
Brother was discarded by Big Brother's fear. Fear of the public. Fear
of reprisal. We are so deep in irony now that I don't even know where
my knees end and my guts begin. Democracy? Sorry mate. Sold out!
The advantage of Reality TV is that we can learn something about how
people react to moments.
About each other.
And learn more about our own understanding of our democratic
responses. It can be genuinely fascinating.
We just didn't get the chance.

Not only that.
The two people cast aside were not given a chance of redemption.
What is drama without redemption? I'll tell you. It's shitty. And it
is unforgivable.
Except of course we do forgive. Because that's what we do. For free.
And because we have poor memory.

Nobody had a democratic chance in Charlie Hebdo because Islamic
terrorists don't believe in free speech.
They have successfully cast doubt that the pen is indeed mightier than the épée.
But what has been most striking in the Charlie killings is not the
response of the Muslim radicals. Not the repetitious lethargic
'condemnation' by the Muslim leaders. No. It has been the word from
the street from the rest of the Muslim community.

"Well I don't agree with violence, but they did bring it on themselves"
"If they publish another cartoon, we can't be held responsible for the
consequences"
"I don't think they should have been killed, but if they going to
insult our prophet like that, they should expect it"

If I've seen one interview like that then I've seen six, both in their
country and from mine.
It's chilling.

"They wouldn't like it if we did this to Christianity" said another.
Really??
We are living in a country that made Monty Python's Life of Brian in 1979.
The USA had George Burns playing God in three movies in the 1970s.
They made him black in the guise of Morgan Freeman in two comedies in
the naughties.
I don't remember anybody killing the writers.
Nobody put a fatwa on the director.
They had a laugh. We all had a laugh.
"It is the right of every religion to be lampooned". Not my quote, but
also a vox populi from a TV interviewee more articulate than me on the
subject.

This morning Charlie Hebdo released another supposedly challenging
cartoon, albeit accompanied by the highly tolerant phrase "all is
forgiven".
They break no laws.
In fact the cartoon is simple and beautiful, and highly charitable,
borne no doubt from a pen of unbearable anguish and pain.
Or drawn on an electronic pad by a 'mouse miserable'.
Most likely, you will not have seen it because the UK press has too
much of a Saudi influence to allow publication in the UK, (as I also
learned on Radio 4 this morning).
But also because nobody wants their head chopped off.
And maybe it would incite racial discrimation because a pen, it turns
out, is a weapon punishable by imprisonment.
Orwell would have been proud of his predictions.
To start the ball rolling, a French comedian was arrested this morning
for his personal Facebook comments. If you or I are reading this in
years to come and cannot believe it, I will say it again. Comedians
behind bars!
Now I would put everyone who uses Facebook behind bars.
Or alternatively, none of them, at least not for that alone. Unless
they checked their status in my company of course.

I hope it turns out that the pen is indeed mightier than the épée. But
I don't know if it will in my lifetime.

And an "epi", I've just learned from the dictionary is "short for an
epileptic fit, used figuratively, the result of reacting to something
with extreme emotion".
So have I committed a hate crime against those who suffer from a
seizure disorder?
Am I scoring some sort of a point against people who need to take
anticonvulsants?
If I have, please forgive me and try not to have a fit about it.

Our own Deputy Prime Minister would not tell Radio 4's Today programme
this morning that he was going to buy a copy of Charlie Hebdo in
support of the dead satirists.
He wouldn't do it because he was scared.

It is the same reason I'm not going to comment further here.
Because I'm scared.
In a blog nobody reads, I'm scared they might come and kill me too.

I was born into a free country.

I am not free anymore.

English Lit

Adam's Apple

Top Spam

When a translating programme can assist in sending me spam like this...why should I bother writing my own blog....

Good evening my name is Marinel and I'm from Turkmenia. 

It's heavy to be solitary, and even more tight to find out that with the same vexation is, one who could be nearby to you, have a mate who could get at, to give advice.

Or it may be more than a lover. The identity who opens his bosom and that I will be made-up to give more than their quick. 

I am a plain girl, and I do not need something more, as soon as communication. 

I will not say that all intercorr will end. As I have said, that friendship begins something more. Hi there my name is Marinel. I am very beautiful lass from Turkmenistan. I am virile, In this scroll I don't desiderate to pen you it is a lot of to keep a small riddle. 

But if you want acquaintance then we will get acquainted a little closer. for now I send you the photo that you had a small idea of me. I very much ask you you don't ask from me a photo in a naked look, I am the decent girl and I don't give such photos. 

Hi from it is far!

err... Bye from it is near. (She lost me at virile)

Shapeshifting

We often learn about the homeless that "they didn't choose this".
Mostly that's true. Although I've met a few who prefer to spend their housing money on Lambrini and Frosty Jacks than rent.
You get so much more booze for your money and it makes the underneath of the railway arches so much more welcoming.
But the reality may be that many individually-made choices led to today. Why is that any different? Why do people count that as "not a choice".

Life isn't black-and-white.
We don't think X because of Y. We think X because of A to W.

If you get as far as V with some bad choices, you're probably going to get as far as X. And feel sad and sorry for your misfortune.
That is still choice. That is still free will. A rather optimistic or ignorant lack of vision perhaps. A denial of your own weaknesses most probably. But that is still choice. It's still freedom.

An accident doesn't happen just because it's an accident. It happens because as of a series of several dozen processes that haven't been managed well enough to create a set of circumstances that prevent it.
Not all of those are outside of personal control. Most, maybe. But not all. So we nudge and flex and barge our way either through or around them or blaze an entirely new trail.

I've had people tell me that life is a struggle. Of course it is. Why amongst all of the animal kingdom would our species be exempt from that? When you imagine another life, would you like to take on that of the wildebeest, the housefly, the Mayfair millionaire businessman.  And if it is the businessman you think you prefer, are you just thinking of the endless champagne parties, hobnobbing with Bobby Davro, or the 5am starts, three divorces, endless tax bills, leaky roof, disgruntled staff, cocaine exposé in the local paper and terrible gout.
You're not thinking it through.  You're cherry picking. Stoppit.

We are born into circumstances. Better than many by living in the UK, unless you can think of a country you would rather have been born in.
If we want to change your circumstances, or, and this is important, even maintain them the way they are, your job is to struggle to do so.
Or don't bother.

But don't tell me life is a struggle unless you know where the struggle is.
Is it inside?
Or is it outside?
Inside you?
Or external circumstances?

Either way, it is inside you because the world isn't coming to get you.
The world isn't coming to get you because it doesn't care. It doesn't care about you. You are not relevant to it, just perhaps to a small number of individuals within it, each with their own struggle.

No, the struggle is with yourself. 

So what are you waiting for. Your dues?  Grow up!
Use the Force, Skywalker.

Do or don't do. There is no try.
The force is within you.
It's a tale as old as... well, 1977.

It isn't useful to your struggle to think of life as a struggle.
Rather, life is a gift.
It is just struggle-shaped.

Expert Tease

What would you rather be?

A connoisseur or an aficionado?

One sells more of a sniffy sense of discrimination, possibly conjuring
up images of the higher echelons of society. But then it does have a
French origin, albeit from a Latin root. Not the nice Latin with the
samba rhythms. The mean one that killed the Romans.

Alternatively, the other displays a decent knowledge base but enhanced
by a more artistic tone of expression - by genuinely loving it.
Expression through affection. (From a Latin root via the Spanish,
since you ask).

It is the difference between devoted and being authoritative.

A specialist with a Ph.D. as opposed to a a specialist through kinship.

It's a different hierarchical approach. Master and slave versus crowd logic.

I prefer crown logic as I can't bring myself to use the putrid word
'teamwork'. I will, for the purists point out that there is no T, A or
M in connoisseur. And there's no T,E or M in aficionado. And if you
feel better informed for that, then send me a cheque for £200 as I
have a spare ticket for an Expo for Entrepreneurs and a bottle of
Snake Oil that I would like to sell you.

Of course you may grow to love the things you are close to. Look at
any council estate. I think this may be how the arranged marriages of
some communities worked in the past, at least if my knowledge of
Fiddler on the Roof is anything to go by.

"The first time I met you was on our wedding day. I was scared. I was
shy. I was nervous. So was I". (I know. It's great, isn't it?)

And for more purist and less humanimate pursuits, it is massively in
your own interests to offer up your time and brain space to love
something that people may be looking up to you for guidance. Your ego
will love you more.

"For 25 years my bed is his. If that's not love, what is?"

I think it's 'aficionado' all the way. Nail your colours to the mast
and surrender the cold hard soulless bias of the English 'expert' to a
little continental over-expression.

You learn to love what you're exposed to.
What do they say about loving the one you're with?

"Then you love me.
I suppose I do.

And I suppose I love you too".

Turn Again

They tell us that people shouldn’t claim to be anything that they are not.

But how much should they claim to be something that they actually are. In other words, how much should they promote, self advertise.
Push, even. Bend the truth. Exaggerate their CV. Play down why their first marriage failed when advertising what a great life partner they’d now make.
It is presentation.
Spin.

Plenty of people, women in particular, say they value the truth above all things.
They don’t.
This is just a well-worn coquettish ‘survey response’ which likely reflects reflection upon periods of questionable judgement - some with permanent consequences. But at least that shows growth. The entertainment world is full of those who tell us they made the same mistakes all their adult life and then they make a confessional interview at the age of 70 about how they wish they’d done it all differently.
Really?
Really??
They didn’t wish it at any of the thousands of moments before now. At least not hard enough for it to change their actions, outlook or decisions. Apparently.
It is possible they are stupid but more likely they made choices that served them at the time. Or they are stupid. And if so what are they now? Not stupid? Plenty of people get stupider the older they get and don’t have the flexibility to reach around it.

No.
What women actually value is flowers. Notes. Holidays. A bit of a laugh once in a while.
And these things are just presentation and spin.
That’s why it sells.
Even a lottery ticket has an element of fun and danger. And maybe he won’t come home drunk tonight again.
If you genuinely value something highly, surely you learn to recognise it.
It is so for any skill such as a language or a magician learning tricks. If it isn’t instinctive, then just give yourself ten years.

I think I’ve spoken before on this blog about the death of integrity. Or at least its value in society. I’m not blazing any new trail here. The politicians and business leaders, the outsourcing companies and local councillors, the naive teachers, minor celebrities and scoutmasters. Nothing new. Just more.

What people value is a performance.
We might as well be honest about it.
When busily nuanced there is sufficient texture to pin any personal ideals and fake idols onto a good performance it. You can read allsorts into Shakespeare that a first glance would not have thought possible. Add a few fart gags and a good central performance and you might come out of the theatre thinking you like Shakespeare. Even love him! Bigging him to others who know he is crap.

For the rest of the human race still looking to learn this truth, there is sadly little advantage to a long dedicated slog over the appeal of a few party tricks.
The endless fun of jokes you’ve told a thousand times before. A present that went so went down so well you bought ten of them.
A romantic poem you wrote when you were 17 then recycled shamelessly changing only the name.
Spin.
Tricks.

That’s where the party is so why not cross the road?
Or is that just what chickens do?

Chin up, chest out and finish with a song.

I have long struggled with the concept of sensitivity. Who has it and
who doesn't. It is a cornerstone of empathy which is a mud that I
spend most of my life wading around in.

Let's park the psychopaths/sociopaths for now so we can have a clear
run at this.

I'm willing to believe that everybody is sensitive underneath,
although increasingly I find that less true than I did. When you can
only judge people on their actions, and the actions don't appear to
indicate internal sensitivity then it can be a struggle to detect
signs of.

I think I'm closer to believing that everybody thinks they are
sensitive. You can put 'thinks' in italics if you like.

But the importance of other people in this analysis is crucial. They
need to know how sensitive you are, and where the wiggle room is,
which means they need some working concept of what sensitivity really
is.

How can you decide how sensitive somebody else is? How is that really possible?

I think I may have the whole concept wrong.
Because I expect people who are sensitive to act in a sensitive manner.
And it may well be that that is an error.

They may wear their sensitivity purely as self-indulgence. They may
torture themselves with it but not allow it to emerge in any of their
actions. Ever.
I'm wondering now if I hadn't allowed for that possibility.

That doesn't make them good people of course.

Sensitivity by definition is internal. If it doesn't make you do good
things, it is not something to be worn with pride.

So is sensitivity a good quality?

I am not sure.

It is used generally as a sympathetic comment about mutual friends. It
might describe the soul of a poet. But it's frequently prefixed by the
word "over" and a hyphen. It is frequently pejorative. At worst it
could be a precursor of genuine mental turmoil.

It's corollary of course is to be "insensitive".

It seems to me that this is usually used as an articulate insult to
avoid calling somebody a prick. Unless you call them an insensitive
prick of course. In which case you get more bang for your buck. As a
term of disparagement, it probably refers to quotable occasions rather
than a chronic ruthless daily insensitivity from our protagnosist.
Most people wouldn't be commenting on somebody like that because,
other than the most long-suffering of allies, they probably wouldn't
be having them in their lives in any capacity.

If you think they are an insensitive dick 24/7 then that maybe part of
a "character". Their character may be one of a comic foil. The amusing
grump. But to call them insensitive is stupid. And judgemental. In a
bad way. In a wrong way. The fault is in you and it is one of
unkindness.

It reminds me of the television sitcom One Foot in the Grave, where
Victor Meldrew is accused by somebody of being the most insensitive
man ever (or something).

I remember hearing this line of thinking.. 'Yes, obviously, And…'

But Victor Meldrew's wife responds with defensive words to the effect
of "You're missing the point. Victor is the most sensitive man I have
ever known".

I've always thought that was a very touching and rather brilliant
line. His miserable persona becomes a quality. At least if you
consider sensitivity a positive quality. You should. It entertained
millions year after year in that programme alone, without me even
needing to mention Basil Fawlty.

That line has stuck with me. But then it's a David Renwick script
(Jonathan Creek, amongst other credits).

It was unexpected and very sentimental.

But I started writing this messy essay because I've found a new angle
today, based on a random comment on the radio.

I began to wonder if I was confusing sensitivity with sentimentality.

Now I'm on record as being a sucker for a good dollop of 80s style
sentimentality. A happy ending. The bad guys getting theirs. A few
punch-the-air moments. And finish in slow motion with a pop song.

I haven't fully thought this through but I think to do sensitivity
well, you need some sentimentality. It might well be one of the good
parts of sensitivity. What we learnt in maths at school as a "subset".
In Venn diagram terms the circle within the circle.

But oh no….the term sentimentality is used largely in a negative way
as well. The dictionary definitions refer to " tenderness, sadness,
or nostalgia, typically in an exaggerated and self-indulgent way". And
it's a word loved by critical movie reviewers to express their
distaste nay disgust.

While we are on the subject of sensitivity, the dictionary definitions
don't support my way of thinking that it is about looking at the
aspects of the world in an artistic, abstract, inclusive way . Rather
they refer more urgently to "feelings liable to be offended or hurt".

Liable to be offended. Liable to be hurt. That's what sensitivity apparently is.
It seems a rather limited use of a word that describes our senses.

And so common a word. So universal a concept. One we really should be
understanding by now.

I think I probably do have it all wrong.
I suspect I may not be the only one.

Funny? In my dreams...

I had a dream last night. I have already left it a couple of hours so I can't remember how it began but it was a kind of garden party with access to an inside kitchen area. 

I'd taken off my shoes to enjoy the sunny afternoon and the party/picnic was drawing to a close. I can see shadows of half a dozen people in the garden area. The garden sloped up on the left and on the right lower side was the kitchen area.

I went inside to look for my shoes. 

Steven Moffat was there.

'Have you seen my shoes anywhere?' I think I probably asked.

'Maybe you went alfresco?' either he replied or I said some version of).

'You probably wrote that, didn't you?' (referring to the 1980s TV series Alfresco)

He smiled.

I'd made Steven Moffat smile.

I either did or didn't find my shoes and as I was leaving the kitchen area checked back over my shoulder

He was still smiling. 

Jackpot!

And in the background, John Sessions was leaning probably over a sink, washing a cup or cleaning his boots or something, and he was laughing to himself over my brilliant line as well (I assume). Either that... or he had my shoes.

So there we go. That was my dream.

And err...no.....   

Neither have I.

Twenty Fifteen Going on Sixteen

If I ever think I'm beginning to understand the world, I remind myself that they cast Shia Labeouf as Indiana Jones's son.

Shia. LaBoeuf.

Indiana Jones!

I know.. I know